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The Major's Guarded Heart
Isabelle Goddard
From the moment lady’s companion Elizabeth Ingram sees the imposing major, Sir Justin Delacourt, her head is full of romantic ideas – ideas that end in Lizzie being caught trespassing on his estate, mistaken for a poacher!Despite his disdain for womanly wiles, Justin can’t get the lively Lizzie out of his mind. And when she joins him in his quest to investigate a friend’s mysterious disappearance, he realises that a woman of Lizzie’s courage and determination could also be capable of stealing his heart…


He was acutely aware of her warm body sitting snug beside him and of the slightest trace of jasmine filling the air.
There was no space in his life for a woman—for any woman. From a young age he had steered clear of entanglement despite others’ best efforts, and he was not about to let a girl he had met by chance destroy his peace of mind.
She had given him no clear answer as to why she was wandering in the grounds of Chelwood and he had the uncomfortable suspicion that she had come looking for him. If so, alarm bells should be ringing very loudly. Her physical attractions were manifold, and they were dangerous. He was quite aware of that. If that was all… But he knew it was more than that—there was an ardent soul behind those deep brown eyes, and even in the small time he had been with her he’d found himself tumbling towards its bright sun.
The Major’s Guarded Heart
Isabelle Goddard

www.millsandboon.co.uk (http://www.millsandboon.co.uk)
ISABELLE GODDARD was born into an army family and spent her childhood moving around the UK and abroad. Unsurprisingly it gave her itchy feet, and in her twenties she escaped from an unloved secretarial career to work as cabin crew and see the world.
The arrival of marriage, children and cats meant a more settled life in the south of England, where she’s lived ever since. It also gave her the opportunity to go back to ‘school’ and eventually teach at university. Isabelle loves the nineteenth century, and grew up reading Georgette Heyer, so when she plucked up the courage to begin writing herself the novels had to be Regency romances.

Previous novels by this author:
REPROBATE LORD, RUNAWAY LADY
THE EARL PLAYS WITH FIRE
SOCIETY’S MOST SCANDALOUS RAKE
UNMASKING MISS LACEY
Did you know that some of these novels are also available as eBooks? Visit www.millsandboon.co.uk
To Rye and many a happy hour spent there
Contents
Chapter One (#ue8bd655f-ecb7-56cb-9bd1-32894c7798ce)
Chapter Two (#u701b1b43-8506-5dcd-9627-505928f101e8)
Chapter Three (#u4b830112-1b26-598f-82a8-2568aac6e637)
Chapter Four (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Five (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Six (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Seven (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Eight (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Nine (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Ten (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Eleven (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Twelve (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Thirteen (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter One
Sussex—Autumn 1813
‘I am the resurrection and the life. He who believes in me will live even though he dies.’
Lizzie tried to arrange herself more comfortably on the hard pew. She had never attended a funeral before and it was proving a sombre affair. She’d hoped for a large congregation and her wish had certainly been granted—the church was packed to overflowing. But the gathering of the fashionable that she’d envisaged had not materialised. Her eyes travelled over the crowded rows as the vicar continued to intone the burial service. Not one bonnet worth a second glance, she thought, then chided herself for her flippancy. She had never met Sir Lucien Delacourt but it seemed the whole of Rye had turned out to mourn his sudden passing. It was a measure of her dawdling existence that she had looked forward to this event. Mrs Croft was kind enough but in the three weeks Lizzie had been at Brede House there had been few visitors under the age of sixty, and her days had been filled with a wearisome round of fetching and carrying.
A flutter of white handkerchiefs amid the unrelieved black of the congregation reinforced the sadness of the occasion. Adding to the gloom was the church itself for it was vast and beneath its dark and lofty beams, even such a large gathering as this appeared puny. Stained glass paraded along two entire walls of the building, but on a day of gathering cloud the images seemed flat and opaque. Only the flowers, vase after vase of them filling the altar steps, breathed light. But they were lilies with a perfume so intense that Lizzie began to feel nauseous. And though she tried hard to stop herself fidgeting, the bonnet ribbons tickling her chin were becoming more unbearable with the passing of each minute. She was as anxious now to be gone from the church as she had been earlier to trip across its threshhold. Her restlessness drew a sharp glance from Mrs Croft: the dead man had been a great friend, Lizzie knew, and the old lady was finding this day difficult.
‘My father, Lucien Delacourt, was once a soldier—brave, honest and true—and these were the qualities he made his own throughout his life.’
Lizzie was startled. A new voice had succeeded the vicar’s and it was electrifying. Tender but strong, as though honey had coated steel with a sweet warmth. It cut through Lizzie’s irritation and compelled her bolt upright. Her eyes were drawn to the lectern and remained fixed there. A man she had never before seen had begun to read the eulogy. Her heart gave a strange little jump as she drank him in. He stood tall and straight, his dark clothing fitting him with a military precision, his face lean and tanned, as though he had spent most of his life out of doors. He was surely a soldier. She watched his hands as he read—strong and steady even at a moment of great emotion. Only his hair flew in the face of such determined restraint, abundant and gleaming, challenging the dreariness of the place and the day. Even the dim lighting could not suppress its bright glory, catching at highlights and dancing them in the air, until it seemed the man’s head was circled by a veritable halo. Lizzie sat mesmerised as he spoke lovingly of the father he had known. The words themselves hardly registered, it was the music of his voice that caught at her, the power of his presence that kept her still and breathless.
* * *
The service was over and she forced herself to muster all the patience at her command while Mrs Croft slowly checked the contents of her reticule and began a search for a mislaid umbrella. Hurry up, hurry up, Lizzie pleaded inwardly, he may be gone by the time we get to the door. But he had not. A straggle of parishioners had lingered behind to offer their condolences and Sir Lucien Delacourt’s son had a word for every one of them. While they waited in line, the clouds overhead began to mass into a thunderous blanket. It was doubtful they would make it out of the churchyard, she thought, yet alone reach Brede House before the coming cloudburst, but she was sure it would be worth the inevitable drenching.
At last the final parishioner had said his final word and the young man was clasping her employer by the hand.
‘Dear Mrs Croft, my grateful thanks for coming out on such a day.’
His voice was as beautiful as when he’d spoken from the church lectern, and it was not just his voice that was beautiful. He seemed even taller now, more upright, more hardened. Lizzie liked what she saw and, from the shelter of the laurel hedge, unashamedly looked her fill.
‘How could I not come, Justin? Your father was a dear friend, a very dear friend. And to lose him so swiftly. I cannot believe he is no longer here with us.’ Henrietta Croft dabbed her eyes with an already sodden handkerchief.
‘Nor I.’ He squeezed her hands warmly, but his lips compressed into a thin, uncompromising line. ‘I had no idea how frail he had become.’
‘He has not been well for some time,’ Mrs Croft conceded, ‘but the heart to fail! None of us expected that.’
‘I should have been here, seen what was happening...’ His eyes seemed to wander to a distant horizon and there was a bleakness in their depths. They were green—or were they grey? Lizzie wondered. They held a curious light, ever changing like the sea, and they spoke of restlessness, of constant motion. ‘I should have realised how vulnerable he was.’
‘You must not blame yourself, Justin—you have been fighting for King and country, and very bravely by all accounts. It is what your father would have wanted. And he has left you problems enough, I don’t doubt. The estate must be in a sorry mess.’
‘You excuse me too easily, but you are right. Chelwood has been badly neglected of late. I cannot make up for my prolonged absence, but I can at least set the estate on a smooth path before I leave.’
‘You are planning to leave Rye?’ Mrs Croft’s voice rose in surprise.
‘I must return to my regiment as soon as I am able.’
‘But I thought—’ her voice tailed off uncertainly ‘—I thought that now you have inherited the title and estate, you would be certain to sell out.’
‘I shall never take that course, Mrs Croft. The army is my life. There can be no other for me.’
Lizzie’s heart did another of those curious little bounces. She knew exactly what he meant, for did she not have the military in her very bones? He was a kindred spirit, she was sure, and she wanted to rush forwards and clasp those strong hands in hers. Taking a deep breath, she walked boldly from her shelter and into their conversation. Mrs Croft seemed surprised to see her, as though she had recently mislaid her companion as well as her umbrella, but was happy enough to perform introductions.
‘Justin, this is my young friend, Miss Elizabeth Ingram. My cousin was kind enough to recommend her. Elizabeth has recently been a pupil teacher at Clementine’s establishment.’
‘Miss Ingram.’
Justin Delacourt bent his head in the smallest of bows and when he looked up, his eyes refused to meet hers. Or so it seemed, for Lizzie was certain that he had deliberately looked through her. She felt angry at him and angry at her foolishness. Why was she always attracted to unsatisfactory men? She should not have allowed herself to be beguiled: he was cold and indifferent and far too like another soldier of her acquaintance. He was also quite possibly short sighted, for she knew herself to be a pretty girl and was unused to such treatment. There could be nothing in her appearance surely to give him disgust. The dove-grey gown had been carefully refurbished in deference to the occasion and a straw villager bonnet hid the dazzle of auburn curls. Did he perhaps not like women? Or was it simply snobbishness—she was a mere companion and therefore not worthy of notice?
‘I found the eulogy you gave most moving.’ She was determined he would take notice of her—he need not know it was his voice rather than his words that had moved her so powerfully.
‘Thank you, Miss Ingram. You are very kind.’ Another dismissive bow and he was turning back to his father’s old friend.
‘Such a splendid congregation, do you not think?’ she prodded. ‘They were most appreciative.’
‘I am glad you feel so. It is difficult to distil into a few words all that one man has meant.’
‘You must have succeeded. I did not know your father during his lifetime, yet I found myself touched by your words.’
She knew herself guilty of flummery but at least she had forced him to look at her. She saw his gaze travel over her figure and linger unwillingly on her face and though he might wish otherwise, he could not prevent his eyes betraying a flicker, a flash of interest. He gave a brief nod in acknowledgement and then abruptly looked away to address Mrs Croft once more.
