At the Highwayman's Pleasure(25)

       
           



       

Ross left Robin in the stables and made his way into the house through  the service door. He stopped in the passage and took off his greatcoat,  shaking off the rapidly melting snowflakes before entering the kitchen.

The warmth hit him immediately, as did the savoury smell of cooking.  Charity was stirring a large pan set upon the coals, but she looked  round when he came in. He felt an overwhelming relief to see her there  and could not prevent his lips curving upwards. Her answering smile lit  up the room. The heat from the fire had brought a becoming flush to her  cheeks, very like the delicate colour that had painted them this morning  after she had clutched his arm, when he had wanted to drag her into his  arms and kiss away all the hurt and anguish he was causing her. He  thrust aside the thought, since it could lead nowhere. He had promised  himself he would behave like a gentleman while she was in his house, but  it was proving surprisingly difficult. Thank heaven she would not be  here for very much longer.

‘I hope you do not mind, but Jed killed one of the hens for me,' she  told him. ‘He said the bird was a poor layer and would not be missed. I  searched the larder and found a little cream and some lemons, so I have  made a chicken fricassee. And there is a potato pudding to serve with  it.'

‘You have been busy,' he remarked.

‘I had to find something to do.' She bit her lip in the nervous little  habit he was beginning to recognise. ‘I hope you do not mind, but I also  kindled a fire in the little parlour. I thought, perhaps, we might sit  there after dinner.'

Charity waited for his response, half expecting him to refuse, to  insist that she should return to her room upstairs. However, after a  brief hesitation he shrugged.

‘Why not? That is a good idea, especially since we have something to  celebrate.' She raised her questioning eyes to his and he nodded. ‘Your  father has responded. I should explain that he has a much-coveted bust  of Caesar in his hall-I know of it because I have spoken to people in  Beringham who have seen it and heard him boasting of how much it cost  him. You will recall, in the letter you wrote, I instructed him to move  the bust to an upstairs window if he was ready to talk terms. Well, he  has done so.' He paused. ‘You do not look very happy about it, madam. It  means you are a step nearer to being free.'

‘Of course, I am quite delighted,' she said in a hollow voice.

‘Good. Now I will go and change-a fricassee of chicken deserves that I should wash off the dirt from the road, I think!'

Charity watched him go. She had almost been enjoying herself, playing  at housekeeping, but his news had changed all that and now she was  chilled with apprehension. She had no idea what Ross would demand for  her release, but she did not want to be beholden to her father. As she  prepared the sauce for their dinner she tried to think why Phineas would  have agreed to talk to Ross. Not to buy her freedom, she was sure of  that.

* * *

Dinner was excellent and Charity accepted Ross's compliments with a nod  and a little smile. She cleared the kitchen while Ross banked up the  range for the night and went off to see to the fire in the parlour. When  she joined him there a little later she found he had pulled two  armchairs up to the hearth and set wine and glasses on a small side  table.

‘Madeira,' he explained, seeing her eyes resting on the decanter. ‘I thought you might like it.'

‘I would like to try it, thank you.' She sat down in one of the chairs  and waited for him to serve her. The wine was warm and smooth with a  rich, nutty flavour. She sipped it appreciatively. The atmosphere was  relaxed, and a quick glance at her companion suggested that he, too, was  at ease, his long legs stretched out towards the fire and crossed at  the ankle. He was gazing into the flames and appeared lost in thought.  She drew a breath.

‘So my father has agreed to meet you.'

‘Yes.'

‘May I ask where and when?'

‘It is better that you do not know the details.'

‘Why not? I have already told you that I could pay you-'

‘It is not just the money.'

There was bitterness in his voice and a note that warned her not to  continue, but her curiosity was too great to give up now. She ran her  tongue across her dry lips and pressed on.

‘Mr Durden-the first night you brought me here, you said you wanted  Phineas to return your property. What is it that he has taken from you?'

‘My wife, for one thing.'

‘Your wife?' Charity jerked upright, her eyes wide with surprise.                       
       
           



       

He laughed harshly. ‘Do not look so shocked, madam. Perhaps I should  have said my intended wife. Hannah-the present Mrs Weston-was my  mother's companion.'

‘Yes, I had heard that.'

‘I met her when I was home on leave and we...became very close. Or at least I thought so.'

He fell silent, his brow dark and furrowed. Charity remembered that Jed  had mentioned the companion and in the most unflattering terms. She  said gently, ‘Will you tell me?'

She thought at first he had not heard her, but then he exhaled softly, like a sigh.

‘Six years ago my father died. I was in the West Indies at the time and  it was several months before I could come home. My mother's health had  never been good, but she wrote to tell me that she was coping well and  had taken on a companion-Hannah-to help her. When I returned to  Wheelston I discovered that my father had made some unwise investments  just before he died and had left very little, apart from land. My mother  was distraught. She did not want anyone to know of the change in her  fortunes. I used my prize money to pay off the debts and left her with  sufficient funds to tide her through until the next harvest, when the  rents would come in. Mama and Hannah both insisted I should return to  sea, because the ongoing war meant there was every chance of more prize  money. They convinced me they could run Wheelston. After all, we had  tenants for the two adjoining farms and a good body of servants, so  there was no physical work to be done. Hannah was the perfect companion,  or appeared to be. My mother adored her and I-' His fingers tightened  around his glass until the knuckles gleamed white. ‘I thought we were  doing the right thing. I was confident that I could make more money at  sea than if I stayed at Wheelston.'

‘And did you?' she asked, when he fell silent. ‘Did you win more prize money?'

‘Aye.' His hand resting on the arm of the chair clenched into a fist  and his frown deepened into a scowl. ‘I sent it all home, along with  every penny I could spare.'

‘What happened?'

‘I heard little from Wheelston, but that did not worry me,  correspondence between home and ships is generally very good, but there  can be problems. There was the occasional letter from my mother,  accompanied by a note from Hannah telling me that all was well. Then  nothing.'

His chair scraped back as he got up abruptly and fetched the bottle  from the side table. Charity allowed him to refill her glass and waited  in silence for him to take his seat again and resume his story.

‘My mother died in the spring of '05, but it was a full month before I  heard. I received a letter from an old family friend in Allingford who  sent his condolences and expressed regret-and some disapproval-that I  had not seen fit to come home when she became so very ill. I requested  immediate leave and sailed for England.'

He stopped, his gaze fixed on the fire. The flames danced in his dark eyes like tiny red devils.

‘I came back to find Wheelston a mere shell, the estate neglected and the tenant farmers gone.'

‘Gone?'

‘Yes. Their rents had been increased and when they could not pay they had been driven off the land.'

‘Wait,' she said, frowning. ‘You did not order the rents to be raised?'

‘No, of course not. Is that what you were told?' His lip curled. ‘I  have never spoken of it to anyone in Allingford, so I assume they had  that information from Hannah. I can only conclude that she was behind it  all, squeezing every penny out of the estate and running it into the  ground. I learned that my mother's funeral was a poor affair with her  friends paying for her to be interred beside my father, but her name had  not been added to the headstone. Only then did I realise the restraint  in that friend's letter! Only a selfish, uncaring brute would leave his  mother to struggle on in such circumstances. I came back to find bills  outstanding with tradesmen in Allingford, and the stonemason would not  engrave the headstone without being paid first. Of Hannah and my prize  money there was no sign.'