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‘Only that, I suppose,’ returned Matt, his eyes wicked, ‘could bring him to wish to see me again—and Rollo’s death, of course. That must have been the final facer.’
‘You are pleased to be heartless…’
‘My father cut my heart out long ago,’ returned Matt carelessly. He was suddenly regretful of his baiting of the old man who had been the scourge of his childhood, youth and young manhood, until he had finally left England nearly twelve years ago, and added, a trifle stiffly, ‘I am wrong to allow my dislike of my father to take the form of tormenting you. You were kind to me, I remember, when I was invalided out of the Navy after Trafalgar, and no one else was.’
‘You brought your own doom on you,’ Grimes could not help retorting, ‘when you ran off with your brother’s wife. My sympathy for you died on that day.’ He saw Priestly’s face change, and knew that here was something Matt Falconer’s impertinent shadow had not known.
Matt Falconer was not nonplussed. He was no longer the eager boy who had yearned for his father’s love and whom his father’s lawyer could patronise.
‘Leave that,’ he ordered in his quarterdeck voice. ‘It has nothing to do with you, or with the business I have come to settle.’
But Grimes must have thought he had found a chink in Matt’s armour, although Matt was not conscious of possessing one, for he continued, although in a lower tone, ‘And her death does not lie on your conscience, Mr Falconer?’
Oh, the old man did have weapons to fight with after all! Matt closed his eyes, only for a sad and beautiful long-dead face to swim before them. The memories that face recalled had him swinging away from both men. For the first time in the interview he was struggling for self-control.
‘I lost my conscience with my heart,’ he asserted stiffly. ‘And if you refer to my late sister-in-law again, I shall leave this office and England within the day, and you, my inheritance from Lady Emily and my father may all go to the devil. Is that plain enough for you, sir?’
Matt was himself again—cold, strong and unshakeable, the man whom Jeb Priestley had always known, and whom the lawyer had never met. After that they returned to the business at hand, Grimes recognising that the man before him would never agree to any of his father’s demands, and consequently now wishful to settle the matter of the inheritance as rapidly as possible.
Pontisford Hall, his late great-aunt’s home on the borders of Nottinghamshire and Yorkshire, was the last reminder of Matt’s childhood, and the only happy one. He had a sudden burning wish to see it. He remembered warmth and love, and a place where he, as well as his older brother, had been welcome. Before he had reached England, on the boat over, re-reading the letter which told him of his great-aunt’s death and his inheritance, he had resolved to sell the Hall and its contents, to raise capital to enlarge his Virginia plantation, and partly rebuild and beautify the stark house which he called home.
But stepping ashore in England, travelling to London, seeing that great city’s sights, smelling its unique smell, had reminded him agonisingly of his past, of his youth, before the world had fallen in on him. He had a sudden yearning to revisit the scenes of his childhood—if only to say goodbye to them before he parted from his homeland for the last time.
He said nothing of this to Grimes, merely, ‘I shall travel to Yorkshire, sir, to pay my respects to Lady Emily’s tomb in Pontisford church, and to visit the Hall for the last time. She was kind to me, and I must not let her go without a proper farewell. You will inform the staff there of my proposed arrival. I shall set out as soon as I have completed other urgent matters here.’
Matt could imagine Jeb’s raised and mocking eyebrows at this rare display of sentiment, and the silent cynicism of the old lawyer, but damn that for a tale. When he had reached his middle thirties a man had the right to say goodbye to his youth.
And so it was settled. Mr Grimes did not pry into his client’s life. He assumed that Matthew Falconer had not married while in the United States, for there was no talk of a wife. He assumed that he had had some success as a plantation owner, but made no move to discover how much of a success. If the grim man before him wished him to know these things he would have told him. Once or twice he sighed for the carefree young man he had once known, who had faced life with a smile despite his father’s displeasure, but it was plain that that man was long gone.
Business was done, and done quickly—after the fashion of Yankees, Grimes presumed. The old Matt Falconer had never been businesslike, or hard. Now he was both. He even kept his insolent man on a tight rein while he and the lawyer went through the necessary business of establishing identity, examining Lady Emily’s will, and signing and witnessing the necessary documentation.
It was soon all over, and Matt and his man were in the street, holding their top hats on, braving the keen wind of early November, before Jeb spoke again.