But whatever he was about to say was lost. A well-dressed, middle-aged couple emerged just then from the shadows of the church and hurried towards them. There was a subdued murmuring of greetings mixed with farewells and in a moment Mrs Croft was leading the way from the churchyard with an unwilling Lizzie in her train. She would have liked the chance to make clear to Sir Justin Delacourt that she was not a woman to be ignored.
* * *
‘How wonderful to see you back in Rye where you belong.’
Caroline Armitage held out impulsive hands to the young friend towering over her, but for a moment received no response. Justin was struggling to regain his composure. He had caught sight of a light-grey skirt half-hidden behind the greenery, but he’d had no idea of its owner. Then without warning she was upon them and he’d glimpsed a pair of the deepest-brown eyes and a profusion of errant curls the colour of fresh chestnuts tucked beneath her bonnet. He had been taken aback at how young and pretty she was, far too young and far too pretty to be anyone’s companion, particularly a semi-invalid like Henrietta Croft. And far too interesting for his peace of mind. Experience had taught him that women were either manipulative or missish, and neither held any attraction, but he had sensed straight away that Miss Ingram was different. She was no simpering miss that was certain—she had a bold and lively spirit, but an honest one, he thought. She was also quite lovely. In truth, he had been unnerved by her and that made him feel ridiculous.
‘Justin? How are you, my dear?’
He gave himself a mental shake and embraced Mrs Armitage with affection, extending a warm handshake to her husband.
‘My very humble apologies for not having visited you both. It is what I most wanted to do but there has been so much to arrange at Chelwood and I have been home but a week.’
‘We understand that well enough,’ Caroline soothed. ‘It has been the saddest homecoming for you.’
‘Sad indeed, but I have the best of neighbours. I mean to pay Five Oaks a visit next week—once the formalities are over—and will hope to find you both at home.’
‘You know that whenever you come, you will be very welcome,’ James Armitage said heartily. His eyes slid uneasily towards his wife and a warning hand was placed on her arm.
Justin saw it and wondered. The Armitages were lifelong friends and their son, Gil, his closest companion for as many years as he could remember. But a note of discomfort had crept into the conversation and that was odd. Perhaps they, too, thought he should have been at Chelwood caring for his father rather than fighting battles in Spain. In an effort to cover the awkward moment, he said, ‘I collect that Gil is away on some adventure right now. As soon as he is back, he must ride over to Chelwood and tell me all. We will have much catching up to do—it must be over three years since I was last home.’
To his horror, tears began to fill Caroline’s eyes and two large drops trickled down each of her cheeks.
‘Mrs Armitage, what have I said?’ Justin was genuinely alarmed. In all the years he had known her, he had never seen her cry.
‘I’m sorry, it is not your fault,’ she managed at last. Then the tears became too much and she retreated into the folds of a cambric handkerchief. Her husband signalled urgently to their waiting groom to escort her back to the carriage.
‘I must apologise for my wife’s tears.’
There was an uneasy pause until Justin asked, ‘Can you tell me what ails Mrs Armitage?’ He felt upset as well as mystified. Caroline had been more of a mother to him than his own and he loved both the Armitages.
‘It was your mention of Gilbert, you see,’ James said haltingly. ‘The boy is missing.’
‘Missing?’ Justin’s face was blank. ‘But how, when?’
‘He has been missing for three months and as to how, we have no notion. That is the problem. One day he was here and the next he had gone. He simply vanished from sight, taking nothing with him except...’ James hesitated a moment ‘...except a little money and a family ring—but they would certainly not be sufficient to sustain him for long.’
‘But surely someone must know where he is. His friends? Your family elsewhere in the country?’
‘We’ve sent messages everywhere, but no one in the family has seen him. As for friends, Gilbert has few. It was always you, Justin—he needed no other—and since you have been away, I think at times he has felt very lonely.’
Another reproach to add to the already long list, Justin thought. ‘I have been away too long and I am sorry for it—but is there no one in the neighbourhood that might have an inkling of his whereabouts?’ It seemed impossible to believe that a healthy, young man could disappear so completely.
‘The new excise officer was the only person he talked to. He spent a good deal of time with him walking the marshes and the cliffs, as he used to with you. But then the poor chap died. It was most tragic. It was Gil who found his body, you know, lying at the foot of the cliff. He’d fallen in the darkness, though there are rumours that it might not have been an accident. Whatever the truth of it, Gil was greatly upset and I have sometimes wondered if that might be the reason he disappeared. I have no real idea, though. I seemed to have lost touch with my son, long before he vanished.’
Justin’s brow furrowed, trying to think himself into Gil’s shoes, but he found that he was as much out of touch with his friend as James. ‘Might he have gone to London?’ he offered without much hope.
‘We certainly considered the possibility and sent Robert—you remember Robert, I’m sure—he is as true a servant as you could hope for. We sent him up to London almost immediately to make discreet enquiries, but not a sound or sign did he gather. After two weeks we called him home. It was a hopeless task.’
The more Justin considered what James Armitage had told him, the more puzzled he grew. Gil was the best of fellows, but he had never been the most adventurous of spirits. As boys, it had always been Justin that had led the way: building dams, scrumping apples, climbing every one of the estate’s five oak trees. It was always Justin who thought up the pranks which landed them in trouble. He hadn’t seen his friend for three years but when they’d last met, he’d thought Gil more sober than ever—hardly a man liable to kick up his heels and vanish without a word.
‘I imagine you have tried the local doctors,’ he said tentatively, fearing that his friend had come to harm in some way, but unable to say so directly.
‘I’ve checked with every doctor in Sussex,’ Armitage said grimly. ‘I’ve even visited the mortuary, but not a sign of him.’
There was a rustle of silk and a slight aura of perfume and Caroline had left the carriage and was almost upon them. ‘You must help us, Justin.’ Her eyes were large and frightened and the appeal went straight to his heart.
‘Mrs Armitage, you know that I would do anything to help, but...’
‘You must find him,’ she said, her voice cracking. ‘You must find Gilbert.’
Her husband wrapped a restraining arm around her. ‘You cannot ask the impossible of our young friend.’
‘If anyone can find our son, Justin can.’ And she turned back to the carriage, her eyes already beginning to fill with fresh tears.
Justin shook his head. He felt enormously weary. His father’s sudden death had shocked him far more than he’d thought possible. He had felt guilt, unbearable guilt, that he had shirked a sacred responsibility. And the guilt had only grown when he’d arrived home and found Chelwood in the most wretched disarray, a rascally bailiff having taken advantage of Sir Lucien and enriched himself at the expense of the estate. Weeks of work were before him if he were to put Chelwood to rights—even with a new and trustworthy man in charge. And if that was not bad enough, he had this minute learned that his dearest friend had gone missing without a trace, had vanished into the air like a magician’s accomplice. What was going on? Whatever it was, Caroline Armitage expected him to discover it.
‘Take no notice of my wife,’ James was saying. ‘She is naturally distraught. Of course, you cannot be expected to begin looking for Gilbert, with your own life in such turmoil. Please forget her words and forgive us for intruding so badly on a day when your own grief should be paramount.’
For an instant he had forgotten his father, forgotten Chelwood, forgotten even his beloved regiment. He had been remembering his dear friend and all they had meant to each other. In some strange way the image of the girl he had just met was entangled with the image of Gil. But why? It made no sense, but nothing about this day did. She was one complication he would be sure to avoid. There had never been space for women in his life and certainly not now; it was Gil he must think of.
‘I’ll try,’ he said firmly. ‘I doubt I will be successful, but I will do my damnedest to find your son.’
* * *
The rain had held off, the black rolling clouds travelling swiftly westwards, but in their place the October sky was left bleached, an eerie half-light pervading the world. The congregation that only minutes ago had poured from the ancient church and through the ivy-covered lych gate had seemingly been blown away on the wind. Not a soul was visible as they walked down the hill and towards the water, leaving behind the shelter of the Citadel, the small hilly enclave of houses and lanes that clustered around the church. She wondered if Justin Delacourt was still holding forth in the churchyard or whether he, too, had disappeared into the ether. He was a very attractive man, but he had angered her—he had been curt and uncivil. Yet despite that she could not stop herself from feeling intrigued.
‘Who were those people, Mrs Croft?’
They were battling their way along the river bank against a furious wind. ‘I mean the people who greeted Lord Delacourt so warmly—almost as a long-lost son.’ And then when her companion did not answer, she said doubtfully, ‘It is Lord Delacourt, isn’t it?’
‘Not quite.’ Mrs Croft allowed herself a smile. ‘You have elevated him. On his father’s death, he became Sir Justin Delacourt, though I imagine he would prefer to be known as Major. And those people, as you call them, were the Armitages.’
‘They seemed to know him very well,’ Lizzie reiterated.
‘They own Five Oaks. Their estate adjoins Chelwood Place and Justin Delacourt ran tame there for most of his childhood. The Armitages were very good friends of Sir Lucien and the two sons were the closest of companions, always playing together or learning with the same tutor.’
‘He is fortunate to have such good friends with whom he can share his sadness.’ Lizzie hoped her sympathy might encourage the older woman to talk, for she had found Mrs Croft to be annoyingly discreet, volunteering only the most superficial of news.
‘They will have much to say to each other, yes—sadnesses aplenty to share, I make no doubt.’
The tone was vague and the comment cryptic, but when Lizzie dared to look a question, she was met by brisk dismissal. ‘It can be of no interest to you, child.’
But it was of interest, or at least Justin Delacourt was. ‘I gather Sir Justin is in the army.’
‘Indeed, and seemingly wishful to remain a serving officer, though I am not sure how practical that will prove.’
‘How long has he been a soldier?’
