Mr. Trelawney's Proposal

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‘Yes, sir, I mean, Mr Trelawney. Well, sir, it’s nothing really, as I said, it’s just your brother…’ Judith tailed off and shuffled uncomfortably again.

Luke sighed out, ‘Yes, what now? Is he sliding down the banisters? Rolling drunk in the drawing room?’

‘No, sir. He’s…er…rolling dice with Joan and Sally…in the hallway. If you want dinner tonight, Mr Trelawney, he had best leave the girls be so I can get them to the vegetables.’ She rubbed appreciative hands together as she expounded, ‘It’s to be smoked trout and roast guinea fowl with roast potatoes and fruit tarts with cream and…’

‘And as you pass him in the hallway, Judith, tell him I want him, would you?’ Luke cut into her menu, a slow hand spanning his forehead, soothing his temples.

Judith bobbed a quick curtsy before bustling busily from the study.

Poking professionally about in his cavernous document case, Mr Willoughby seemed deaf to the unusual discourse. But he ruined his nonchalance by admitting with doleful sympathy, ‘I have a younger brother…’

Luke nodded acceptance of the man’s tacit condolences before getting back to business. ‘The Summer House Lodge…where is the lease for that building? I haven’t found it among any of the documents in this study. Do you hold it?’

‘The Summer House?’ Mr Willoughby repeated, a trifle surprised. ‘Oh, you won’t find any lease for that; there is none.’

Luke frowned enquiry across the desk at him. ‘Are you sure? The building is presently used as a small school, by Miss Rebecca Nash. She rents the premises on a lease, I would have thought.’

As Ross sauntered back into the room, Luke glanced up idly, scowling a little at his brother’s impenitent smile. Picking up the newspaper he had previously been reading, Ross strolled across to the window by Luke’s desk, as though enjoying better light there to study it.

‘Well, yes, she does reside there. But there is no lease,’ Willoughby confirmed as his pale eyes darted from one brother to the other.

‘Why not?’ Luke asked a little too quietly.

Willoughby noisily cleared his throat and slid nervous fingers between his stiff collar and his warming neck as he sensed an atmosphere fomenting. ‘There was never any need of one,’ he quickly advised Luke. ‘Robin Ramsden and Miss Nash appeared to have…an agreement. She just resides and works there and he—’ He broke off, desperately seeking the right words, aware of two sets of brown eyes watching him now. The silence strained interminably.

‘And he…?’ Luke finally prompted him, in a voice that was silky with danger, while his eyes relentlessly pinned down the weak blue ones seeking to evade him.

‘And he allowed her to,’ Mr Willoughby concluded quickly, pleased with his innocuous phrasing. It didn’t have the desired effect of diverting Luke Trelawney’s piercing gaze.

‘Possibly he took pity on her…because of the tragedy which occurred some five years ago,’ Willoughby suggested hastily. ‘It would have been about the same time she took up residence at the Summer House. Yes, that must have been it.’ He nodded, sure he had now satisfactorily managed a delicate situation.

‘Tragedy…?’

Just one soft word coupled with a penetrating, fierce stare and Victor Willoughby readily explained. ‘Miss Nash lost both her parents in a carriage accident in the winter snows. Within the same week she learned of the death of her fiancé in the Peninsula…er…he was a captain in the Hussars, I believe. Then her brother disappeared, too. That I believe was, financially, the crux of the matter. For her brother held the purse strings on her father’s death. He was charged with administering her small inheritance for her but no one could find him. I believe they still can’t.’ He licked dry lips and glanced warily at Luke Trelawney, noting his narrow-eyed thoughtfulness.

‘And Robin Ramsden‥?’ Luke interrogated him calmly.

‘And Robin Ramsden appeared to take her under his protection…er…I mean to say, he looked after her, so to speak,’ Mr Willoughby flustered, unwilling to imply too much of what he had never been certain. He had his own theories but he was not going to voice them. Definitely not to this man who had become rather daunting in the past few minutes.

