Anna Jacobs (4 page)

“That’s Marymoor,” he said softly.

She could hear love for it in his voice and wished she could see it more clearly.

It seemed a long time until they came to some half-open gates and clopped slowly through them, to stop in front of the house.

This time she waited for his help to dismount, dismayed at how stiff her body felt, how weak her legs. A fitful breeze tugged at her cloak and blew strands of hair across her face as she clutched him, unable to take a single step. “I’m sorry. I can’t seem to move my legs.”

With a muttered exclamation, he swung her into his arms and carried her towards the front door.

She was too weary to protest, but laid her face against his chest and let him do with her what he would. She could feel his heart beating against her, its steady thump in great contrast to her own, which seemed to be skittering round like a frightened foal.

The front door was opened by a man holding a single flickering candle. He gaped at them, then stood back to let them in.

“How is he, Simley?” Matthew asked even before he had stepped across the threshold.

“Still alive, sir. The doctor’s with him.”

As Matthew carried her inside, Deborah gazed round the dark hallway, which rose for two stories, with railed landings along each side above them. The only light came from one candelabrum on a side table and a single flickering candle in a tin holder carried by the grey-haired servant. Even in the dimness she could see that the wooden floor was scuffed and in sore need of a polish, while the square of carpet in the centre was badly frayed. The hall itself was, however, of good proportions and the staircase was cut neatly at an angle across the back wall, with the lower three steps turned forward as if to invite you to climb up them.

A tall clock standing watch near the foot of the stairs chimed softly.

 “Look at that! Two o’ the clock,” Simley announced gloomily, “and I ain’t been to bed yet! Be good for nothin’ tomorrow, I won’t.”

Matthew ignored him and strode forward, carrying Deborah into a dark room on the right, where no candles were lit, even though there was light coming from underneath a nearby door. He set her down beside a sofa, keeping hold of her until she had sunk down on it with a sigh of relief. She missed the warmth of his body and couldn’t help shivering slightly.

“Are you all right?” he asked.

“Yes. Just—very stiff and a little chilled.”

“I must go up and see Ralph, let him know we’ve arrived.”

“Yes. Yes, of course.”

“I’ll send for a dish of tea—unless you’d prefer a glass of wine?”

“Tea would be very welcome, thank you.”

“Simley!” he shouted. “Fetch some tea. Our visitor is tired.”

The man scowled at her. “There’s no one in the kitchen and the fire there’s damped down.”

“Then build it up again. And if you can’t see to things, wake your wife, man! I need to check on Mr Jannvier.”

Muttering something under his breath, the man went out without another look in Deborah’s direction.

Matthew came back holding a lighted candle and used it to set light to the kindling set neatly in the fireplace before lighting another candle in a tarnished silver holder on the mantelpiece. “You’ll be all right for a few moments?”

“Yes, of course I will. And I can see to the fire now.”

He nodded and went out again without a word. She heard his footsteps running lightly up the stairs, a door opened somewhere above them and closed with a sharp clap of sound, then there was silence. Although she wasn’t of a fanciful nature, she couldn’t help looking round nervously, for the room seemed full of threatening shadows and heavy pieces of old-fashioned furniture behind which anything—or anyone—might be concealed.

She got up to tend the fire, still moving slowly and stiffly, building it up with bigger pieces of wood and then holding her hands out to the flames. It wasn’t a cold night, but she was grateful for the warmth and for the brightness of the fire to dispel some of the shadows.

The manservant returned with a candle. “Oh. You’ve lit the fire. ’Twas set for morning, that was.”

“Mr Pascoe did it.”

He stared at her as if trying to work out who she was. “Come far?”

She didn’t like his surly expression and saw no need to explain herself to him. “Far enough.”

He gestured towards the fire. “It’ll burn all right now, so I’ll leave you to it.”

“And the cup of tea?” she reminded him.

“Mrs Simley is in bed and no one but me to tend to things. I usually work outdoors, not in the kitchen.”

She wondered if he would have been as rude had Matthew Pascoe stayed with them. “Then I’ll come and make it myself. No doubt Mr Pascoe would also be grateful for a warm drink.”