‘It must be some six years. He has done well, even though he went as an enlisted man. In the Light Dragoons, I believe. He wanted no favours, but his natural leadership has seen him rise very quickly through the ranks. That and this dreadful war England has been fighting these past ten years.’
Lizzie was silent, thinking of a father who had fought that war and was still fighting. She had not seen him for three years and the last occasion was one she chose not to remember. It was on her account that he had been given compassionate leave to travel to England. She blushed even now, remembering her disgrace.
‘Soldiering must suit him,’ she said, wrenching her mind away from the unhappy thoughts.
‘Why would it not? Lucien was a splendid soldier himself until he was persuaded by that woman to sell out. Harangued into submission, more like.’
The old lady seemed to realise that for once she had said too much and finished brusquely, ‘I have no doubt that his son will make certain to avoid the same fate.’
The wind by now was even fiercer, blowing directly from the sea and howling so loudly that it was impossible to speak more. Lizzie’s bonnet was almost torn from her head and she quickly untied its ribbons and held it tightly to her chest. She had been entranced in her first few days in Rye to be living so close to water, but after several days of inclement weather, she had begun to wish that Mrs Croft’s house was situated in the small town’s medieval centre. The remnants of Rye’s fortifications protected the Citadel’s narrow, winding streets against all but the worst weather, but Brede House was open to a battering from every direction. To the south, the English Channel roared its might and to the north lay marshland and an even harsher landscape.
Today the path home seemed longer than usual and she had several times had to support her companion as they battled to stay upright. Below them the river stretched like an ocean of restless grey, every inch rucked by the fearsome gale into ridges of cold, foaming white. It was as though the sea had lost its way and come calling. Wave after wave of water hit the shingled mud with a fierce power, then retreated with a roar, sucking and dragging to itself everything in its path. Above them gulls competed with the cacophony, dipping and calling in tempestuous flight, unsure it seemed whether to rejoice in the wild beauty encircling them or to take shelter from its dangers.
They had gone some half a mile along the coastal path when they heard a faint noise coming to them on the wind. Both ladies turned towards it, clutching their skirts and bonnets against the oncoming blast. A coach had stopped on the Rye road, running parallel to the path, and a figure was striding towards them.
‘Mrs Croft, please forgive me.’ Justin Delacourt arrived, only slightly out of breath from having battled the wind at a running pace.
She blinked at him, surprised by his sudden appearance when she had thought him on his way back to Chelwood.
‘Please forgive me,’ he repeated, ‘You should not be out in such weather. I have been most remiss in allowing you to slip away in that fashion.’ He kept his gaze fixed on the old lady’s face and Lizzie prickled with annoyance. She appreciated his concern for her employer, but not that he was again choosing to ignore her.
He affected not to notice her baleful stare and went on with his apologies. ‘I fear that I was so taken up with talking to the Armitages, that I did not ask you to drive with me. I am a little tardy but please allow me to offer you a seat.’
‘How kind of you,’ Mrs Croft murmured. ‘But there is really no need. We have only a short way to go.’
‘You have at least another fifteen minutes to walk and, in this weather, that is far too long. Allow me to escort you to my carriage.’
‘My companion...’ Mrs Croft began. ‘You are in your curricle, I believe.’
He shot Lizzie a swift glance. He had finally been forced to acknowledge her presence, she thought. She had been right about his snobbishness—in his eyes she was a servant and could happily be discounted. But it was Mrs Croft she must think of and she softly nudged the older lady towards the arm he was extending.
Seeing that lady’s hesitation, he said in an even tone, ‘I am sure Miss Ingram is hale enough to finish the walk on her own. If not, of course, my groom can dismount.’
‘Surely not—a groom to relinquish his seat!’ Lizzie was unable to bite back the words. ‘That would never do!’
Henrietta Croft looked uncomfortably from one to the other, bewildered by the animosity slicing through the air.
‘Naturally you are welcome to travel with us, Miss Ingram. Perkins will not mind walking the short way to Brede House.’
‘And nor will I! As you say, I am hale enough.’ She turned to her employer. ‘Go in the carriage, Mrs Croft,’ she said warmly. ‘You are finding this weather very trying and should reach home as soon as possible.’
Justin gave the old lady an encouraging smile, but she was shaking her head. ‘I think it best that I continue my walk with Elizabeth. She will take good care of me, you can be sure.’
But still he lingered and Mrs Croft was forced to renew her persuasions. ‘You will have many calls on your time, Justin, and I’m sure you must wish to return to Chelwood as soon as you are able.’
He was dismissed and turned back to the road and the waiting Perkins, but as he walked away Lizzie’s voice carried tauntingly on the wind. ‘It must be so arduous, do you not think, Mrs Croft, being a soldier and a landowner?’
* * *
Within a short while they were turning into the drive of Brede House and its avenue of trees, where the wind blew much less strongly. The respite allowed them both to regain their breath and Lizzie to regain her temper. She began to feel ashamed of her rudeness and wished she could forget the wretched man, but annoyingly he was filling her mind to the exclusion of all else.
‘Do you know which regiment of Dragoons the Major serves in, Mrs Croft?’
‘You ask a vast amount of questions, young lady.’ Henrietta had not appreciated the little drama they had just played out and wanted to speak no more of Sir Justin. ‘What possible interest can Major Delacourt’s regiment have for you?’
‘My father is also a military man,’ Lizzie responded, a hot flush staining her cheek. Any mention of Colonel Ingram always raised this peculiar mix of pride and resentment in her. ‘He is even now in the Peninsula and has been for very many years.’
‘I had no idea, Elizabeth.’ Mrs Croft spoke more kindly as they reached the house and a maidservant struggled to open the door to them. A final gust of wind found its way between the trees and literally blew them into the entrance hall. ‘You must take tea with me, my dear. It is the very thing to warm us and prevent our taking a chill.’
Henrietta divested herself of coat and hat, located the missing umbrella still in the hat stand, tutted a little and then led the way to her private parlour. Lizzie was soon perched on the edge of the satinwood sofa, but unable to relax. It was not her first invitation to the sanctum, but she always felt awkward. It wasn’t just that the parlour lacked air and was stifling in its warmth or that the furnishings were depressing—Mrs Croft refurbished frequently, but always in brown. It was the fact that she was never quite sure as a companion where she belonged. Governesses suffered the same problem, she imagined—you were an educated gentlewoman forced to live within the restrictions of polite society, yet you were also at the beck and call of an employer. One day you could be greeted as a friend by those who came to the house, while on another you might be ignored. It made life difficult, for in truth you belonged nowhere.
‘And where is your father at this moment, my dear?’
‘To be honest, I have no idea. The last news we received at the Seminary was months ago just after the battle of Vitoria. He sent a message to Bath to say he was still alive and well.’
A two-line message, she thought unhappily. That was all she warranted, it seemed. Now if she had been a boy... How many times had she dreamed of being able to follow the drum along with her father instead of this tedious life she was forced to lead.
‘I am sure that very soon there will be more news,’ her employer said comfortably. ‘While you are with me, you can be certain that Clementine will send on any messages she receives at the school.’
‘I’m sure she will,’ Lizzie said dully. It was lucky, of course, that Clementine Bates had a weakness for military men, for Lizzie knew for a fact that Hector had not paid her school fees for many a long year and it was from charity that Clementine had allowed her to remain at school as a pupil teacher. His charm seemed to suffice for whatever was owing, but it left his daughter having to live her life at Clementine’s behest. And right now her behest was for Lizzie to suffocate in a small coastal Sussex town with her cousin, a lady four times Lizzie’s age.
‘It must be very upsetting for you,’ Henrietta continued, ‘not seeing your father for such a long time. But there is always the possibility that he may be granted leave. Now that would enliven your days a little, would it not?’ She sipped delicately at her tea and smiled at the young woman sitting across from her.
It was hardly likely, Lizzie thought, that her father would come to Rye. But something else had occurred to enliven her days. Sir Justin had arrived in her world and he offered an enticing challenge. He was aloof and ungracious, arrogant even, but she was sure that she could make him unbend. Men were not usually slow to fall for her attractions and she did not see why he should be any different. It was not the most worthy of ambitions, she confessed, but there was little else in Rye to excite her. Mrs Croft was a dear, kind lady but their life at Brede House was wholly uneventful. And after all, hadn’t she been sensible for a very long time?
Chapter Two
A hazy October sun greeted Lizzie when she pulled back the curtains the next morning. The storm had subsided and it was a day to snatch a walk, if Mrs Croft did not immediately require her services. As luck would have it, her employer had chosen to entertain an acquaintance from St Mary’s congregation that morning and was looking forward to talking with her alone. A companion had always to know when her presence was not welcome, Lizzie thought, but this visit suited her well. She had expected life in Rye to be hedged around with every kind of petty rule and restriction and it was true that the work was tiring and the days monotonous. But when Mrs Croft did not require attendance, she seemed happy for Lizzie to spend her few precious hours of freedom walking the quiet lanes of the neighbourhood. The old lady might not have been so happy today, though, and it was best that she knew nothing of this particular ramble.
She had a very good idea in which direction she should wander and, after a hasty breakfast, set off towards the Guldeford Ferry. This small boat service was the quickest means of crossing the river to the marsh opposite and Lizzie had discovered that Chelwood Place was a mere three miles away, across the river and lying to the left of the marshland. A casual comment to Hester, Mrs Croft’s maidservant, and she had the main direction in which to walk. Like so many estates locally, it was famous for the wool it produced and Hester warned her that if she found her way there, she might well have to walk through fields of sheep. Sheep did not bother Lizzie.
