Carisbrooke Abbey (6 page)

‘I am usually the one who gives orders in this household,’ he said gruffly, but there was a light in his eye that belied his bad-tempered tone.

‘Not tonight,’ she returned with a smile.

‘So I see.’

There was a note of humour in his voice, and he made no further protest. Doing as she had bid him he put his good hand over the pad and held it firmly in place.

Taking up her shawl, Hilary folded it lengthwise and tied it round his forearm.

‘There.’

She sat back again and reviewed her handiwork.

‘A good job,’ he said, looking at it approvingly.

His eyes turned to hers, and she flushed. There was a warmth in his glance that she had not seen there before. It made her feel as though something, hitherto unsuspected inside her, was beginning to unfurl. It was disquieting, and yet at the same time enriching, making her life seem more real. In some strange way she knew that the moment was etching itself on her memory in all its detail. She could not have said how she knew, only that she did: the sight of Lord Carisbrooke, with his grizzled black hair falling in elflocks across his forehead; the glimpse of his chest, with its black hair; the feel of his forearm beneath her hands as she checked his makeshift bandage; the scent of him; the sound of his breathing. And most of all, the aura that surrounded him, of strength, intensity and passion.

The last thought shocked her. But it was undeniable. He was a man driven by passions. By anger, hurt and ...

He stood up, and the mood was broken.

Hilary shook herself, as though emerging from a dream.

‘You had better keep to your room for the rest of the night,’ he said, gruff once more. ‘The storm is still fierce, and it might dislodge other slates before it is done.’

Hilary nodded.

He went over to the door.

As he did so, the firelight cast strange shadows round him. Some of them made him seem larger, looming and powerful, like the bear she had first taken him to be. But one made a different picture. It portrayed him as a solitary figure. Alone. Haunted.

On reaching the door he turned round.

‘Say nothing of this to anyone,’ he cautioned her. Adding, ‘I would not like to endanger your reputation.’

She nodded.

He opened the door, and then he was gone.

Hilary stood looking at the door for a long time afterwards. His presence had been so strong that she could not really believe that he was no longer there.

Finally rousing herself, she tidied away her scissors and pin cushion, putting them away in her portmanteau. Then, wrapping her arms around herself, she sank into the tapestry-upholstered chair.

She felt exhausted by the events of the last hour. She had done very little, but for some reason she felt as though she had been through an ordeal. Lord Carisbrooke’s presence had put a strain on her nerves, not only by causing her to tend his injured arm, but by awakening in her a range of new and turbulent feelings. She was not sure if she liked them. A part of her had found them alarming. They had made her feel as though the ground had suddenly shifted beneath her feet; as though everything she had taken for granted had suddenly tilted, revealing new and hitherto unexpected sides to life. But another part of her had found them wonderful.

Recalling her wandering thoughts, she dismissed the feelings. She was tired. That was the problem, she told herself. The strange sensations she had been experiencing had probably been the result of waking in the middle of the night, and then having to dress Lord Carisbrooke’s wound. She would feel better once she was back in bed.

Blowing out all but one of the candles she crossed the room and climbed into the handsome four-poster. She snuggled beneath the covers and then blew out the last light.

But try as she might to put all thoughts of Lord Carisbrooke out of her mind, he haunted her thoughts. And when at last she fell asleep he haunted her dreams.

‘Come, Caesar.’

  Marcus, Lord Carisbrooke called to the large hound the following morning as he crossed the cavernous hall of the abbey. He was dressed for walking out of doors, with a many-caped greatcoat thrown over his coat and his buckskin breeches, and with battered Hessian boots on his feet.

Caesar thumped his tail against the stone flags then rose from his place in front of the fire. He stretched, yawned and padded over to his master, then the two of them went through the abbey door and out of the house.

It was a dismal morning. The sky was grey, threatening more rain.

Marcus turned his steps towards the river. The rain had come down heavily in the night and he feared it would be flooded. If it was, the ford would be impassable.

