Mr. Trelawney's Proposal

‘Lord Ramsden doesn’t frighten you?’ the dark man suggested with a half-smile as he nudged the horse slowly forward.

‘Not at all,’ Rebecca confirmed, shifting slowly to keep him in sight and Lucy positioned behind her, as he approached. She sensed a new, disturbing undercurrent to their exchange.

‘Good,’ was his brief, dulcet response as he reined in close and looked down at her in the same thoughtfully amused way.

He extended a dark hand towards her in the gesture of one wishing to shake hands before departing. Clutching her shielding garment in front of her in one, she politely offered her other pale, slender hand to him.

‘Luke Trelawney and my brother Ross…at your service,’ he introduced them both as his warm fingers retained her cool ones in his firm grip. A dark thumb traced the delicate skin of her palm in a careful, camouflaged caress as he reluctantly relinquished it.

‘Mr. Trelawney…’ Rebecca courteously acknowledged, with a small dip of her head, as his horse passed her. She nodded civilly to Ross also as he followed Luke.

Rebecca’s eyes stayed unwaveringly with them until they had disappeared from view, when they closed in utter thankfulness.

As the two cart horses started an ambling trot down the grassy bank towards the track that lead to Westbrook, Ross grunted a low, lascivious laugh. ‘I’m most definitely at her service. Servicing that wench would be no hardship—’

Luke pulled his horse up sharp and swung about in the saddle. His perfect features were savage as he ground out, ‘Touch her and I’ll—’ The fierce caution ceased mid-flow. He was as aware as Ross of what he had astonishingly been about to threaten.

‘—be most put out,’ he remedied, relaxing a little. But a wry grimace was the closest he got to apology…or to analysing his aggression, before he urged his lumbering nag into something approaching a canter.

Rebecca gently disengaged herself from the grey-haired woman’s firm embrace. ‘It’s good to be home, Martha,’ she greeted her with a sweet smile as the woman dabbed at her eyes with her grubby starched apron. ‘Hush,’ Rebecca soothed. ‘I’ve only been gone just four weeks. I’ll wager you’ve hardly missed me at all,’ she teased. She contentedly surveyed the familiar pristine interior of her kitchen at the Summer House. Everything looked as meticulously ordered as it always did when Martha Turner was in attendance.

Martha and her husband Gregory lived in a tiny spartan dwelling, on the perimeter of the woodland Rebecca and Lucy had just traversed. Their cottage was situated barely a stone’s throw from the Summer House, easily within walking distance for the elderly couple who made the journey each day.

While Martha prepared meals and cleaned, generally helping Rebecca run the household, her husband coaxed the sizeable vegetable patch situated along the western flank wall into providing Rebecca and her boarding pupils with fresh produce. Gregory Turner also tended the few chickens and geese they kept with the same natural diligence, ensuring his wife always had fresh eggs and poultry available to prepare nourishing fare.

The Turners’ property, which had been settled on them by Robin Ramsden on their retirement from his service, had very little tillable land surrounding it. Woodland predominated on three sides, rendering it picturesque but poorly self-sufficient. In a way this unfortunate situation had benefited Rebecca and she often felt ashamed acknowledging it. She was well aware that she would never have been able to pay this dear couple for their aid. But she could offer an arrangement whereby, in return for housekeeping and gardening services, the Turners helped themselves to whatever surplus eggs, poultry and fresh fruit and vegetables the Summer House gardens produced.

Approaching the large floury patch on the scrubbed pine table, Rebecca idly dusted her arms free of pastry traces from Martha’s welcoming hands. She peered at the mouthwatering sweet and savoury ingredients assembled for supper. As her stomach gurgled a little, she realised just how hungry she was. She had eaten nothing since departing from the King’s Head hostelry early that morning at Guildford, when setting out on the last leg of her journey home.

Martha’s silver-bright eyes were crinkle-cornered as she regarded Lucy, standing subdued and quiet by the open kitchen door. Her smile faltered a little and Rebecca knew Martha was focussing on the bruising about Lucy’s eye. As she noted Martha’s troubled reaction to the injury, she finally relented and gave Lucy a small smile.

It was the first token of friendship she had felt capable of bestowing on the girl following the fiasco at the woodland pool. She was still in equal parts furious and bewildered by Lucy’s behaviour.

