Lord Somerton's Heir (19 page)

Wilkins shook his head. ‘Got the black mood on him tonight, Molly,’ he said to his wife.

‘What do you mean?’ Bennet said.

‘He gets like this every now and then. You heard about his daughter?’

Bennet nodded. ‘I ’eard tell she took her own life.’

Mrs Wilkins sniffed. ‘Oh, that was sad,’ she said. ‘Amy Thompson worked up at the house. Good girl, she was. Hard worker.’

‘Drowned herself in the lake,’ Wilkins put in.

Mrs Wilkins looked around the room and lowered her voice. ‘They say she was three months gone with child. Such a tragedy.’

This was news.

Bennet shook his head and made a suitable tutting sound. ‘Who was the father?’

‘Well, there are those who say it was his late lordship,’ Mrs Wilkins glanced at her husband, ‘but that never sounded right to us, did it, Mr Wilkins?’

Wilkins grunted a warning. ‘Now, now, Mrs W —’

Mrs Wilkins leaned forward, dropping her voice to a conspiratorial tone. ‘I’m not one to gossip, as you well know,’ she said, ‘but his late lordship…well…how do I put it? He was never one for the girls.’

Bennet took a large swig of ale. This was news too.

‘What do you mean, Mrs Wilkins?’

‘Between us, Mr Bennet, it was the pretty footmen up at the hall who were more at risk from his lordship.’

‘But all I’ve heard as how his lordship was one for the ladies,’ Bennet urged. ‘Always off in London, womanising and the like.’

Mrs Wilkins sat back. ‘Well you would, of course. Imagine if it had got about that his lordship weren’t that way inclined. Can you imagine the scandal?’

‘So you don’t think his lordship was likely to be the father of Amy Thompson’s child?’ Bennet mused.

Both the Wilkins shook their heads.

‘Then who was?’

Mrs Wilkins sighed. ‘She was a very pretty girl but she set her sights high. If you ask me, it wasn’t likely to be one of the staff.’

‘A guest?’ Bennet suggested.

Wilkins shrugged. ‘We’ll never know. The girl took her own life and that of her unborn child. Two sins. No Christian burial for poor Amy. It drove her mother clear out of her wits. Little wonder poor Thompson has his black moods.’

‘They say her unshriven spirit haunts the lake,’ Mrs Wilkins put in. ‘Old Tom,’ she indicated an elderly man playing chequers in a far corner. ‘He says he saw her all dripping wet and wringing her hands.’

Wilkins snorted. ‘Now you are being fanciful, Mrs W. Nothing Old Tom sees that isn’t accounted for by the ale. Enough of this tittle tattle. Back to work, woman!’

Bennet sat back and nursed his ale while he mulled over the intelligence imparted by the Wilkins. His new friends in the servants’ hall were remarkably loyal, he reflected. There had been no murmur about the late Lord’s proclivities.

It would be interesting to find out a little more about the death of Amy Thompson. He set down the empty pot, picked up his hat and, bidding the Wilkins good day, walked slowly back to the hall.

He had discovered the shortcut through the woods and, as the evening drew in, the trees closed around him.

‘Want a drink?’

The slurred voice came from his right and Bennet, his nerves already taut, physically jumped. He whirled around and peered into the dark, making out the outline of a man.

Thompson sat on a fallen tree trunk, his shoulders slumped, a bottle hanging loosely gripped in his right hand, between his knees. As Bennet approached, Thompson raised the bottle and held it out to him. Bennet took the offering and swigged. A rough rum burned the back of his throat and he handed the bottle back as he wiped his mouth.

‘Rough stuff that,’ he commented, seating himself on the log beside the despondent groom.

Thompson lifted the bottle and held it to his lips. His throat worked as he swallowed the fiery drink.

‘You know what today is?’ Thompson slurred.

‘No idea,’ Bennet said, taking the bottle from the man’s slack fingers. It was just about empty, so Bennet discreetly emptied the last drops on to the ground.

‘It’s a year since she died.’

‘Your daughter?’

Thompson swung an arm behind him. ‘There in the bloody lake. Parson wouldn’t bury her in hallowed ground. I tried to tell him that she didn’t take her own life.’ He turned back to Bennet and poked a finger in his chest. ‘I think she was murdered.’

‘And why would you think that?’ Bennet asked, keeping his tone neutral.