‘Well, there’s a fine tale, Matt. Did you really run off with your brother’s wife?’
‘Yes, but not for the reason you might think.’ For once he was short with Jeb. Revisiting England must have made his memories keen again. He thought he had been rid of that old pain long ago.
‘Why, what other reason is there?’
Which, of course, was what everyone had said at the time. Matt replied, in what Jeb always thought of as his ‘damn-your-eyes’ aristocrat’s voice, which he had rarely used in the good old United States, ‘Nothing to do with you, Jeb. You may have the rest of the day to yourself. I shall meet you for supper at Brown’s this evening. We shall set out for Yorkshire as soon as I can organise suitable travel arrangements.’
There was no brooking him in this mood. Jeb rearranged his face, pulled a servile forelock, bowed low, mumbled, ‘Yes, massa, certainly, massa,’ a ritual which usually drew an unwilling grin from Matt. But not today. Today he was unmoved, immovable, and his shadow, wondering where his master was going, would have been surprised to learn that he ended the afternoon in a church, before a marble memorial consisting of an urn held by a weeping Niobe whose inscription simply read, ‘To the memory of Camilla Falconer, Lady Radley, 1785-1806, cut down in her youth… “Cometh forth like a flower”.’
Naturally there were no pious words chiselled into the marble about loving wives or grieving husbands, and she was buried far from her home and friends, forgotten, probably, by everyone except the grieving man who had come to pay her his last respects too.
Chapter Two
Everything, but everything, had gone wrong from the moment they had left the confines of the Home Counties. Stacy thought that there must be a curse on the journey, her first of any length since her father had died.
And it had all gone so beautifully right at first—inevitably, with Ephraim and herself arranging things. She was to travel incognito; it would not do to let possible men of the road know that the enormously rich owner of Blanchard’s Bank was travelling nearly the length of England in winter. Safety lay in anonymity. She was to be Miss Anna Berriman, to match the initials stamped on her luggage and entwined on the panels of her elegant travelling coach. Polly Clay, her personal maid, and the other servants had been carefully coached for the last fortnight before they set out to address her as, ‘Yes, Miss Berriman’, ‘Indeed, Miss Berriman’, ‘As you wish, Miss Berriman’, until Stacy had almost come to believe herself Miss Berriman in truth.
They were taking two coaches to accommodate Stacy, Miss Landen, Polly, James the footman, young Mr Greaves and his man, a coachman, and a spare footman, Hal, a big strong man, to act as yet another guardian to the party. It occurred to Stacy, as she watched the two post-chaises being loaded with luggage and impedimenta, that throughout her life she had rarely been alone, and for a moment she wondered what it would have been like truly to be not-so-rich Miss Berriman, who was no more and no less than an ordinary, unconsidered spinster. She decided that the uncomfortable truth was that on the whole she would not have liked it. She had grown used to being in command in exactly the same way as a man would have been.
It was while they were crossing from Lincolnshire into Nottinghamshire through heavy rain, after an unpleasant night in a dirty inn, that Greaves’ cold, which had been merely an inconvenience to him, became much more than that. From her seat opposite him Stacy watched his complexion turn from yellow to grey to ashen, tinged with the scarlet of heavy inflammation round his eyes, nostrils and mouth. Her concern grew with each mile that they jolted forward, until she ordered the coach to stop when they reached Newark.
‘Greaves,’ she said, genuinely troubled, ‘I do not think that we should go further today. You look very ill.’
Louisa nodded her head, agreeing with her, while Greaves muttered in a hoarse voice—his throat was badly affected— ‘I feel very ill, madam, but…’
‘No buts…’ Stacy was both brisk and firm. ‘We shall stop at the first good inn in Newark, put you to bed and send for a physician. I do not think that you are in any condition to continue.’
He didn’t argue with her, nor, a day later when the physician had said that his fever was a severe one and he must not rise from his bed, did he or Stacy argue that anything other was to be done than leave him at the inn, with sufficient funds, one of the coaches, his man and James, the senior of the two footmen, to follow after Stacy’s party as soon as the physician pronounced him well enough to travel. ‘Which will be some days yet, I fear,’ he said.