The sky was a misty autumn blue, the sun growing stronger by the minute, but she knew from painful experience that the weather could change at any time. Several foot crossings and the small ferry were all that separated Rye from the marsh and thick mists could descend at any time. Just a few days ago she had begun her walk in brilliant sunshine, only to be turned within minutes into a veritable sponge by rolling, wet clouds. This morning she would risk a light costume, she decided, but wear a protective cloak. She could always abandon the garment once she arrived and bundle it behind a bush. Intent on looking her best, she had selected from a meagre wardrobe her second-best gown, a dress of primrose-floret sarsnet. It was a trifle old-fashioned, bought for her by Colonel Ingram as a peace offering before he returned to the Peninsula, but she had tried to bring it up to date by trimming it with French flounces. With a bright yellow ribbon threaded through chestnut curls and a primrose-silk reticule, painstakingly made over the last few evenings, she had checked the mirror and thought herself presentable. She hoped she could persuade Major Delacourt into thinking so, too.
The ferry proved as dirty as it was ancient and she spread a handkerchief across one of its grimy seats before lowering herself carefully on to a broken plank. The ferryman gave her a disdainful glance, spat over the side and turned to the shepherd who had followed her on board. Their muttered conversation in an impenetrable dialect filled the short journey, but Lizzie was happy to be ignored—she was on another adventure.
Once on the other side of the river she found the path to Chelwood without difficulty. As the maid had described, it skirted the marshland at its edge and travelled in a semi-circle inland. Beneath this morning’s high blue skies the marsh looked benign, but here and there the wooden structures marking a sluice gate raised their profile above the flat landscape, looking from a distance for all the world like a gallows. There was something primeval about this world, something deep and visceral, and brave though she was, she wasn’t at all sure she would want to venture into its depths. She was glad that Chelwood lay at its very edge.
* * *
An hour’s brisk walking had brought her to the gates of the mansion. They were immense, a rampart of black iron decorated with several rows of sharp-tipped spikes; they were also resoundingly locked. She saw to the side the lodge-keeper’s house and wondered if she dared lift the knocker and ask to be admitted. But what reason could she give for her visit? To stroll casually up the carriageway towards the house and ‘accidentally’ bump into Sir Justin was one thing, but to demand admittance on a formal visit when no invitation had been issued was quite another. Possibly there was a second way into the grounds, an entrance less thoroughly guarded. Veering left away from the lodge, she began to push through the deep grass which grew around the perimeter wall. She walked until her small boots were sodden with dew, but without finding any break in the masonry. The wall was as old as the iron gates, old and crumbling, and here and there large stones had come loose, sometimes falling to the ground altogether. There were footholds for anyone daring enough to climb and she stood for a while, calculating whether she could manage the ascent without damaging either her dress or her limbs. She would have to, she decided. She hadn’t donned her second-best dress and come all this way merely to turn around. But it was more than that. She didn’t know why, but it seemed important that she see Justin Delacourt and see him today. She would have to get over that wall. She chose a section which was crumbling more quickly than elsewhere, and, hoisting her petticoats up around her knees, she reached up and began hand over hand to climb. It was fortunate that the lane abutting the wall was narrow and largely unused for it would have been mortifying to be caught showing her stockings. Once at the top of the wall she saw to her dismay that a long drop lay before her, since the inside of the wall had not succumbed to the elements as badly and there was no easy path to the ground. She took a deep breath, closed her eyes and jumped, landing awkwardly on her ankle and bruising her shins. But she was in.
A pain shot through her foot. She would not stop to worry about it: she wanted to catch Justin Delacourt before he left the house for the day’s business and she had already wasted too much time. She had landed in a thicket of trees that appeared to be part of a larger spinney. The undergrowth was lush and uncut and straggling branches obliterated her view. Pushing past the trees, one after another, she attempted to find a path, but there seemed always to be another row of trees to negotiate. Then the first drops of rain fell. She had been so busy clambering over the wall she had not noticed the blue sky disappear and a menacing black take its place. The few drops soon became a downpour and then a veritable torrent. She pulled her cloak tightly to her, sheltering her hair beneath its hood, but in a short while she was wet to her very skin. The ground beneath her began to squelch ominously and she was dismayed to see the lower part of her dress as well as her boots become caked in mud. How could she accost Sir Justin looking such a fright? There was no hope for it—she would have to abandon her adventure and return to Brede House.
But she was lost. The spinney seemed to stretch for miles and she had no idea of the direction she should take. She could only hope that she would hit upon a road before she dissolved in the driving rain. She was bending down to loosen a twig that had become tangled in her skirts when she felt something hard and unyielding pressed into her back. A voice sounded through the downpour.
‘Right, me lad, let’s be ’avin’ yer. Yer can disguise yerself all yer wish, but yer ain’t gettin’ away. Not from Mellors. Chelwood Place ain’t open fer poachers—not now it ain’t.’
She tried to turn round and reveal herself. There was a gun to her back, she was sure, but if the man who spoke knew her to be a woman, surely he would lower the weapon and allow her to go.
He was taking no chances. ‘Keep yer back to me.’ He prodded her angrily with the weapon. ‘I knows yer tricks. Now walk!’
‘But...’ she started to protest.
‘Keep quiet and walk. By the sounds of yer, yer but a striplin’. What’s the world comin’ to, eh?’ And Mellors tutted softly to himself while keeping his weapon firmly levelled.
Lizzie had no option but to walk. She could sense the tension in the man and feel the hard pressure of the shotgun in her back. She did not think he would use it if she tried to escape, but she could not be sure and dared not take the chance. She was marched for minutes on end until they were out of the spinney and walking over smooth lawns towards the main driveway. This was the spot she had been seeking. A gig was drawn up outside the front entrance—precisely as she had imagined. The baronet would be leaving, she had decided, and as he came down the steps, she would trip up to the front door, telling some story of having become lost and wandered by accident on to his land, and looking a picture of primrose loveliness. He would wonder how he could ever have ignored such a delightful girl and, filled with contrition, immediately set about trying to please her. That was the fantasy. The reality was that her feet oozed mud, her hair dripped water and, far from tripping, she was being roughly frogmarched to an uncertain fate.
The man steered her towards the back of the sprawling mansion. She was being taken to the servants’ quarters, she thought—at least she would be spared the humiliation of meeting Justin Delacourt face to face. Down a long passageway they trundled, a passageway filled with doors, but at its very end a large, airy kitchen. The room was bright and homely, smelling of baked bread and fresh coffee and Lizzie realised how hungry she was. Her tiny breakfast seemed an age away.
‘Look ’ere, folks,’ the man said gleefully, ‘look what I’ve caught meself.’
The cook was just then taking newly baked cakes from the oven, but at the sound of Mellors’s voice, she stopped and looked around. The scullery maid on her knees paused in her scrubbing and the footman held aloft the silver he was polishing.
‘You best put that gun down,’ Cook said crossly. ‘Master won’t like that thing in the house.’
Mellors did as he was told, but was unwilling to give up his glory quite so quickly. ‘See ’ere,’ he repeated and pushed Lizzie into the centre of the room. ‘Take a look at me very first catch. There’ll be plenty more of ’em before I’m through.’
The cook sniffed at this pronouncement and the footman allowed himself a small snigger. Wearily the scullery maid began again on her scrubbing.
Lizzie stood in their midst, dripping puddles on to the flagstones, her cloak still wrapped around her, the hood still covering her head. Anger at this stupid man coursed through her veins. It wasn’t his fault that she was drenched, she conceded, but to be treated so disagreeably and then made a fairground exhibit was too much.
She pushed back the hood on her cape and shook her damp ringlets out. The cook, the maid, the footman, stopped again what they were doing and gawped, open-mouthed. Mellors, busy fetching a rope to bind his victim’s hands, turned round, surprised by the sudden ghastly silence. Even in her present state, Lizzie looked lovely. What she didn’t look was a poacher.
‘What have you done, Mr Mellors?’ Cook rubbed the flour from her hands with a satisfied smile on her face. It was clear that the new bailiff was not a popular man among his fellows.
Lizzie was swift to use the moment to her advantage. ‘How dare you!’ Her voice quivered with indignation. ‘How dare you treat a lady in such a dastardly fashion!’
Mellors looked bewildered, but still managed to stutter a reproof. ‘But yer wuz poachin’, miss.’ His obsession was all-consuming and he failed to see the absurdity of the situation.
‘Poaching! Are you completely witless? Do poachers normally come calling in a muslin dress?’
There was more sniggering from the footman and the unhappy bailiff hung his head a little lower. ‘No, miss, but...’
‘And if I am a poacher,’ Lizzie continued inexorably, ‘where are my tools? Do you think I have hid them? Perhaps you would like to search me for the odd snare?’
The footman guffawed at this idea, but the look she shot him bought his immediate silence.
‘And where, pray, are my illegitimate spoils? Why be a poacher and be empty-handed?’
‘You could ’ave ’idden the stuff, miss,’ he tried desperately.
‘Hidden? Upon my person, perhaps? You are ridiculous.’
‘Mebbe you warn’t poachin’, then, but you wuz still trespassin’,’ he continued doggedly.
‘I am no trespasser, you scurvy man.’ Lizzie drew herself erect, making up in dignity for what she lacked in height. ‘I came to call upon Sir Justin Delacourt.’
Mellors shifted uncomfortably. His master’s name gave him pause, but he would not yet own himself beaten. ‘So what were yer doin’ in the spinney, miss? It ain’t usual for Sir Justin’s visitors to come by that way.’
For an instant Lizzie was flustered and she saw a small, sly smile creep over Mellors’s face. There was no alternative—she would have to behave shamelessly.
‘I met Sir Justin for the first time yesterday,’ she said in a low voice, ‘but I was deeply moved by his sorrow. I had not the opportunity then of speaking to him of his dead father and I came here today only to pay my respects. I meant well, but look how I’ve been treated!’ She began to sniffle slightly and managed to squeeze several realistic teardrops from her eyes.
‘There, there, my pet,’ the cook weighed in. ‘Look what you’ve done, you clumsy oaf!’ She turned to Lizzie. ‘Come here, my dear. You need looking after, not lambasting. Poor lamb, you’re wet through.’
