Hearts of Gold (17 page)

‘The horse, the reverend or my uncle?’

So he did have a sense of humour. ‘Hercules, except you have two legs and he had four, plus a much longer nose. I expect he could run faster, too.’

‘I expect he could.’

The brief smile that lit his face settled back into his grave expression and her nerves fluttered, so she knew she’d have to control them, otherwise she’d prattle. Mrs Lawrence had told her that men didn’t like women who prattled. ‘Even though Mr John told me to expect you to look like him, you gave me quite a shock when you got out of the carriage. Close up you are not so similar.’

‘So it was you looking through the door at me. I imagine you gave me a bigger shock. I thought you’d stepped out of the portrait of my cousin, Margaret Kern.’

I don’t see any strong similarity. ‘Do you mind that I’m not a child? Gerald told me to grow up because I objected when he—’ She bit down on her tongue, but too late.

‘When he what?’

Colour rose in her cheeks and she pressed her lips together for a moment before saying vaguely, ‘Oh, nothing really . . . I expect I was being facetious, I quite often am.’ She felt quite desperate under his scrutiny. ‘Mrs Lawrence told me not to prattle. Am I prattling? You have that effect on me. You must tell me if I am.’

A nerve at the corner of his mouth twitched. ‘I thought you changed the subject quite adroitly, and yes you are prattling.’

Her face heated even more, but she refused to back away from what seemed to have developed into a battle of wills. ‘A gentleman wouldn’t have said so, Mr Kern.’

‘What sort of rubbish has Iris Lawrence been teaching you? You accuse me of making you prattle, then asked for my opinion and demand an answer. Now you chastise me for providing one. Must I be censured the moment I walk into my own home?’

Her mouth opened, then shut again when he didn’t give her time to apologize and stated, ‘Let me make one thing clear. I’m the master here, and you are my ward – but only if I choose to take responsibility for you. You must be aware that your position here is tenuous, since it relies entirely on the goodwill I felt towards my uncle. As far as I understand, my uncle took you in, merely on a whim. Whether or not I will honour his request has not yet been determined, and I’ll certainly take advice on it before it is. As things stand you can consider yourself my temporary house guest.’

Her heart fell into a chasm. What would she do if he threw her out? ‘I’m sorry, Mr Kern.’

‘I’d prefer to be called Magnus.’ His gazed drifted over her, missing nothing. He sighed. ‘Like you said, you’re not a child, but I shall have a word with Gerald about his inappropriate behaviour. If I decide you can stay, I imagine I shall have to adjust my way of thinking considerably to cope with a young woman’s presence in my home.’

‘I’ll try and keep out of your way . . .’

‘I’d appreciate it.’ Going past her again, he hefted the horse up into his arms. ‘Where would you like your horse stabled, Miss Maitland?’

‘I’ll show you . . .
Magnus
.’

Magnus thought, as he followed her bobbing backside up the stairs, that his name had sounded distasteful to her, like slime dripping down a rock.

He’d never had a reaction like this from a young woman before. She was no simpering miss, that was certain, but had tackled him head on. But what was he to do with her? He needed time to think through the problem.

She’d also settled herself into his best guest bedroom. His nose twitched as he inhaled the perfumed feminine smell. It was not cloying like Isabelle’s perfume had been, but a lighter, fresh fragrance. Rose water most likely.

He decided he would have his cousin’s room refurbished for her to use. It caught the sun all year round. In deference to his uncle Margaret’s room had not been touched while he lived, but one couldn’t enshrine the dead indefinitely.

Something cream and silky with a delicate lace edging and ribbons was draped over the back of a chair. He had not overlooked the fact that Sarette Maitland was of average height for a woman. Her figure was neatly in proportion and curved in all the right places. And there was a faint chestnut shine to her hair that was altogether pleasing. Clad in that silk undergarment she would be exquisite, like a porcelain figurine. He tore his eyes away from her and grunted, feigning annoyance at being kept waiting.

Hurriedly she looked around for a place to put the horse and said, her voice thick with tears, ‘Perhaps the horse should go into the nursery, since you expected to give it to a child. It was a kind gesture.’

