Bride by Necessity
Автор
Linda S. Glaz
Прочтений
19,7K
Глав
17
Chapter 1
Kent Park, England, 1855
Mist flowed over the sandy hills of Kent Park and settled on the trees like a thick shroud. Payton Whittard tucked her legs closer and shivered. Then, in no time at all, the sun swallowed the mist along with Payton’s worries. She jumped to her feet and listened for the sound of wagon wheels. Father and Mother would be here soon, and the noon meal awaited. But she couldn’t pull herself from the faint rainbow now forming, offering comfort and hope. She shaded her eyes to soak in the remaining bits of pink and lavender as the last dots of color cleared the sky.
She heard no wagon wheels, no sounds other than the birds crying out and the water rippling. With one last peek over the hills, her gaze locked on the sun as it re-emerged from the bank of clouds, blinding her momentarily.
Suddenly she heard hooves and a shout. “Out of the way!”
Thundering noise encircled her, threatened her in a great cloak of fear. She gasped and searched for cover, stumbling into the gnarled arms of a towering horse chestnut tree. Massive hooves pawed the air inches from her face while deafening grunts poured from the open mouth of a beast. She covered her face with her hands. A hoof grazed her arm and she cried out.
The rider leaped from his mount and landed by her side.
“Where are you hurt?” His hands traced her arms checking for injuries and leaving trails of warmth along her skin. He probed her torn sleeve. “Are you hurt, girl?” When he found nothing amiss, he abruptly turned away, and she backed again into the safety of the tree. “Take care in the future.” He reached for the reins as Payton trembled, words far from her mouth. But feelings ever present. Strange, new feelings.
In spite of the control he exhibited over the animal, she withered inside from the beast’s wild eyes and stomping hooves. “I am not hurt, sir. Just shaken, Mr. Lambrick.” She stretched her hand over her head for her bonnet, but her hair had already tumbled into her face. Tugging fingers through tangled curls, she pushed the waves of hair from her eyes.
“Have you a name?” His dark gaze raked her from her bare feet to her grass-stained skirt and shamed her for being caught in such an unruly manner. “Of course, you’re Daniel Whittard’s girl. My second cousin by marriage.”
Still shivering from fright, she bit her lip and nodded. An attempt to curtsey failed when her legs stiffened beneath her. Her face flamed hot as embers and she blinked. “Yessir. Payton Whittard. Forgive me unsettling your horse.”
His hand waved her away. “As long as you are all right.” She read curiosity in his eyes.
In spite of her mother’s cautions to the contrary, Payton stared. The long, jagged scar that ran across his cheek and through his lip she’d only ever seen from a distance. But it didn’t distract from his dark good looks. Silently, he mounted his horse and adjusted the bit. She wondered at the source of his injury, but good manners prevented her inquiring.
He reached up, stippled the scar with tense fingertips, then glanced once more in her direction before nudging the monster’s sides. His eyes changed...flickering sparks before his cape swirled around both of them like great black wings. She fancied herself witness to some exotic flying creature, half horse, half frighteningly mysterious man. Her heart skipped a beat from the way he sat his mount as if the two became one the second he fell into the saddle. Fanciful thinking, her mother’s voice echoed in her head.
Though the young master Lambrick had been nearing twenty when old Master Kent passed away in his sleep, she’d been just a child at the time. She remembered his gloomy features when first he was introduced to her father. Angry perhaps, but angry at what? He had just inherited a great fortune. The rich were a funny lot. For the past ten years she had paid particular attention to staying out of his way.
With the fright behind her, she condemned her laziness and tucked her skirt once again into the waistband. Hopefully no one else would come along. Mother continually warned her to behave like a lady whenever she was out, but stumbling over the heaviness of a straggling, wet skirt didn’t make sense.
A glance toward the cottage brought her up short—no time for more daydreams. Her parents would be arriving any minute after a day in Colchester, and hot tea must be prepared. While she hurried to the house, she continued to gaze over her shoulder in Lambrick’s direction. Out of breath, she skirted the stone path and sprinted straight for the door. One last glimpse showed him at the crest of the hill overlooking his vast property. A dark silhouette, frightening and out of reach. Out of reach, but not out of mind.