Lizzie coughed artistically. ‘I meant no harm, ma’am. You see, I was so touched by Sir Lucien’s death and his son’s grief that I merely wanted to say how sorry I was.’ A few more tears trickled down her cheeks without robbing her of one mite of beauty.
Mellors and the footman looked on askance, but the scullery maid clasped her hands to her breast, drinking in the romantic possibilities. ‘I am soaked to the skin,’ Lizzie continued, her voice barely audible, her hands clasped together in anguish. ‘I have been in these clothes so long that I shall likely die of pneumonia.’
Her sudden terrified wail startled her listeners into action. There was a general fussing and clucking as the cook and the scullery maid took her to their bosoms and Mr Mellors protested his innocence and the footman was sure that a fit young woman would not contract pneumonia from just one soaking.
‘What the deuce is going on here?’ Sir Justin strode into the kitchen and in an instant the uproar ceased and was followed by a strained silence.
‘Perhaps one of you would care to explain this mayhem and tell me why I have been ringing for coffee for the last ten minutes without answer. Do I employ you to serve me or not?’ His beautiful voice held a new severity.
All of a sudden he became aware of Lizzie, abandoned in the middle of the room, and still dripping ceaselessly on to the floor. An expression of blank amazement replaced the frown on his face.
‘Miss Ingram?’ he queried. ‘Can it be you?’
‘It can.’ She gave a saucy smirk at the bailiff and, since there was nothing left to lose, announced boldly, ‘I have come to call on you, Sir Justin.’
Justin remained motionless, stunned by the vision before him. Elizabeth Ingram was the last person he expected to find in his kitchen, and to find her dripping and mud stained was astonishing.
‘How came you here, Miss Ingram?’ He almost stuttered the words.
‘At the point of a gun,’ she said bitterly. ‘You should not complain that your servants are tardy, Sir Justin. One of them at least is a little too eager.’
‘What can you mean?’
‘Your bailiff believes me to be a poacher!’
Justin looked even more stunned, his hand ruffling the fair halo of hair. ‘Mellors?’ he queried, hoping for enlightenment, and was immediately subjected to the bailiff’s impassioned defence.
‘The lady wuz in a cloak, Sir Justin,’ Mellors protested. ‘She ’ad her back ter me and, in the rain, I took her fer a boy.’
‘Then I fear you may be in need of spectacles!’
The other servants cackled joyfully at this sally, but Mellors’s face took on a truculent expression. ‘It were an easy mistake to make, Sir Justin. We’ve ’ad a spate of poachin’, you knows that. You told me yerself to be extra vigilant.’
‘Vigilant, yes, foolish, no. You had better wait for me in the office—I may be some time... And take that gun with you.’
The man slumped to the door, still ruffled. ‘She wuz trespassin’ for sure,’ he managed as a parting shot.
Justin Delacourt turned impatiently to face his audience who seemed caught in a trance and had barely moved since he had entered the room. ‘You may forget the coffee—but make sure that tea is ready in the library in ten minutes.’ His tone was even more severe and the servants, forgetting their earlier gaiety, speedily resumed their chores.
Striding across the room to the hanging line of brass bells, he sounded one vigorously. ‘I have this minute rung for my housekeeper, Miss Ingram. Mrs Reynolds will be with you shortly to escort you upstairs, so that you may—um—tidy yourself.’
He accorded Lizzie a brief bow and, without another word, walked through the door.
* * *
He strode to the library and waited. What the devil was the girl doing wandering in his grounds? Was Mellors right when he said she was trespassing? She must have been, otherwise why had she not called at the lodge and asked the porter for admittance. And how had she got in? The lodge gates were the only entrance to the estate, a fact bemoaned by servants and masters alike for years, but nothing had ever been done to improve the situation. And nothing would be done now, for there was precious little money for refurbishment.
But Miss Ingram. He had been stunned at the sight of her and not just because she had no place in his kitchen. Even in her sodden condition she had looked lovely, her soft brown eyes wide with indignation and her fiery curls already drying to a glossy mass. He hoped her dress was not completely ruined for he thought it likely that her wardrobe was not extensive. Until the gown could be laundered, Mrs Reynolds must find a replacement from one of the many wardrobes scattered across the house. It would probably not be to Miss Elizabeth’s taste but then she should not have come calling in a downpour, or, more accurately, she should not have come trespassing. He would have some questions for that young woman.
* * *
It was at least half an hour before he could pose them and when she slipped quietly into the library, all desire to question her fled. Her skin, still luminous from the rain, was blooming with health and her dazzling hair had been marshalled into some kind of order. But it was the dress that mesmerised Justin. A deep blue of the finest silk, years out of date, but showing the girl’s shapely figure to splendid effect. He almost gasped. His mother had worn that dress and she, too, had been beautiful and well formed. In body at least, he amended, for there was nothing beautiful about Lady Delacourt’s nature. But what had possessed the housekeeper to alight on that particular gown? He could only imagine that it was one of the few dresses that fitted his unexpected guest.
A lace shawl was draped across her bosom—just as well, Justin thought, else the temptation to caress her two beautifully rounded breasts would be too strong. His thoughts juddered to an abrupt halt. He was shocked, shocked at himself that he could think thus of a girl he hardly knew. ‘Come in, Miss Ingram.’ He had to clear his throat which had become very tight. ‘Come in,’ he repeated and gestured to the table. ‘Alfred has brought tea and there are fresh baked madeleines. I hope you will partake of some or Cook will be disappointed.’
She did partake and with gusto. Justin thought he had never seen a young lady so happy to eat and the sight was strangely pleasurable. She became aware that he was watching her. ‘I had hardly any breakfast,’ she explained naïvely, ‘and walking in the rain has made me ravenous.’
It was not exactly the response a society miss would have given, but then Miss Ingram was hardly a society miss. She was a hired companion who spoke confidently and looked good enough to eat herself. In short, she was a conundrum.
‘Walking was not all you were doing, I imagine,’ he said gently.
She flushed a little and looked defiant. ‘No, it wasn’t. I was being marched across your estate.’
‘But why were you in the Chelwood grounds?’
‘I became confused and lost my way. Then that clunch of a bailiff found me and took me for a poacher.’
‘You must excuse Mellors. He is new and very eager to be seen doing a good job.’
‘He hasn’t exactly covered himself in glory this morning,’ she noted, munching her way through her third madeleine.
‘But you,’ he said, determined to bring the conversation back to her. It was difficult when she was sitting so close and looking more lovely in his mother’s gown than ever Lady Delacourt had. He tried again to focus his mind. ‘The only way into Chelwood is through the lodge gates and you didn’t come that way. How did you get into the estate and why?’
The question was bluntly put for he had given up any pretence of subtlety. He couldn’t play word games, not while his body was reacting so treacherously.
‘I climbed the wall.’ Her defiance was even more marked. ‘And as for why, because it blocked my way.’
‘Do you normally scale walls if they’re in your way?’
‘I don’t normally meet them. Most people don’t feel the need to live behind locked gates.’
She had quite neatly turned the tables. ‘My bailiff considers that locking the gates acts as a deterrent to law breakers. But then he is unused to adventurous young ladies.’ As I am, he thought. The idea of any woman in his mother’s tight little circle lifting one elegant foot to the wall was laughable.
‘Adventurous? Do you think so?’
‘Few ladies of my acquaintance would hurl themselves over ten-feet walls.’
‘I didn’t exactly hurl myself and your friends must be sad company.’
‘Acquaintances,’ he corrected. For some reason he did not want her to think he was part of the ton society he despised. ‘But you are right, they lack courage! They would never make a soldier!’
‘I would—and that is what I most wish for.’ He was startled for he had meant the remark only as a pleasantry.
She saw him looking astonished and laughed. ‘Don’t worry! I know that a woman cannot join the army, but I would give anything to do so—to be in Spain at this moment, to feel the camaraderie, the excitement, the thrill of victory.’
‘Victory is not assured,’ he warned. ‘We have lost almost as many battles as we have won and it is only recently that the tide has turned.’
‘I know. At Badajoz and Vitoria.’
He was intrigued. ‘You have followed the war closely?’
‘My father is fighting in Spain,’ she said simply.
‘Your father?’ Her name had had a familiar ring, he remembered, when Mrs Croft first introduced her, but he had taken little notice. He had been far too concerned with her prettiness to think of anything else and far too disturbed by his response to it.
‘He is not by chance Colonel Ingram?’
‘He is.’
She was transformed, her face alight, her smile glowing. It was clear that her father was a hero to her—and why should he not be? Justin knew him by repute as a very brave man. ‘You have met him?’ The words were almost breathless and the plate of madeleines pushed to one side.
‘Once. I met him only once. It was after Vitoria. His regiment was taking over from mine and I was about to leave. I had just received news of my father’s death and knew that I must return to England immediately.’
‘And how was he?’ She was all eagerness. ‘After the battle, he wrote only two lines to say that he was alive.’
‘He appeared well, but I was with him little more than an hour.’
‘Then that is one more hour than I have known.’
He refilled her cup and wondered if he should say more, for her voice had become shadowed and her liveliness lost. At length he said, ‘When did you last see him?’
‘Some three years ago.’ She jumped up from her chair and wandered to the window. ‘You have a vast estate here.’
For some reason she no longer wished to talk of her father and he wondered what had happened three years ago. He found himself wanting to ask, wanting to know more of her, but good sense reasserted itself. He must keep the conversation to polite trivialities. ‘Yes, most of it is given over to sheep farming, though we have some pleasant acres of parkland and a thriving kitchen garden.’
‘Everyone farms sheep here.’
‘That’s because it is profitable, especially now that taxes have been reduced and we can export to France without a huge levy. The smugglers have gone out of business,’ he joked.
‘There are smugglers here?’ She had turned back from the window, her eyes wide and her voice humming with excitement. The girl’s vitality was entrancing, he thought, but she had a raw energy that could easily lead her into trouble. Another reason, if he needed one, to keep his distance.
