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‘You are quite right. I was very rude. What can I do to make amends?’
She did not hesitate.
‘I would like you to show a little more interest in your library. I have no idea if you are happy with my work so far, if it meets with your approval. You have not been near the library until today.’
‘On the contrary, I visit the library every evening.’ ‘Oh.’
‘Yes, Miss Pentewan. I am taking a close interest in your progress, but I visited West Barton last week, to enquire after Nicky. Your brother-in-law considers your employment at Rooks Tower nothing short of scandalous. I thought by taking myself out of the house every day it would mitigate the impropriety.’
‘Some would still consider it improper if you were to take yourself out of the country while I am working for you! It is unfortunate that my brother-in-law does not approve but he understands my desire for independence. The fact that he has not thrown me out of the house shows he is prepared to put up with my “scandalous” behaviour, even if he cannot condone it.’ She had hoped he might smile at this, but when he did not she added impatiently, ‘For heaven’s sake, you have some rare books in your collection. Pine’s Horace, for example, and Hooke’s Micrographia.’ She exhaled through clenched teeth. ‘You have engaged me to work for you, Major, and I would much rather discuss matters directly with you than be forever passing messages via Mrs Graddon.’
At last his forbidding frown was lightened. There was a glimmer of understanding in his hard eyes.
‘Very well, Miss Pentewan. I will make efforts to be available. Starting tomorrow.’
‘Thank you. I will bid you good day, sir.’
‘You are still going?’
‘Of course.’
‘Then I will walk with you.’ One side of his mouth quirked at her look of surprise. ‘I know what you are thinking: I am now taking too great an interest in my hired staff. You would like to throw my earlier comments in my face.’
‘I am not so impolite.’
‘Unlike me?’
‘Yes, I thought you impolite.’
‘Pray do not let yourself be constrained by your good breeding, Miss Pentewan. Rip up at me, if you wish, you have my permission!’
A smile tugged at her mouth.
‘It would be no more than you deserve.’
‘I am aware of that. So let me make amends now by walking to the edge of my land with you.’
She gave in, nodding her assent, and he fell into step beside her.
‘You walk this way every day?’
‘Yes. It is much the quickest route.’
‘Then you have seen the changes. I have cleared the paths and thinned out the trees—that was what I was doing when I first met you and Nicky in the woods.’
She remembered her first sight of him. A bearded woodsman, his hair long and wild and with a fearsome axe at his side. It was a powerful image that remained with her, even if the major looked so much more civilised now.
‘You have done much of the work yourself, I think.’
‘Yes. I like to keep active.’
‘And it sets your people a good example.’
‘There is that, too.’
They were walking through the woods now and Zelah could see the signs of clearance everywhere, but new growth was already appearing, bright splashes of green pushing up from the ground. The Major raised his hand to acknowledge a woman and her children coming through the trees. The woman dipped a slight curtsy, then she murmured a word to the children, who tugged at their forelocks.
‘You do not mind the villagers coming here to collect their firewood?’
He shrugged.
‘Once we have cut up the logs and taken them away they are welcome to anything that is left, although Phillips, my keeper, tells me there has been a marked increase in the number of people coming into the woods of late.’
‘The villagers no longer have access to Prickett Wood,’ explained Zelah. ‘Reginald tells me the new owner is going to fence it off. Do you know Sir Oswald?’
‘A nodding acquaintance only.’
‘But I thought his land borders your own.’
‘Not quite, so I have had no reason to make contact with Sir Oswald. I told you, I do not socialise, Miss Pentewan.’
‘Perhaps you should.’ She screwed up her courage. ‘People would soon grow accustomed to your … to your scars.’
His short bark of laughter held more than a touch of bitterness.
‘I would be accused of frightening the children.’
‘No! Think of Nicky.’
‘A lonely child, desperate for company. When he is with his new school friends I doubt he will be as keen to acknowledge me.’
‘That is not true, he is proud to be acquainted with you.’
