Born to Trouble (14 page)

She shook her head. ‘Your family—’

‘I’ll take care of my family’

‘But you can’t, don’t you see? Even if the others accepted me as your wife, your grandmother never would. She – she hates me.’

He didn’t deny this, he couldn’t. It was the truth. Instead, he said, ‘My grandmother will die sooner or later – she’s an old woman.’

Again, Pearl shook her head. ‘I want us to be friends like we were. I – I like you better than anyone else in the world, but I can’t be what you want me to be.’

‘I want you to be yourself and I can be patient. Now don’t cry. Please don’t cry, Pearl.’ Tentatively he drew her into his arms, wiping her tears with his handkerchief before moving her to rest against him, his chin nuzzling the top of her head. It took all his willpower not to crush her against him and kiss her. After a little while, he said, ‘This isn’t so bad, is it?’ although he was aware that she was holding herself stiffly.

Her voice was small when she said, ‘No.’

He held her for a few moments longer before stepping back to look into her face, still with his arms loosely about her. ‘I love you and I can wait, but I want you to start thinking of me differently. I’m not your brother, Pearl. I don’t want to be your brother. Do you understand? This can be just between us for now. Nobody else needs to know, but I want you to try.’

‘But—’

‘What?’

‘If – if I can’t think of you in that way, what then?’

‘You will.’ He sounded very confident. ‘Now you go back and I’ll see you later.’

They were standing apart now and she stared at him uncertainly. She had expected . . . She didn’t know what she had expected, but not this quiet reasonableness. ‘You’re not angry?’

He moved his head sfightly ‘No, Pearl. I’m not angry.’

‘I – I do care about you, but – but not . . .’

There was a long pause before he finished, ‘Not in that way. You’ve said.’

Pearl hesitated for a moment more and then turned, walking swiftly away.

Once he was alone, Byron held his brow in his hand and, closing his eyes, remained still for some minutes. It was Rex pawing at his boot that made him take his hand from his head and bend down to pat the dog. ‘It’s all right, boy. It’s all right.’

But it wasn’t all right. He clicked his fingers at the animal and began walking in the opposite direction to the campsite. It was far from all right. He hadn’t expected her to fall on his neck with delight at his offer of marriage. He’d known he’d have to tread carefully, woo her, reassure her, but he’d thought . . . What had he thought?

He came to the grass-covered bank of a weedy stream and flung himself down, Rex flopping down beside him.

He had thought that when he declared himself, there would be some answering spark in her eyes, something to tell him that at the bottom of her she felt the same. That under the layers of fear and shyness and timidity, she wanted him.

His fingers reaching for his whittling knife, he brought it out of his pocket along with the small figure of a child at prayer that he was working on. He always found this went down very well with the fine ladies, a child at prayer. His dark eyes concentrated on the wood in his hand, he allowed the peace and quiet of his surroundings to steal over him.

She had asked him what he would do if she couldn’t see her way clear to accepting him. The truthful answer would have been he didn’t know. All his thoughts and dreams of the future had been wrapped up in her for so long he hadn’t contemplated anything else.
He wouldn’t contemplate it.

His face hardened, his full, sensual lips thinning. She
would
become his wife, nothing else would do. He had waited for her longer than any man would have done; she was his by rights.

And what if Pearl didn’t see it that way? What if another man came sniffing about? She was so beautiful, she grew more beautiful each day. What if she looked at another man and liked what she saw?

He answered the devilish little voice in his head by standing up so abruptly that Rex growled and barked. No one else would have her. She was his.

His knife had slipped on the figure as he had jumped to his feet. He looked down at it in his hand, one finger stroking the surface of the child’s face which now had a deep groove in the wood. His mouth set in a grim line, he drew back his arm and flung the wooden figure into the stream, the weeds and lilies closing over it and hiding it from view beneath the dank green water.

Halimena was surprised to see Pearl return alone. Her gimlet eyes took in the girl’s posture, the droop of her shoulders and the downward curve to her mouth. Well, well, well. Her aged gums ruminating like a cow chewing the cud, she watched Pearl attend to the stew. Perhaps Byron wasn’t so foolish as she’d thought. It would appear that whatever had gone on wasn’t to m’lady’s liking – and that could only mean one thing. He hadn’t been prepared to give her his name.