He scowled at her. “No need. I’ll see to it. But it won’t be set out fancy. We’re short-staffed here. And Mr Pascoe don’t curdle his innards with tea. ’Tis a woman’s drink, that.”

It seemed to take him long enough to bring anything and the fire was blazing cheerfully by the time he returned. She’d drunk only half the dish of weak tea when Matthew came into the room, closing the door carefully behind him.

“I forgot to tell you to say nothing about yourself to Simley,” he said abruptly.

“I didn’t.”

“Not even your name?”

“No. I disliked his manner.” She drained the dish and set it down. “How is my great-uncle?”

“Failing. We—the doctor and I—feel you should come and listen to his offer immediately. It’s unlikely he’ll last more than a few hours, I’m afraid.”

“Very well.” She’d never attended a death bed before and the prospect made her feel shaky inside. Her father had been dead for over an hour by the time they carried him home, and it was Bessie who had laid out the corpse.

As she and Matthew mounted the stairs, it became obvious that the rest of the house was as shabby as the entrance hall and equally ill cared for, though it was a commodious enough place, the sort you’d call a small manor house. From the landing two wings led away, one passageway dark, the other lighted by a candlestick on a small table. Portraits decorated the walls, but they were so dark in tone and the light so bad she couldn’t make out who they showed.

Beyond the table another manservant was standing outside a door, as if on guard, but this man had an alert expression on his face and bobbed his head to her respectfully. As he opened the door for them, Matthew ushered her into a room lit by such a blaze of candles that she stopped for a moment to blink and allow her eyes to grow accustomed to the glare.

A gentleman rose from beside the bed and bowed to her.

Matthew made the introductions. “Dr Lethbury, Miss Jannvier.”

“Is that her?” rasped a voice from the bed.

“Yes. This is your great-niece.”

“Bring her closer! ’Tis plaguey dark in here. Why don’t they light more candles?” The voice was slurred, the mouth twisted.

Urged on by a firm hand under her elbow, Deborah moved forward to stand beside the bed. The dying man stretched his hand out to her and she reached out automatically to grasp it. With a strength surprising in one so near to death, he tightened his fingers round her wrist and pulled her down to sit on the edge of the bed.

Her great-uncle was gaunt-featured with a great beak of a nose exactly like her father’s, and sparse, frizzy white hair. The slight resemblance comforted her as did the fact that the old man’s eyes were still lit by a sharp intelligence, even though one side of his face was drawn down and a line of dribble trickled from that corner of his mouth. She found herself thinking that this was a man of whom she might have grown fond had circumstances permitted—unlike her maternal uncle, whom she had quickly learned to hate.

“Hmm. You’re prettier than I’d expected.” He fluttered his fingers towards her head. “My mother had hair like that.” Another scrutiny and he added, “You’ve got an honest face, too. Don’t you think so, Matt?”

“Yes.”

“Good thing you didn’t inherit the Jannvier nose. Looks even worse on a woman.” Ralph chuckled breathily, then grasped her hand again. “Got my letter, did you? Couldn’t write it myself so Matt here did it for me.” He paused, panting a little with the effort of speaking.

“Yes, I got your letter,” she said quietly.

“Your mother wrote—when was it, last year?—to say your father had died and left you both badly off.”

She contented herself with a simple, “Yes.” She didn’t want to go into details in front of strangers.

“Paul was a stupid fool! Gambling never pays unless you cheat. He was a daredevil as a lad, always into mischief, but there was no real harm in him. I never thought a Jannvier would end up dying in a tavern brawl, though.”

She shrugged and remained silent. No doubt the old man would tell her what he wanted in his own good time.

“What d’ye think, then, Matt?” he asked, still holding her hand tightly but looking beyond her. “Will she do?”

Deborah turned and flushed under her guide’s renewed scrutiny and the dying man noticed. “Well, she can blush,” he wheezed, “and that’s not a bad thing in a young woman.” He looked her straight in the eyes again. “I ain’t got time to be tactful, niece.”

It was near enough to an apology for her to nod and the words made her feel better, somehow, as did the acknowledgement of their relationship. She continued to wait patiently for him to explain the conditions under which she would inherit.

“I’m content enough with the bargain,” said Matthew. “She has an open face, at least. If she agrees, I believe we can trust her to keep an honest bargain. Let’s ask the doctor to leave us in private for a few minutes and put the proposition to her.”