Having both changed hastily into dry dresses, their final trek through the woods had passed in strained, chilly silence. Rebecca had decided that until her anger was again under control, it was best to keep quiet and keep walking lest she say or do something she might regret. But every speedy step taken had been filled with an inner wrangling about whether to contact Lucy’s stepfather to ask him to fetch her. The fact that her meagre income would be again reduced, leaving her in severe financial difficulties, had been the only consideration in the girl’s favour. As she looked at Lucy now and met those injured blue eyes, Rebecca sensed a niggling sympathy. Lucy seemed resigned to being rejected.

‘This is Lucy…Lucy Mayhew, who is going to be joining us for a while,’ Rebecca introduced her, with a strengthening smile for Lucy. ‘Lucy, Martha and her husband Gregory have been giving me invaluable help here at the Summer House over the past five years.’ Trying to lighten their moods, she indicated Martha’s laden table. ‘Martha’s cooking is delicious, Lucy, it is very easy to over-indulge.’ Lucy gave the cook a shy smile before perching demurely on a kitchen chair and gazing interestedly about.

Such a picture of youthful innocence, Rebecca couldn’t help ironically surmising. But she cheered herself with again acknowledging just how fortunate she had been since the double tragedy of her parents’ and fiancé’s deaths some five years ago. At that time, circumstances had conspired to make a future in harsh employment or marriage to the first man to offer for her seem the only avenues. Instead, she now had a kind and generous landlord, friendship and aid from the Turners and also from dear friends who lived close by. But, most of all, she had this small, pretty Summer House, providing her with home and employment. She sighed her contentment, acknowledging that she would persevere with Lucy’s education.

Martha fetched a stone jug from the dark pantry and set about filling two glasses with aromatic lemonade. Rebecca smiled her thanks, determined not to let this afternoon’s humiliating episode spoil her pleasure at being home. Consciously recalling the incident allowed raven hair and earthy dark eyes to once more dominate her thoughts, but only momentarily before she determinedly banished them.

Luke Trelawney disturbed her by fascinating her far too much. But he had now gone and she would never again see him or his brother Ross. The strange bittersweet pang tightening her chest at that certainty made her fingers instinctively seek the large silver locket she wore. She could feel its warm, solid shape beneath her cotton dress. Her fingers smoothed its oval silhouette as she held on to the dear memory of David, her mourned fiancé.

‘I knew you’d be wanting some lemonade. I made that fresh this morning.’ Martha broke into her wistful reverie, arms crossing contentedly as she watched the two young women draining their tumblers. ‘I knew you’d be along and hot and thirsty,’ she emphasised with a wag of the head. ‘Mind you,’ she cautioned, rolling her sleeves back to her elbows before expertly pummelling the dough on the table. ‘Mind you…’ she repeated for good measure ‘…Gregory reckons that rain is on the way at last and you know he’s rarely wrong.’ Her head bobbed again as deft hands rolled the pastry into a ball. ‘His legs have been playing up bad again…a sure sign o’ wet on the way…biscuits are nearly done,’ she tacked incongrously on the end. ‘I can smell them coming along nicely.’ She smiled at Lucy. ‘I reckon a healthy young lady like you can polish off quite a few before her dinner.’

Lucy nodded, settling expectantly back into her chair like a biddable child. Watching her, Rebecca wondered how she could veer so rapidly between wanton sophistication and childlike innocence. But if what Gregory predicted was true and rain was on its way, she had pressing matters to attend to. She replaced her tumbler on the table.

‘Has John fixed the roof while I’ve been away, Martha?’ she enquired anxiously, remembering Robin Ramsden’s promise that he would send his young carpenter to repair some summer storm damage.

‘No…we’ve seen not hide nor hair of that young man. Gregory was going to attempt it hisself…but his affliction in the knees meant he could barely rise up three rungs of the ladder.’

‘Is Lord Ramsden returned yet from Bath?’ Rebecca quickly interrogated.

‘Well, he wasn’t at the manor five days ago when Gregory fetched the provisions but Miles was expecting him at any time. I reckon he must be at home now. If you chase that John up he’ll be over and fix that roof quick as can be before his lordship finds out he’s been idling again while he was away.’

‘How many staff remain?’ Luke asked the sombrely dressed elderly man standing stiff and quiet behind him, as he idly surveyed the weed-strewn gravel driveway. The chippings were piled high at the perimeter of the circular carriage sweep, testament to how long it had been since it was tended or raked. Numerous coach wheels were quite visibly imprinted in the dusty grit.