‘I saw her a body…’ He paused and took a shuddering breath. ‘Her beautiful body…’ He started to cry, great gulping sobs. Bennet sat quietly and waited for the sobs to subside. ‘She had a massive wound on the back of her head,’ Thompson said at last.

Bennet took a breath. ‘What sort of wound?’

‘Like someone had whacked her over the head with something heavy.’

‘Could she have hit her head on something when she jumped into the lake?’

Thompson shook his head. ‘Not where she was found. She didn’t kill herself, Mr Bennet.’ Thompson hung his head, his big hands slack between his knees. ‘She was ‘appy. Her ma and I had told her that we’d stand by her. She had no reason to take her life.’

‘Did she say who the father was?’

Thompson shook his head. ‘There was rumours it was his lordship but when I asked her she just laughed. Said the father was a real man and that he’d see her right.’

Bennet sat in silence, digesting this information.

‘Come on, matey,’ he said to the groom. ‘Let’s get you ‘ome.’

With one arm around the big man, it was a tortuous path back to the stable block, where the Thompson family had rooms above the stables, entered from a narrow stone staircase without rails that ran up the side of the building. Drunk or not, Thompson managed the stairs without incident and threw the door open.

Peter Thompson, who had been sitting on a stool by the cooking fire, with a book on his lap, jumped to his feet. Bennet noted the boy quickly secreting the book.

A low moan came from a pallet on the far side of the room and Peter, casting a quick, disgusted look at his father, picked up the candle and crossed over to the bed.

‘It’s all right, ma,’ he said. ‘Mr. Bennet, his lordships’ man’s bought pa home.’

The woman in the bed mumbled something, a claw like hand catching at her son’s sleeve. Peter looked up.

‘Ma’d like to meet you, Mr Bennet,’ he said, a frown creasing his young forehead.

Little in this life shocked Bennet. He’d seen life and death in every form but even he took a sharp breath as he looked down on Mrs Thompson. She looked like a woman already dead, her face shrunken against the bones of her skull. A line of dried spittle ran from the corner of her mouth and her body had convulsed into a rigor, the hands more claws than anything recognisably human.

He bent closer and looked into her eyes, seeing the light of life and intelligence, despite her terrible physical affliction.

‘Pleased to meet you, Mrs T,’ he said. ‘The old man’s a bit the worse for wear. He’ll ’ave an ’ead on ’im tomorrow.’

The woman choked, the corners of her mouth twitching and something that could have been laughter flashed into the eyes.

‘Good man,’ she mumbled, her gaze moving from Bennet to the table where Thompson had slumped, his head buried in his arms.

‘My girl,’ she clutched at Bennet’s sleeve.

‘He told me. Don’t fret yourself, Mrs T.’

‘Find ‘im…’ The hand tightened on his arm, the fingers digging into his flesh. ‘He killed ‘er.’

Bennet put his own hand over hers and gently disengaged the twisted fingers. He frowned.

‘You don’t think she took her own life either?’

Slowly, the woman’s head moved on the pillow. A negative.

‘The new lord. I’ll tell ‘im. He’ll ‘elp you,’ Bennet assured her. A tear ran from the woman’s eye and the slack mouth trembled. Bennet laid her hand down on her chest. ‘Don’t you fuss yourself, Mrs T.’

He rose to his feet and gestured for the boy to join him at the door.

‘How long’s she been like that?’

‘Since a few weeks after Amy died. She just fell down one day and she’s been like that every day.’

‘And you and your pa are the only ones to care for her?’

The boy solemnly nodded and Bennet put a fatherly hand on his shoulder. ‘Keep reading those books, boy.’

Half way down the stairs, he looked up at the youngster who still stood by the open door. ‘Do you think someone killed your sister?’

Peter’s gaze did not waver. ‘Yes.’

Chapter 16

Isabel sat at the table in the little parlour enjoying the simple breakfast Mrs Mead had prepared. The only sound in the room came from the deep-throated
tick tock
of the grandfather clock in the corner. Birdsong drifted in through the open window along with the smell of the late summer roses that bloomed prolifically in the bright, sunny little garden.

She held her cup in both hands and smiled. She had never felt such utter peace and contentment as if she, in some way, had come home. She looked up as Sebastian entered the room, instinctively ducking his head under the lintel.

He wore his travelling clothes and carried a hat in his hand and her heart sank.

‘You’re leaving?’ she enquired.

