"Yes. I met him returning to the house."
Constance said nothing, but a smile crossed her face.
"I hope you are not going to make anything of it," said Susannah uncomfortably. "It was a coincidence, and nothing more."
"As it was a coincidence he happened to meet you in the attic?" asked Constance innocently.
Susannah was about to say, Yes, when she realized that she did seem to be seeing a lot of Mr. Bristow.
"He's a very handsome gentleman," said Constance.
"Perhaps," said Susannah, tracing the sharp cheekbones and determined chin in her mind's eye.
"I believe he admires you," she said.
"Nonsense," said Susannah, rubbing her hands together and walking away from the fire. "It is just that two people living under the same roof for any length of time will naturally run across each other, that's all."
"I think it is more than that," said Constance.
"Then perhaps it is my fortune he admires," said Susannah lightly.
"I don't believe he knows anything about it. He knows you are to inherit Harstairs House, of course, but nothing else."
"He is looking for a house in this neighbourhood," Susannah reminded her.
"But he cannot like Harstairs House or he would have tried to buy it before now."
"I am very grateful for your concern, but I don't think you need to ask Mr. Bristow about his intentions towards me just yet!" Susannah teased her.
"No, not just yet," said Constance placidly.
The thought of Oliver deliberately seeking her out was so unsettling that Susannah picked up a piece of paper from one of the console tables, wanting to give a new direction to the conversation.
Sofa, it said. Two wing chairs, one in need of repair. Oak console table with chipped leg…
"What's this?" she asked Constance with interest.
"I have started making an inventory," Constance said. "The idea came to me whilst I was lighting the fire in the dining-room. I noticed the mantelpiece was damaged — it has a piece missing from the side—and I decided to make a note of everything that needed mending in the room."
"What a good idea," said Susannah thoughtfully.
"I mean to make one for every room of the house."
The awkward moment had passed. Oliver Bristow was no longer spoken of, but Susannah could not help thinking that Constance was right. She did seem to be seeing a lot of Mr. Bristow, which led her to wonder if it was accidental or if it was intentional. And if it was intentional, was it because he admired her, as Constance suspected? Or was it for some other reason?
She remembered his first words to her. They had seemed strange at the time, and seemed even stranger now. Burglar, vagrant — or spy?
Did he believe that she was spying on him? And if so, why?
CHAPTER FIVE
Susannah and Constance were determined to put their time at Harstairs House to good use, and over the next few days they began to sort through the spare bedrooms in the west wing. Each bed had been made up, and they stripped off the linen to see if it contained any holes. They examined counterpanes, checked mattresses and studied patchwork quilts. They found the linen closet and sorted through everything inside it, deciding what was good enough to use, what should be mended, and what should be thrown away. Bit by bit, the pile in the wash house grew.
"I had a dreadful dream last night," said Susannah, passing a hand over her forehead as she took a rest. "I dreamt that Mr. Sinders' visit had been a mistake, and that I was not to inherit the house at all. The new owner was very annoyed that I had stripped the beds and brought things down from the attic. To make matters worse, the new owner was Mrs. Russell! After making me put everything back again, she sent me up to the nursery, where I found the children intent on murdering each other. Then they all turned into little white ghosts, and I thought, So the house is haunted after all!"
"My dreams have been no better. Last night I dreamt the king and queen came to visit, and I had to give them my room as none of the others were aired. 'I shall feel like a queen in here,' the Queen said as she sat down at my dressing-table! I was hurrying downstairs to see to their supper when I remembered that the bed wasn't made up, and I woke up to find myself plumping the bolster!"
"That's what comes of having cheese for supper!" laughed Susannah.
She looked out of the window as a gleam of sunshine broke through the clouds.
"I need a respite," she said. "The weather seems to be brightening. I think I will make the most of the sunshine by exploring some more of the estate. Will you come with me?"
"No, thank you. I want to finish what I'm doing here. Once I've sorted things out to my satisfaction, the dreams will stop. It is only because I have too much still to do that they are plaguing me — although I think I will have nothing but a dry biscuit for supper tonight, all the same!"
"I saw some stables at the back of the house when I went down to the coast," said Susannah. "I think I will examine them and see if they are sound. If Jim is keen to be a stable-boy, I will have to have a stable to put him in! That reminds me, I must write to Mr. Sinders and find out what he knows about the boy. I will do it this morning, before I go out."
"Is it wise to give the letter to Jim?" asked Constance. "It will be asking for details about him and his family."
"I don't suppose he can read," said Susannah. "Besides, I have no one else to give it to."
"I thought Mr. Bristow might take it into the village for you," said Constance carelessly.
"I would rather not bother him with it," said Susannah firmly.
She left Constance to her work and went into the sitting-room. Taking up her quill, she wrote to Mr. Sinders and asked him for any information he might have about Jim and his family. Then, putting it behind a candlestick on the mantelpiece, she prepared to go out.
Having donned her outdoor clothes she stepped outside, to the raucous cry of the gulls. The weather was bright, and as she felt the sun on her face she found she was looking forward to further exploring. The estate had much more to offer than the shoreline, and she wanted to see how far the cliffs stretched before she came to a fence.
