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So he was here and looking very different from their previous meeting. In The confines of the Rishworths’ commodious drawing room he looked even larger than she remembered. The superb cut of his black evening coat did nothing to lessen the width of his shoulders, and the snowy whiteness of his cravat and shirt-points accentuated the deep tan of his skin. His hair, black as jet, was brushed back from a face that was more rugged than handsome with heavy brows that gave his aquiline features a rather hawkish look. She could more readily believe him a soldier than a courtier, yet when he made his bow to her she could not fault it.
‘We have met,’ he said, not taking his eyes from her. ‘I am glad to see you are none the worse for your little tumble, Miss Havenham.’
‘Tumble?’ Samuel was immediately on the alert. ‘When was this?’
She glared at the man, but he met her furious gaze with a bland smile as he replied.
‘On Monday last, sir. Miss Havenham had the misfortune to come off her horse and I was able to assist her.’
Mrs Kensley tittered. ‘Have I not always said that big horse is no mount for a lady?’
Her remark was ignored. Mr Havenham turned a frowning look upon Annabelle.
‘My dear child, you said nothing of this to me.’
‘Because it was of so little importance, Papa.’
‘But you did not tell me you had met Mr Monserrat.’
‘We were not introduced,’ she explained, keeping her voice cool. ‘And he merely helped me back into the saddle.’
‘Oh, my love, have I not said you should take your groom when you are out riding?’
Her tormentor nodded. ‘Let me add my entreaties to your father’s, Miss Havenham. You can never be sure what dangers you might meet in the woods.’
She almost gasped at his impertinence, but contented herself with a swift, angry glance as she addressed her father. ‘You have, sir, and in future I shall make sure I am always accompanied.’
Mrs Kensley was watching the interchange closely. She gave a little cough to remind everyone of her presence.
‘Perhaps you should consider selling such a dangerous brute, Mr Havenham,’ she suggested. ‘That would save you a deal of worry.’
Annabelle felt her temper rising, but support came from a surprising quarter.
‘Oh, I doubt that,’ remarked Mr Monserrat. ‘I suspect the lady would be a most uncomfortable companion if she was obliged to give up her riding.’
‘You are very right, sir. My poor father would soon be at his wits’ end with me. No, Mrs Kensley, it will be a sad day indeed when I am forced to part with Apollo.’
With a tight little smile she led her father away, muttering under her breath, ‘Insufferable woman! She delights in our troubles.’
Her father patted her arm. ‘Hush now, Belle. People are bound to talk about our economies. We must bear it as best we can. It will soon pass, when there is more fruitful gossip to be had.’
‘You are right, Father, and I beg your pardon. I am not as forbearing as you.’
‘You are young, my love, and impatient of adversity. These little setbacks happen and there are always those who will revel in others’ misfortune. We will smile and show them it is a small matter.’
‘Always so kind, Papa, always so gentle. I will try to learn from your example.’
‘You are a good girl, Belle.’ He patted her cheek. ‘Now, let me sit by the fire with my old friends while you go and enjoy yourself with the younger set!’
The Rishworths were well known for their lively dinners, and when they sat down at the table Annabelle found herself with a group that included Celia Rishworth and Lizzie Scanlon, two young ladies who were determined to enjoy themselves. She was some distance from her father, but since he was seated comfortably between his hostess and Mrs Hall she knew he would be happily entertained during the meal. Mr Monserrat was also at that end of the table. He appeared to be at ease with his company, but throughout the meal she was aware of his dark and enigmatic presence, watching and listening.
The dinner was excellent and the company determined to be pleased. Lucas set himself to entertain the ladies on either side of him, expertly drawing them out to talk about themselves and deftly turning aside all questions about his own background. On one side was Mrs Kensley, the widow whose caustic remarks had inflamed Miss Havenham. While cleverly eluding all her attempts to learn more about him, he encouraged her to talk. Lucas had her measure and took none of her comments or opinions at face value, but from her artless chatter he gained a great deal of valuable information about the neighbourhood.
