‘You told me it was Ulverstone who was coming,’ she said accusingly. Her mouth made a moue of discontent. As she spoke, she looked him in the face. Her eyes were very beautiful, but there was something restless about them. They were like quicksilver, constantly shifting.
‘That’s right. And you know what Laurence thinks about keeping you here, so it’s best if he doesn’t see you.’
‘I’m not afraid of him,’ she said fiercely.
He shuddered. ‘No, I know you’re not.’ Adding silently, It is he who is afraid of you.
‘And besides, you lied. It isn’t Ulverstone.’ Her face became cunning. ‘It’s a woman.’
He felt his heart contract at the thought that Esmerelda had seen Hilary. When he had found Hilary walking in the grounds he had been horrified, forcing her to return to the abbey in an effort to help her avoid just such an encounter. Fortunately, she had come to no harm.
‘I didn’t lie,’ he said. ‘Ulverstone is here, but the young woman is here as well.’
‘She isn’t very pretty,’ said Esmerelda. ‘In fact, she’s plain.’ She smiled, pleased. ‘And her clothes are horrible. Did you see her pelisse? It had a patch on the bottom. And her dress was made of linsey-woolsey!’
She laughed delightedly.
So that’s what saved Hilary, thought Marcus. If she had been well dressed and beautiful ... His blood churned at the thought of what might have happened. But then he dismissed the feeling. It had not happened. Hilary was safe.
‘What is she doing here?’ asked Esmerelda.
‘She is a traveller, trapped here by the rain. She will be gone as soon as the roads are clear.’
‘I think I’ll invite her to tea.’
‘No,’ he said firmly.
Esmerelda grew sulky. ‘Why not? She liked me. I know she did.’
‘Of course she did,’ he said soothingly.
‘Then why can’t I have her to tea?’ she demanded.
‘Because I don’t want you to.’
She pouted.
‘Now, Esmerelda. Do you want a new dress or don’t you?’ he asked.
‘No,’ she said vehemently.
‘Very well. Then I will not buy you one.’
He stood up.
‘You will,’ she said.
‘Only if you do as I ask.’
Her face contorted in to a mask of fury. In a sudden movement she wrenched off her doll’s head and threw it at him.
He flinched, but it was not from the impact of the doll’s head. It was from love, and pity, and despair.
Her fury abated as quickly as it had arisen. ‘You will,’ she said again, this time wheedling. ‘Won’t you, Marcus?’
‘As long as you stay in the cottage until our visitors have gone. Then you will have a beautiful gown. Do you promise?’
She looked sulky again.
‘Esmerelda?’
‘Oh, very well,’ she said.
‘Good. And now, my dear, I must be going.’
On his way to the door, he said in a low aside to Lund’s capable wife. ‘Keep a close eye on her. I don’t want you to leave her even for a minute until the windows have been barred.’
Mrs Lund nodded. ‘Very well.’
Marcus glanced at Esmerelda, then he left the cottage.
Once more in the clean, fresh air, he passed a hand across his brow, then set out to walk off his low humour. Esmerelda was intractable at the best of times, and with visitors in the house she was worse. Her assurance to stay in the cottage did not fool him. She would stay there as long as the thought of the dress held her in check, but once its magic had worn off she would try and escape from Mrs Lund again. For everyone’s sake, he would just have to hope she did not manage it.
* * * *
The rest of the day passed quickly for Hilary. After playing cards with Mr Ulverstone, a game he easily won, they had a light lunch and then she returned to the library. Lord Carisbrooke had not joined them for luncheon but this, said Mr Ulverstone, was usual. His lordship spent his days wandering round his estate, overseeing the tasks that had to be performed in order to keep the abbey in some form of order.
The library soon absorbed her. It was rewarding to sort the books and scrolls, separating fact from fiction, and placing anything concerning the abbey on a separate pile. It was also rewarding to dust and polish the shelves, bringing out the full beauty of the oak.
Towards five o’clock the door opened. Hilary was expecting to see Lund, who had grudgingly promised to bring her tea in the library, but it was not Lund who opened the door, it was Lord Carisbrooke.
He checked on seeing her, then frowned.
‘What are you doing in here?’
‘Making myself useful,’ she returned.
She spoke boldly, but she was not at ease. She did not know what Lord Carisbrooke’s reaction would be. He was a perplexing man. His outburst in the grounds had shocked her, and yet strangely it had not frightened her, for she had had the intuitive feeling it masked a real concern for her safety.
‘You were not appointed as my librarian,’ he growled.
‘I must do something to earn my keep,’ she said.
‘That will not be necessary.’
‘I have never accepted charity,’ she said firmly. Now that she had started she had no intention of turning back. ‘I don’t mean to start now. If you will not let me work on the library, then you must put me to some other task.’
‘Miss Wentworth, you seem incapable of taking "no" for an answer,’ he said with exasperation. ‘You are without doubt the most infuriating woman I have ever met.’
‘I will take that as a compliment,’ she said audaciously.
‘Pah!’
But though he spoke explosively, his eyes lit with a gleam of humour and she knew he was not angry.