‘Kind words, ma’am, but I fear you know very little of human nature. But it is not just that.’ He paused, and, glancing up, she saw him gazing into the distance, as if looking into another world. ‘Spain was a very sobering experience for me, Miss Pentewan. There is no glory in war, in all the death and carnage that takes place, but I found the life infinitely preferable to what I had been before—a rake, a fop, whose only interest was to wear a fashionable coat and flirt with all the prettiest women. That is what society expects of a gentleman, madam, and I want none of it now.’
‘But the people here are not fashionably idle, Major Coale. There are many good, hardworking men who want nothing more than to better themselves and their families.’
‘Then good luck to them, but they shall not do so on my coat-tails.’
‘That is not what I meant—’
‘Enough!’ They had reached the lane that separated Major Coale’s land from the gardens of West Barton. Dominic stopped. ‘I am a lost cause, Miss Pentewan. I will live my own life, in my own way. I have no wish to consort with my neighbours, and there’s an end to it.’ He looked up. ‘We part here.’
She said impulsively, ‘Even so, there is no reason why you should not treat your wounds. There is a cream, a herbal remedy, it is excellent for softening the skin—’
‘I want none of your potions, madam!’
‘It is not a potion, but it might help.’
‘I hired you as my librarian, not my doctor.’ He glowered at her. ‘Do not push me too far.’
The implacable look in his eyes told her she must accept defeat. For the moment. As a child she had accompanied her father when he visited his parishioners. They had met with pride and stubbornness many times, but her father’s message had always been the same. Where Zelah had been inclined to argue, he would stop her, saying gently, ‘Let the matter lie for now, but never give up.’ She therefore swallowed any retort and merely inclined her head.
‘Thank you, sir, for your company.’
He bowed.
‘It was a pleasure. Until tomorrow.’
It was only a step across the lane to the little wicket gate leading to the gardens, but when Zelah turned to latch the gate there was no sign of the major. He had disappeared back into the woods.
Zelah always enjoyed her days at Rooks Tower, but when she awoke the following morning she felt an added sense of anticipation. A blustery wind was blowing the grey clouds across the sky when she set out. It tugged at her skirts and threatened to whip away her bonnet. She arrived at last, windswept but exhilarated, and made her way through the darkened salon to the library. She looked around her with satisfaction. Most of the books were on the shelves now and in a rough order. She had dusted and cleaned each one, putting aside any that required repair. She was engaged in writing the details in the ledgers, in her neat copperplate hand, when the major came in.
‘No, no, do not get up.’ He waved her back into her seat. ‘Carry on with your laborious task. I would not give you an excuse to shirk your duties.’
He perched himself upon the edge of the desk and turned the ledger to inspect the latest entries. She was pleased that he no longer attempted to present only his right side to her and she laughed up at him, barely noticing the jagged line running down his face.
‘I am obliged to break off now and again to rest my eyes, so I consider your interruption very timely.’
‘If this were my job I would welcome any interruption. It would irk me beyond bearing to sit here all day.’ He pushed the ledger back towards her. ‘Do you not long to be out of doors?’
A spatter of rain hit the windows and she chuckled.
‘Not when the weather is like this! When the sun is shining I admit it is very tempting to go out, but then I open the windows, and I have my walk home to look forward to.’
‘There is that, of course. Now, is there anything you want of me today?’
‘Only to look at the books I have set aside, sir, and tell me if you want them repaired or thrown away …’
She directed his attention to the books piled on a side table. The major went through them with the same decisiveness he gave to every other task she had seen him perform.
‘So, these are to go to the bookbinder for new covers and the rest …’ Zelah paused, picking up a dilapidated copy of Newton’s Principia. ‘Are you quite sure you want me to throw these away?’
‘Perfectly. The book you are holding has been ruined by damp and misuse, it is beyond repair.’ Reluctantly Zelah put the book down and he gave an impatient sigh. ‘Pray do not get sentimental over such an object, madam. There may well be another copy amongst the books from Lydcombe Park. If not, then you can order a new one for me.’
