Nell
Authors: Elizabeth Bailey
“No one calls me Helen.”
The utterance had a husky quality. Without volition, he turned his head. “What do they call you?”
“Nell, sir.”
The instant it was out of her mouth, she knew it was a mistake. His gaze became intimate, probing hers. She wanted, needed to look away. She could not. What had possessed her to speak of her name she could not imagine. Except that his expressed wish so closely mirrored her own. It should have distanced her that he said it. Instead it had created the opposite effect. As if a kinship had sprung up between them.
His voice came softly. “If I were not an honorable man, Nell, I might well be carried away by the romance of the occasion.” A wisp of a smile curled his lips. “Moonlight and a pretty girl—balm to ease a troubled heart. It is unbearably tempting.”
Dear Reader,
I have often thought with sympathy of that army of sad spinsters in bygone days whose lot in life was to be a governess. Without means, marriage was out of the question, and so they entered alien households to work as a tutor.
In the Georgian world of my creation, three such young ladies, devoted friends, are just emerging from a charitable seminary in Paddington where they have been prepared for just such a life.
First comes tender
Prudence,
a softhearted creature, who is hopelessly outclassed by the enterprising twin nieces of Julius Rookham. Resentful of his amusement at her struggles, Prue finds that her unruly heart nevertheless warms to her employer.
Then there is practical
Nell,
buoyed by a common-sense approach to the strange goings-on in the Gothic castle of a brooding widower and the erratic behavior of his little daughter. Yet she is drawn to the mystery of Lord Jarrow’s tortured past, and all Nell’s considerable strength of mind cannot prevent her from falling into a dangerous attraction.
Lastly, there is fanciful
Kitty,
the only one of the trio to escape the future mapped out for her. But her reality is a far cry from the golden ambition of her dreams.
I dedicate these stories to those unsung heroines condemned to a life of drudgery, who deserve all the romance they can get.
Kitty’s story will be coming your way soon.
Nell
grew up in Malawi, then worked as an actress in British theater. Her interest in writing grew, at length overtaking acting. Instead, she taught drama, developing a third career as a playwright and director. She finds this a fulfilling combination, for each activity fuels the others, firing an incurably romantic imagination. Elizabeth lives in Sussex, England.
A
n overcast sky threw gloom across the world, and the wind bit. Huddling into the warmth of her cloak, Miss Helen Faraday blessed the foresight that had led her to line it with an extra layer of flannel. It was chill for mid-April and the long sojourn in the stagecoach had left her numb, ill prepared for further travel in a one-horse gig.
She glanced at the aged retainer who had been sent to Ilford to pick her up, a wizened, bow-legged creature attired in worn black livery, with a battered hat placed upon lanky grey locks tied in the nape of his neck. He was not precisely surly, but his conversation was meagre and to the point. An attitude that was at one, perhaps, with Miss Faraday’s new situation. Indeed, her first situation. One, she reminded herself, that she had been eager to obtain. Could it be the unfortunate dullness of the day that was causing her to wonder if she had made the right decision?
The Essex country was pleasant enough, and the sleepy villages through which they were passing must be pretty when the sun shone. It could only be her imagination that set shadows dancing in covered nooks, and an unruly rustling in the leaves. She was become as fan
ciful as Kitty! She could not repress a smile as she remembered her friend’s boding words at parting.
‘If there should be wraiths, Nell, and strange whisperings of a night, you had best lock your door and hide under the bed. And whatever you do, don’t venture into any vaults or dungeons for fear of skeletons!’
A sage piece of advice that had effectively driven away the pricking at Nell’s eyes, setting her instead to laughter. ‘If I should discover any such thing, my dearest Kitty, I shall steal one of its bones for you as a souvenir.’
Kitty had shuddered. ‘Don’t dare! Only do take care, Nell. You may laugh, but even Lord Jarrow said it was a very old castle, so it is bound to be haunted.’
The ghoulish delight beneath the apprehensive tone was not lost on Nell. ‘Have no fear, dearest. I shall write for your advice the moment I encounter a spectre.’
Upon which Kitty had fallen into laughter—which had broken in the middle into a distinct sob. Nell had caught her into a convulsive embrace, knowing that with her departure poor Kitty was going to be desperately lonely. It had been bad enough when Prue, the first of the three friends to secure a post, had gone off to Rookham Hall. But now—
Here her thoughts suffered a check as the gig at last turned off the main highway on to a lesser track. She looked towards her escort, who had given his name as Detling, announcing himself to be his lordship’s groom.
‘Where are we?’
He did not glance at her. ‘Whalebone House.’
‘Have we far to go?’
‘Nobbut a mile to forest. ’Bout mile and half more to Hog Hill.’
Nell was conscious of a slight feeling of apprehension, and instantly quashed it. That was what came of reliving
memories! But the sensation persisted as a belt of trees came into sight to one side of the carriageway. It was thick. And dark.
‘Is that the forest?’