So now the single coach toiled onwards towards York, through the East Midlands counties and beyond—land which Stacy had not seen since she was a small girl. Alas, the further north they went, the worse the weather grew. The rain turned into an unpleasant sleet, and even the stone hot-water bottles and travelling warming-pans, wrapped in woollen muffs and kept on all the travellers’ knees, were hardly enough to keep them warm as the temperature continued to drop.
Ruefully Stacy privately conceded that Ephraim Blount had been right to worry about her going north in winter, until, at the beginning of the stage where they were due to pass from Nottinghamshire into Yorkshire, her party woke up to find a brilliant sun shining and the sky a cold blue. Everyone, including Stacy, felt happy again.
Everyone, that was, but Louisa Landen, who had endured a bad night and suspected that she had caught Greaves’ cold, but, being stoical by nature and knowing that it was necessary to make up the time lost in caring for Greaves, decided to say nothing of it to Stacy. The cold might not grow worse—and besides, the day was fine.
Except that the landlord of the Gate Hangs Well had shaken his head at them, and before they set out had said gloomily to John Coachman and the postilion they were taking on to the next stage, ‘Fine weather for snow, this, maister.’ John Coachman, however, who wished to press on to make up for lost time, had decided that such country lore was not worth the breath given to offer it, and that he would ignore the warning.
It was a decision that he would come to regret.
Stacy was already regretting her ill-fated winter journey to York. She was to regret it even more as, towards noon, when they were still far from journey’s end, the weather suddenly changed; the sun disappeared, it became cloudy, dark and cold, and the bottles and warming-pans grew cold too. Louisa began to cough, a dry, insistent cough, which had Stacy at last registering her companion’s wan face, with a hectic spot on each cheekbone.
‘Oh, Louisa, my dear!’ she exclaimed, taking her companion’s cold hand in hers. ‘I have been so selfish, wishing to make good time and not thinking of anything but my own convenience. You have caught Greaves’ cold, and we ought not to have journeyed on today. You should have told me.’
Louisa shook her head and croaked, ‘My fault—I said nothing because we are not so far from our journey’s end, and I knew you wished to make good time today since the weather seemed to have taken a turn for the better. I must confess I did not think that I would feel so ill so soon.’ She had begun to shiver violently, and it was plain that she was in a state of extreme distress.
The shivering grew worse, almost in time with the snow which had begun to fall, turning into a regular blizzard. By the early afternoon they were making only slow progress into territory where it was plain that snow had fallen during the night, and only the fact that a few carriages had passed earlier, leaving ruts for them to drive in, kept them going at all.
John Coachman had consulted his roadbook, and had already told Stacy bluntly that they would be unlikely to find a suitable inn to stop at before Bawtry, which they had originally planned to make for. They were now, he said, in an area where hostelries with beds were few and far between. ‘We’d best be on our way, madam, or night will fall or the road become impassable before we reach the inn.’
The prospect of being trapped by the snow and spending the night in the coach was not a pretty one. Polly’s lip trembled, but the sight of Louisa lying silent in Stacy’s arms kept her silent too.
Night fell early, and John Coachman was now gloomily aware that he must, in the dark among the snowdrifts, have taken a wrong turning, for he had no idea where they were, only that they were lost—something he didn’t see fit to tell his mistress. He called for directions to the postilion who was riding the near horse, who shouted back, ‘I’m as lost as you are, maister. Mayhap we’re nigh to Pontisford,’ which was no help at all, as there was no Pontisford in John’s book.
Worse, the road was growing impassable, and only the sight of the lights of a big house, dim among trees, gave him some hope that he might be able to drive them all there safely—perhaps to find shelter for the night.
He had no sooner made this decision, and told the postilion of it, than the horses, tired by their long exertions, slithered into a ditch which had been masked by the drifting snow. The coach tilted and was dragged along for a few feet before toppling slowly on to its side.
Hal, the footman, who was riding outside, was thrown clear. John, less fortunate, was caught up in the reins, and before he could free himself completely one of the falling boxes of luggage which had been stowed on top of the coach struck him a shattering blow on the arm, fortunately not breaking it.
Somehow avoiding the plunging horses, he fell across poor Hal, who was trying to rise, winding him all over again. The postilion had also been thrown clear, only to strike his head on a tree-trunk and fall stunned into the freezing ditch-water. They were later to discover that one of the horses had been killed in the fall, breaking its neck instantly.
