A Reason to Rebel (10 page)

“She is a dutiful, well-brought-up child and knows she should be quietly at home,” said Winthrop, acting as though Alex had not just issued him with an ultimatum. “Mourning the loss of her husband. But instead she is gadding about the country and imposing herself upon respectable people.”

“Her husband?”

“Yes, her husband, who has not been in the ground these three months. She was to have returned to Hampshire with me three days ago but when I went to collect her she was nowhere to be found. She’s caused me a damnable amount of inconvenience, I don’t mind telling you, and she’ll pay a heavy price for defying me when I get my hands on her.”

This extraordinary business was gradually making some sense to Alex. Estelle.
E.S.T
. Estelle Travis, the recently widowed friend of Susanna. The one who had lost her baby and her sister, which no doubt accounted for her ill health. And for her good-quality clothing. Alex was briefly at a loss, but not for long. If Estelle’s only option was to return to live under the same roof as this bullying coxcomb, then he would move heaven and earth to ensure it did not happen. He recalled her skittish behaviour since her arrival. Her eyes constantly darted about, as though she could not quite believe she was within the haven that was Crawley Hall and expected at any moment to be snatched away. Now he understood why.

Her sensual expression when she had sat at the harp the previous evening had transfixed him. It was the first occasion upon which he had glimpsed the true nature of the sensitive person lurking beneath the shuttered exterior. His mother had been right about music, it was the key to releasing her inhibitions. She had quickly become totally absorbed by it, forgetting all about her audience as she played from the heart. And the smile he had been patiently waiting to see, a combination of ideology and passion which transformed her beautiful features into something celestial, still drugged his mind.

Alex needed to talk with Miss Tilling—or rather, Mrs. Travis—to find out why she was really here. He needed to understand what she was running away from, although he suspected he was already confronting the answer to that question in this very room. It was now a matter of honour for Alex to be of service to the chit, and only when he had established it was what she truly desired would she be returned to Winthrop’s care.

“I regret that you have been misinformed,” he said, “and have had a wasted journey. There is no Estelle Travis residing under my roof.”

“There must be.”

“Are you doubting my word, sir?”

“Not at all. Pray excuse me.” Winthrop flapped a placating hand in Alex’s direction. “I daresay you do not know who is here every minute of every day, what with it being such an extensive establishment. Perhaps she is passing herself off as a maid of some sort.”

“Why ever would she do that?”

“Who can say what a woman might do when she is stricken with grief? No, sir, I must insist that you enquire of your housekeeper if any new girls have been taken on of late.”

“I hardly think you are in a position to insist upon anything in my house.”

“No, of course not—beg pardon, but I would not have you encumbered with the wretched child. There will be the most damnable scandal if word of her temporary loss of wits were to be spread abroad. I would not subject you to such censure, what with you being a single gentleman, as I understand it. A young gel who ought to be respectably mourning her husband residing without a chaperon beneath your roof would be the very devil to explain away.” He eyed Alex with a calculating expression that made him want to plant his fist in the middle of the man’s fleshy face. “Best if you send for her right away. I will return her to her mother’s care and we’ll say no more about it.”

“It seems that her mother’s care has not been very efficient up until now.”

“It is a misunderstanding, that is all, but it will all be resolved soon enough when we have her back.” Winthrop gestured with his hand and moderated his bullish tone. “Now, if you would oblige me by making those enquiries, it will resolve the matter and put an end to my intrusion.”

“I do not need to make enquiries and I repeat, there is no Estelle Winthrop residing beneath this roof.”

“Her name is now Travis and you are mistaken about her not being here. My coachman spoke with the Cleethorpe’s driver, who said he deposited the girl here not three days ago. There, sir, what do you say to that?”

“I say that you have been misinformed.”

“I think not.” Winthrop’s expression became calculating. “The man has yet to be born who can sham it successfully with Joseph Winthrop.”

“What age is this missing daughter of yours?”

“Two-and-twenty.” Winthrop made the admittance with obvious reluctance.

“Then it would seem she is of age and can do as she pleases.”

“Disgrace my family, you mean, by gadding about I know not where when she is still in mourning? I think not. What sort of father would I be if I permitted her to make such a show of herself?”

“It seems that you do a good enough job of disgracing your family without your daughter’s help.” Alex opened the door before his temper got the better of him and called to Phelps. “I can well understand her reluctance to surrender herself to your care. Good day.”

“Not so fast, sir! If she is not here, who was that playing the harp when I entered the house just now, tell me that, huh? I know of no one else who can play that particular piece with such feeling.”

Before Alex could stop him, Winthrop wrenched open the door to the drawing room, bellowing for Estelle to show herself. But when Alex stepped up to the man, looking over his shoulder with a sense of foreboding, he perceived that the room was empty.

“Get out of my house!” Alex rarely lost his temper but was willing to make an exception in this man’s case. “Get out now or I’ll throw you out myself.”

“I will go if you insist upon it.” Winthrop picked up his hat, his face puce with rage. “But I’ll not go far. I know she is here and I shall not leave the district until she is restored to me.” His eyes lingered on a colourful shawl that was thrown across the back of a chair, the one Alex had so admired the previous day. “I know not what game you are playing, sir, but the law is on my side and I will have my daughter back. Tell her, when she has come to her senses, that I am putting up at the Bull on the Brighton Road. If she sends word to me there, I will call for her and we will say nothing more about her temporary lapse.”