‘The smugglers have long gone,’ he said firmly. ‘Once the taxes were rescinded, smuggling lost its profit and therefore its attraction.’
‘But it cannot only be wool that was smuggled.’
‘Spirits and tobacco, I imagine. Perhaps even tea. But the last gang of smugglers were hanged years ago and the preventives are now everywhere along the coast.’
‘The preventives?’
‘Excise men. So you see, you are unlikely to discover an adventure here.’
Her face had fallen and he had to stop himself smiling at her disappointment. ‘You must find life as a companion a trifle slow.’
‘Mrs Croft is very kind,’ she said quickly.
‘But still a lady in her eighties. Why did you take such a post?’ The more he spoke to her—indeed, the more he looked at her and felt her charm, the more odd it seemed.
Her response was tart. ‘Possibly because I don’t own an estate like Chelwood.’
He could have kicked himself. She had evidently to earn her own living—no doubt Ingram was in debt and unable to help. Most soldiers he knew were, for much of the army had not been paid for months.
‘I’m sorry,’ he began, wishing away his crass comments.
‘There is no need to apologise, Major Delacourt. I find military men in general are blinkered. They see only the narrow world that is theirs and nothing of the world outside which can be quite as difficult as any military campaign.’
‘I’m sure it can be.’ He could find nothing better to say, but to his own ears he sounded indifferent, even condescending.
When she spoke again, her tone was a little too bright. ‘I must leave you in peace. The rain has stopped at last and I should return to Brede House before it begins again. If you would ring for your housekeeper, I would be much obliged. By now my dress should be dry.’
‘Nonsense. I will make sure that your dress is returned clean as well as dry, but in the meantime I will drive you back to Rye. The gig is at the door and you can be home in minutes, rain or no rain.’
She looked as though she might refuse his offer but when she stood, it was evident that her ankle was paining her and she capitulated.
‘Thank you. That is most kind of you.’
* * *
Neither of them spoke as they drove the five miles back to Brede House, but he was acutely aware of her warm body sitting snug beside him and of the slightest trace of jasmine filling the air. He tried hard not to think about her, to abstract his mind from her proximity, but failed miserably. His sharpened senses relished her very nearness and he could only thank heaven that the journey was brief. There was no space in his life for a woman, for any woman. Women were the very devil—he should know that better than anyone—and could ruin the best of men’s lives. From a young age he had steered clear of entanglement despite others’ best efforts and he was not about to let a girl he had met by chance destroy his peace of mind. She was a mere acquaintance, not even that, an acquaintance of an acquaintance. But it seemed that she was refusing to play the part assigned to her—she had given him no clear answer as to why she was wandering in the grounds of Chelwood and he had the uncomfortable suspicion that she had come looking for him. If so, alarm bells should be ringing very loudly. Her physical attractions were manifold and they were dangerous, he was quite aware of that. If that was all...but he knew it was more than that—there was an ardent soul behind those deep-brown eyes and even in the small time he had been with her, he’d found himself tumbling towards its bright sun. That thought made him crack the whip and the startled horse immediately picked up its pace. He really must curb such fanciful inclinations, he reproved himself silently. Elizabeth Ingram was no more than a shadowy presence in his life and must remain so. She was far too lively and far too attractive and he had sufficient problems already.
Chapter Three
Lizzie bid a prim farewell to him at the entrance to Brede House. Crunching her way along the gravelled drive, she was careful to hold her head high and not look back at the carriage. He was just a little too alluring. What a pity that Piers Silchester did not exude the same attraction, for as Miss Bates was fond of pointing out, he was everything she should want: loyal, loving, stable. The trouble was that she didn’t want it, or at least not enough. Instead she seemed continually drawn to men who offered fleeting excitement rather than a secure future. Soldiers lived in an exclusive world—she knew that from bitter experience—and it was a world in which women had no part. Justin Delacourt was most definitely a soldier, a gentlemanly one, but nevertheless a soldier. He lacked understanding of the cramped life she was forced to lead, knowing nothing of the narrow horizons which bound her. It would be years before he settled to any kind of humdrum life and in the meantime female company signified for him a little pleasantry, a little dalliance only.
Why was a woman’s life so very difficult? A small sum of money was all it would take to give her independence, but even a little money was beyond her. Still a companion’s life, for all its limitations, had to be better than marriage. Being married was too dull for words and being married to Piers Silchester, gentle soul though he was, the dullest of the dull. That was the choice that Clementine Bates had offered and she couldn’t blame the woman—she knew herself to be a liability, a loose cannon prone to fire in any direction. It must have been a blessed day for Miss Bates when she learned from her blushing music teacher that he hoped one day to make Miss Ingram his wife.
Lizzie was old enough now, though, to know that she could not afford to lose her heart to an adventurer. One day she supposed she would have to marry, heart or no heart, and doubtless Piers would be the lucky husband. He was the most dependable man she knew and, most importantly, he was willing to adore her. He would make her his goddess. She tried to imagine Justin Delacourt worshipping at her altar and the thought made her chuckle.
She wondered if he even found her attractive. He had certainly stared long and hard when she’d entered the library wearing that dress, his ever-changing eyes shading from light to dark as his glance held. Goodness knew why, since the garment was the frumpiest thing imaginable. But he had stared nevertheless and not in a pleasant way. Mrs Reynolds had confided in the bedroom that the gown had belonged to the Major’s mother, someone she called Lady Delacourt. Her tightened lips suggested to Lizzie that there was something odd about the woman. Was she dead? If so, why hadn’t the housekeeper mentioned the fact, especially since Sir Lucien had only just died himself? And if she wasn’t dead, then where was she? The dress was old fashioned, it was true, but she saw immediately that its material was richly luxurious and that it was beautifully made. Lady Delacourt must at one time have enjoyed wealth, enjoyed being spoilt, enjoyed being adored. Perhaps she had been made a goddess. If so, it was unlikely to have been her son doing the adoring. After that first amazed stare, his face had registered a dour distaste.
* * *
She had reached the front entrance of Brede House and was about to raise the cast-iron anchor that served as a knocker when the door flew open and a figure dashed past her, nearly knocking her down. It was female, wild eyed and seemingly distraught. She had a brief glimpse of a face before the woman started down the drive at the most tremendous pace. Lizzie looked after her in astonishment. It was Mrs Armitage, she was sure, the woman she had seen in the churchyard. Why was she visiting Mrs Croft and why had the visit upset her so badly that she had tossed aside all vestige of propriety?
Lizzie walked into the hall and saw that the drawing-room door had been left ajar. Cautiously advancing into the room, she spied the remnants of tea scattered across the small occasional table that her employer used when visitors called—a plate of uneaten macaroons, a teacup tossed on its side. It seemed that this had been a social call, but what kind of social call ended with a flight such as Mrs Armitage’s? Or for that matter left the hostess prostrate. Her employer was slumped into one of the armchairs, her hand to her forehead as though nursing a sick headache.
‘Mrs Croft?’ she said gently. ‘Are you feeling unwell?’
At the sound of her voice, the old lady stirred and, seeing Lizzie’s anxious face looking at her from the doorway, attempted to pull herself upright.
‘No, my dear, I thank you, just a little tired.’ Her voice was barely above a whisper. ‘Socialising at my age can be a little trying, you know.’
Mrs Croft evidently did not wish to dwell on whatever had occurred and Lizzie wondered if she should leave the matter. It would probably be as well to escape now before her employer recognised the outdated dress she was wearing. But she could not leave her in such a mournful state.
‘I saw Mrs Armitage,’ she mentioned quietly. ‘She passed me as I came through the door. She seemed very upset.’
The old lady did not look at her, but uttered the deepest of sighs. ‘I’m sorry you were witness to her distress. Caroline is grief-stricken and her behaviour at the moment is unpredictable.’
‘But why? I mean why is she grief-stricken?’ That sounded a little harsh, Lizzie thought, and tried to infuse more sympathy into her next words. ‘I had not realised that Mrs Armitage was so attached to Sir Lucien.’
‘Not Sir Lucien, my dear,’ Mrs Croft said gently. ‘It is her son she mourns. She has lost Gilbert.’
‘Lost as in dead?’ Lizzie queried, wide eyed.
‘Lost as in lost. You might as well know, since it is now common knowledge. Gilbert Armitage disappeared some months ago and his parents have been unable to trace him. No one seems to know a thing about his disappearance.’
‘How strange. And sad,’ Lizzie added quickly. ‘But why was she so distressed? She could have received nothing but comfort from you.’
‘That is where you are wrong, I fear. I could not give her what she wanted. She has asked me to intercede with Justin Delacourt, to put all his other concerns to one side and search for her son. I told you, did I not, that Gilbert Armitage was the closest of friends with Justin?’
‘You did. But why was she so upset with you?’
‘Because I refused. I cannot bother Justin at a time like this. He has so very recently lost his father and been left an estate which is in near ruin. It will take him an age to put it right and I know that he is desperate to return to his regiment.’
‘Could she not ask Sir Justin herself—if he is so very close to the family?’
‘She has already asked him for help, but she wanted me to add my voice to her pleas. I could not in all honesty do that. Justin has more than enough to contend with. If he has promised to help in the search, he will do so—he is a man of his word—but it must be on his terms and at a time of his arranging.’
‘And that is not what Mrs Armitage wants?’
‘No, indeed. He must drop everything. I am afraid that she is slightly unbalanced at the moment. Her son was everything to her. He was a late child, you see, a delicate boy, or so Caroline always maintained. His disappearance has sent her teetering over the edge of an abyss and none of her friends’ advice or her husband’s care has been able to prevent it.’
‘I am sorry that you have had such an uncomfortable afternoon, Mrs Croft.’ Lizzie felt genuine concern for her employer, the old lady’s pallor testifying to how badly shaken she had been. ‘Can I bring you some water, perhaps, or fetch down the footstool for you to rest more comfortably?’