‘Besides, you cannot find it so extraordinary that I should expect to work for my keep,’ she said, encouraged by his expression.
‘On the contrary, I find it incomprehensible. I have told you repeatedly that I will not allow you to organize my library. I have invited you to remain here purely as my guest.’
Her eyebrows shot up in astonishment. ‘Your guest?’
‘Despite my atrocious manners, I have invited you to stay until the waters have gone down,’ he reminded her with a quirk at the corner of his mouth.
‘I would not describe it as an invitation,’ said Hilary, returning his banter.
‘Oh? How would you describe it?’ Despite his surly tone, a gleam of interest lit his eyes.
‘I would describe it more as a curse!’ she said mischievously.
‘Hah!’ He laughed. Then his mood darkened. ‘Perhaps you are right.’
She knew at once that his thoughts had turned down some black pathway where she could not follow. She was seized with a sudden longing to tread that pathway with him, to bring him hope and comfort. For all his size and strength, she knew that he was troubled and she was filled with a need to help him. Her hand raised of its own accord. She wanted to stroke his brow, pushing the elflocks back from his forehead, and soothe the troubled expression she saw lingering in his eyes.
She almost did it.
Before reminding herself that to touch him so intimately would be unforgivable.
Her hand fell to her side.
They stood, frozen in time, joined by his nameless sorrow.
At last she managed to recall her mind to the conversation. It might bring him out of his troubles, she thought, to talk about ordinary matters again.
‘I must have some occupation,’ she said. ‘I cannot sit and twiddle my thumbs all day. Give me leave to continue, and make some order out of this chaos.’
To begin with he made no reply. But then, with a visible effort, he roused himself.
He pursed his lips. She had the feeling he was about to refuse her again. Then he appeared to change his mind.
‘If you must do something, then I suppose it would not do any harm,’ he said. ‘But you must not feel
you need to repay me for your board and lodgings. The service you rendered me last night would be more than sufficient recompense. Which reminds me. I wanted to give you this.’
He pulled her handkerchief out of his pocket. It was white and fresh, and had been newly laundered.
As Hilary took it, she was forcefully reminded of the night before. She remembered every detail of their time together, from the moment she had seen him in the corridor until the moment he had left her room. She remembered the feel of his arm as she had cleaned and bandaged it; the sight of the crisp, dark hairs on his chest; the musky smell of him. And she remembered more. She remembered the rapport there had been between them. It had touched parts of her she had never even known existed, waking in her the desire to help and nurture him. And she remembered the physical tension there had been between them.
It was there again now, that same potent force that had threatened to rob her of her reason. It was threatening to rob her of her reason again. It was making her long to reach out and touch him, and be touched by him.
She made an effort to break the spell.
Thank you. She tried to say the words but they would not come out. Her mouth was too dry to form them.
She swallowed, and then tried again. This time she had more success. But the words, although they came out, were no more than a whisper.
‘You’re welcome.’
His reply was bland, but there was an intensity to his voice that made her afraid to look up and meet his gaze.
She busied herself by tucking her handkerchief into the cuff of her long sleeve. But her hand shook as she did so.
‘Here.’
He took it from her, and holding her fingers in one of his own large hands, he tucked it into her cuff with the other one. His fingers brushed the sensitive skin on the inside of her wrist and she gasped. The sensation was electric.
His hands stilled.
There was an unnatural silence. It was so intense that Hilary could hear her own heart beating. She knew he was looking down at her, but she dare not lift her gaze. If she once looked him in the eye, she was afraid she would never be able to look away.
Still his hands lingered. One held her tiny fingers in the gentlest embrace, whilst the other remained at her wrist.
The tension was so great that she began to tremble.
He removed his hands, and she began to breathe again, but then he put them on her shoulders. ‘You are cold.’
‘No.’
‘No?’ His voice was charged with an emotion she could not understand. It was strong and powerful, a mixture of tenderness, longing and concern, heightened by an electricity that put lightning to shame.
Stepping back, she tried to reclaim her senses. They were confused when he was close by. They could see nothing, hear nothing, feel nothing but him.
And they did not want to.
She searched her mind for some topic of conversation that would break the charge coursing between them.
His injury.
Yes. They had been talking about his injury.
‘How is your arm?’ she asked.
It was an unexceptionable question, and yet even something as simple as that sent her thoughts spiralling down unwanted pathways. It was all too easy to remember the way it had felt the night before; and to wonder how it would feel if it were to reach out and pull her close ....
‘Better,’ he said. His voice came out in a low, throaty growl. ‘It will take some time to heal fully, but I was able to remove the bandage this morning. Your shawl has been laundered, as well as your handkerchief, but I cannot return it to you yet. It is not yet dry.’
‘And are you able to move your arm freely?’ she asked, taking another step back. Even now, he was playing havoc with her senses.
‘I am,’ he reassured her.
There was less throatiness in his voice, and she gave an inward sigh of relief. Some of the electrical charge was beginning to dissipate, making it easier for her to think.
‘You were fortunate,’ she said.
She finally risked raising her eyes to his ... only to see him grimace.
‘Fortunate?’ he asked.