The three passengers inside were flung from their seats to land half on the floor, half across the door next to the ground. Stacy, when everything had subsided, found herself with Louisa still in her arms and Polly, on top of both of them, gasping and moaning, her wrist having been injured in the fall.
Stunned and bruised, but happy to be alive, Stacy could only register that their ill-fated odyssey was at an end, and that she was somewhere in North Nottinghamshire, but where she had no idea…
Matt Falconer was wishing himself anywhere but in North Nottinghamshire. He and Jeb had arrived at Pontisford Hall two days earlier, after a hard and uncomfortable journey in a hired post-chaise which had stunk vilely of tobacco and ale.
All the hard and jolting way to North Nottinghamshire he had sustained himself with the thought of the comfortable billet which was waiting for them at journey’s end. The sardonic mode which ruled his life these days had told him later that if it were better to travel than to arrive then he might have guessed what he would find!
He had dismounted from the chaise in the dark of the November afternoon, the first snow of winter beginning to fall, to be greeted by an ill-clad bent old man whom Matt, with difficulty, had identified as Horrocks, the butler, whom he had last seen fifteen years ago as a man still hale and hearty.
‘And who the devil may you be, sirs,’ he had quavered at them, ‘to stop at Pontisford? There are none here to entertain you since my mistress died—only a few of the old retainers who cared for her are still living at the Hall.’
Matt had blinked at him. ‘Don’t you recognise me, Horrocks? It’s Matt Falconer. My aunt left me the Hall and I have come to claim my inheritance.’
The old man lifted the lantern he was carrying to inspect his face. He shook his head. ‘Master Matt, is it? Lord, sir, I would never have known you. You’ve changed.’
‘So have we all,’ Matt told him gently. ‘Are you going to let us in?’ He pointed at Jeb and the shivering driver.
‘Aye, but I warn you there’s little to eat and little to warm yourselves with,’ mourned Horrocks as he led them indoors. ‘No money’s come in since Lady Emily died, and we had little enough before that.’
Grimes had said nothing of this. Matt asked urgently, ‘And Lady Emily’s agent, where is he?’
‘Gone, Mr Matt. With the money. He upped and left two months ago, his pockets well-lined with all he’d stolen from the estate. But Lady Emily wouldn’t hear a word against him. Wandering in her mind, she was. I wrote to Lawyer Grimes, but by chance the letter went astray.’
Matt could only suppose that it had. He didn’t suspect Grimes of wrongdoing, only carelessness about matters taking place so far from London. He heard Jeb giving suppressed snorts of laughter as they entered the derelict house of which Matt had talked with such enthusiasm on the way north. It was plain that Lady Emily must have fallen into her dotage unable to control her life, for Horrocks’ lantern showed the entrance hall to be dank and cold, the statuary and furniture covered in filthy dust-sheets, the chandeliers empty of candles, the smell of must and mould everywhere. And the whole house was the same. There was a scuttle of rats in the wainscoting of an unheated drawing-room which Matt remembered as full of warmth and light and love.
His aunt had died earlier in the year in her late seventies, and, by what Horrocks had said, having been pillaged by her agent. Her mind wandering, she had seen Pontisford as it had been, and not as it was.
‘Turned nearly all the servants away, didn’t he?’ quavered Horrocks. ‘Only left enough to keep m’lady fed and bedded. Short commons, we was on, while he lived in comfort in his cottage with his doxy—you remember miller’s Nell, Master Matt?’
Yes, Master Matt remembered miller’s Nell. She had educated him in the coarser arts of love the year he had reached fifteen, on the edge of the park not far from the ford in the Pont from which the Hall and village took its name. He shook his head, avoided Jeb’s eye, and asked to go to the kitchen. Which was, as he had expected, the only warm room in the house.
The cook, a blowsy fat woman, stared coldly at him, bobbed an unwilling curtsy when told who he was, and grudgingly hung the big cauldron, which he remembered from his childhood visits, above the fire to make them tea. Bread was fetched from a cupboard, and a side of salt beef from which she carved coarse chunks of meat to fling at them on cracked plates. It was all as different from Matt’s memories as anything could be.
A thin-faced serving-girl peered at them before being bade to ‘Take the master’s food into the drawing-room as was proper’.