Miss Nash was a lovely woman…he had seen her once or twice and had drawn the only logical conclusion he could for his late client’s continuing aid and protection. This new lord of the manor seemed also to have taken an immediate personal interest in her. It was no concern of his…but she was very beautiful…

Luke shoved back in his chair and stood up. He walked to the window and stared out, appearing oblivious to his brother barely a yard away, even though Ross’s anxious hazel eyes followed his movements. But Luke was peripherally aware of Willoughby behind him, gathering together his papers and stuffing them abruptly into his case in readiness to depart.

A hard, humourless smile curved Luke’s mouth as he finally allowed himself to concentrate fully on Rebecca. It was all beginning to fall into place. What a gullible fool he’d been and that rankled. Everyone knew him for a cynic. No wonder she had been prepared to speak to Robin Ramsden on his behalf when believing he’d been discovered trespassing. Using charm and influence on the lord of this Manor was, by all accounts, nothing new for her. Well, that would suit him damn fine. There was no need for that to change.

Whatever Robin Ramsden had provided for her over the years, he knew he could improve on…a thousandfold. And he’d believed her to be some chaste provincial maid he would need to proposition with utmost care. She’d cried on learning of Robin Ramsden’s death. Was it the man or the meal ticket she mourned? he wondered. Perhaps it was the prospect of losing her home…the schoolbuilding. What was she teaching there, in any case? If provocative Miss Mayhew, the young temptress he recalled from the woodland pond, was an untried schoolgirl, then…Ross was teetotal.

What did it matter? Rebecca had obviously fallen on hard times five years ago and had survived in any way she could. It was a commonplace tale.

He had already decided to take her with him and this changed nothing. Logically it made things easier, he acknowledged with a callous smile. He could now proposition her without risking having her outraged or hysterical. Even enthusiastic virgins were damn hard to tutor and sometimes barely worth the trouble. By the time they were adaptable and accomplished he was usually bored and looking elsewhere.

He thought of Wenna, something he hadn’t done for a week or more. He was bored and looking elsewhere, he acknowledged sourly, yet she had always been the perfect mistress. Passionate, obliging, skilful, discreet, faithful…the list was endless. One of his large, dark hands curled into a fist. She’d suited him fine until he’d come here.

Chapter Four

‘Lucy!’ Rebecca’s low disciplined voice carried easily in the quiet room and brought the girl’s brunette head directly around. Rebecca pointed indicatively at the book in front of her on the pine desk and mouthed, ‘Read!’

Once Lucy’s attention was once more with her work, Rebecca glared at John. The young carpenter shifted from the open doorway where he had been loitering under the pretext of examining its battered wooden framework.

Rebecca quietly left her own desk and, passing the few younger day girls who were chalking on small blackboards, entered the kitchen. John was kneeling on the floor, replacing tools in a canvas holdall.

‘The work must be finished now, John, surely?’ she asked the fair-haired youth. He scrambled up then, reddening, and she realised that he hadn’t heard her approach. He tugged at a lock of sun-bleached hair hanging low over one eye.

‘Yes, m’m…’ he mumbled. ‘Just a few more rafters to look at under them slates…once rain eases off a bit.’

He had turned up, totally unexpectedly, within hours of Rebecca learning of Robin Ramsden’s death. The new master had sent him, John had shyly explained and he had set to work. Rebecca was grateful he had arrived so speedily too, for by dusk the first fat drops of rain were staining the dusty ground around the Summer House.

John had been back each of the three days since, awaiting a break in the showers to carry out repairs. That was the problem. While he innocently surveyed the internal structure of the Summer House for chores to occupy him until he could get back on the roof, Lucy was purposefully surveying him. He was now watching her back, Rebecca realised with alarm. Her small parlour-cum-schoolroom often now found him lurking in its vicinity.