‘Yes, sir. May I pass the old ones on to Mr Netherby? Some of his pupils might make use of them.’
‘If that is what you wish.’ He picked up a small earthenware jar hidden behind a pile of books. ‘What is this?’
‘That?’ Zelah ran her tongue over her lips. ‘It is the cream I mentioned to you.’ His brows snapped together and she hurried on. ‘I, um, I was going to give it to Graddon. I thought he might apply it for you …’
‘Did you now? Graddon is no nursemaid.’
She sighed. ‘Pity. I am sure it would help—’
He interrupted her with a growl.
‘I have told you before, Miss Pentewan, confine yourself to your library duties!’
The jar hit the table top with a thud and he strode off, closing the door behind him with a decided snap.
The jar remained on the side table for three days. It was studiously ignored by the major, although Zelah was sure he knew it was there. Then, just when she was beginning to wonder if she should ask Graddon to try to persuade his master, Major Coale made reference to it.
He had come in for his daily report on her progress and when she had finished he walked over to the side table and picked up the jar.
‘What is in this witch’s potion of yours?’
‘It is no witchcraft, Major, only flowers. Marigold petals, mixed with oil and wax to make a salve. It will help repair the skin and soften the scar tissue. My mother used to prepare it for our parishioners.’ She added coaxingly, ‘I assure you it will not hurt, sir. I helped Mama to apply it often, once to a group of miners injured in a pit collapse. Their injuries were severe and they said it did not cause any pain, but on the contrary, it was quite soothing.’
His inscrutable gaze rested on her for a moment. ‘Very well.’ He handed her the pot. ‘Let us see.’
She blinked. ‘I beg your pardon?’
He perched himself on the edge of the desk.
‘Apply your magic potion, and we will see how well it works.’
‘Apply it here? Now?’ Zelah swallowed. ‘I am not sure …’
‘Damnation, Delilah, I let you be my barber, surely you do not balk at touching my face—or is the scar too abhorrent?’
‘Not at all, sir.’
She opened the jar and scooped a little of the ointment on to her fingers. She remembered how she had felt when she had cut his hair, standing so close, aware of his latent strength. She felt again as if he was some wild beast allowing her to come near, but at any minute he might turn and savage her. After a very slight hesitation she applied the cream gently to his cheek.
She smoothed it across the skin, working between the hard ridges of his cheekbone and his jaw.
‘There, does that feel better?’ He grunted and she chuckled. ‘Pray do not be ashamed to admit it. A mixture such as this soothes the damaged skin and makes it flexible again, in the same way that wax will soften leather.’
‘Are you comparing my face to a boot, madam?’
Zelah laughed as she massaged the ointment into his cheek. ‘I would not dare be so impertinent!’
She felt him smile beneath her fingers.
‘Oh, I think you would.’
She did not reply, but continued to work her fingers over his skin until all signs of the cream had disappeared.
‘The sabre did not only cut my face. It slashed open my body, too.’
Zelah stopped. She said gently, ‘May I look?’
He untied his neckcloth and tugged it off, leaving his shirt open at the neck. Zelah pushed aside the material to expose his left shoulder. The skin was golden brown, tanned, she guessed, from working shirtless on the land. It was marred by a wide, uneven white line across his collarbone and cutting down his chest, where it carved a path through the covering of crisp black hair. Her heart lurched at the thought of the pain he must have endured. She forced back a cry of sympathy, knowing it would not be welcome. Instead she tried to be matter-of-fact, scooping up more cream and spreading it gently across the ragged furrow of the wound.
‘It is a pity you did not rub something in this sooner,’ she said, absorbed in her task, ‘but it is not too late. If you apply this regularly, it will soften the skin and help the scarred tissue to stretch.’
She worked the ointment into his skin, moving over the collarbone and down to his breast. A smattering of black hair curled around her fingers as she stroked the finely toned muscle.