As the meal progressed he studied Samuel Havenham, seated across the table from him. He had learned that Havenham’s health was not good, but this merely confirmed his own impression. The old man ate sparingly, just enough to avoid offending his hostess, and his wine glass rarely required topping up. However, it was easy to see that Samuel Havenham was a well-respected figure in the area, and despite being obliged to give up his carriage he was still regarded as a man of some standing. Lucas let the conversation flow around him as he continued to watch Samuel. He noticed how often his eyes strayed to his daughter, sitting at the far end of the table.
‘Miss Havenham is the belle of our local circle,’ offered Mrs Kensley, following his glance.
‘Is she?’
The widow tittered at his cool response. ‘Oh, she is not as pretty as Miss Rishworth, nor Miss Scanlon, but she is Miss Havenham of Oakenroyd.’
‘You mean it is only her fortune that makes her so appealing.’
Mrs Kensley gave an arch laugh. ‘Oh, Mr Monserrat, that is very wicked of you, of course I do not mean any such thing! Miss Havenham is a very good sort of girl. She has been a little spoiled perhaps, but then her papa quite dotes on her. Although that is no wonder, Miss Havenham being his only surviving child. However, for my part, I find her manners a little too forward for one so young.’
‘And how old is she?’ he enquired, helping the widow to another slice of lemon tart.
‘Not yet one-and-twenty, although she rides around on that big horse of hers as if she were lady of the manor.’ Mrs Kensley stopped, her knife and fork poised in mid-air. ‘But of course that will have to end now, won’t it, sir, since you are now the owner of Morwood Manor.’ She gave another of her irritating titters. ‘Unless, that is, you are tempted to offer for her? I warn you, Mr Keighley is there before you.’
Lucas smiled vaguely and sipped at his wine. The young people at the other end of the table were enjoying a lively conversation, with Annabelle Havenham at their centre. Mrs Kensley was right, the two other young ladies would be considered more beautiful than Annabelle Havenham. Her figure was good, but no better than others he had seen, her features were regular and her soft brown hair was simply dressed. Celia Rishworth’s vivacity made her dark curls dance about her head and Miss Scanlon’s fair prettiness was set off by an over-decorated gown that must have cost her father a pretty penny, but there was something about Miss Havenham’s quiet elegance that caught the attention. He remembered she had looked magnificent when riding and it was hard to forget the disconcertingly direct gaze of her grey eyes.
His own gaze moved on around the table until it reached James Keighley. A widower, he had been informed. They had been introduced earlier and Lucas had summed up Keighley as a country gentleman of comfortable means, some years older than himself. Was there an understanding between the man and Miss Havenham? Keighley had brought the Oakenroyd party in his own carriage, but Lucas had noticed no special attention between the pair since then. If he had been enamoured of the lady, or if he had been a hot-headed young suitor then he might have been a nuisance, but Lucas did not think Keighley’s interest in Miss Havenham was likely to affect his own plans.
When the ladies withdrew, their host gave a signal to the butler.
‘Now we can be comfortable.’ He leaned forwards to address Lucas. ‘I know you were a military man, Monserrat, but I hope you won’t think us unpatriotic to bring French brandy to the table now that the emperor has finally been defeated.’
‘Not at all,’ returned Lucas, pushing his glass out to be filled. ‘I am pleased to see you are supporting the new regime.’
‘We are, sir,’ declared Mr Scanlon, ‘and since Sir John is magistrate for these parts you can be sure that the duty has been paid on the brandy, too!’
There was general laughter at this.
‘So you were in the army, Mr Monserrat,’ remarked Mr Keighley. ‘What is it brings you to Stanton, sir?’
‘Have you not heard?’ said Scanlon. ‘He has purchased Morwood Manor and means to restore it. Ain’t that right, sir?’
‘It is,’ averred Lucas.
‘Well, now you are here,’ said Rishworth, ‘perhaps you would be interested in investing locally.’