Why did there have to be such bad weather now, of all times, when there was a woman in the abbey? he asked himself with a frown. And why did it have to be such a disturbing woman? She wasn’t beautiful. She wasn’t even pretty. She was small and plain. Her eyes were grey, her hair was mousy, and her figure was unremarkable. But still she had unsettled him.

He quickened his pace. His prowl turned into a stride as he crossed the broad, untidy lawns that surrounded the abbey. Beyond them was a gravel path, and further still was a tangled shrubbery where misshapen bushes fought for space.

It was all the fault of that tree! If it hadn’t fallen and pinned her by the ankle, then nothing would have happened. But something about the sight of her struggling to free herself had touched him, and cracked the churlish armour that had been gradually growing around him over the last five years. It had been useful, his armour. It had protected him. From pain and hopelessness, fear and foreboding. And ultimately, despair.

All
this
... he looked round, his gaze sweeping across the lawns and shrubberies, before glancing over his shoulder to see the abbey itself ... would soon be gone. With no one to tend it, no new generation to nurture it, it would return to its natural state. The rhododendrons would become tangled, the lawns would become meadows, and the abbey would fall into decay. It was as inevitable as winter following summer; night following day.

It had hurt him to begin with, the knowledge that the abbey would become a ruin, and that the grounds would grow wild. But bit by bit he had shut off the overwhelming pain. And now Hilary had made him start to feel again. It should have been unbearable. But for some reason, alongside the pain and despair, was hope.

It was a fool’s hope, he told himself harshly. Nothing could change the future. Not even a plain young woman cast adrift in the world and carried to his door.

He tried to turn his thoughts, but they would not be turned. They lingered on Hilary - Miss Wentworth, he told himself irascibly - and his first meeting with her. That tree had much to answer for! Not only had it led to a breach in his armour, but it had led to a reawakening of pleasures he had long since put aside. When he had taken her foot, the feel of it had stirred something inside himself he would have rather left undisturbed.

Oh! but it had felt good.

He gave an unwilling smile. Her foot had been so tiny. And when he had unlaced her boot and his fingers had brushed her skin through the tear in her woollen stocking, her dainty pink ankle had been as soft and smooth as the inside of a rose.

He caught himself up. It was folly to think of such things. Why couldn’t she have indulged in floods of tears like any other woman? That would have driven away his feelings. But instead she had reacted to his hostility with pride and stubbornness, rousing his admiration and attracting him more. He had admired her resilience, the more so because he had had need of resilience himself. Different they may be, in gender and wealth and position, but they had something in common: they both knew what it was to endure.

And her resilience was not all he admired. He admired her intelligence, and her tenacity. She had not taken no for an answer when he had declared he would not employ her. He would like to employ her. He would enjoy having her at the abbey ....

Bah! Those thoughts were dangerous. The abbey was no place for a woman. For her own safety, she had to leave.

Up ahead he could see the river. As he suspected, it had burst its banks and was now spreading over the adjoining fields. It was muddy and fast-flowing, and swirled in violent eddies as it caught on submerged rocks before continuing on its way.

Caesar was already sniffing at the waters, casting his eyes longingly at a tempting branch that spun just out of reach.

‘Come, Caesar,’ he growled, as the hound put out a tentative paw.

Caesar hesitated, then bounded back to him.

Marcus surveyed the mass of seething water, hands thrust deep into his greatcoat pockets, then turned his steps towards the ford. It would be under water, but how far under he did not know. Once he had discovered that, he would be able to make a guess at how long the river would take to subside - although even that would be dependent on there being no more rain. He looked at the sky. Grey clouds hung low, covering it completely, and threatening more to come.

He soon reached the ford. The water had covered the grey rock, and was half way up the black, which meant that even without any more rain the ford would not be passable for two to three days, and if it continued to fall, the ford might not be passable for a week. So what was he going to do with Miss Wentworth in the meantime?