He strode from the room without another word but Alex waited until he heard Phelps close the front door behind him before he called to Estelle.

“It is quite safe to come out now, Miss Tilling. He is gone.”

But no one appeared. The room was indeed empty.

Chapter Seven

At first Estelle was transfixed with fright. But the sound of her father’s voice and the prospect of falling victim to his dictatorial behaviour helped her to overcome her fear. Matthew and Marianne had been right about him all along. She should have paid heed to their warnings but prayed it was not too late to make recompense. If she ever saw either of them again, she would try to make them understand that she had behaved in the way that she had not because she did not love them but through a misguided sense of duty.

She did not know how Lord Crawley would react to her father’s appearance. Nor could she could guess how badly he would think of her when he realized she had deceived him and his mother in order to escape her tyrannical parent. The thought of disappointing him weighed heavily on her heart. She would not insult Lord Crawley by considering him in the same disagreeable light as her father, but there was no escaping the fact that they were
both men, accustomed to having the ladies under their care deferring to their every wish. If her father could convince him that she ought to be at her family’s home in Hampshire, especially as she was still in full mourning, she did not see how he could honourably refuse to hand her over.

Panic gripped her as she glanced round the cavernous room, desperate for a means of escape. There were hiding places aplenty but she could hardly remain concealed in his lordship’s splendid drawing room indefinitely when, as soon as he learned the truth about her, he was most likely to want rid of her. There were just two doors, one to the main hallway and the other into the room which Lord Crawley and her father now occupied. The door to the hall was clearly her only option but she hesitated to turn the handle, conscious of her hands shaking so violently that it would have been a difficult feat to achieve at that precise moment. If either of the gentlemen in the adjoining room should quit it unexpectedly, or if they had left the door to the hall open, she would be seen in an instant.

There had to be another way.

Aware that their voices were now raised, presumably combined in their outrage at her want of propriety, Estelle almost gave up the struggle. What was the point? She could not win against them both and was merely delaying the inevitable. But her every sinew balked at the prospect of giving up her hard-won freedom so easily. Now that she finally understood how right Matthew and Marianne had been to stand up to their father, she was determined to match their stance. Besides, the very thought of marriage to the obnoxious Mr. Cowper was sufficient to reinforce her rebellious streak.

Reapplying her mind to concealment, Estelle considered the possibility of taking refuge behind the heavy drapes. But that would not serve. The huge window which they adorned overlooked the drive. The wide seat behind them would comfortably accommodate her but she dismissed the possibility without even trying it out. She would immediately be observed by her father when he descended the front steps towards his waiting carriage if he chanced to look back over his shoulder.

There had to be another means of escape, and it did not take long for her to find it. Hidden in the panelling immediately behind the harp was a door she had not noticed the previous evening. She did not scruple to turn the handle.

She found herself in a dim passageway, as cold and musty as a tomb. Its purpose was not immediately apparent and she did not pause to consider what it might be. She shuddered, pushing her fear of the dark to the recesses of her mind. It had to go somewhere and as long as it took her away from her father, she was desperate enough to follow wherever it lead.

Estelle screwed up her eyes and plunged recklessly ahead, hands stretched in front of her to feel for obstacles in her path. It reminded her of the extensive network of passages at Farleigh Chase which she, Matthew and Marianne had explored during their childhood. They had been their only escape from their all-seeing father, who was unaware of their existence. Those passages had held no unpleasant surprises, and she could only trust to luck that those in Crawley Hall were equally innocuous.

After what seemed like an eternity, but in actuality could not have been above two minutes of moving with extreme caution, she was confronted by another door. She hesitated. What if it took her directly into the adjoining room, straight into her father’s path? But that would make no sense. She had not travelled far but she was fairly certain that she had moved in a different direction from the morning room. She listened intently, ear pressed against the heavy door, trying to make out any sounds beyond it, but she could hear nothing.

Something alive scurried over her slippered feet and she almost shrieked. Galvanized into action at the prospect of disturbing the rats which lived in this dark hideaway, she marshalled what little remaining courage she possessed and turned the handle.

With a sigh of relief she stepped into an unoccupied study. The walls were lined with shelves of books, and comfortable-looking furniture suggested the room’s owner had stamped his personality upon a space where he spent much of his time. Papers lay in disarray on a large desk, left there as though someone had been interrupted whilst reading them. A substantial fire danced in the grate. She could sense Alex Crawley’s presence as surely as if he was still occupying the huge chair behind the desk, his eyes resting upon her with a disarming expression of intelligent curiosity. She must have stumbled into his private domain, which was another reason for him to resent her intrusion into his house.

Instead of making good her escape before he came back and could add the invasion of his privacy to his list of her transgressions, Estelle looked about her with interest. She thrust to the back of her mind the depressing fact that her father had managed to run her down after only three days.

Her gaze swept the room, pausing on the portrait over the fireplace. It showed a gentleman and lady, the lady unquestionably Lady Crawley in her youth. Estelle stared at her image for several minutes she could ill-afford to waste. She admired the beautiful lines of her classical features and the lively spirit shining from eyes that had been skilfully captured by the artist, a spirit that was still visible in their faded depths even today. The gentleman must be Lord Crawley’s father. Indeed the resemblance betwixt father and son was unmistakable. Instead of looking at the artist, his eyes were fixed on his wife’s smiling face with a look of such slavish adoration that it stole Estelle’s breath away.