Kind, be damned. It had been a means to an end. Still was. Her eyes were teary when she turned to him. Guilt raced through him. Lord, had he been too hard on her? He lowered the horse to the floor. ‘We can move that big trunk to the attic if it’s been emptied.’

‘It’s not my trunk, it’s Mr John’s. See, it has his name on it. He asked me to guard it with my life, and trust it to nobody but you. I have the key in the dresser drawer. The trunk is heavy, and it will require two men to carry it.’

‘What’s in it?’

‘All of Mr John’s worldly goods I imagine. His journals in particular. He wanted them to come home and form part of the Kern history of the house. He said it would give continuity to the family history and his great nieces and nephews would enjoy reading them.

His uncle had worked it all out, and Magnus suddenly grinned. At least John wouldn’t know that his plans had come to nothing.

‘All he kept were his guns and a change of clothing,’ she said. ‘He said he would be here when I arrived.’

When she sniffed he handed her his handkerchief again. ‘It’s hardly his fault that he couldn’t be. Please don’t start weeping over my uncle. He wouldn’t like it.’

She didn’t take his offering, but pulled an embroidered, lace-edged scrap from her sleeve. Her translucent green eyes flicked up to his, stormy with her youthful defiance. Despite her year with Mrs Lawrence learning her airs and graces, it came hard to her. He reminded himself that, underneath, Sarette Maitland was a feral child his uncle had rescued, taught and partly tamed on the goldfields in a distant land. Like a wild pony, she still wanted to run free.

The difference between Sarette Maitland and the Carradine sisters was marked. Good manners had been bred into Alice and her sisters.

‘I’ll never forget Mr John. He was always so kind to me, and I’ll cry over him if I feel like it,’ she said.

Of course she would. Her loyalty to the memory of his uncle was all too apparent, and he warmed to her because of it. But John was gone and she hadn’t yet learned he was no longer there to protect her, and she had to let him go.

As for exactly how kind his uncle had been to her, the girl was as yet unaware. Magnus thought he might leave her in ignorance of that particular fortune until she was a little older and wiser, and had more sense in her exquisite little head. Gerald had been right . . . she did need to grow up.

He wasn’t looking for an argument, so he said evenly, ‘As you wish, Miss Maitland. I’ll see you at dinner, and would be obliged if you’d finished crying by then.’ Turning the trunk up on end he tested his strength against it. It was heavy. Too heavy for comfort, but not impossible. He crouched, and, lifting it to his shoulder, straightened up, feeling his thigh muscles tighten to take the strain. He widened his stance for balance and departed.

Magnus was enjoying his small triumph of his physical strength over her caution when she flung her final words after him with a soft, ‘Hah! Your uncle could lift it with one hand.’

He didn’t believe it for one second, and pretended he didn’t hear her final taunt. He carried the trunk along the corridor to where his own room was situated, then was obliged to ask his valet to help him lower it to the floor. ‘Have it taken to the library when you’ve got a minute, and get someone to help you,’ he told George, when the man looked askance at it.

The trunk was dirty and scuffed, the brass work dull. It was secured by metal straps. Magnus ran a finger over his uncle’s name and said, ‘Welcome home, John Kern. Your adventuring days are finally over, but your spirit lives on. I think my adventures are just about to begin. But don’t expect me to thank you for this creature you’ve foisted on me, for I’m set in my ways.’

Sarette Maitland joined him for dinner, demure in a cream, high-collared gown with puffed sleeves. Her bun was made less severe by a cluster of pink silk roses that were entirely youthful. The style revealed her delicate bone structure and exquisite features. She was as pretty as a peach.

She seated herself at the other end of the table, where he’d instructed her place to be set, as far away from himself as possible, for he didn’t want to hear her slurp her soup.

When Branston was serving the soup she slipped something into his hand and whispered a few words. She didn’t slurp, and the missive was duly delivered to his end of the table when Branston served the main course. Magnus slipped it into his waistcoat pocket. Nothing was going to spoil his enjoyment of his favourite dinner of roast lamb and vegetables. It was followed by a delicious tart containing stewed apples and rhubarb, and floating in a creamy custard.’

‘Congratulate the cook on the meal please, Branston.’

Branston gazed at the girl, who smiled at him. ‘Miss Maitland ordered it, sir. She said it was your favourite meal and should be served as a welcome home.’