Jeb finally broke at this point, spluttering with laughter, and said, ‘By God, she’d better not do any such thing. I’ve no mind to freeze to death while sharing my meal with the rats.’
Matt would have joined in his laughter except for the agonised expression on Horrocks’ face—he shamedly remembering other, better days.
‘Right, Jeb, we’ll eat before the fire. At least this room is warm.’
The kitchen door was flung open and a hard-faced woman bounced in. ‘What’s going on in here, Cook? Entertaining chance-met strangers, are we? Not in my house.’
It was Matt’s turn to break. Bereft of his childhood’s dreams, unknown in the house where he had been known and loved, he said as coldly as he could, ‘Your house, madam? You are, then, Lady Emily Falconer?’
The woman drew herself up. ‘I was the late Lady Emily’s housekeeper, I’ll have you know, and as such it is my duty to see that the servants here do their duty. I’ll thank you to leave.’
Matt walked to the window to pull back the ragged curtain and reveal the snow falling relentlessly outside, ‘No, madam. It is you who must leave. Were it not for the weather I should turn you out this instant, for it is all you deserve if you say that you are responsible for the state which the Hall is in. I am Matthew Falconer, Lord Radley, and my aunt has left me this house and her estate.’
He was aware of Jeb staring at him, jaw dropped, aware that he had never sounded more like his stern and detested father, and that, for the first time, he had laid claim to the title which he had vowed he would never assume.
The woman before him clapped her hands to her mouth. ‘M’lord, if I had known who you were…’
‘You had no need to know,’ Matt returned savagely. ‘On such a night as this it was Lady Emily’s habit to care for any lonely travellers who might need shelter. The fact that I am your master is neither here nor there. You will see, at once, that beds are prepared for Mr Priestley and myself, and a fire will be lit in the drawing-room and candles provided, and if there are any able-bodied men about they will begin to clear out the rats which have invaded the house. You will work until the weather allows you to leave, madam, taking your wages for the present quarter with you. See to it.’
He had turned his back on her as she’d run to do his bidding, but as he was saying now to Jeb, two days later, ‘It is of no use. Cut off by the snow as we are, with only one half-witted boy besides Horrocks and the cook, and two young girls as maids, and little in the way of food and means to make fires and warm the place…’ He shrugged. ‘There is little that can be done to improve the condition of Pontisford Hall. It needs time and an army of workers, and I have no mind to organise it. Sell up and go back to Virginia, I say.’
The shivering Jeb nodded agreement. They were huddled over the drawing-room fire, with two small tallow candles to give them light, wax ones being unknown at Pontisford. Matt had insisted on using the room for part of the day, carrying wood and coals through himself to light the fire to ease the burden on Horrocks and the half-witted boy, Jake.
‘We shall leave when the snowstorm stops, and I shall put the Runners on the track of that damned agent, and see him swing before I leave England.’
Jeb said, his teeth chattering, ‘And then you can turn back into cheerful Matt Falconer again. I can’t say I care much for Lord Radley.’
‘Nor do I,’ returned Matt. He walked restlessly to the window to look out at the grim scene. The snowstorm had abated and the moonlight showed a white and icy world. ‘I’m sorry for anyone out on a night like this…’ And then, ‘What the devil’s that?’ For someone was beating a tattoo on the big front door and shouting above the noise of the gale.
He seized the second candle, said, ‘I’ll go. Poor old Horrocks will take an age to answer the door and the poor devils outside will be dead of cold before he gets there. You stay here and try to warm yourself.’ He crossed the dim entrance hall, shouting, ‘I’m coming, I’m coming,’ as the knocking redoubled, and then as those outside found the bell it began pealing vigorously—as Horrocks said in the kitchen,
‘Enough to wake the dead.’
Afterwards Stacy could hardly remember how her small party had made its way from the fallen coach to Pontisford Hall. One horse was dead, and another, which Hal and John released from its traces, escaped from their numbed hands and bolted into the distance.
They were more careful with the other two, and they and the recovered postilion put John and Louisa, now barely conscious, on the third horse, and Hall, with the injured Polly riding precariously sideways behind him, on the fourth. Stacy, oblivious to Polly’s wails that it wasn’t fitting for her to walk, helped the postilion to lead them along the lane and up the winding drive to the Hall, trying to avoid ditches and other obstacles, unseen because of the blanket of snow.