She smiled to herself, her eyes gleaming under the wrinkled lids. Her grandson was a strange mixture, and she had long since come to understand there was a streak of independence in him that could threaten the following of the old ways if they didn’t coincide with what he wanted; however, in the case of the girl it would seem she had misjudged him. And that was good. She had no wish to go against the forces of the guardians if she didn’t have to.

She sat mulling the matter over in her mind for some time, her fingers busy. She knew the moment Byron walked back into the camp, and one look at her grandson’s face confirmed there would be no announcement made of a betrothal.

But she would watch and listen as to how things progressed. Mackensie and his wife were worse than useless; there were none so blind as those who did not want to see. And in the meantime she would summon up all the charms and incantations she knew to cause her grandson’s desire for the gorgie to wane and die, and for him to become bewitched by another pretty face. There was Margaritt, Wallace’s daughter, or Scicily Young – she was a fine Romany girl with wide hips for childbearing.

At twilight when the evening meal was ready, Halimena did not wait for her portion to be brought to her at the entrance to the tent as was her custom. Instead she rose and went to sit beside Byron, slipping the contents of the small vial she’d concealed in her pocket into his stew when he wasn’t looking. The love potion was powerful, and she would make sure she had something from both the girls of her choice to slip under his pillow come bedtime. A strand of hair perhaps, a thread or two from an item of clothing or a handkerchief. Something for the potion to focus on while he slept.

Relief that the worst had not happened made her mellow, her cackling laugh sounding now and again once the meal was over and the music began. Pearl’s sombre face was food for her soul, further confirmation that the girl’s nose had been put out of joint and that her grandson had seen through the chit’s wiles.

She shouldn’t have doubted him, she decided, after several glasses of Mackensie’s strong, woody-tasting ale. He clearly wasn’t so daft as he looked. But just in case, she would keep the darnel grass safe in her chest along with all her herbs and elixirs and charms. Just in case . . .

Christopher Montgomery William Armstrong watched his father shovelling food into his mouth like a pig at a trough and wondered for the umpteenth time how his mother – his elegant, genteel mother – endured living with such a man.

But he already knew the answer, he told himself in the next moment, and it certainly wasn’t love – unless you counted the love of money. When his father’s father – a moderately rich man with a burning desire to become much more than moderately rich – won this estate with its house, farm, labourers’ cottages and 100 acres of grounds on the turn of a card, he had promptly brought his wife and only son here, determining that it would be the beginning of a new life.

He’d bought himself a leatherworks and flour mill on the banks of the River Tyne in Newcastle, and later a string of warehouses on the waterfront. He’d seen his power and influence grow yearly, becoming respected and not a little feared, but the one thing he hadn’t been able to boast was a wife from the aristocracy. And so he had made sure he bought one for his only son from a noble family who were on the verge of becoming insolvent, and then promptly got himself and his wife killed in a boating accident when they were doing the Grand Tour, leaving his son the master of everything he surveyed at the age of twenty-five.

‘Christopher, dear.’

His mother’s calm voice brought the young man’s eyes to her face. ‘Yes, Mother?’

‘You aren’t eating. Are you unwell?’

‘I’m quite well, just not particularly hungry.’

‘Huh!’ Oswald Armstrong raised his eyes from his breakfast to glare at his son. ‘Not hungry! You’d be hungry if you did a decent day’s work, m’boy You can be sure of that. Can’t work up an appetite burying yourself in books with your grand friends.’

‘No, I suppose not.’ Christopher didn’t take offence at this. He, along with his mother, could hear the pride his father was aiming to conceal by belittling the very thing he was immensely proud about. A son at Oxford might not be much benefit in his father’s many businesses, but it was something to boast about over dinner parties and at his club. His father, like his father before him, was a social climber who was very aware that his beginnings had not been in the top drawer. Added to that, Oswald Armstrong had another son, Nathaniel, to take over his little empire when the time was right.

As though his thoughts had conjured up his older brother, Nathaniel strolled into the breakfast room a moment later.

