final trek through the woods had passed in strained, chilly silence. Rebecca had decided that until her anger was again under control, it was best to keep quiet and keep walking lest she say or do something she might regret. But every speedy step taken had been filled with an inner wrangling about whether to contact Lucy’s stepfather to ask him to fetch her. The fact that her meagre income would be again reduced, leaving her in severe financial difficulties, had been the only consideration in the girl’s favour. As she looked at Lucy now and met those injured blue eyes, Rebecca sensed a niggling sympathy. Lucy seemed resigned to being rejected.
‘This is Lucy…Lucy Mayhew, who is going to be joining us for a while,’ Rebecca introduced her, with a strengthening smile for Lucy. ‘Lucy, Martha and her husband Gregory have been giving me invaluable help here at the Summer House over the past five years.’ Trying to lighten their moods, she indicated Martha’s laden table. ‘Martha’s cooking is delicious, Lucy, it is very easy to over-indulge.’ Lucy gave the cook a shy smile before perching demurely on a kitchen chair and gazing interestedly about.
Such a picture of youthful innocence, Rebecca couldn’t help ironically surmising. But she cheered herself with again acknowledging just how fortunate she had been since the double tragedy of her parents’ and fiancé’s deaths some five years ago. At that time, circumstances had conspired to make a future in harsh employment or marriage to the first man to offer for her seem the only avenues. Instead, she now had a kind and generous landlord, friendship and aid from the Turners and also from dear friends who lived close by. But, most of all, she had this small, pretty Summer House, providing her with home and employment. She sighed her contentment, acknowledging that she would persevere with Lucy’s education.
Martha fetched a stone jug from the dark pantry and set about filling two glasses with aromatic lemonade. Rebecca smiled her thanks, determined not to let this afternoon’s humiliating episode spoil her pleasure at being home. Consciously recalling the incident allowed raven hair and earthy dark eyes to once more dominate her thoughts, but only momentarily before she determinedly banished them.
Luke Trelawney disturbed her by fascinating her far too much. But he had now gone and she would never again see him or his brother Ross. The strange bittersweet pang tightening her chest at that certainty made her fingers instinctively seek the large silver locket she wore. She could feel its warm, solid shape beneath her cotton dress. Her fingers smoothed its oval silhouette as she held on to the dear memory of David, her mourned fiancé.
‘I knew you’d be wanting some lemonade. I made that fresh this morning.’ Martha broke into her wistful reverie, arms crossing contentedly as she watched the two young women draining their tumblers. ‘I knew you’d be along and hot and thirsty,’ she emphasised with a wag of the head. ‘Mind you,’ she cautioned, rolling her sleeves back to her elbows before expertly pummelling the dough on the table. ‘Mind you…’ she repeated for good measure ‘…Gregory reckons that rain is on the way at last and you know he’s rarely wrong.’ Her head bobbed again as deft hands rolled the pastry into a ball. ‘His legs have been playing up bad again…a sure sign o’ wet on the way…biscuits are nearly done,’ she tacked incongrously on the end. ‘I can smell them coming along nicely.’ She smiled at Lucy. ‘I reckon a healthy young lady like you can polish off quite a few before her dinner.’
Lucy nodded, settling expectantly back into her chair like a biddable child. Watching her, Rebecca wondered how she could veer so rapidly between wanton sophistication and childlike innocence. But if what Gregory predicted was true and rain was on its way, she had pressing matters to attend to. She replaced her tumbler on the table.
‘Has John fixed the roof while I’ve been away, Martha?’ she enquired anxiously, remembering Robin Ramsden’s promise that he would send his young carpenter to repair some summer storm damage.
‘No…we’ve seen not hide nor hair of that young man. Gregory was going to attempt it hisself…but his affliction in the knees meant he could barely rise up three rungs of the ladder.’
‘Is Lord Ramsden returned yet from Bath?’ Rebecca quickly interrogated.
‘Well, he wasn’t at the manor five days ago when Gregory fetched the provisions but Miles was expecting him at any time. I reckon he must be at home now. If you chase that John up he’ll be over and fix that roof quick as can be before his lordship finds out he’s been idling again while he was away.’
‘How many staff remain?’ Luke asked the sombrely dressed elderly man standing stiff and quiet behind him, as he idly surveyed the weed-strewn gravel driveway. The chippings were piled high at the perimeter of the circular carriage sweep, testament to how long it had been since it was tended or raked. Numerous coach wheels were quite visibly imprinted in the dusty grit.
Both dark hands were raised, bracing against the framework of the large casement window he stood by. He gazed out, far into the wooded distance, his mind still deep in that quiet sanctuary with a girl with turquoise eyes.
‘Eight,’ came the terse response from behind.
Luke’s eyes narrowed, his jaw setting as he recognised the barely concealed insolence in the elderly butler’s tone. He swung away from the large square-paned window and faced him across the mellow yew desk.
Edward Miles must have been seventy if he was a day, and in a way Luke could understand his belligerence. What he could not comprehend was the man’s stupidity. Had he any sense at all, he would take great pains to appear pleasant and obliging. His livelihood was now at great risk. For an aged butler of three score years and ten, employment was scarce. Employment without a reference would be impossible, as would keeping a roof over his sparsely covered head in his twilight years.
Luke knew he was tired, he knew he was thirsty but mostly, he knew, today he had been frustrated and that irritated him. Meeting the first woman in an age who had tried to rid herself of his presence at the earliest opportunity was quite a novelty and one he now realised he could have done without. Rejection came hard. And the more he dwelt on it, the more he knew it was ridiculous to allow it to matter. He forced himself to concentrate on Edward Miles. A rheumy-eyed gaze challenged him unwaveringly.
‘Is there some brandy about this place?’ Luke demanded testily, determining to leave matters for an hour or so whilst Ross and he refreshed themselves. They had been travelling solidly for almost two days with barely an overnight stop.
A slow, satisfied shake of the head met this request.
‘Some wine of some sort?’ Luke persisted, his patience with the butler’s aloof attitude nearly at an end.
‘Judith might have made some lemonade,’ the old man advised dolefully. ‘I can ascertain, if you wish.’
Luke stared at him, wondering if he was being deliberately facetious. But Edward Miles returned his black-eyed stare phlegmatically.
‘Fine,’ Luke agreed, knowing it wasn’t fine at all, and wondering how he was going to break the news to Ross. And where the hell was Ross? Since they had arrived in the village of Westbrook an hour ago he had been off exploring. Luke allowed himself a rueful smile; at times his twenty-five-year-old brother was a fitting playmate for his young nephew of five. Thinking of that little lad brought Tristan to mind. His brother Tristan had his own wife and family to look after and couldn’t be left to cope alone for too long, sensible and dependable as he was. He needed to deal speedily with this matter and set on the road home to Cornwall
‘I’ll meet with the staff in the main hallway in an hour. Assemble them there at three o’clock…and bring some sort of refreshment to this study, if you please,’ Luke dictated steadily to Miles. The elderly man gave a creaky, insolent bow and quit the wood-panelled