She couldn’t cross at the footbridge, that was for certain, he thought, as he glanced upriver towards the narrow rustic bridge that spanned the turbulent waters, because beyond it she would be faced with a long walk. He might have been unreasonable enough to suggest that she walk back to the village the night before, but now that his anger had cooled he would not countenance the idea. He could lend her a horse, but his animals were large and spirited, and although she might be able to ride them successfully in the abbey grounds he knew she would not be able to control them over rough terrain. There was nothing for it. She would have to remain at the abbey.

But as soon as the ford was passable again, he would send her on her way.

Hilary woke early. The grey light of morning was drifting in through the arched windows, revealing another gloomy day. It took her a minute or two to remember where she was. The massive stone chamber was so different from her cramped room in the Derbyshire lodging house that at first she thought she must be still dreaming. But gradually the events of the previous day came back to her. So, too, did her own difficult situation. Lord Carisbrooke had declared he would not employ her, and now she must embark on a search for another position.

She pushed back the covers and climbed out of bed. Going over to the heavily-carved oak washstand, she remembered that she had used the last of the water to clean Lord Carisbrooke’s wound the night before. There was nothing for it, she would have to ring the bell and face Lund’s surliness. She was just about to do so when she heard a noise on the other side of the door. She jumped; then laughed. It was nothing more sinister than the sound of someone leaving a jug in the corridor! Sure enough, when she opened the door, there was a jug of water. Picking it up, she went back into her room and washed, then set about getting dressed.

She took a dove grey gown out of her portmanteau and put it on. It was, like all her dresses, made of hardwearing linsey-woolsey, and although it was not beautiful at least it was warm. It had a low waist, its bodice buttoned up to her neck, and its sleeves were long. No lace relieved its sober colour. It was plain and unadorned.

Having donned her dress she brushed her mousy hair and arranged it into a knot, securing it with pins before leaving her room.

It was a pity the abbey was so neglected, she reflected as she walked along the landing, for even in the grey light of the November day she could see that it was beautiful. Its high, arched ceilings were supported by fan vaulting, and its walls were made of golden stone.

She began to descend. She felt like a child, dwarfed by the massive staircase. Its walls were so far apart that she could not have touched them if she had reached out with both hands. The steps, however, were shallow, for which she was thankful. Her ankle was still paining her, and she did not want to put too much strain on it.

At the bottom she hesitated. The hall looked different in the daylight. She could see into every corner of it, as she had not been able to do the day before. She marvelled at the skill of the men who had built it. The huge slabs of stone were perfectly cut, and despite their austerity they were beautiful.

She tried to remember in which direction the dining-room lay. She would not be surprised if she found it empty. If she did, she might have to go without breakfast, for Lund, like his master, did not welcome guests. But when she entered the dining-room she was pleased to see that the table was laid.

The room was warm and comfortable. A huge fire burned in the imposing stone fireplace. The logs crackled, giving off a sweet smell. She went over to the fire and warmed herself.

She had not been there more than a few minutes when Lund entered the room, bearing a tray.

‘Breakfast,’ he said dourly, taking a pewter platter from the tray and following it with a tankard, putting both on the oak table.

Hilary looked at him in perplexity. The platter contained a hunk of cold beef, and in the tankard was ale.

‘For your master?’ she enquired.

‘His lordship’s been up these two hours,’ said Lund.

His manner suggested that if she had not been such a sluggard she would have been up two hours herself. Hilary instinctively glanced at the clock, but it showed that she had not been tardy. It was not yet eight o’clock.

Deeming it wiser not to make a reply, she asked, ‘Then whose is the breakfast?’

He favoured her with a sour look.

‘For Mr Ulverstone?’ she enquired.

He gave a heavy sigh, as though he had been tried to the utmost limit of his patience. ‘For you. Who else?’

She looked at the meat and ale in astonishment, and then her mouth quirked. The abbey was, indeed, not welcoming to women!