‘You still here, young man?’ Martha greeted John jovially as she entered the kitchen with a basket of washing beneath one capable arm. ‘Just about got this lot dry between showers,’ she informed Rebecca in the next breath. ‘Waiting for them biscuits to get out the oven, I suppose,’ she again addressed the blond youth.

‘Well, I wouldn’t say no, Martha.’ He dodged her playful swipe at him.

‘You’d best get yourself up on that roof then and earn some. Rain’s eased off a bit now.’

He sauntered from the kitchen, cradling his prized tools beneath one arm.

‘Never going to rid ourselves of him now, are we?’ Martha mentioned with a shrewd meaningful look towards the parlour door.

Rebecca sighed, approached the open kitchen door, and surveyed the dripping landscape. ‘I’ll have to speak to Lucy again. She distracts him…’

‘Distracts him?’ Martha echoed with a derisive snort. ‘That young miss is a bundle of trouble, if you ask me. Why, even my old Gregory has had eyes made at him. Not that I’m worried…or he’s capable,’ she added with a good-natured smile. ‘But that young John…now there’s a different matter,’ she warned with a sage wagging of her grey head.

‘I know she tends to flirt,’ Rebecca admitted, biting anxiously at her bottom lip.

‘You’re looking a bit brighter today, if I may say so, Miss Becky,’ Martha changed the subject abruptly.

‘I do feel a little less anxious, Martha,’ she said quietly. ‘The shock of hearing of Robin’s death made me a little illogical. But since then I have been thinking…perhaps things aren’t quite so black. Now I have had time to consider…’ She sighed, reflecting that ‘consider’ hardly began to do justice to the sleepless, fretful nights she had endured since first learning of this tragedy. ‘I certainly can’t honestly blame Mr Trelawney for wanting to return to Cornwall or to the home and estates he has there. Nor could I have complained had he wanted to take up residence at Ramsden Manor and charge me rent for using this building. It is his property, after all, to do with as he wishes. Because Robin was so good to me I tend to forget that I am just here on sufferance. But Mr Trelawney has sent John to repair the roof, so with all things considered, he has been quite kind…quite nice…’

‘Gregory says he thinks the young master be quite taken with you too,’ Martha mentioned with an astute narrowed look at Rebecca, as she deftly folded laundry. ‘He says last time he laid eyes on his lordship, he were watching you walk away from him as though…’

‘He feels sorry for me,’ Rebecca cut in quietly. ‘He realises that I shall be dispossessed and is good enough to sympathise. But I shall manage. I believe it will be some months yet before the matter of the estate is settled. I must use that time to again search for Simon. And I must now succeed,’ she announced vehemently, concentrating on memories of her twenty-four-year-old brother and her inheritance, held within his grasp.

It wasn’t a great fortune. But her five thousand pounds was the dividing line between poverty and self-respect. It would have been her dowry on her marriage to David. It was hers by right and she now needed to invest it for her future; to keep her free of soul-destroying drudgery as a provincial governess or companion. For she was aware that very little else awaited her once her rent-free tenancy of the Summer House was terminated. She was a spinster of almost twenty-six now and meeting someone to love and marry was increasingly remote.

She rarely socialised. Even when in London with Elizabeth they had visited the theatre on only one occasion due to Elizabeth’s recent confinement.

There was always the chance that a widower with children might take her on and provide her with a reasonable life. She sighed wistfully, for the notion of a loveless, convenience marriage for respectability and shelter was dispiriting. Since David no one had attracted or excited her…Her meandering thoughts circled back to Luke Trelawney. Her heart rate increased and a spontaneous rush of blood stained her cheeks at what would have been her next thought. She abandoned it immediately.

Her fingers sought automatic comfort from her silver locket, and she thought of dear David. She concentrated on his fine straw-coloured hair, his rounded face and the light freckling that dusted his nose and cheeks. It was so unfair. He had loved her dearly, although his parents had been keen for him to make a match with a young woman of better family. A middle-class merchant’s youngest daughter was certainly not what they had in mind. The fact that all the Nash children had been well educated and had good connections mattered little.

