REMEMBRANCE (21 page)

Maria stepped forward to greet the new acquaintance in Mr Grainger’s company.

“Miss Austin, if you would allow me to introduce Mr Lewis,” her uncle said.

“Miss Austin, it is a pleasure,” Garth said, bowing.

“Mr Lewis,” she spoke his name.

He was a handsome man and very well dressed. She noticed he had dark eyes similar to Mr Grainger’s, but whereas Alfred’s were warm and smiling, this gentleman’s were not. He held an air about him that made her feel uncomfortable.

Desperate to avoid the steady stare of this man, she excused herself. Lady Bradley, who had entered from the drawing room, now stood with the small group on the brown patterned carpet of the great hall.

“Was that Miss Austin returning?” she asked Sir John with a quizzical look.

Garth answered for him. “Yes it was and what a pleasure it was to make her acquaintance.”

Lady Bradley studied the young man’s face and immediately recognized his admiration for the young lady that had just left reflecting in his dark eyes.

“Then, I do hope, Mr Lewis, that you will honour us with your company the night after tomorrow, at Nedgely Hall?” she invited.

“I would be honoured, Lady Bradley.”

* * * * *

The air was warm as Maria walked towards the old folly that stood on the boundary where the Nedgely estate joined Whitmore. Its crumbling white stone showed that it had not been used for a number of years. A flock of doves took flight on her approach, filling the air with their angry cries at being disturbed. She entered into the shade that the walls provided, where the dappled light filtered through the array of cracks and broken bricks; a fine dust hung in the air and danced in the light streams. She heard his approaching footsteps before she saw his strong form coming towards her, as he climbed the tumbled side that faced his lands.

His face instantly brightened at the sight of her; the blueness of his eyes reflecting his inner happiness. It had only been a few hours since he had held her in his arms, but he could not wait a second longer to feel the touch of her soft lips against his.

She laughed at his keenness. “Tom, you are insatiable!”

He looked her in the eye and smiled lovingly.

“With you, I shall never be satisfied,” he informed her huskily.

She turned herself away from him and looked out at the sun-soaked field with its scattering of red poppies.

“It is a dangerous game we embarked upon, Tom. What will we do if we get caught?” she asked, worry evident in her quiet voice.

He came to stand behind her, wrapping his arms about her slim waist, so that he could rest his head against the side of her cheek.

“I did not choose this fate that has been forced upon us. If I had control, then I would have quite willingly chosen my path with you,” he said regretfully.

Feeling the sigh that escaped her, he ached for her—for himself, knowing that she was everything to him and he would rather die than lose her. He knew that it was morally wrong for them to continue on this path, but he could not, would not stop it. An idea formed in his head and quickly took shape. Why not, he thought, he had nothing else to lose.

“Let us run away, M! We could go to the coast and live our life in that small cottage you so wanted, raising chickens.”

She was laughing, as she turned to face him.

“Chickens?”

“Yes, chickens.”

“Why chickens?”

He cupped her face in his strong smooth hands, responding, “I have absolutely no idea!” As he spoke softly, his lips met hers.

Once again, she felt the inner heat that threatened to swamp her, causing her legs to become weak. How was she to stop the wondrous feeling that she felt every time he touched her? How would she find strength to control the raw emotions that consumed her whenever he was near? She knew that there was nowhere else she would rather be than here, with him.

She felt the rough stone against her back, as he leaned his body into hers. His one hand moved gently down her neck, sending little pulses of excitement under her skin as it passed. Her heart picked up speed, drumming against her ribs, as his deft fingers eased inside her bodice. The material that shielded her wanton body slipped, exposing the soft mounds of her breasts and he brushed the rose-coloured bud. She arched into him, as liquid fire seeped through her. His tongue danced erotically against hers, as he rolled the erect nipple between his fingers.

Hastily, she undid the bondage of his clothes in order to seek the warmth of his naked skin. There was no thought, no reason to what she felt,

only desire for his touch and passion that engulfed her body. She let her fingers brush the length of his swollen manhood; she heard his sharp intake of air and smiled against his chest. As her hand enclosed around him, he moaned his pleasure.

Suddenly, she found her hand brushed aside, and he lifted her light frame, so that her legs wrapped around his waist. The thin fabric of her skirts slipped to expose her naked thighs. She caught her breath and gripped his shoulders, as he adjusted himself so that the heat of his desire could penetrate the soft wetness between her inner thighs. As he drove his hips against her, their growing ache for fulfilment rose wildly. She dug her fingers in his hair and their ecstatic cries were lost as again their lips met.

* * * * *

“Maria, what on earth are you doing?” The familiar voice rang out from the French doors of the sitting room. She looked up at the figure of the old lady, her grey eyes staring out from under her silver hair.

“Gran?” she said, confused.

She looked behind her at the path she had just trod. Had she not been returning from the old folly, where she and Tom had just made love? She had been so lost in her own thoughts that she hadn’t even noticed the switch between the two times.

She climbed the small wall onto the neatly cut grass, and came to stand in front of her grandmother. As she looked up, she could see a concerned look that marked her face.

“What is it Gran?”

“Oh M, I think we need to talk,” Bertie said.

They came to sit upon the soft sofa and her grandmother took her cold hands in hers.

“Why child, you’re freezing.”

“I’m fine honestly; please tell me what is bothering you.”

Bertie thought for a few minutes before answering, “Margaret and I were wondering how you have been,” she paused, “It’s… Well it’s just that you seem to be keeping to your room a lot since we spoke last.”

“Gran…”

“Please Maria let me finish. I worry that we parted on such estranged words and I believe that I might have upset you.”