A sidelong look was flashed at her. ‘Mark Wood, that is. Hainault be our way. Know it when you see it, you will.’ He pointed with his whip to the country opposite the wood. ‘Padnall Place.’
Automatically Nell cast her eyes in that direction. Some distance from the road, the outline of a large house could be discerned above a smattering of green. A mansion of some note, perhaps? It struck Nell oddly that the servitor, who had volunteered no other information, should have pointed it out. She eyed him.
‘What is the significance of Padnall Place?’
Detling cast her another enigmatic look, and replied with only a grunt. Nell felt a rise of irritation. Was this a sample of the manners obtaining at her destination? It bordered on insolence, calling to mind the oft-repeated words of her preceptress at the Seminary.
‘Be under no illusions, girls. You will meet with rude treatment. Your defence must be to ignore it. Retain your dignity at all costs. To give way to a natural vexation can only serve to make you ridiculous.’
All the long years of her incarceration at Paddington Seminary, Nell had striven to cultivate that all-important dignity. Mrs Duxford’s teachings had inculcated within her a sense of self-worth that had nothing to do with pride. They had all made fun of that dread word
independence
, which the Duck—as they reprehensibly dubbed her—had so strongly underlined. But Nell suspected it had been the saving grace of many of the genteel but indigent females who passed through that lady’s hands. They were all of them condemned to a life of
drudgery. No bones had been made about that, for the Duck had ever been ruthlessly truthful of their expectations. But along with the candour, for each anticipated slight or harshness that life might deal out, there had been advice sound enough to enable one to endure it with no lessening of self.
It was not always successful, Nell decided. Dear sweet Prue had ever a low self-esteem. As for poor Kitty’s hopelessly impossible ambitions!
Nell thrust the thoughts away. She must not dwell on the past. Putting her attention firmly on the road ahead, she became abruptly aware that Detling had been right. Spreading as far as she could see in either direction lay the forest. One could not mistake it. Like a vast sea of green, thrusting waves into the air. Endless it seemed, waiting in menace. A swamping mass destined to swallow her up. Nell could not repress a shiver of fright.
‘Hainault,’ announced the groom.
Was there a note of satisfaction in the cracked voice? Had he seen her alarm and taken a perverse pride in it? Not that he was directly responsible for its sinister aspect, but she would stake her oath he regarded the forest as his own since he dwelled within its relentless folds. A characteristic, the Duck had said, often to be found in those whose condition in life gave them little other source of pride. One must recognise the type and refuse to be its adverse effect.
‘It is certainly overwhelming,’ she conceded, choosing to pander to him. ‘How far does it stretch, do you know?’
‘More’n two mile up. Near four east to west.’
Nell met another of his testing looks with determined calm. ‘And the castle lies deep inside, I take it?’
‘’Bain’t nothing close ’cepting Lodge. Nor you can’t see it neither from castle.’ A grin creased his leathery
countenance, and he became positively loquacious. ‘Hog Hill be that high, ’n trees be that thick, bain’t nothing to be seen but forest nigh on mile an’ mile.’
‘Indeed?’
At a loss how to respond suitably to such depressing information, Nell turned her attention to the village they were entering, which sat on the edge of the looming bank of trees, becoming larger with each passing instant.
‘What is this place called?’
‘Collier Row.’ Having opened up at last, her guide was inclined to converse. ‘Over t’west be village o’ Padnall Corner. If’n we went thataway—’ pointing off to the right ‘—we’m to come to Park Farm to fetch supplies mostly, milk n’ such.’
Come, this was more encouraging. ‘Then you are not completely isolated. Where do you go for your hardware then, Ilford?’
‘Rumford. Three mile mebbe to Rumford.’
Nell began to feel a little more cheerful at the warming thought of a large town nearby. But as the gig left Collier Row behind, and they began to penetrate the forest, she could not repress a resurgence of apprehension. She knew it to be absurd but, as the dense foliage closed over them, she felt more and more hemmed in. It was, besides, excessively dark under the trees. Yet it could not be much more than four o’clock. She had arrived at Ilford as expected at a little past three and Detling had been late by a half-hour. They could not have been travelling all that long for it was only something over five miles to her destination, so she had been told.
She cast a glance upward, looking towards the ribbon of muted light that followed the road. If only it had been sunny, with brightness splashing through the leaves, the atmosphere would have been far less intimidating. She
must not allow her fortitude to be shaken by a mere manifestation of the weather.
And then an eerie prickling came over her, for it sounded as if another set of hoofs had begun to overlay the steady clopping of the sturdy cob that pulled the gig.
For an instant, Nell dallied with the random thought that a ghostly stallion had invaded the creature in front. Common sense immediately told her that this was ridiculous. If she could hear hoofbeats, then another horse must be on the road, either before or behind. She glanced back.