Fortunately the snowstorm was gradually abating and a wintry moon came out, which seemed to make the cold worse. None of the party was dressed to be outdoors in such cruel weather. John had put a horse-blanket around Louisa and had covered Stacy with the blanket from the box, which, even if it smelled dreadfully of horse, gave her a little warmth.
The one thing which kept Stacy on her feet and walking was what awaited her at journey’s end. A warm house, a comfortable bed, food and succour, perhaps even some inspiriting conversation after the trivialities of the past few days. The very notion made her blood course more rapidly, kept her head high and her spirits from flagging.
Hal slid off his horse as they reached the steps leading up to the entrance of the Hall, which the moon had already revealed to be a massive and brilliant structure, built in the Palladian style. It was a smaller version of the Duke of Devonshire’s villa at Chiswick, although by now Stacy was incapable of registering such architectural niceties.
She followed Hal up the steps, leaving John still cradling poor Louisa in his arms and trying to keep her out of the wind. It seemed to take ages for the door to open, and when it did she eagerly walked forward to say to the butler who had answered it, ‘My name is Miss Anna Berriman. The chaise taking us to York has broken down and we are in need of shelter and succour for the night, and men to rescue the chaise tomorrow morning, check the damage and arrange for it to be repaired. Please inform your master of our arrival.’
All this came out in her usual coldly efficient manner, the manner which set everyone at her home and at Blanchard’s Bank scurrying about to do her bidding without argument. For a moment, however, the man before her did and said nothing. By the light of the dim candle he was holding she could merely see that he was very large, and only when the moon came from behind a cloud was she able to see him fully for the first time.
He was not wearing any sort of livery but a rough grey country coat and a pair of black breeches. His cravat was a strange loose thing, black, not white, made of silk, with a silver pin in it. The only immaculate thing about him was his boots. A butler wearing boots! His whole aspect was leonine; tawny hair and eyes, a grim, snapping mouth—she was sure it was a snapping mouth. Who in the world would allow a servant to dress like this?
He seemed about to say something, and his mouth quivered, but he simply waved a hand and enunciated—there was no other word for it—curtly, ‘Enter. We have little enough to help you with, but what we can do we will do.’
Well, on top of everything else he was certainly the most mannerless churl it had ever been her misfortune to meet! His harsh voice was as strange as the rest of him. There was an accent in it which she had never heard before. Now he was turning away, without so much as a by your leave to her, and motioning them in.
For a moment Stacy had a mind to reprimand him, but then she remembered poor Louisa. It was no time to be training servants.
‘My poor companion has a bad fever,’ she told the broad back before her, making her voice as commanding as she could—she was not used to being treated in such a cavalier fashion by anyone, let alone a servant— ‘and I think she ought to be put to bed in a warm room immediately.’
The butler turned around, to show her his leonine mask again. He really was the most extraordinary-looking creature, strangely handsome, almost. ‘That may be a little difficult, madam.’
Was it her imagination, or had there been something unpleasantly sneering in the way in which he had said the last word? Stacy, followed by her small party, who were looking about them in astonishment at the decayed state of the entrance hall, continued to walk on until she said, ‘I find it difficult to believe that your master would refuse warmth and shelter to forlorn travellers…’ She stopped, indicating that she wished to know his name, and as he turned around just as they reached a large baize-covered door he apparently read her mind for he said, head bowed, almost in parody of a servant, ‘Matt, madam. You may call me Matt.’
May I, indeed? was her inward angry thought, but, about to say something really sharp, she was stopped by Matt—could that really be his name?—checking his stride to say to John Coachman, who was carrying Louisa and was staggering with weariness, ‘You’re out on your feet, man; give me the lady,’ and he lifted poor Louisa out of John’s arms to carry her himself.
He waved at Hal to open the door. Hal was nearly as shocked as his mistress by this strange me´nage and even stranger servant—as he was later to say to the assembled staff at Bramham Castle, when Stacy finally reached there, ‘I were fairly gobsmacked by it all, and no mistake.’
At last, Stacy thought, comfort and succour. The whole party felt as though their life had been suddenly renewed—but what was this? They were in the kitchens, where, although they didn’t know it, for the first time in years the great fireplace had been properly cleaned. Jeb had retreated to its comfortable warmth when Matt had left the drawing-room.