Both dark hands were raised, bracing against the framework of the large casement window he stood by. He gazed out, far into the wooded distance, his mind still deep in that quiet sanctuary with a girl with turquoise eyes.

‘Eight,’ came the terse response from behind.

Luke’s eyes narrowed, his jaw setting as he recognised the barely concealed insolence in the elderly butler’s tone. He swung away from the large square-paned window and faced him across the mellow yew desk.

Edward Miles must have been seventy if he was a day, and in a way Luke could understand his belligerence. What he could not comprehend was the man’s stupidity. Had he any sense at all, he would take great pains to appear pleasant and obliging. His livelihood was now at great risk. For an aged butler of three score years and ten, employment was scarce. Employment without a reference would be impossible, as would keeping a roof over his sparsely covered head in his twilight years.

Luke knew he was tired, he knew he was thirsty but mostly, he knew, today he had been frustrated and that irritated him. Meeting the first woman in an age who had tried to rid herself of his presence at the earliest opportunity was quite a novelty and one he now realised he could have done without. Rejection came hard. And the more he dwelt on it, the more he knew it was ridiculous to allow it to matter. He forced himself to concentrate on Edward Miles. A rheumy-eyed gaze challenged him unwaveringly.

‘Is there some brandy about this place?’ Luke demanded testily, determining to leave matters for an hour or so whilst Ross and he refreshed themselves. They had been travelling solidly for almost two days with barely an overnight stop.

A slow, satisfied shake of the head met this request.

‘Some wine of some sort?’ Luke persisted, his patience with the butler’s aloof attitude nearly at an end.

‘Judith might have made some lemonade,’ the old man advised dolefully. ‘I can ascertain, if you wish.’

Luke stared at him, wondering if he was being deliberately facetious. But Edward Miles returned his black-eyed stare phlegmatically.

‘Fine,’ Luke agreed, knowing it wasn’t fine at all, and wondering how he was going to break the news to Ross. And where the hell was Ross? Since they had arrived in the village of Westbrook an hour ago he had been off exploring. Luke allowed himself a rueful smile; at times his twenty-five-year-old brother was a fitting playmate for his young nephew of five. Thinking of that little lad brought Tristan to mind. His brother Tristan had his own wife and family to look after and couldn’t be left to cope alone for too long, sensible and dependable as he was. He needed to deal speedily with this matter and set on the road home to Cornwall

‘I’ll meet with the staff in the main hallway in an hour. Assemble them there at three o’clock…and bring some sort of refreshment to this study, if you please,’ Luke dictated steadily to Miles. The elderly man gave a creaky, insolent bow and quit the wood-panelled study with Luke close on his heels.

Miles ambled slowly towards the kitchens on stiff joints. He slid a recalcitrant glower up at Luke’s handsome face as he passed him with one long, easy pace.

Luke descended the stone steps and strode around the side of the house towards the outbuildings, hoping that Ross’s lengthy absence didn’t mean he’d found a distracting servant girl to seduce. The notion made the throbbing in his own loins increase, and he cursed as he pushed open the barn door and walked in. He wished to God he’d never seen her. If they’d stayed on the main track instead of seeking shelter from the sun in those woods, he damned well never would have. Since the moment she had spun, dripping, to face him in that pond, he had been uncomfortably aware of the impact she’d had on him.

‘Mr Trelawney!’ Rebecca breathed out the name in utter astonishment as she shielded her eyes from the dusty sunlight streaming in through the open barn door.

Chapter Three

They stared at each other in stunned silence for a moment before Luke removed his hand from the planked door and it swung shut, obliterating most of the light. He approached Rebecca slowly, cautiously, sure she must be a tormenting figment of his lustful imagination. Sun streaking in through windows set high in the barn wall behind him burnished her honey hair with golden tints and made her squint those beautiful eyes. She stepped back, re-positioning herself close to stacked hay bales, so she had an unimpeded view of him.

‘What are you doing here?’ she demanded, but with an ingenuous, welcoming smile. It was impossible for her to hide her pleasure at seeing him again. She had believed him to be long gone from the neighbourhood. ‘Oh, no! Did Williams catch you trespassing after all?’ she softly exclaimed. ‘Where is your brother?’ The tumbling queries didn’t halt his slow, purposeful pursuit. She backed off instinctively, angling away from him, still attempting to keep the fierce sunbeams from impairing her vision.