She followed the path round the house, noting the weeds growing through it, and thinking that there would be plenty of work for Jim's father to do, as well as tending the kitchen garden. Perhaps she might even be able to lure some of Jim's brothers away from the copper mines if she paid them well enough. She soon came to the back of the house, where she followed the narrow drive that led to the stables. As she approached them she saw that the stable block was a ramshackle affair. The end stall had collapsed, but as she walked into the yard she was pleased to see that the other stalls appeared to be sound. The yard itself was large and overgrown, but the horse trough at its centre was clean and it was filled with fresh water.
She heard the sound of the horses whickering and snuffling and went over to the stalls. The middle four were occupied. In the first one there was a black stallion with a star on his forehead. In the next two stalls were greys, and a chestnut was in the fourth. He was a beautiful animal with a glossy coat and a thick mane. He nuzzled Susannah's hand as she lifted it to stroke his nose. She had brought nothing for him, but knew she must remember something the next time she came.
She heard footsteps behind her, and turning round she saw Oliver coming towards her. "Miss Thorpe," he said.
"Mr. Bristow."
"What brings you to the stables?" he asked as he joined her.
He was dressed casually, she noticed, as he had been the first time she had seen him. His leather breeches were designed for comfort and practicality, and his boots had seen hard wear. His coat was new but its cut was loose, rather than the tight cut favoured by the gentlemen who spent their lives gaming and drinking in fashionable clubs.
"I wanted to see if they were in need of repair, or if they were fit for use. Do any of the horses belong to the house, or do they all belong to you and your friends?" she continued. "I would like to expl
ore the estate, and it would be easier to do so on horseback than on foot."
"They belong to us. You would be welcome to ride one, but they are not suitable for ladies," he said.
"I think I could ride the chestnut," she replied, looking at the splendid beast appraisingly as she continued to stroke his nose.
"He's too large for you."
"I believe I could manage him."
There was a patronizing glint in his eyes, and it was clear he did not share her belief. Instead of saying so, however, he said, "Unfortunately there are no side saddles in the stables, so I'm afraid you will be disappointed."
She didn't take kindly to being patronized, and replied coolly, "If I have to, I can ride with a man's saddle. My father was an artist, and a very unconventional man. He raised me to spend most of my time out of doors. He had a chestnut similar to this one, and he taught me to ride it. It was smaller, it is true, but then, at the time, so was I."
"But with a man's saddle?" he asked.
"My father knew nothing about a girl's needs. I doubt if he knew what a lady's saddle was."
"Then perhaps you will join me for a ride?"
"By all means," she said.
He saddled his stallion, and then saddled the chestnut. Standing side by side in the yard, the horses made a splendid sight. It was a long time since Susannah had been riding, and she was looking forward to it.
"Where's the mounting block?" she asked, looking round for it.
"There isn't one."
There was still a mocking note in his voice, and she knew he was expecting her to use the lack of a block as an excuse not to ride.
"Then perhaps you would help me up," she said.
He gave a slight shrug, then made a step out of his hand. Thanking the full skirt of her gown and her lack of a corset for giving her unrestricted movement, Susannah put her foot in his hands. She noticed as she did so how large they were, and how fine and tapering his fingers. Then she turned her attention back to her horse. She pushed against his hands and threw herself into the saddle. As she arranged her skirt around her, she was rewarded by the look of surprise and then reluctant admiration in his eyes… and then she flushed as his gaze dropped to her ankles. They were no longer covered by her skirt, and were displayed to advantage as she put her foot in the stirrup. Reminding herself that they were encased in half boots, and telling herself not to be so missish, she ignored his glance and turned the chestnut towards the drive.
It felt strange to be in the saddle again, particularly on a horse she did not know, but after a few minutes she began to feel at ease, and by the time they left the yard she was beginning to enjoy herself.
They rode in silence to begin with, but as they reached the edge of the cliff and then turned along it, he said, "I'm impressed."
He spoke lightly, but there was real appreciation of the way she handled the horse beneath his bantering tone.
"He's a beautiful horse, and very well mannered," she said, as she enjoyed his smooth, easy paces. "Is he yours?"
"No. He belongs to Edward."
A feeling of guilt assailed her. She had been so taken up with the idea of riding that she had not thought about the fact she was riding someone else's horse without a by your leave. "I should have asked for his permission before I rode him."
"As you are allowing all three of us to remain at Harstairs House until our lease expires, I think you may safely assume the answer would have been yes," he said, with a quirk at the corner of his mouth.
"I don't remember allowing you to stay at Harstairs House," she said teasingly. "I rather think you refused to leave!"
He laughed. "That's true." He turned to look at her. "Do you mind?"
The words were light, but somehow the atmosphere had changed, and instead of seeming like a polite enquiry, the question seemed personal.
"I… no, I don't believe I do."
Their eyes met, and she bit her lip. She felt as though she had given too much away, although why that should be when the conversation was a mere commonplace she did not know. She felt she must lighten the conversation, however, and said, "It's always useful to have a gentleman with a pistol in the house in case of ghosts! You do have a pistol?" she asked.