‘No, but thank you for your kind thoughts, Elizabeth. I shall sit here a while and listen to the river. It is nearly high tide, you know, and already I can hear the waters lapping in the distance. It is a most soothing sound and will soon restore me.’
* * *
Lizzie took her cue and slipped out of the room and up the stairs. Once in her bedroom, she stood at the open window and listened to the same water tumbling across the small, stony beach which lay just beyond the garden. Taking up her sketch pad, she began to draw—not the river snaking below, nor the clouds above busily filling the sky. She drew a face, one she had studied well and but recently. When she had finished, she was pleased with her portrait—the strong, lean cheek bones, the eyes steady and appraising, the hair a wild halo—but she was not so pleased with herself. She should cast the Major from her mind. From the outset he had fascinated and his curt indifference when they’d first met had only sharpened her interest: he was an invitation, an enjoyable project to lighten the dull days ahead. But this morning it had taken only a very little time in his company to realise her mistake. He was far too attractive, certainly too attractive to treat lightly, and if she were sensible, she would keep her distance. She looked down at the paper on her knee. What on earth was she doing, drawing portraits of the man? She took the sheet of paper and tore it neatly in half, dropping it in the nearby waste bin. He was a footloose soldier and she must forget about him and instead school herself to appreciate the estimable Piers.
There was a soft knock on the door and Hester came in, carrying fresh bedding and towels.
‘Is mistress feeling any better now, Miss Elizabeth?’
‘She is resting. She wished to be left alone.’
‘She shouldn’t be put under that kind of strain, not at her age she shouldn’t.’
‘Mrs Armitage was very upset.’
‘Mebbe. But that ain’t no excuse for upsetting an old lady like she’s done.’
Hester had been with Mrs Croft for years and had a fierce loyalty to her mistress. She knew everything that happened in the house, and no doubt in Rye itself, without ever being told. A thought wormed its way into Lizzie’s mind and she could not stop herself from listening to it.
‘Do you know anything about her son’s disappearance, Hester?’
Why on earth was she gossiping with a maidservant? She knew why. It seemed that she was not yet willing to forget Justin Delacourt entirely and Hester might provide some small piece of ammunition in any future tussle with him. As so often, she was choosing not to be sensible.
The maid appeared unwilling to answer and looked fixedly down at her feet. ‘You do know something, don’t you, Hester?’ Lizzie probed.
‘Not rightly, miss. It’s probably nothing and I shouldn’t be saying it, but Mr Gil was fair taken with that gypsy woman and I’ve been wondering if she had anything to do with his going away.’
‘A gypsy woman?’ Lizzie tried hard not to sound eager, but her nerves were tingling. Could there be a real adventure here?
‘She weren’t truly a gypsy. But she didn’t seem to have a proper home. And she mixed with some queer company—still does for that matter.’
‘So she is still in Rye? Who is she, Hester?’
‘She goes by the name of Rosanna. A right heathen name, if you ask me.’
‘Rosanna who? What is her last name?’
‘There’s no other name, leastways none that I know of.’
Lizzie thought hard. It seemed incongruous that someone of Gilbert Armitage’s standing in the community should have made such a woman his sweetheart. But men under the influence of love could act completely out of character and contemplate the wildest of notions.
‘And Gil Armitage was walking out with her?’ she prompted. Was that the right term?
Hester snorted. ‘He weren’t doing that—walking out, I mean—not too boldly at least. He didn’t dare be seen, but everyone knew that he was fair gone on her.’
‘Why couldn’t he be seen?’ The question was ingenuous, but she was keen for the maid to keep talking.
‘With a no-good woman like that and him a gentleman!’
‘I understand.’ Lizzie nodded her head sagely. ‘I imagine then that his parents have no knowledge of Rosanna.’
‘I wouldn’t think so, miss. Reckon he would have kept mortal quiet about that particular friendship.’
‘But when it became obvious that he was missing, surely someone must have mentioned the girl to them?’
Hester drew herself up to her full height. ‘Folks round here don’t gossip,’ she said firmly. ‘Leastways they don’t gossip to the gentry. Mr and Mrs Armitage are well respected—nice people—and no one would want to hurt them by telling them such a thing. Not when their son wanted to keep it a secret.’
Lizzie shook her head, but kept her thoughts to herself. She had seen Caroline’s face, wild with grief, and for an instant had shrunk beneath the intensity of its pain. What must it be like to lose your only child and not know what had happened to him? Surely it would be better to risk distressing the Armitages if it meant solving the mystery of their son’s disappearance. But evidently Rye was a close-knit community and secrets were secrets and had to be kept. But not by her. A tantalising thought arrived. She might be able to help Mrs Armitage and surely the poor woman deserved whatever aid she could offer. At the same time she would annoy Justin Delacourt. She had been left feeling flustered and gauche by his closeness while he—he was just a little too smooth, a little too in control. It would be good to disturb that infuriating calm. Justin was charged with the onerous duty of finding his friend and he would need every small clue he could lay his hands on. And she had one now, and not a small clue at that. A very big clue. She would dangle it before him, tease him with it, and at the same time edge Caroline a little closer to finding her son.
* * *
The will was read and there had been few surprises, since except for several small bequests to servants and close friends, everything had been left to Sir Lucien’s son. The lawyer from London had come and gone, leaving Justin to distribute the gifts his father had bequeathed. A beautifully tooled calf-bound volume detailing the delights of Sussex and Kent was destined for Henrietta Croft, in remembrance of the happy hours she and Sir Lucien had spent poring over its expensive illustrations. His father had left a handwritten note with the book, asking Justin to deliver the gift personally. The dead man’s request gave his son cause to sigh. It would mean a journey to Brede House and a possible encounter with the impossible young woman. He knew Mrs Croft left the house infrequently these days and how to get the book to her without meeting Miss Ingram presented a problem.
He had turned it over in his mind for several days without finding a solution, irritated with himself that he had so little control over his feelings that he shirked from visiting one of his father’s oldest friends. It had been raining incessantly since the lawyer’s departure and when on the third morning, he awoke to a cloudless blue sky, it seemed a sensible time to go in search of the old lady. She was sure to have kept within doors for the last few days, but hopefully would be unable to resist the promise of such glorious weather. There was a chance that he might overtake her on her way to the busy shopping streets of the Citadel and, if so, he could take her up in his carriage and present the precious gift to her there and then.
First, though, he must keep his word by visiting Five Oaks. Although it had been cold overnight, waves of sun-warmed air were already radiating off the land and chasing away all but the finest veils of mist. He steered the carriage through the Chelwood gates into the autumn lanes and was at once enveloped by a landscape of glorious colour: coppiced trees fountained upwards and linked arms to create a cavern of russet foliage, while here and there patches of sunlight pierced the canopy and mottled gold all they touched.
Despite the difficult morning ahead, he felt more optimistic than he had for weeks, ever since that first dreadful intimation that his father was dead. It must be the blissful weather, he thought, for little else had changed. The estate was still in desperate need of renovation, his friend was still missing and his regiment still awaited his return. Yet some kind of magic was being woven for his heart felt unaccountably light as he sped his horses on their way.
* * *
At Five Oaks he was greeted with great affection, waved into the sunny drawing room and plied with refreshments. Relieved that no mention was made of the task Caroline Armitage had laid on him, he talked animatedly of the various schemes that he and Mellors were devising to set Chelwood to rights. After half an hour he rose to take his leave and remembered Sir Lucien’s bequests only when he had reached the front door.
‘I had almost forgot!’ He delved into the old carpet bag he had unearthed from the hall chest at Chelwood. ‘The will has now been proved and I have several gifts to distribute. My father wanted you to have his collection of old maps. I have them here’, and he brought forth several rolls of stained cream parchment.
‘How very kind of Lucien,’ James responded warmly. ‘He knew my interest in the history of the area. But would you not wish them to remain at Chelwood? I remember them decorating the walls of his study there. It would seem a better resting place for them.’
‘His study is now mine, Mr Armitage, and is covered in schedules for the advancement of the estate. There is even the odd illustration of a rare pig! My father knew how much you would value these—far more than I—and I hope you will accept them as a small remembrance of him.’
James clasped the younger man’s hands in his. ‘I would be honoured to have them, Justin. They will be accorded pride of place in my own study.’
Justin hesitated. He had yet one more gift for Five Oaks, but he did not know how to introduce it. Caroline saw his hesitation. ‘What is it, Justin? You have something more?’
‘Mrs Armitage, please forgive me. I am clumsy. I should never perhaps have brought it with me, but I am legally bound to carry out the provisions of the will.’
The Armitages were looking at him, puzzled expressions on both their faces. He drew from the bag a small carved wooden object. ‘It is a native Indian curio that my father purchased when he was serving in America—’
‘And it is for Gilbert,’ she finished for him.
‘Yes,’ he admitted, not knowing how to proceed.
‘How very kind of your father to remember Gil’s collection. Of course you should have bought it.’ Her voice had only the slightest tremor. ‘But will you do one thing for me before you go and take it to Gilbert’s room.’ Her voice was cracking now. ‘You know where it is, you know where he kept his collection.’
Justin sprang forwards, relieved to be doing something. ‘I promise to find the perfect place for it.’
He was past the waiting couple and up the stairs before Caroline’s tears began to flow. He felt angry with himself that so far he had done nothing to help the Armitages. He had been too busy with estate matters and, he told himself crossly, too busy with the girl. True she had taken up only an hour of his time at Chelwood, but simply thinking about her had wasted precious hours, too. He had not daydreamed like this since he was a boy and he needed to snap out of it.
Gil’s room was just as its owner had left it, just as Justin had seen it the last time he had visited: bedclothes uncreased, cushions plumped, fresh paper on the desk and a newly sharpened quill and pot of ink in the writing tray. The mirror reflected the same pictures, the mantelshelf held the same ornaments. He remembered being here three years ago, laughing and joking with his friend, twitting him over his ever-growing collection of native artefacts. You need to travel, Gil, he’d said, and not just in your mind.