‘Are you in trouble…with Lord Ramsden?’ His continuing silence started to unnerve her a little so she offered breathlessly, ‘I could speak to him for you…tell him how you assisted…’ Warmth suffused her cheeks. She hadn’t intended reminding him or herself of the sight she had presented when he had hauled her out of the pond. Her tongue tip came out to moisten her dry lips. The closer he came, the taller and broader he appeared. She felt infinitely small and fragile…and vulnerable. She attempted to peer past him and the piled hay to the exit. Why wouldn’t he talk to her? Why wouldn’t he say something…anything? Just hello would suffice.

Making to slide past his obstructing body, so near hers now, she announced nervously, ‘I’m sure I could persuade him. I’ll go and look for him.’

A muscular arm shot out to brace itself against the rough brick wall, blocking her intended flight to the door. ‘You’ve found him,’ he said softly. ‘How are you going to persuade me?’

Rebecca placed a tentative hand on his linen-clad arm, feeling rock-like sinewed muscle flex at her feeble attempt to move him. She looked up into his dark intense features, struck again by how unbelievably handsome he was.

‘That’s not funny,’ she mildly rebuked him, managing a small, sweet smile even though she didn’t understand his sense of humour. ‘Robin Ramsden can be very…understanding. I’ve found him so,’ she falteringly explained, as she carefully removed her hand from his lawn shirt-sleeve and unobtrusively retreated, giving herself room to detour to the exit.

Luke watched her back off, his black-pupilled eyes heavy-lidded as they discreetly surveyed her from head to foot. Dried off, wearing a plain cotton dress, she was as beautiful and desirable as she’d been with her clothes plastered to her slender curves and damp tendrils of honey hair clinging to her delicate face. Perhaps not quite so erotic…

His tormenting reminiscence tailed off. Her turquoise eyes were watchful, a blend of caution and courage again coalescing in their glossy depths. He recognised it from their last encounter. Then it had been enough to make him reluctantly leave. She was intending to go this time. He had frightened her again. He could tell from the way her eyes slid furtively past him that she was within a hair’s-breadth of making a dash for the door.

He didn’t want that. If she ran he would stop her and if he touched her that way…No woman yet had caused him to lose self-control, he wryly reminded himself. Nevertheless, he dropped his arm and walked away a yard or so but still casually blocking any escape route.

‘Are you often to be found in Lord Ramsden’s barn, Rebecca?’ he asked mildly, with a charming, boyish smile. His calculated ploy worked. Rebecca visibly relaxed.

‘Only when I’m looking for John,’ she said, returning his smile and feeling unaccountably pleased he had remembered her name.

‘John?’ he echoed with deceptive softness, as his smile thinned and he became furiously certain he had just interrupted a lovers’ tryst. She didn’t look in the least chagrined at having been thus discovered. Perhaps he should have let her try to escape after all, he thought cynically. If she’d been abandoned by some spineless rustic swain, he was sure he would prove a more than satisfactory substitute.

‘Lord Ramsden’s carpenter…well, he is an apprentice, really,’ Rebecca pleasantly interrupted his savage supposition. ‘But he’s quite capable of repairing my roof.’ She gazed about then as though she might spy the lad lurking somewhere. ‘He’s usually to be found in here, sleeping away hot afternoons…when he thinks he can get away with it.’

Silence between them lengthened and Rebecca became uneasily aware of dark eyes fixed unwaveringly on her. ‘For it is about to rain, you know,’ she said distractedly. ‘Gregory Turner…oh, he and his wife help me at the Summer House…well, Gregory is quite sure that rain is finally due. He’s rarely proved wrong. I wouldn’t be at all surprised if…’

She trailed off, aware that Luke had approached her again while she had been nervously chatting. He now rested against a hay bale within a foot of her, a disturbing sleepiness in his velvet-brown eyes. ‘…it rains tonight,’ she breathlessly finished, her aquamarine eyes wide and entrapped by his.

A slow hand moved unthreateningly to her face, cupping her fragile jaw. She remained entranced as a dark thumb traced the curve of her lower lip with featherlight softness. Either he wasn’t as tall as she had at first thought or…He was bending to kiss her, she realised wildly as his face neared hers. Their eyes were still inextricably merged and when the leisurely descent of his narrow mouth brought their faces within inches of touching, Rebecca breathed out, ‘What are you doing here?’ She watched him frown and slowly, frustratedly, close his eyes as she shattered the spell he’d been casting.