‘That depends upon the investment.’
Sir John Rishworth sat back in his chair, preparing to expound upon what was clearly a favourite theme.
‘Our new toll road, for example. A number of us subscribed to the venture two years ago, to build a new road running around Dyke’s Ridge. The old road, you see, dips down very steeply past Oldroyd Farm to cross the ford, but the valley bottom is almost a bog. In winter the road is well nigh impassable. We hope the new road will improve trade to the town.’
‘Unfortunately it has not done so yet,’ observed Mr Keighley.
‘No,’ agreed Sir John. ‘Last year’s bad harvest means trade in Stanton has been very poor and we have not yet recovered our costs.’
Samuel Havenham sighed. ‘I had hoped we would have turned a profit by now.’
‘You could always sell your share in the venture,’ suggested Lucas.
Havenham shook his head. ‘No, no, we shall come about. Besides, the subscription was not so much an investment for me as for my daughter. A little something for her when I am gone.’
His neighbours cried out at that and declared they hoped Mr Havenham would be with them for many years to come.
‘If you are interested, Monserrat, there are several of us who might wish to sell on our shares to you,’ called a bewhiskered gentleman from the far end of the table.
‘Aye,’ cried Scanlon. ‘You may have mine with pleasure. I haven’t seen any improvement to business in Stanton or recovered my costs yet.’
Sir John waved one hand in a placating gesture. ‘Be calm, gentlemen. Once the mail coach begins to use the new road next summer our fortunes will improve, trust me.’
‘Perhaps Mr Monserrat has more patience than I,’ retorted Scanlon. ‘What do you say, Monserrat, would you like to take my shares off me?’
‘I will consider it.’
‘I think he is better keeping his funds to restore Burnt Acres,’ laughed the bewhiskered gentleman.
Lucas raised one black brow in enquiry. ‘Burnt Acres?’
‘Morwood Manor. Burnt Acres is what we’ve called that land for more years than I care to remember.’
‘Oh?’ Lucas kept his face impassive. ‘Why is that?’
‘Goes back to when the house burned down five-and-twenty years ago,’ explained Sir John. ‘Owner and his wife lost their lives in the fire.’
‘Aye, sad business.’ Mr Scanlon shook his head. ‘It followed a particularly dry spring. Burning debris from the house was caught up by the wind. It set fire to the surrounding trees and the gorse. By morning the house was a ruin and everything around it was scorched and blackened.’
A chill was spreading through Lucas, but he forced himself to ignore it. He asked his next question with studied indifference. ‘What caused the fire?’
Rishworth shrugged. ‘Angus Dutton was the magistrate then, so I am not familiar with the details, but no one knows for sure. It is thought it started in a bedchamber—the mistress of the house was a foreign lady from warmer climes and didn’t like this northern cold. She insisted on a fire in her room, day and night, at all seasons.’
Lucas, my love, come and read with me by the fire.
Samuel Havenham shifted in his chair. ‘Let us hope Mr Monserrat will bring some happier memories to the place.’
Their host signalled to the butler to fill the glasses again. ‘You’ve taken on a deal of work there, sir,’ he remarked.
‘Aye, but it’s brought some much-needed employment to the town,’ remarked Mr Scanlon. ‘Isn’t that so, Mr Monserrat?’
‘Yes, I use local labour where I can.’
‘Good for you, sir. And where are you staying while all this work is going on at Morwood?’ asked the bewhiskered gentleman. ‘I haven’t been there for years, but I understand the house is merely a shell.’
‘It is. I am staying at the Red Lion.’
Rishworth chuckled. ‘Ah, then let me warn you to watch out for the ladies, sir. The Red Lion holds the monthly assembly, and with you living there, they will expect you to attend.’
‘Aye,’ laughed another who had reached the roistering stage and was banging the table. ‘They’ll have you marked down as a dance partner and maybe more, if they have daughters to marry, eh, Sir John?’