There was an unusual note of bitterness in his voice, and she had the sudden feeling that there was more to the situation than met the eye. Had he really been injured by falling slates? she wondered. If not, how had he been injured? And why had he lied?
Something tugged at her memory. Some disconnected fact, and yet at the same time connected. Something she had seen in one of the manuscripts she had examined in the library. She tried to capture the elusive memory, but it would not be caught.
She returned her thoughts to their conversation. ‘Fortunate it was no worse,’ she explained.
His answer was heartfelt. ‘That, yes.’
His reply was enigmatic.
She wanted to question him about it but she could see he was lost in his own thoughts. He was looking inwards, not outwards.
Then recalling himself to the present, he looked round the room. ‘You’ve worked hard,’ he said. ‘And you’ve made a good start. It’s a long time since the library’s been so organized. It’s beginning to look cared for again.’
He spoke as an employer to his employee. All traces of tenderness and longing were gone. She was glad of it, she told herself. But she could not hide from herself the fact that his tone made her feel hollow.
However, she determined to match his formal manner with a formal manner of her own.
‘Thank you,’ she replied.
‘I cannot keep you at the abbey,’ he said, and just for a moment she heard a note of real regret in his voice, ‘but I will make sure you have somewhere to go. I offered you employment and you came in good faith —’
She shifted uncomfortably. ‘Not exactly. I suspected I had little chance of such employment if I admitted to being a woman, and so I signed myself Hilary Wentworth, instead of Miss Wentworth, deliberately, in order to give myself every opportunity of finding work.’
‘That was enterprising,’ he said, with a ghost of a smile. ‘But still, I offered you work. If things were different —’ For a brief moment his eyes lit, and then dimmed again. ‘But they are not. I cannot allow you to stay at the abbey, but I will find you some other employment and provide you with lodgings until it begins.’
Then, with a slight inclination of the head, he turned on his heel and walked out of the room.
Hilary walked over to the window. Her calm was destroyed. She did not know quite what to make of Lord Carisbrooke. She was drawn to him, as she had not been drawn to a man before, but there were many aspects of his character she did not understand. Moreover, she did not feel that she would understand him even if she had an opportunity to know him for years, instead of only the few days she was likely to spend with him. There was something secretive about him. And yet she felt it was not because he had a secretive nature, but because he carried some heavy burden. What it could be she did not know. And would probably never find out, she reminded herself. She was becoming too involved; allowing herself to forget that she was only at the abbey because she had been kept there by the weather.
But there was something, all the same, tugging at her memory, that would not let her rest. Something that would shed a light on his injuries; something to do with one of the manuscripts. How it could do so she did not know, but she would know when she found it again.
If only she could remember which one it was ....
Chapter Six
‘Will you take a ride with me?’ asked Mr Ulverstone a few days later as he and Hilary finished a game of chess. ‘I thought I would go down to the river and see how far the water has fallen.’
Hilary glanced out of the window. The rain had at last stopped. None had fallen that day, and there seemed a real chance that the river would soon return to its normal levels. Mr Ulverstone’s offer tempted her. She felt in need of some fresh air. Besides, she was interested to see whether the river was low enough to cross, so that she could learn ho
w much longer she would have to stay at the abbey. She had no riding habit, but that did not deter her, for Mr Ulverstone would not expect her to possess such a thing. He had spent a great deal of time with her over the last few days, and she knew that he accepted her status. They had played chess and cards together, and had discussed the topics of the day - because there was little else to amuse him, Hilary supposed. Still, it had made a pleasant distraction from her work.
‘By all means,’ she said.
Not ten minutes later she was in the stable yard behind the abbey, and one of the grooms was helping her to mount a spirited horse. She was apprehensive, for the animal was extremely large. But she wanted to visit the river and she knew that if she needed any help Mr Ulverstone would assist her. Mr Ulverstone mounted a fine bay and they turned their horses’ heads toward the river.
‘We will not be kept here for much longer,’ said Mr Ulverstone. ‘We have had no rain for the last two days, and we should soon be on our way.’
The drive was wet with sodden leaves, but the air was fresh and the ride was enjoyable. The grass to either side of the drive was wet with water droplets which winked as they caught the sun. Farther off, the glossy leaves of the rhododendrons shone. Glimmers of colour relieved the green borders, brightening the shrubbery where a few late roses still bloomed. Up above the sky was blue, laced with grey and white clouds.
The horses plodded companionably on their way.
By and by, Hilary heard the sound of rushing water and turning a corner, she saw the river. Even in its swollen state it was picturesque. A rustic footbridge crossed it not far upstream, and willows overhung it. Downstream, it meandered through wide fields, now mercifully no longer under water.
‘It doesn’t seem too bad,’ said Hilary, ‘but as I don’t know the river ... ’
‘This is nothing,’ said Mr Ulverstone. ‘Another day, and it will have dropped enough to make the ford passable.’
‘Then we should be able to travel tomorrow,’ said Hilary.
‘Yes. I will be glad to get away from the abbey, and return to London. But in one way I will be sorry to leave. I will miss our games. It has been very good of you to play with me. I like nothing better on winter evenings than to settle down by a roaring fire and have a hand of cards, or test my wits at chess.’