David’s father, Sir Paul Barton, was a baronet with a certain social standing and he had hoped his eldest son would improve the family’s status and finances on marriage. There had been no celebration and only a small announcement in the paper, which David had insisted upon. Her sapphire betrothal ring was safely wrapped in tissue in her bedroom. She hoped she would never be forced to sell it to survive.

But David had been strong and loyal and had firmly declared his intention to marry her as soon as his commission terminated. It would have been three years ago, Rebecca realised. She would have been a happily married woman for three years, perhaps with children of her own. And a neat villa in Brighton. It was what she and David had discussed during their nine-month courtship. He had always treated her with such respect…such affection…

Her poignant memories were interrupted by a gravelly voice. ‘You be best off forgetting about that brother of yours, Miss Becky,’ Gregory sternly noted as he laid pungent, freshly dug leeks on the scrubbed pine table. Martha shot him a warning frown. ‘She be best to know,’ Gregory insisted. ‘It was just a shame your poor late pa didn’t know what his son was getting into. If he hada known, he woulda left you your money in safer hands, I reckon.’

‘Gregory!’ Rebecca admonished him, shocked by his temerity. He always had tended to speak his mind, but as he aged he was becoming a little too blunt.

‘You know I speak truth, Miss Becky,’ he placated her softly, seeing the distress in her lovely face. ‘But I’m sorry fer upsetting you. Just know this. Jake Blacker’s been seen in Brighton again recently, so I heard. And that means only one thing. Contraband is coming ashore again.’

‘My brother was never involved in smuggling, Gregory,’ Rebecca stated stiffly as she occupied her nervous hands by folding laundry with Martha. She noted the anxious look that passed between the couple. ‘I know Simon had dealings with that ruffian,’ she admitted, trying to ease the atmosphere. ‘I challenged him about Jake Blacker disturbing Mama at home once when Simon and I were in town. He swore Blacker was only looking for him because he lost to him at cards. You know how he was always gambling in taverns. But Simon swore to Papa that he had repaid him and that he would avoid mixing with any of those reprobates in the future.’

‘Where’s he been all this time, then, Miss Becky?’ Martha asked quietly. ‘Why hasn’t he been by to see how you are coping alone? It’s a terrible thing for a brother to leave his sister so alone to fend for herself.’

‘He obviously knows very well that Robin assists me….’ She broke off, realising then just what worried this dear couple. Robin Ramsden was no longer able to do so. ‘Besides,’ she hurriedly said, ‘he knows that I see Elizabeth also. My sister may be married and in London, but we keep in touch.’

A derisive snort met this information and Rebecca knew the reason for it. In all the six years Elizabeth had been married to James Bartholomew, a London lawyer, Rebecca had never once received an offer of help, financial or otherwise. She gave the Turners a conciliatory smile. They were only concerned for her welfare, she knew that. She also knew that without them she would never have been able to cope with running this small establishment.

She had always known that once Robin Ramsden and his patronage were gone she would be alone and vulnerable. She now felt foolish for not having prepared better for that day.

But she had always believed Simon to be alive. She knew sometimes with quite frightening certainty that her hell-raising brother was ridiculously close to her. Just as she was sure that he had used her inheritance as his own and was striving to replace it before he returned with a plausible tale for his absence. Finding Simon and extracting her money from him was now crucial.

Gazing, preoccupied, through the doorway into the damp afternoon, it was a moment before Rebecca noticed the couple strolling down the pathway towards the Summer House. As her eyes alighted on them, her soft mouth immediately curved into a delighted smile. ‘Oh, Kay and Adam are visiting us,’ she advised the Turners with a backward flick of a glance.