Busy with her duties, Payton watched the afternoon sun come and go. Dusk settled across the valley without a sign of her parents. Father or no father, chores must be finished. As the dimming light scaled the peaks, she fed the puppies and nestled them onto freshly heaped straw next to their mother, Chloe. How her mother disliked that she helped her father raise the hounds.
She milked Lila, the Guernsey, and replated the meat, fresh bread and apples she had planned for their noon meal. She shivered at her parents’ unusual absence. Any minute now, father’s capable hands should appear on the reins while Mother jostled her baby brother, Timothy, on the same ample lap that had comforted her as a child.
Fire snapped in the grate and she rubbed her hands together, forcing warmth into her fingers. It was strangely cold even for this late in October. Or was she merely feeling a chill because of her parents’ tardiness? She leaned her head on her palms and peeked through the window at the far side of the table. She opened a book, but before she set to reading, a solitary figure passed by and she heard the crackle of leaves under heavy feet. A rap at the door. When she gazed through the window again, she spied the outline of a big man.
Without her parents at home, she hesitated. Finally, she eased the door just a crack and then opened it when she recognized Mr. Kenny, head groomsman for Kent Park. He clapped weathered hands together and slapped his arms against the night chill until she opened the door wider and motioned him in. “Mr. Kenny? What are you doing here?”
Hat in hand and with head bowed, he stood for a moment, shifting from foot to foot, saying nothing. Then he reached for her hands. His frown quickly gave way to compassion. A shaky voice pressed through his lips and punctuated each word. “I’m sorry, child. That I am. You’d better sit ya down.”
She gazed into his weathered face. Her heart hammered at her own fear clearly reflected in his eyes.
“I have bad news for ya.”
* * *
Jonathan tugged his greatcoat closer and gazed at the small hands, no strangers to hard work, as the girl dropped a wild pink rose atop each grave. Miss Whittard’s father, her mother and her brother. All gone. If he hadn’t traveled out again after dinner, he might not have discovered them.
He shook his head. All three had been killed when their cart rolled off the road into the gully some twenty feet deep. Only the baby had survived a few minutes. Not long enough for Jonathan to fetch help. The accident had happened in the same place where his wife, Alithea, had met the same fate.
He would arrange for Kenny and a dozen or more workers to fill in the crevasse immediately, as he should have before. No one else would die on his land. He wiped a hand across his eyes as if he could stop the scene unfolding in his mind.
The girl’s fingers grasped his arm when he offered it, and she gazed at him through tear-filled eyes, pleading for answers. Jonathan had none that would appease Miss Whittard. Only stark reality in the form of wide-eyed pain met his gaze.
“Mr. Lambrick, I appreciate all you did to try and save Timothy. I owe you more than you know, sir. How could they have missed their turn in the daylight? Father has driven that road hundreds of times.”
Scrambling for a suitable response as her tears pooled once again, Jonathan straightened. He had only himself to blame. Her pride evident as she looked away, searching her sleeve for a handkerchief, she lowered her gaze. It became obvious she was a very private person as she endured her pain in silence.
Daniel Whittard had saved his father when they were boys and now he would repay the debt. Whittard’s wife had been a gentleman’s daughter, and he would care for her daughter; he owed them this much.
“It was my fault. That road has been a danger for many years. I am sorry for your loss, Miss Whittard. Where will you go? Have you relatives with whom you might live?”
“No, sir. I had hoped to continue on at the cottage raising father’s hounds.” Her eyes begged the obvious response. “If you will allow it, of course.”
“The land is yours, but a girl living alone is most improper. You must have someone.”
“No, sir. You are my only kin...of that I am certain.” Her lip trembled and he closed his eyes to collect his thoughts.
When he opened them, she had pulled herself up as straight as possible, doing her best to hide her fear. Her expression pained him. He would have laughed aloud under other circumstances at one so small trying to stand tall and in control. “Then you’ll join us at Kent Hall. Mrs. Brewster will see to your needs.”
“And the pups?”
He didn’t want a girl underfoot, let alone a house full of yapping puppies. “Not now.”
“But, sir. I am afraid I have no choice but to talk about them now. They depend on me. My father depended on me to care for them.”
He recognized her anxiety, and in his heart, remembering his own grief, he understood she had faced enough sorrow in the past two days to last a very long lifetime. How could decency allow him to say no? “Very well. We’ll fetch the hounds. I’ll have Birdie organize a suitable place in the stable. I’ll send Mrs. Brewster and Mr. Kenny along to assist you after you are settled.”