“No, no Gran, you haven’t upset me,” Maria tried to cut in.

“I know that we haven’t spent a lot of time together since you arrived and that you came to us in the time of need. I just want you to know that I do understand that you are going through a difficult patch. If there is anything Margaret and I can help you with, you only have to ask.”

“Please Gran, I can assure you that I am quite well. I would not want you to think that you have driven me to my room, because you haven’t. Yes, I will admit that I have had a lot on my mind lately, but that’s just me.” She knew that she would not speak of her time with Tom, given that her gran had already expressed her disbelief when they had last spoken.

The other thing that Maria didn’t understand was why she had found herself here again when she obviously wanted to stay in the past. Now that she had returned, she feared that she might not be able to make it back. That thought made her break out into a cold sweat. What if she couldn’t get back? How would she live without Tom? Oh my God, what would happen if Tom were looking for her now? Would he think the worst because she was nowhere to be found?

“Are you alright, dear?” her gran asked noting the pallor of her skin.

Maria glanced up and tried to swallow back her rising fear.

“Maria?”

“I’m fine Gran, honestly,” she forced her voice to stay calm.

Bertie nodded, “I was hoping that, now that you’re here, you might be able to do me a favour.”

“A favour?” Maria repeated, puzzled by this unusual request.

“Margaret and I were trying to trace the linage of the last Lord and Lady of Nedgely Hall.”

Maria’s head snapped up at the mention of Nedgely Hall. Why would her gran be interested in that? There didn’t seem to be any logic to it, unless her gran did know what was going on? It didn’t matter anyway, as if she asked her, she would assume that Maria had finally lost all her marbles, “So what is it you want me to do Gran?” she asked, trying hard to keep her voice level.

“Margaret and I would be so grateful if you would do a little research for us. You know, our old minds don’t seem to function as they used to!” She grinned at her last remark, as if her request was of no consequence.

Maria looked at her sceptically, “You want me to go to the library see what I can find out there for you?”

“Oh, I’m sure it’s no good going to the library, dear. There is nothing there that will satisfy your—I mean, our curiosity,” she informed her. “Did you know that Nedgely Hall is now part of the Trust? It is open to visitors on most days. Maybe you should take a tour?”

Maria finally understood that this was a request, rather than a mere suggestion. What was it that her Gran was after? She seemed to be talking in riddles again.

“Yes Gran, I will go this afternoon,” Maria replied quietly.

The old lady’s face softened. “Oh, thank you, dear. Margaret will be thrilled. Oh, but before you do, I wondered, well I hoped that you might be able to pick up a small package for me from the village? My old legs, you see… You could drop it off here before your tour.”

Maria smiled, “Of course.”

* * * * *

Nedgely Hall was just how she remembered it to be, with its enormous entrance hall and elegant staircase, which fanned out in two directions. It felt cold as she left the glare of the sun outside and stepped on to the mosaic floor. Still, it was a relief to be in the shade after her long walk. The package that Gran had spoken of, she mused, was from a small pharmaceutical company. How strange that had seemed! Now she knew that her gran was keeping secrets, for why would she choose not mention that she was on medication? Was she ill? Maria felt awful knowing that her gran was ill enough to take a special medication and not talk to her about it. She made up her mind that, when she got back from the tour, she was going to talk to her and find out what was really wrong.

The guide talked to the small group of people that stood in awe of the fine paintings and beautiful furniture. She informed them of the estate’s history.

“This is a portrait of Lady Bradley herself,” the guide spoke. “She was one of the wealthiest ladies to have lived in this time. Her son, Thomas Bradley, was to inherit the Nedgely estate and the neighbouring estate of Whitmore Manor. Here is his portrait.”

Maria stared upon his face in the old canvas; he was just how she remembered him to be.

As the group wandered in and out of a number of grand rooms, all adorned with fine antiques, they eventually found themselves outside a dark solid oak door.

“This,” their guide continued, “is believed to have been the private quarters of Thomas Bradley himself.”

She stared at the heavy door, her heart beating wildly.

“Are we able to go in?” Maria asked nervously.

“Yes, we have been given access to these rooms. But I must inform everyone that, under no conditions, you are to use flash photography.”

There were a few groans from the group, but they agreed to put the cameras away.

They entered through the large door into a beautifully presented lounge. Green velvet drapes hung at the expanse of glass that faced out towards… Whitmore Manor, Maria noticed. The Chesterfield couch was of a colour similar to that of the curtains and a beautiful rug sat upon the shining oak floor in front of the marble fireplace. Off to one side was another room, which boasted an enormous four-poster bed.

“These rooms were separate from the rest of the main building. Mr Bradley apparently insisted that he was the only person to have access to them, and when he was not in his chambers, the door was locked.” The guide went on, “There are many fine antique pieces here, a clear indication of the vast wealth of the family that resided here. This vase alone has been valued at over ten thousand pounds.” Everyone moved to take a better look. “Thomas Bradley was an only son, and after the death of his father, when he was ten years old, his mother never remarried.” The guide then went on to explain the family history in greater detail.

“The painting you see above the mantle,” everyone looked, “is, unfortunately, not the original, for that, I believe, hangs in the drawing room of Whitmore Manor, not two miles from here. Well, as the story goes, this is the portrait of Thomas Bradley’s mistress—the very beautiful Miss Maria Austin.”

Maria, who had been admiring the large four-poster bed, swung round at the mention of her name.

“He had this painting commissioned especially to hang in these chambers. It is written that Thomas Bradley’s love for this woman was so great that he spent every waking moment with her.”