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