His eyes flashed. "I never go anywhere without one."
"You know, of course, that Harstairs House is meant to be haunted?" she asked. "You have been here longer than I. Have you seen anything untoward?"
"Well, of course, there is the headless horseman in the stable-yard and the white woman wringing her hands in the drawing-room, but apart from that — no, I don't believe I have."
"Have you really… ?" she began, when she saw that he was teasing her.
She didn't know how it was, but she found him very easy to speak to. She had always found conversations with gentlemen difficult in the past. She had met a few when living with her great aunt-dear Great Aunt Caroline had felt she should marry, and had frightened all the gentlemen in the village by asking them to supper as soon as she had turned eighteen — but she had had to make an effort to find things to talk about, and had kept a ready fund of questions in her mind to ask. "Gentlemen always like talking about themselves," her aunt had advised her, so she had enquired about their horses, their carriages and their business interests, but the conversation had fallen flat as soon as the questions had been answered. Then, after uncomfortable silences, they had complimented her on her sewing, examples of which could be found all round Aunt Caroline's house, and she had thanked them, and once again silence had reigned. With Oliver, however, without her even thinking about it, the conversation flowed.
"You say your father was an artist. What kind?"
"He was a painter. That's why he wanted to live by the sea. He painted seascapes."
"Was he good?"
"Yes, very good, or at least I thought he was, but his paintings were too wild for most people's tastes. Instead of showing the sea as a placid sheet of water with prosperous boats dotted on its surface and wealthy patrons looking on complacendy, he painted storms. He painted in a small hut on the edge of the cliff, with large windows in the wall and ceiling to let in the light. When the weather was violent, he would go to his hut and paint until both he and the storm had exhausted themselves."
"And what did your mother think of him shutting himself away?" he asked. "Ladies are often nervous in storms. Did she not want your father with her?"
She spoke quietly. "My mother died when I was born."
He gave her a sideways glance.
"I'm sorry," he said. "I, too, lost my mother when I was young. She died shortly after my brother was born."
For a moment it was as though there was a connection between them. As they rode to the edge of the cliff and then followed the path along it, she found herself telling him all about her childhood with her father and the many simple pleasures they had enjoyed. Instead of being horrified at her tales of scrambling over cliffs and learning to swim, he had been amused, and she went on to tell him about her father's death. It was something she had not spoken of, not even to Great Aunt Caroline, and she wondered why she had told him so much. But there was something about him that made it easy for her to confide in him.
In return he told her about his mother, his father and his brother, who was studying for the bar, and his Northumberland estate.
The ride was very pleasant. To her right, the sea was blue under the blue sky, and if not for the intense cold it could almost have been July. Here and there, white crests topped the waves. The coastline was an uneven shape, with the cliffs weaving in and out of the water. Sometimes coves of soft sand separated the feet of the cliffs from the water, and sometimes the sea came right up to their base.
"Have you ever been to the boundaries of the estate?" she asked.
"No, I don't believe I have."
"I was hoping to find them."
"I think you would need all day. The estate is massive. Harstairs was a wealthy man and sank much of his fortune into land."
&nbs
p; "Did you know him?" she asked.
There was a slight hesitation before he said, "No. But I knew of him. He was well known in these parts."
"Then you didn't know anything about him before you leased the house?"
Again there was a slight hesitation before he said, "No."
"It seems strange he bought this house, only to lease it out," she mused.
"He found Cornwall romantic in the summer, when he bought the house, but when the winter set in he felt isolated and went back to London."
It was plausible, and yet Susannah felt it wasn't quite the truth. For all his charm, there were depths to Oliver that she had not yet plumbed, and she found herself intrigued.
"Do you know how he made his fortune?" she asked.
"No, only that he made it abroad. He was a businessman, and he also speculated."
"Yes, that is what Mr. Sinders told me." She looked across the cliff tops. "If he was a businessman, I'm surprised he didn't open a mine when he came here. One of Great Aunt Caroline's friends married a Cornishman, and he made a fortune from copper."
"He was old by the time he came here. He carried on with the businesses he had already established, but his days of starting new ventures were over."
Susannah looked around her. Over they might have been, but he had still bought wisely with Harstairs House, with its beautiful location and its miles of seafront. Or at least, possibly miles. She was just about to ask whether there was a plan of the house in the library, thinking it would be easier to find the boundaries in a book than to find them on the ground, when she felt a spot of rain. Looking up, she saw that the wind was driving clouds across the sky. The spell of bright weather was over, and it looked as though it was about to rain in earnest.
"I think we should turn back," she said.
He agreed. They wheeled their horses and headed for home, but they had come so far that the house could no longer be seen. Susannah glanced at the sky again. It seemed like only a few minutes ago it had been blue, but now it was already half grey. The light dimmed as the sun was obscured, and the air became colder. The first drops of rain were few and far between, but they soon came more thickly and the horses bowed their heads. As Susannah tried to control the chestnut, her hands slipped on the wet reins and her horse took advantage of it by trying to turn his head against the wind. She pulled him back on course, but he was becoming increasingly skittish, and he was shaking his head as the rain went into his ears.