He strode over to the large, wooden display cabinet that filled one corner of the room and opened its two glass doors. The shelves were already full and it took time to find a space into which he could fit his father’s small offering. He reached up to the top shelf which seemed a little less crowded and shuffled several objects closer together. There appeared to be some resistance towards the back of the shelf and with some difficulty he reached over and pulled forth a sheaf of papers that had been taped to its underside.
Immediately he saw they were part of a private correspondence. He should not look at them. They were Gil’s. He went to tape them back and by accident caught sight of the subscription which headed the first page.
‘My darling.’ My darling? Surely not. Surely not Gil. He was no ladies’ man himself, but Gil was even less of one. He could not recall a single instance when his friend had shown the slightest partiality for any woman. They must have been written for someone else. He took the papers over to the desk and flicked through them. They continued in like vein. ‘My darling’, ‘My sweetheart’, ‘Dear Heart’, followed by protestations of love and longing that the writer would soon be with his beloved for ever. His eyes scrolled to the bottom of each page. There was no doubt. He had recognised his friend’s hand, but a vague hope that Gil might have penned the letters for someone else died when he saw the unmistakable signature. But who had his friend be writing to? There was no clue. And he had not sent the letters, so what did that mean? He had written them, one after another judging by the dates, day after day, but he had never sent them. It was another puzzle. It was almost as though Gil had been leading a double life that nobody, least of all his parents, was aware of. What had James said—that he no longer knew his son?
Justin sighed. The letters did not advance his quest one iota—indeed, they complicated it and they would not help Caroline in her misery. The only thing to do was to tape them back where they had come from and forget he had ever read words meant for another. Who that other was, he had no idea and probably never would have. He was certain, though, that the unknown had nothing to do with his friend’s disappearance. Gil had been gone for three months and if he had eloped with a sweetheart, he would by now have confessed his wrongdoing and been reunited with his family, perhaps a little in disgrace, but nevertheless welcomed home with love. No, there was no sweetheart, Justin decided. It was simply wishful thinking on his friend’s part. If there were a real woman, she was a distant figure only and Gil had been worshipping from afar, lacking the temerity to approach her. Instead he wrote letter after letter, finding a release for his emotions, but saying nothing to anyone. How lonely he must have been, Justin thought, to have fallen in love with a dream and to have confided his deepest feelings to a few sheets of paper.
* * *
He was tempted to drive directly home after his unwelcome discovery, but knew it for a cowardly choice and instead pushed on towards Brede House. Not that he had any intention of calling there, but he still hoped that he might catch Henrietta Croft walking towards the town. As he neared the long, winding drive to the riverside house, keeping a careful look-out, he saw the skirts of a much younger woman disappearing in the direction of Rye. It was Lizzie Ingram, straw bonnet masking those glorious chestnut curls, and a basket swinging from her hand. Henrietta must have sent her to do the marketing, a little late in the day, but most fortunate for him. He could visit now without fear of meeting the girl.
Immediately he entered the small parlour looking out towards the river, he could see that Mrs Croft was not in the best of spirits. But her forlorn expression gave way to a welcoming smile as soon as she saw him and, getting to her feet with some difficulty, she came forward to clasp his hand.
‘How lovely to see you, Justin. And how kind of you to spare a few minutes of what must be precious time.’
He felt a twinge of guilt, but said as convincingly as he could, ‘It is always a pleasure to see you, Mrs Croft, and today especially—I have come on a very particular mission.’
She looked enquiringly and, in response, he withdrew the leather-bound book from its protective covering.
‘I have come to bring you something I think you will treasure. Sir Lucien thought so at least. Here.’ And he handed her the soft calfskin volume.
‘So many happy hours,’ she murmured, ‘so many hours gone, friends gone.’
Justin did not know what to say. His hostess was evidently feeling downpin and he had not the words to comfort her. He need not have worried. As he struggled to find a cheering sentiment, the door opened abruptly and Lizzie stood on the threshold.
She smiled saucily at him. ‘Major Delacourt! I was wondering who could have come calling and in such a very smart curricle! Is it new? And how heavenly to drive out from Chelwood on such a morning!’
He had stiffened at the sight of her, but managed a small bow. ‘Good morning, Miss Ingram.’ His face was bereft of expression. ‘The day is indeed beautiful and you are dressed for walking, I see. Were you perhaps thinking of taking the air? If so, I can recommend the coastal path—it is at its best when the sun is shining and there is little wind.’
Her smile did not falter. ‘What a delightful suggestion! But unfortunately I must engage myself elsewhere this morning. It is my ribbons, you see.’ And she pulled from her basket a shining length of jonquil satin. ‘I thought this morning to go to Mercer’s to match this very lovely yellow, but I had gone no more than a hundred yards when I realised that I had left my purse behind.’
So that was the reason for her return. Or at least the reason she claimed. But had she perhaps caught sight of his carriage and made the decision to return to Brede House? To return and torment him. He would put nothing past her—her trespass at Chelwood had been shameless. Well, he could be shameless, too, and make it difficult for her to stay.
‘I believe the haberdasher closes at noon so, if you are wishful of purchasing more ribbon, you would be wise to set forth immediately.’
She was still smiling, an uncomfortably satisfied smile, he decided. ‘That is most thoughtful of you, but I am in no hurry. I find Rye lives at a slow pace and it is necessary to match one’s own rhythm to it. Whether I get the ribbon today or tomorrow or the next week hardly matters.’
It was a brazen contradiction, for a minute ago she had insisted that she had not the time to go walking. He felt a growing exasperation, but he could press her no further without appearing blatantly discourteous. His hostess was already looking at him askance. Miss Ingram had decided that she was at Brede House to stay that morning and he must make the best of it.
‘I seem to have interrupted your conversation,’ she was saying. ‘Please accept my apologies.’ Her lips curved provocatively, lips that were full and warm and red, he noticed.
His thoughts stumbled and he felt himself growing hot—how could he allow his mind such licence? Trying to regain his equilibrium, he said in as toneless a voice as he could manage, ‘There is no need for apologies. I came only to give my father’s present to Mrs Croft.’
‘And a beautiful present it is, too,’ Henrietta intervened, obviously relieved to get the conversation back on to firmer ground. ‘But will you not stay for some refreshment, Justin?’
‘Thank you, but, no. I must return to Chelwood. There is much to do, as you will appreciate. I will call again very soon and perhaps then we can talk at greater length.’ But only when I can be absolutely sure that Miss Ingram is nowhere in the vicinity, he told himself.
‘Before you go, Justin...’ The old lady caught at his arm. ‘I think I should warn you—’ She broke off, unable to find the right words, and then with difficulty, murmured, ‘It is Caroline, Mrs Armitage.’
‘What of her?’
‘She is in great distress.’
‘I understand that, Mrs Croft, and I am aware of her suffering.’ He gently disentangled her arm from his and began walking towards the door. But she was on her feet and following him, her voice unusually urgent.
‘I am sure that you are. How could you not be? I understand that she has asked you to aid her in the search for Gilbert. But she has been here, too, to ask something similar of myself.’
Justin stopped in surprise. ‘That you should aid her? Surely not!’
‘That I should add my voice to hers in persuading you to commence your search immediately. I refused, I fear. I know how much work is before you. I know, too, that the Armitages have tried almost everything to find their son and not succeeded. How she imagines that you can perform miracles, I do not know.’
The Armitages had said nothing to him this morning of the visit. Perhaps James was ignorant of his wife’s call and Caroline ashamed now of the disturbance she had caused.
He pressed the old lady’s hand in reassurance. ‘Mrs Armitage is overwrought—understandably so—and we must not be too alarmed if she behaves unusually. But I confess that her reliance on me is worrying though Gil was, is, my friend, and I have promised to do all I can.’ He smiled wryly. ‘My promise was well meant, though I am at a loss where to start.’
‘That is hardly surprising. If all the enquiries the Armitages have sent out over these past months have come to nought, how can you, newly arrived and in the most difficult of circumstances, be expected to fare better?’ Henrietta looked searchingly up at her visitor. ‘It would not be wrong to forgo your promise, Justin, for it was unfair to have extracted it from you. Your focus must be on Chelwood and Caroline knows that. She will come to her senses soon and when she does, she will see what an impossible task she has given you.’
‘I can only hope so.’ He reached the door as Mrs Croft rang the bell for Hester. ‘But I do not want you to be worried by this business. If Mrs Armitage should call again, you must refer her to me.’
‘I doubt that she is likely to do so.’
As soon as Hester had escorted their visitor to the front door, Lizzie bounced from her seat. She had been listening intently, but made no reference to the conversation. Instead she gestured to the sun beaming its way through the parlour window.
‘As the weather remains so kind, I think that perhaps I will walk to Rye, after all, Mrs Croft, if you will be comfortable for an hour. The haberdasher will not be closed for long. My second-best reticule is badly in need of retrimming and I can buy you the new cap you were mentioning.’
Her employer nodded assent and settled herself wearily back into the armchair. In seconds Lizzie was slipping out of the front door just as Sir Justin jumped into the curricle’s driving seat. He saw her out of the corner of his eye and had no alternative but to offer to drive her into Rye. It was not at all what he wanted, but for the second time that morning, fortune appeared to favour him.
‘I prefer to walk, Sir Justin. It keeps me fit and healthy, or hale, as you would say.’ That was true enough, he thought—her slim figure filled the simple sprig muslin in all the right places. He wished he could stop noticing, but it seemed an impossibility.
‘There is something I might be able to do for you, though,’ she said pertly, ‘something you might be interested in knowing.’
Her words took him aback and he paused for an instant before reluctantly deciding to clamber from his seat to stand beside her. The reins, though, remained firmly within his grasp for, whatever it was she had to impart, he had no intention of lingering.

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