‘I was just saying, if Christopher wants an appetite he’d better work alongside us every day.’ Oswald spoke with his mouth full, and Nathaniel glanced over at his brother with raised eyebrows.

When Christopher merely smiled, Nathaniel said lazily, ‘He’d only get in the way, wouldn’t you, Chris?’ This was said with affection. At twenty-five years of age Nathaniel was four years older than his brother but the gap had always appeared wider. Nathaniel was like his father in nature – strong-willed, determined and selfish – but from the moment Christopher had been born, his brother had taken on the role of protector and friend. When Christopher had proved to be a gentle dreamer of a boy with a passion for books and poetry, it had been Nathaniel who had stood between his brother and father when Oswald got irritated with the son he didn’t understand and had little time for. Indeed, if there was one person in the whole world whom Nathaniel truly loved, it was his brother, and the feeling was reciprocated. Their father was a hot-tempered bully and their mother merely a vague presence in their lives, content to leave her sons to the care of the servants when they were younger, and each other and their friends as they reached manhood.

Once Nathaniel was seated, one of the maids brought his coffee and the soft white rolls he favoured, made with honey that morning by the cook. He always ate these before he helped himself from the covered dishes at one side of the room. In all, there were fifteen indoor servants to see to the family’s needs, and seven outdoor men from the coachman down to the stable boy. The farm was a separate entity, under the control of their manager, Wilbert Tollett. He was responsible for the buying and selling of stock and also the fine hunters which were Oswald Armstrong’s one weakness. They had a stable full of superb horses but Oswald could never resist another one. The farm hands numbered a dozen, and several of their wives were employed in the dairy.

‘So, all set to enjoy your vacation, little brother?’ Nathaniel spread one of the split rolls liberally with crab-apple jelly, made from their trees in the orchard. ‘I’m sure Adelaide will be pleased to see you safe and well and in the bosom of your family.’

Christopher grimaced. Adelaide Stefford was the daughter of his parents’ oldest friends, and with only a year’s difference in their ages the two had been pushed together since they could toddle. Both sets of parents were shameless in their desire to see a union between the two, but although Adelaide was willing – more than willing – Christopher’s tastes didn’t run to big, voluptuous women who liked nothing more than a day’s hunting in the fresh air followed by a hearty meal most men couldn’t finish. Adelaide was voracious in more ways than one, and he’d had enough sexual experience – courtesy of Nathaniel’s introduction to a couple of his ex-mistresses and one or two ladies of the night – to know he preferred women who were happy to be led rather than those who insisted on taking the dominant role.

‘I haven’t made any plans to call on the Steffords,’ he said, only to regret his ill-chosen words at once as his mother said reproachfully, ‘I really think you should, Christopher. Adelaide was here only the other day, enquiring as to when you were home. She is so looking forward to seeing you again.’

Ignoring the wicked sparkle in his brother’s eyes, Christopher smiled at his mother. ‘Perhaps when I’ve had time to settle in?’

‘Well, don’t leave it too long. The Steffords are such dear friends.’

If he had voiced what he was thinking, Christopher would have said, ‘The Steffords are typical of the incestuous breeding which produces dull minds and animal appetites, and I would rather walk through Oxford naked than call on Adelaide.’ Instead, he nodded. ‘Perhaps in a few days.’ Looking at his brother, he asked pleasantly, ‘And how’s Rowena?’

Nathaniel’s laughing blue eyes said, ‘
Touché.’
His voice was circumspect, even prim, however, when he said aloud, ‘Very well.’

‘That’s good.’ Rowena Baxter’s family had connections with royalty, and their parents had made it very plain that that was where Nathaniel’s duty lay. The fact that Rowena was as thin as a pikestaff and twice as plain, and twittered like an empty-headed bird given half a chance had nothing to do with it.

Oswald Armstrong could hardly be called the most intuitive of men, but he had always been aware of the strong bond between his two sons and it grated on him. Now his small round eyes, which were as hard as black granite, moved between them. ‘If you’ve nothing better to do then I suggest you accompany Tollett on his rounds today and see how the farm is faring,’ he said to Christopher, his tone making it clear that this was an order. ‘It won’t do you any harm to put yourself out for once.’