‘Best check them biscuits,’ Martha noted briskly. ‘Be baking another batch, more’n like, what with the girls, young John and vicar ’n wife on the way.’

As Rebecca greeted the new arrivals, ushering them into the kitchen with cordial complaints about the abrupt change in the weather, Gregory mentioned casually, ‘You’d best add his lordship to that list, Martha. I heard from Judith that he’s pertickler to a biscuit.’

As Kay and Adam Abbott crowded into the small kitchen, accepting the invitation to be seated and partake of a little light refreshment, the bustle prevented Rebecca clearly understanding Gregory’s cryptic remark. Noting his weatherbeaten countenance still turned to the window, she doubtfully approached the doorway.

Ross was standing, hands on hips, chestnut head thrown back, staring assessingly up at her roof. He shouted something up at John and pointed. Rebecca walked immediately out into the humid afternoon to greet him. She had an odd liking for this good-looking man she barely knew.

‘He considers himself a bit of a carpenter,’ explained a sardonic well-remembered voice that had her twisting immediately about.

Luke Trelawney was behind her and just to one side of the building as though he had walked around it. He held the reins of a magnificent pitch-black stallion in one hand. Rebecca’s eyes were drawn immediately to the fine animal, such a contrast to the farm hack she had seen him with by the pond.

‘Handsome brute, don’t you think?’ Luke stated ironically, noting her interest.

Rebecca raised thick-lashed luminous eyes to search his, noting the glitter in their dark depths. The description was as fitting for the rider as the horse and he was well aware of it.

She gave him a small smile, trying to calm that sudden increased pulse that his imposing presence always seemed to raise. She turned quickly on her heel, attempting to hide the colour she could feel staining her cheeks.

‘Thank you for sending John so quickly,’ she said distractedly, gazing up at the roof where the young carpenter was still receiving advice from Ross below. ‘I was right about the rain, you see. Or rather, Gregory was. We’ve only had a little leaking. I’m very grateful.’ Confident she had regained her composure, she faced him again, biting her lip a little at the expression in his eyes. They were narrowed and intent, as always. But the amused assessment had a harder edge that disturbed her. She realised he probably no longer found her rustic gaucheness quite so entertaining.

‘You knew I’d send him, didn’t you?’ he remarked mildly, as his eyes followed John’s careful descent from the roof’s summit. ‘It’s what the lord of the Manor does for you, isn’t it? Looks after you?’

Rebecca moistened her lips, feeling her agitation increasing as dark eyes swooped back to pitilessly pounce on her.

‘I want to talk to you. I told you that last time I saw you,’ he said a touch irascibly. ‘You disappeared before I had a chance to discuss future arrangements…’

Rebecca managed a smile, a coiling and fluttering in the pit of her stomach at the memory of how he had comforted her that day. His arms had felt so welcome…so strong and protective. She sensed another wave of colour about to suffuse her skin and steeled herself desperately against it.

‘Well, come in…please. And Ross,’ she pleasantly offered. ‘Reverend Abbott and his wife are here, too. We are just having tea. Please do come in,’ she urged sincerely, a hand extending towards the Summer House. ‘I’m sure they would both like to meet you before you return to Cornwall. Have you any idea how long you intend to remain in Sussex, Mr Trelawney?’ she asked conversationally.

‘I shall be leaving next week,’ he brusquely informed her.

This information had Rebecca’s golden head angling immediately up to him. ‘Next week?’ she breathed, her face whitening now, enhancing aquamarine eyes to jewel richness. ‘Have you found a purchaser so soon?’ she demanded a little boldly in her agitation. She recalled her brave words with Martha barely fifteen minutes ago…how she would cope with arranging her future and her search for Simon in the time it would take to find a new landlord.

‘The matter will be left to a man of business…’ he tersely supplied, while inwardly cursing that he had managed to turn up to proposition her at the very same time the damned vicar arrived to take tea. He gazed about impatiently and Rebecca falteringly invited, ‘Well…would you like to come in and—?’