Her appearance, much improved with her skirt over her ankles like a respectable young lady, caught his attention for a moment. What was it about her face that didn’t seem at all like a child? How old was she now? Thirteen? Fourteen? Fifteen? He couldn’t remember. He only recalled seeing her up close a few years ago when he spoke with her father about training a new hound. Her steps fell heavy for one so small. But she would get used to disappointment just as he had.
“Come along and we’ll find you a room.” He disengaged her hand from his arm and struggled to interpret her reaction.
“Allow me to stay over the stable. I beg you, sir. I’ll not feel at home in the great hall.”
He urged her forward. “Be quick about it. I leave for London today and I am already late starting. I’ll not have my charge, my kin, living in the stable like a servant.”
She braced her legs, and it struck him she resembled a bantam rooster ready for a fight. “Sir, I cannot live in your home.”
“Don’t be foolish, child.” He couldn’t pull the words back, but he wished he had chosen more wisely. Her face fell, tragedy her only companion. “Forgive me. It is late. Emily Brewster will help you.” He motioned Emily forward. “Emily, see to Miss Whittard. And not in the servants’ quarters.”
Emily took Payton’s arm. “Yessir. I’ll settle her in the guest chamber. Miss Anne’s rooms, unless you expect her soon.”
He swallowed hard and his face tightened. “I do not.” He had planned to visit Anne in London, but now the uncertainty drew him up. She hadn’t been home to receive him the last two times he had called. In truth, he had been glad. Now this girl. How would he make excuses for one so young residing in his home? But he owed it to the memory of his father and hers. They had been friends in spite of their different stations in life.
The girl would be Emily’s to handle. He paid her handsomely to deal with his problems.
After he strode toward the doors of Kent Hall and slipped inside, lightning streaked across the sky and touched down, lighting a patch of wildflowers not far from the house. Jonathan’s hands skimmed the window where rain pelted the glass in sheets and threatened the very foundations of the building. With so much rain two days after the last downpour, the road would be steeped in mud. He gritted his teeth; the trip must be put off. He would be stuck in the house playing guardian to young Payton Whittard. With a shake of thunder, the window quivered under his fingers. His lip curled back and a groan racked his body. The last thing he wanted was a female, young or old, interrupting the routine of his home. Not even Anne, if truth be known. Though if she had her way, she would be the mistress of Kent.
* * *
Wooden doors at the entrance of the dark, foreboding structure towered over Payton’s head. Her stomach churned. Ivy trailed over the sill and along the sides in dappled green strands that clung to the chipped edges of stone. She considered stopping to appreciate the delicate tendrils but, instead, she hurried through. As the heavy doors banged behind her, an echo filled the hall. She huddled small aside the indomitable Mrs. Brewster, unsure what to make of this mansion. She hadn’t ever seen the likes.
The entrance alone could have comfortably fit her home within its walls at least twice. Silver bowls of flowers adorned decorative wooden tables in the front. She recognized wild roses from the north peak at the end of the creek. Stern-looking stone benches lined the inner side walls, but their velvet cushions provided an inviting air in spite of the shadows flitting through every corner.
What was she doing here? Why couldn’t she continue to live at her parents’ cottage? Yet there was no arguing with the master of Kent Park. Her father had told her as much at least a dozen times. He had also told her Jonathan Lambrick had a far-reaching reputation as an honest and fair man. She held back tears that burned her eyes. She would do as Mrs. Brewster directed until she gained the courage to face Lambrick and return to her home.
In an attempt at tidying herself, Mrs. Brewster brushed raindrops from her creased forehead and pushed back tight, gray curls. She hurried Payton through the entranceway where a manservant waited to take their cloaks.
“Thank you, Duncan.” Mrs. Brewster nodded her gratitude.
A Persian runner snaked to a winding staircase of deepest mahogany. Lambrick must have a team of servants, for the wood of each step shone with brilliance. One of the hounds, a runt she had helped her father whelp, stretched atop the landing and wagged his tail once she arrived at his side. “Hunter. My, you’ve grown up handsome and you are at home here, aren’t you, boy?” He pressed into her hand, lapping at her fingers. “You remember me, do you?”