‘Now I know Connie is on the road to recovery, I must get back to Lincolnshire. There’s so much to be done and I dare not stay away too long.’

Disappointment tugged at Isabel as she set her cup back in its saucer. ‘I will pack immediately.’

He stood looking down at her, twisting the brim of his hat in his big hands. ‘Actually, Lady Somerton, I have another boon to ask of you.’

She smiled. ‘Whatever is in my power.’

In the time they had spent in each other’s company and the sharing of confidences, what had been a quiet respect for this man had grown into something else. She saw him now, possibly as his men would have viewed him, as a leader who, in his own quiet way, would have instilled utter faith and confidence in his decisions. If he asked her to go into battle with him, she would have agreed. If he asked her…anything…she would… She shook her head, dispelling the unworthy thoughts.

‘Would you… I mean, would it be too much of an imposition if you were to stay here a little while longer?’

Her heart gladdened. An imposition? There would be nothing she would like more.

‘Not at all. It would be my pleasure. There is little at Brantstone to call me back that cannot wait.’

Sebastian sat down at the table and she poured him a cup of tea from the large pot.

‘I thought that perhaps you could provide Connie and Matt with a little coaching on what is expected of them when they come to Brantstone,’ he said.

A smile crept unbidden to her lips. ‘You underestimate your siblings.’

He gave her a rueful smile. ‘I have had to learn so much myself, Lady Somerton, I think it is only fair they should know what to expect and I trust your judgment in these matters.’

Isabel felt a warm glow at his words. Compliments were rare in her life.

Sebastian looked around the little room. ‘This is so far removed from Brantstone, Lady Somerton. I am sorry to inflict my own humble origins on you.’

‘No!’ she said rather too quickly. ‘I love this cottage, Seb…Lord Somerton. I am quite content to stay as long as I am needed.’ It had been so long since she had felt needed, or wanted.

His brown eyes fixed on her face and the corner of his mouth twitched. ‘Would it be improper of me to address you as Isabel when we are alone? We seem to already be in the habit, but I would not like to be thought of as too familiar.’

‘I have no objection, but only if you will allow me the same liberty,’ she replied.

They smiled at each other and an unfamiliar glow rose within her chest. Her hand went to her throat as Sebastian straightened and his eyes drifted to the window. She followed his line of sight and her stomach lurched. The Somerton coach had driven up to the front door.

He stood up and turned for the door. ‘I will say my farewell to Connie. Just send me word when she is well enough to travel and I will dispatch the coach for you all.’

‘What about Mrs Mead?’

He turned and looked back at her. ‘I have offered to bring her to Brantstone but she has expressed a desire to remain in Little Benning. I will gift her the cottage and an allowance for her life.’

Isabel nodded. ‘That is very generous.’

He shook his head. ‘Nothing can truly repay the debt I owe her, Isabel.’

As he stepped into the hall, she said, ‘Have a safe trip, Sebastian.’

He stopped and looked back at her, a smile lifting the corners of his mouth. He stretched out a hand, taking hers and lifting it to his lips. A thrill ran through Isabel at the touch of his strong, calloused fingers.

‘And thank you, Isabel. For everything.’

As he released her hand and turned away, she pressed that hand to her chest, and took a deep breath.

She heard his footsteps taking the narrow stairs two at a time and the floor creaked above her head as he crossed to his sister’s bed.

Isabel looked up at the ceiling and smiled.

As the coach rolled away from the little cottage, Isabel climbed the stairs to Connie’s room. As she knocked and entered, she heard an audible sniff. She looked across at the bed in time to see Connie stowing a handkerchief underneath her pillow.

‘The quicker you are well, the quicker you will see him again,’ she said, taking the chair beside Connie’s bed.

Connie smiled. ‘Silly of me to cry, but I always seem to be saying goodbye to Bas.’

Isabel regarded the girl. Although pale and wasted from the fever, the likeness between this girl and her brothers was unmistakable. The quality in the men that gave them a rugged attractiveness, in their sister, produced an ethereal beauty that she had observed in several of Sebastian’s many relations.

Connie smiled and looked around the room. ‘Lady Somerton, you didn’t have to stay. I am sure it must be perfectly beastly to be cooped up in this tiny cottage.’

Isabel shook her head. ‘Not at all.’ She folded her hands on her lap. ‘Can I share something with you?’

Connie nodded.

‘Not only am I glad to be of some use, but I like it here.’