‘Not really, Rebecca.’ He bluntly cut across her words, aware how boorish he must sound. But seeing her again, trying to reconcile the role of paramour to Robin Ramsden with this fawn-like beautiful young woman who hesitated nervously before him, was excrutiating. Robin Ramsden had been fifty-two and a renowned lecher. Luke had since learned Robin had suffered with a heart complaint for some years. Instead of expiring atop some harlot in a Bath brothel it could just as easily have been here at this Summer House. God, he wished he’d never seen her. He could have come and gone from this place within a week, attended to business, spent a pleasant few nights roistering with Ross in Brighton, then returned to his life of luxurious contentment in Cornwall.

As his granite-jawed silence became protracted, comprehension dawned on Rebecca. He had come to tell her to leave. He was returning to Cornwall next week and wanted to evict her before he went. He was irritated because he was unsure how to broach the matter now she had company. She had sensed he had something to say. Her pale face lifted to his, her chin tilting in pride. She wasn’t about to beg for time or anything else. She had little in the way of possessions. She could probably be packed and out in less than a week.

‘When would you like me to leave, Mr Trelawney?’ she asked coolly. ‘I should have liked a little more notice, but I realise I have no rights in the matter. I would appreciate it if you would at least allow me to get a message to Miss Mayhew’s family, so they can arrange to collect her. Thankfully, she is the only boarder at present…’ Feeling a lump thickening in her throat and tears spearing her eyes, she swiftly turned and walked away.

She hastened blindly through the crowded kitchen, noting Ross leaning nonchalantly against a wall, a mug of tea in one hand and a large aromatic biscuit in the other. She managed a quiet cordial response to his greeting, and even to swap a few bright words with Kay as she made her way to the parlour and her pupils. She felt guilty now at having abandoned them for so long.

Lucy and John were standing close, chatting quietly by the girl’s desk; as they saw Rebecca, they sprang apart. The three younger girls had abandoned their alphabets to chalk pictures on their blackboards.

‘That’s all for today. You’re a little later leaving than usual so hurry home,’ Rebecca emphasised as she dismissed them. ‘Martha has made some refreshment. Perhaps you’d care for something before you leave, John,’ she offered the loitering youth.

‘Thank you, m’m,’ John gruffly mumbled as he and Lucy quit the room.

Alone in the parlour, Rebecca momentarily bowed her head in despair before abruptly raising it. She would not be cowed by this. She had survived the loss of her beloved parents and her fiancé five years ago—she would surely survive the loss of this building. She glanced about the small parlour, at the whitewashed walls hung with a few pictures from her late parents’ home, at the polished pianoforte from their parlour. She sighed. It was an enchanting building, filled with fine memories, and she would miss it dreadfully.

With head held high she walked back to the kitchen and forced a smile as she entered. There was little need; apart from Martha the hot room, redolent of cinnamon, was empty.

‘All gone out to look at the horseflesh,’ Martha advised, on taking in Rebecca’s bewilderment. ‘Gregory never did say just how handsome a man he is. Nor did you for that matter,’ she added with a sideways look. ‘Charming as can be, too. Came in and introduced hisself and his brother…such a pair of good lookers as I never did see.’

Rebecca was aware that Adam Abbott was a keen horseman who owned a particularly fine grey gelding himself. The beautiful black stallion she had seen was sure to interest him. And Kay took an interest in whatever pleased her husband.

As Rebecca peeked discreetly through the kitchen window, she noticed Adam mount the magnificent ebony horse and enthusiastically trot it around in a large circle in front of the Summer House. He called something out to Luke who nodded, while casually surveying the scene. Kay and Ross were chatting idly; Kay petting the neck of a chestnut mare that Rebecca had not seen before, obviously Ross’s. Gregory leaned against the house, smilingly watching the pastoral scene, while Lucy and John seemed content to observe each other.