‘Were you discovered by Williams trespassing?’ she asked, reverting to her initial line of questioning, stepping away again.

‘No,’ was the extent of his terse response and she sensed his irritation. He threw his head back and gazed up at the fanlight windows set high in the barn wall. He sighed, knowing explanations were long overdue. But then, so was easing the tantalising ache in his loins she had provoked hours before, and was now innocently boosting. Tumbling her in a sultry barn in the middle of the afternoon…it was hardly the time or place.

Besides, he knew he wasn’t going to be that lucky. He almost laughed at his arrogance. Getting close enough for a kiss was proving one hell of a job. What was it he had mourned earlier today? The lack of necessary charm and seduction in his life? He had an unshakeable notion that he was about to dredge up every skill he had ever mastered in those areas. He gazed back at her, momentarily undecided, then said softly, ‘Come.’

Approaching the barn door, he stretched out a hand behind him, beckoning for her to follow. She did so, ducking under his arm to gain the dry heat of the afternoon as he held the door open for her.

‘Miss Rebecca!’ Rebecca twisted about and then hurried the few paces towards Edward Miles as he hobbled across parched grass towards the barn.

‘Miles,’ she greeted him, for no one who knew him well ever used his given name. Miles was always just Miles. She gave the elderly man an affectionate peck on the cheek, as always, aware of his pleasure at seeing her. His faint watery eyes peered past her to the tall, dark man who impassively watched the scene.

‘So you’ve met the new master, Miss Rebecca,’ Miles bitterly muttered.

Rebecca’s welcoming smile faded. She frowned her bemusement. ‘What do you mean?’

Miles glared purposefully past her. She turned then to watch as Luke Trelawney approached them, aware, oddly for the first time, of overwhelming authority and power in his manner and bearing. Her mind raced back to his puzzling statement in the barn when she had offered to seek out Lord Ramsden. ‘You’ve found him…’ he had said and she had believed him to be joking; had wondered at his odd sense of humour. Her eyes sought Miles quickly, pleading for immediate explanations before Luke reached them. But the butler’s attention was with his employer.

‘The servants are assembled in the hall as you wished, my lord,’ he informed with a certain disrespectful emphasis on the title which didn’t pass unnoticed either by Luke or Rebecca.

Mingling horror, disbelief and recrimination strained and whitened Rebecca’s face. She whispered, ‘Why didn’t you…?’

‘I did,’ Luke reminded her curtly. ‘You weren’t listening.’

‘In the woods…you could have told me hours ago in the woods. You let me make a fool of myself. Where is Robin Ramsden? You let me warn you needlessly earlier today…about prosecution…about the gamekeeper…’ The disjointed accusations and queries jumbled together in her distress.

‘As I recall,’ he mentioned silkily, ‘you seemed to lose all interest in who I was. You were more concerned with ridding yourself of my presence at the earliest opportunity.’ He caught proprietorially at her arm as he made for the oaken entrance to Ramsden Manor, intending to take her with him. Rebecca immediately shook him off, her feverish mind foraging for information.

‘Where is Robin Ramsden?’ she demanded shakily of her new landlord.

He returned her stare impassively. ‘Well, come inside the house and I’ll tell you,’ he coolly answered. ‘The staff are assembled.’ He cursed inwardly as he realised he had made it sound as though he classed her amongst them. But Rebecca deliberately shunned him, turning to Miles. As Luke alone walked ahead, a solitary thick tear trickled from the corner of one turquoise eye.

Ross weaved down the steps of the Manor, just as Luke was about to ascend them. Luke swore softly, wondering if the day could yet get worse. He grabbed at his younger brother’s arm, turning him and making him mount the steps with him and enter the hallway. Ross waved the bottle he grasped under Luke’s nose and slurred conspiratorially, ‘Found the wine store, big brother.’

‘So I see…’ Luke replied drily, at one and the same time relieved and exasperated by knowing the reason for his brother’s lengthy absence. He was beginning to wish to God he’d made this trip alone. Ross was becoming just another burden he had to deal with. Heaven only knew what he might get up to next. He supposed he ought to be grateful he hadn’t discovered Ross naked with one of the female servants he was about to sack.