He sent her a cool glance. How dare the damned creature attempt to take over his household?

‘Will you read your note please, Magnus?’ she almost pleaded.

It was a note of apology for her earlier behaviour. She had a good hand. Her sentences were clearly constructed, her letter formation steady and without too much embellishment. He made no comment as he read the prettily worded appeal, then finding nothing to criticize, slipped the missive into his waistcoat pocket.

Her composure slipped a little and her eyes became anxious. ‘Do you not wish to comment?’

‘I don’t really feel the need.’

‘Have I apologized for nothing?’ she said, her voice wounded.

‘Ah . . . and I thought it was an apology for your earlier rudeness.’

Colour drained from her face and she whispered, ‘It was, and it was one that came sincerely from my heart. But it seems to me as though your heart is made of stone, for your manner is so surly. Excuse me please.’ Her chair scraped across the floorboards as she stood, and she turned and walked away.

Magnus sighed. How could he have been so churlish? ‘Come back here, Sarette.’

She kept going, her back as stiff as a ramrod. The door closed behind her. Branston clattered the plates on the dresser, and he couldn’t keep his disapproval from clouding his voice. ‘Do you want coffee, sir?’

‘No . . . dammit, Branston. Send somebody up to Miss Maitland, tell her to come back down here at once.’

‘The young lady is upset. I don’t think she will appreciate being disturbed.’

He decided to take Branston’s advice. He could only add fuel to the flame now. ‘It was my fault, wasn’t it?’

‘Since you ask, yes, sir, it was. Miss Maitland is just a sweet young girl who goes out of her way to try and please people.’

To Magnus she appeared to be a provocative little minx sent here by his uncle to plague him. ‘What do you suggest I do to make amends?’

‘A small gesture like a posy of flowers would probably please her. She is very appreciative of the nature of her surroundings.’

‘I’ll personally pick one in the morning and give them to her at breakfast, so stop looking so long-faced at me. I’ll have that coffee now, Branston, thank you. Take Miss Maitland’s up to her, and don’t stay and gossip about what took place here. How the devil did she know what my favourite dinner is?’

‘Your uncle told her, I believe.’

His uncle had told her a lot of things . . . how close had these two been, that he should leave her such a fortune? It seemed disloyal that he could even think it, but his uncle wouldn’t be the first ageing man who’d fallen under the spell of a young girl. Perhaps there would be a clue in his journals as to what had taken place between John and the girl. He would open the trunk tomorrow and see if he could make sense of it.

Flynn Collins had secured employment in a coal yard in Poole, courtesy of his cousin, who’d preferred to deny any connection between them in public. That bastard didn’t want to know him, but all the same, he’d promised to help him get away when the time came.

The job consisted of shovelling coal into sacks, then weighing them and sewing up the tops. He’d also found accommodation, a back room in a mean house in Smuggler’s Lane. His landlady wasn’t too fussy, but she wasn’t a bad cook and she didn’t ask questions.

The job was worse than working down a mine, what with the dust, and all, and he’d done some of that in his time. But it meant that for most of the day his face would be black with coal dust, so if by chance someone looked for him here, the chance of him being recognized had lessened.

He could do nothing about his Irish accent, but it was common. He frequented the bars at night, keeping his ears open and his trap shut. He’d befriended an Irish engineer off a cargo carrier who sailed on the American route.

‘Jack Maitland?’ he said when Flynn offered his assumed name. ‘It doesn’t sound like an Irish name to me.’

‘It’s my mammy who was Irish, God bless her. Ireland is where I was born and raised. America is where I’ll end up when I can get signed on. I have a brother there, and my mammy has gone to live with him.’

The engineer downed his pot of ale. ‘I might have a job as a stoker opening up. You’d have to be signed on as crew, but I’d need surety money. Half up front and the rest when we’re under way.’ While Flynn fumbled in his pocket, he said, ‘You have legitimate papers?’

‘Aye, I have. Got to get some money first, though. My father used to work for someone called John Kern. He died in my father’s arms in foreign parts. My old man followed after him still being owed his wage, and my mammy asked me to collect it from the heir before I join them. But I’ve lost the letter and I don’t know where the Kerns live.’

A sceptical expression came into the engineer’s eyes. ‘What’s this man called?’