She ruffled the brown velvety ears and rubbed the hairs around his muzzle. Contentment filled her as she recalled the day she had helped her father deliver the litter. Hunter, so small and helpless, had fit neatly into her palm, seemingly far too small to survive. The dog had; her father hadn’t. She closed her eyes and crumpled to the floor. The dog licked the salty tears from her face as she stroked his fur. Here was the runt with huge paws that bespoke his maturity and strength.
Hunter nuzzled her shoulder. “Such a lovely welcome.” She choked back further tears and glanced away. Clutching her cape around her, she became lost in the warmth. Like her mother’s arms. Arms that would never embrace her again. A face she would not see again and lips that had brushed her cheek good-night for the last time. Payton gathered Hunter into her arms and sobbed against his coat. He stood patiently as she used him to struggle to her feet. “There’s a fine fellow.”
He followed at her side as she traipsed after Mrs. Brewster, who pretended not to notice the display. Past the landing and along the tapestry-laden hallway into the east wing they marched. Even through tear-filled eyes, she recognized this could not be the servants’ section.
“This portion of the floor will be for you alone, dearie. No one to bother you unless we have guests.” Mrs. Brewster gestured along the hallway, and her voice resounded against the fine wooden panels.
The housekeeper then admitted her to an elaborate guest suite, definitely not servants’ quarters. The bedroom offered soft yellow papered walls. A spread of cream-colored tatting covered the four-poster bed like a spider’s web of silk. Tiny knots intertwined to form the delicate pattern dainty to the touch. Payton sat, losing herself in a softness she had never known. Was this what it meant to be rich? Mother had tried to explain to her what money could do, but she had not known firsthand the kind of life from which her mother had come. She always thought her family rich because of their love. Love of each other, love of God and love of life.
A small sitting room in browns, deep red and cream adjoined the bedroom through a closet large enough to hold the clothes of every member of her family. Centered in the room was a darling settee in damask far too beautiful for sitting.
Not wanting to dillydally, she retraced her steps to the bedroom where Mrs. Brewster, still huffing from the climb up the long staircase, had cracked opened Payton’s satchel. She pulled personal items from it with slow hands, and Payton blushed at her boldness. She wasn’t used to other people handling her things. Had life been lavish like this for her mother before she met and married her father? He’d been given a small property by old Mr. Lambrick when he was young, and then he’d married the distant cousin of the Lambricks, Mary Kent, her mother.
The quiet, personal life in the cozy cottage was more to Payton’s liking than this cold mansion.
“I’ll take care of my own undergarments, Mrs. Brewster.”
The old face lifted with a scowl that could not be misunderstood. “Very well. You should change into your best dress for dinner. Mr. Lambrick will be home tonight after all, and he always dresses for dinner.”
Payton swallowed over a lump. Dinner with Mr. Lambrick. She had expected her life to be with the servants. Her thoughts drifted to the only good dress she owned, the one on her back. Jutting her chin to quell the tears, she said, “This is my best dress, Mrs. Brewster. I’ve never found much need for silk gowns when I’m milking the cow and slopping hogs.”
With cheeks plump and red as an apple, Mrs. Brewster’s eyes softened into genuine kindness. “I meant no harm. Perhaps you’d like to freshen up then. I’ll fetch you a pitcher of water.”
The woman was only trying to help, and Payton bit her lip. Her mother would be shamed by Payton’s rude behavior. She tried to smile, but nothing came of it other than an uncomfortable grimace. She reached for the wrinkled hands knotted with old age. “I should ask your forgiveness. Shall I put my things away, or will I be staying here just for the night?”
“Foolish girl. This is your home now. Do whatever you wish. Use whatever you like.” Mrs. Brewster ambled through the doorway. “I may be able to locate a few suitable gowns for your use but not this night.”
“May I clear this case for my books? I study each day and I would prefer them near me.”
“Whatever pleases you,” she said as she left the room.
After a minute, Mrs. Brewster returned to the room, her hands straddling her hips and her mouth a line of frustration. “I think you should understand, miss. Mr. Lambrick is a generous man. Never knew him to turn anyone out. He respected your father. He’ll raise you up just fine. Don’t you worry.”
Payton lifted her chin again and tightened her lips. “Raise me? You talk as if I’m nothing but a child.”