No rider was to be seen. Yet the sound of hooves was steadily growing, and travelling faster than the gig. Nell looked at Detling, and saw by the tilt of his chin that he had heard it too. She quelled a stupid sensation of fear, and glanced this way and that, looking for any sign of a horseman. It was not a carriage, for there was no sound to mirror the whoosh of the gig’s wheels upon the forest track.
And then a rider burst out of the trees and into the road ahead.
The cob balked, and the gig bounced uncomfortably. Clutching the side, Nell tried to control the gasping shock that gripped her. The man was in black from head to foot, matching the mount, which he had brought to a stamping halt, his head turned towards the gig. Below the wide-brimmed hat set low over his forehead only his eyes could be dimly seen, for the rest of his face was concealed by a loose black mask.
Under the furious thudding of her heart, Nell became aware that the gig had been brought to a standstill. The cob was snorting disagreeably, but the ancient servant at her side had his attention wholly on the footpad.
Recognition of the man’s calling thrust Nell into a
cold sweat. Her mind reeled, and a long-forgotten image rolled into sight:
A gloved hand through the window of the coach, a discharged pistol smoking…the heavy smell of sulphur…and the blood that seeped from the hole in her father’s head.
The present vision shifted. The black-clad rider was turning his horse, making for the gig. He rode close, coming up on Nell’s side. Her pulse shot into high gear and the memory faded, the old terror leaping up anew.
Did he mean to rob her? Then he must be disappointed, for she had nothing worth the taking. Realising that he held no pistol, Nell felt a lessening of fear. Boldly she met his eyes as he halted his mount so that he looked directly into her face. They were wild eyes, frowning and open, although there was not light enough to see what colour they were.
A guttural laugh sounded, but he addressed her in tones unmistakably genteel, a trifle muffled under the cloth that hung over his mouth.
‘I need not ask whither you are bound.’ The eyes travelled slowly down her person and up again. ‘Nor for what purpose.’
Too astonished for speech, Nell concentrated on keeping her countenance, ignoring the commotion at her breast and the peculiar rigidity of her muscles.
His gaze dwelled for a moment on her face, and the expression in his eyes altered. A low whistle came. ‘Fortunate Jarrow! I would I were in his shoes.’
The man then executed a low bow, which Nell took to be ironic, and, turning his horse again, cantered off ahead of them and was soon lost to sight. Nell drew a steadying breath, and turned wrathful eyes upon Detling.
‘And who, may I ask, was that? Pray do not attempt to tell me that he is unknown to you. It is obvious that
he is fully conversant with your master and all that pertains to my arrival.’
A disparaging snort escaped the groom, who gave his horse the office to start off again. ‘Bain’t no call t’ take no account o’ the likes of Lord Nobody. Been maraudin’ these parts nigh on three year.’
‘Lord Nobody? What in the world do you mean?’
Receiving one of the fellow’s sidelong looks, Nell drew on all the authority at her command. ‘I am in no mood to be trifled with, Detling! It is no answer to tell me he is a highwayman, for that I know already.’
Detling gave vent to a cackle. ‘I’d like fine t’ see as how Master deal wi’ you, missie. Bain’t no one thrown tongue at Master since Missus took and died.’
Interesting though this theme was, Nell refused to be drawn by it and merely waited, her eyes firmly upon the man. He eyed her, wrinkled his face in a grimace, and gave in.
‘Bain’t no one know Lord Nobody for hisself. Could be any one o’ they gennelmen round about seemingly. Knows owt as there is t’ know do Lord Nobody.’ A sly grin was flashed at her. ‘Could be as Lord Nobody is Master hisself for owt I know.’
‘Lord Jarrow a highwayman? Don’t be absurd!’
Nell had spoken out of instant reaction. On the other hand, was it so absurd? He had evidently known that she was a governess, and bound for Castle Jarrow. Which meant he must have recognised Detling, for he could not have seen her before. Oh, it must be nonsense! What had he said? That he wished he had been in Lord Jarrow’s shoes. Which she was to take for a compliment, no doubt?
Too used to be an object of interest to the gentlemen round about Paddington—on account, she understood, of
the unusual shade of her blonde locks and her distinctive green eyes, for she was certainly not accounted a beauty!—Nell found the discovery neither discomposing nor alarming. She was the more interested that the highwayman’s remark argued that he was not Lord Jarrow, which Nell devoutly hoped would be found to be the case. The last thing she wanted was to become an object of amorous interest to her employer. Mrs Duxford had given dire warnings against widowers!
Yet the incident had done nothing to relieve the sense of unease that had attacked her in this place. So unlike herself. Had she not been known for her sang-froid all these years? Even now there were echoes of remembered pain in that wicked image that had sprung up from its banishment in the depths of her subconscious mind. Nell thrust them down. She had long conquered that hurt, and she would not permit of its returning to torment her now.
Turning her attention back to her surroundings, she found that they were slowing as the gig began to climb. The track rose steadily and she spoke aloud the thought in her mind.
‘This must be Hog Hill.’
Detling gave forth a grunt. ‘That it be.’