Their host laughed. ‘I ain’t looking for a husband for Celia yet, but her mother is no different from the rest, looks upon every single man as a possible catch. Sorry to put it so bluntly, Monserrat, but there it is…’
Lucas smiled and shrugged and the conversation moved on, growing louder and more boisterous as the brandy and port flowed freely. By the time Sir John led them back to the drawing room to join the ladies, many of the gentlemen were decidedly rosy-cheeked. Lucas had drunk comparatively little and as the gentlemen ambled their way out of the dining room he hung back to wait for Samuel Havenham. Slowly they crossed the hall together.
‘I hope my neighbours’ little jests did not offend you,’ said Havenham in his mild way. ‘They are as good a set of gentlemen as one could hope to find, but the wine and the brandy, you know…’
‘I understand,’ said Lucas. ‘I am pleased at the warm welcome I have received since I came here.’
They were entering the drawing room and Lucas observed that Annabelle was watching him from across the room. A wry smile tugged at his mouth. There was one person whose welcome had been anything but warm. Havenham was still talking and making his way slowly but surely towards his daughter. Lucas wondered if he should excuse himself and move off, but an inner demon kept him beside the older man.
‘We have not done much entertaining of late at Oakenroyd,’ said Samuel. ‘My health, you know. I keep very much to the house during the winter months, but your coming puts me in mind of my obligations. Annabelle, my love, I was just saying to Mr Monserrat that we should hold a dinner. What do you say?’
‘Of course, Papa. Perhaps at the end of May. The weather will be more settled then and that will give me time to arrange everything. I do hope you will be able to join us, Mr Monserrat.’
She was clearly accustomed to playing hostess for her father. Her response was cool and collected, although Lucas noted how she avoided his eyes.
‘May? We cannot wait nearly two months to invite our new neighbour to dinner,’ objected Havenham.
‘Papa, I cannot possibly organise something in any less time. Invitations will need to go out and guests must have time to reply, then Mrs Wicklow must open up the guest rooms, and Cook, you know, will need notice to prepare.’
‘Yes, yes, I quite see that is the case if we are going to have a grand dinner, but in the meantime Mr Monserrat must take pot luck with us. Next week. A man cannot dine every night at the Red Lion!’ He touched Lucas’s arm. ‘Come as soon as you wish, sir. Name your day. You will find Belle keeps a very good table, you will not go hungry. And if truth be told her efforts deserve more appreciation than I can give them.’
‘You are very good, sir, and I will take you up on your invitation, gladly.’ He felt rather than saw the lady’s grey eyes upon him and turned to meet her frosty look with a blank one of his own. ‘Thursday next week would suit me very well, sir, but I would not want to inconvenience Miss Havenham.’
He could almost see the thoughts whirling through her head. She wanted to refuse, to make some excuse to put him off, but in view of her father’s invitation that was not possible. The devilish imp prompted him to say with false deference, ‘Perhaps Thursday is not her best day for cooking…’
‘Heavens, Mr Monserrat, I would not cook for you myself.’ The honeyed tone was as insincere as his own. ‘However, I can assure you that our cook is equal to feeding guests on any day of the week.’
‘Thursday it is, then,’ cried Mr Havenham, oblivious of the tension around him. ‘Splendid, splendid.’
He wandered off, but Lucas remained with Annabelle. ‘I look forward to improving our acquaintance, Miss Havenham.’ Silently she turned to walk away, but he kept beside her. ‘Ah,’ he murmured. ‘You are speechless with anticipation.’
‘I am speechless at your effrontery, first at Morwood—’
‘And now I only want to make amends.’
He could smell her perfume, not too sweet, and with a hint of citrus. He found himself leaning closer to breathe it in.
‘Let it be enough that I do not cut your acquaintance,’ she hissed.
‘But then everyone would want to know why.’
‘And you would delight in telling them, I suppose.’
‘No, no, I would not delight in it, Miss Havenham.’