The doctor stepped up to the foot of the bed. “I suppose it’s no use my asking you to be brief, Mr Pascoe? Mr Jannvier really should rest now.”

“What’s the use of rest to a dying man?” grumbled that slurred voice from the bed.

The doctor sighed, but left the room with a courteous nod to Deborah.

After a minute Ralph asked querulously. “Has he gone, Matt? Are they all gone except her?”

Matthew returned from the door. “We’re alone, as you wanted, and my groom’s stationed outside. Jem will make sure no one can overhear what we say. Parson is waiting in the library but the Simleys won’t think anything of that—given the circumstances.”

“That’s all right, then.” Two fever-bright eyes looked up at Deborah from the bed. “You ain’t saying much, niece.”

“I’m waiting for you to tell me what you want of me,” she countered.

“I think we can help each other,” he said. “You need money, don’t you?”

“Yes. At present we are dependent upon my Uncle Walter’s charity—and he isn’t a generous man. My mother has had a hard life and deserves better than his many unkindnesses. I should like to give her a few comforts. She’s been a good mother to me.”

“What about yourself? Don’t you want some money? Pretty clothes, jewels, servants to look after you, comfortable home? Most young women would.” His voice had a jeering tone, as if he was trying to make her angry. 

“Of course I want money!” she said fiercely. “But only because it’ll buy our independence. I have no hankering for jewels.”

He cackled in his dry old voice. “Well, there won’t be enough to make you rich, so that’s a good thing.”

“Is there enough to make us independent of my Uncle Walter? That’s all I care about. Having enough to live on. Not—not grandly, but in quiet comfort, at least.”

“Oh, there’s more than enough for that. This is a decent enough estate, though the house is in a sad state. I always cared more for my horses than my furniture. But you’ll have Matthew to help you, and he’s got some sense in his head.”

He sighed and closed his eyes for a moment, then stared at her again. “She ain’t got a greedy face, Matt,” he murmured. “I think I’d like her. Pity I didn’t know her sooner. I was wrong to deal with Elkin.”

He let go of her wrist and stroked her hand, murmuring, “Soft and warm. Young flesh.” Raising one shaking hand he glared at it. “Mine’s old and withered. You never think you’ll get to look like this, girl, but you do. We all come to it in the end, if we live long enough.”

His eyes closed for a moment and Matthew drew nearer, looking a little anxious.  

Ralph sighed and looked up again. “It’s all right, lad. I ain’t quittin’ this world yet. Not till I’ve seen my plan through.” He turned towards Deborah. “Well, niece, this is my proposition. I’ll leave you this house and the estate. There’s some land left. If you let Matt farm it carefully for you there’ll be enough to live on decently and there are one or two cottages and farms that bring in rents and . . . ” His voice faded for a moment and he sighed as if it were a great effort to concentrate. “Where was I? Oh, yes, I’ll leave you everything I’ve got on condition that you marry Matt here and share it with him.”

She cast an astonished glance at the tall man standing beside the bed as she exclaimed. “Marry a complete stranger! But why?”

“Because I owe him a lot and anyway, he’s a relative too, from the wrong side of the blanket. My son, actually. Estates should pass to the legitimate line, but you and Elkin are the only ones left—and he was never one to hold his purse. Bad blood in the Elkins. I didn’t realise how bad till he—but that’s neither here nor there. If you marry Matt, he’ll look after Marymoor properly and look after you as well. And you are a Jannvier legally, born and bred, not an Elkin. There should be a member of the family inheriting. Well, what do you say?”

She did not know what to say and continued to stare blindly at three candles until they blurred into one bright smear of light. She couldn’t possibly marry a stranger—could she? But if she didn’t, she’d have to return to Newgarth and her uncle’s harsh ways.

She turned to stare at Matthew Pascoe. “Why do you want to marry me?”

“I love Marymoor,” he said simply.

“And he’s got a right to it. He ain’t got the Jannvier name, but he’s got the looks. No doubting who fathered him. That counts for a lot with me.” The breathing from the bed was growing shallower, but the old man’s voice was still harshly mocking. “He’s a good man, though he don’t show his feelings to the world. Good farmer, too.”