Mr. Trelawney's Proposal

Two elderly, and three young, women scrambled to stand in a straight line as Luke entered the dim, cool hallway. They shuffled uneasily until they had the courage to look up. All were then instantly still with riveted attention.

Rebecca entered with Miles, and Gregory who had brought her over to the manor in the small trap. She noted the women’s unwavering interest and being female knew the reason for it. As mouths dropped open and heads angled back to gaze at perfect features, she realised dully her estimation of his outstanding looks was being openly endorsed.

Cathy, Joan and Sally, the three young women who worked below stairs at the Manor, stared with unabashed amazement. There then began a chain reaction of clandestine rib digging, Joan forgetting herself enough to actually nudge the middle-aged housekeeper in the same way.

Judith instinctively slapped at her for this insubordination before freezing to attention as her new employer’s smouldering dark eyes settled on her. She nervously jangled the keys at her waist and then gripped her hands behind her back.

Ross walked with intoxicated precision to the sweeping ebonized stairway, and leaning on the newel post, allowed himself to swing around and sit on a stair. He smiled amiably at everyone, his eyes lingering on the three homely young servants who, aware of his inspection, all blushed furiously and recommenced discreet elbowing.

Luke collected a black superfine tailcoat from a mahogany hall chair. He shrugged casually into it before strolling to stand centrally in front of them and then turned to look at Rebecca. She and Gregory hovered by the open doorway, although Miles paced resolutely forward on arthritic joints to merge with the paltry line of servants awaiting their new master’s oratory. Luke stepped back from the people ranged in front of him so that Rebecca was kept in his line of vision. He shot a penetrating look at the elderly man with her, wondering who he was, wondering too why the whole place didn’t seem to have an able-bodied man about it. Remembering Rebecca talk of a carpenter’s apprentice, and a gamekeeper, he enquired, ‘Is there anyone else?’

‘Only young John, and Williams the gamekeeper,’ Miles informed him stiffly. ‘I can’t find them anywhere.’

Luke moved a dismissing hand, signalling he wasn’t about to wait longer. He looked at the sorry assortment in front of him. At Melrose he had more staff than this working in the gardens and three times as many working in the house. In fact, he was barely aware any more of just how many servants he did have. His mother and sister dealt with such matters for him.

‘I should like to introduce myself to you,’ he began in a firm baritone, without preamble, ‘and tell you of the circumstances surrounding my inheritance of the Ramsden estate and title. I am Luke Trelawney of Pendrake in Cornwall and this is my brother, Ross. We are here because the fifth baron, your late master, has tragically and unexpectedly died of a heart complaint while away from the estate in Bath. He will be buried, in accordance with his wishes, in Bath, beside his wife in the Granger family crypt.’

He paused as a ripple of dismay from the amassed servants swelled in volume. Sally and Joan raised their white pinafores to dab at damp eyes and shake their heads in disbelief. Luke turned his head and stared at Rebecca, his eyes narrowed as they searched her tense white face. Solemn, sparkling aquamarine eyes unblinkingly returned his gaze. He started to speak again, his head still turned in her direction, which made the others in the hallway dart curious looks at her.

‘I am sixth Baron Ramsden,’ he stressed quietly, ‘and have inherited this house and the entire estate and buildings upon it. The estate and title is remaindered to heirs male which means it has passed to me through my great-grandmother Charlotte Ramsden. She left this area and settled in Cornwall more than a hundred years ago,’ was the extent of his terse explanation. ‘As you know, Robin Ramsden was a widower and on his late wife’s death there were no legitimate heirs of the union.’

Another wave of murmuring and coughing interrupted his speech. All were aware of two estate children who bore striking resemblance to their late master. ‘Daughters in any case,’ was heard to be whispered in a sibilant female voice.

Luke paced restlessly to where Ross sat, speaking to him while waiting for the muttering to quieten. It did almost immediately. He planted a dusty boot on the first step and addressed them from the foot of the imposing stairway.

‘You should know that I have no intention of leaving Cornwall or the estates I have there to settle in Sussex.’ A renewed buzzing met this information but now he spoke clearly over it, keen to get matters finalised. ‘I therefore propose to sell this estate in its entirety.’ This time only stunned silence reverberated about the great hall.

‘I will honour all back wages due and furnish each of you with references. I will do whatever is in my power to obtain alternative employment for those who wish it.’ Luke’s eyes tracked Rebecca as he noticed her gliding back to the open doorway. He started to move forward, passing the line of silent, shocked servants, as he stated quickly, ‘There will also be a generous severance payment commensurate with length of service…’

He quit the hall and descended the stone steps two at a time and caught up with her just as she was about to flee towards the waiting trap.

He caught at her arm and she half-turned, but seeing it wasn’t old Gregory after all, she swung away again trying to break free. He crowded close to her, forcing her back against the mellow brickwork of the house, an open palm braced either side of her golden head.

‘Listen…’ he soothed but she jerked her white, tear-streaked face away from his.

‘Rebecca…listen,’ he ordered, authority abrading his tone this time.

Glossy sea-green eyes met earth-brown eyes then and he slowly moved a hand from the wall towards her stained face. She ducked, trying to evade him, but his open palm was flat against the brick before she’d caught her breath enough to bolt. Her abrupt movement brought her cheek up hard against his black superfine shoulder and he moved closer so that she had nowhere left to go apart from him.

Strong arms closed around her as though it was the most natural thing in the world for him to offer her comfort now he had shattered her world. He could feel the thundering of her heart against his chest and smell the scent of lavender in her golden hair. His head dipped, and a lingering sigh escaped him as his mouth sought its perfumed softness and he knew with utter certainty, and quiet amazement, that he was going nowhere without her. He’d known her not yet a full day but nevertheless would take her with him.

Rebecca closed her hot eyes. They stung with unshed tears but she was determined not to cry any more. She would never cry in front of him. At home…at the Summer House, perhaps. She had no home…that was the whole point. She no longer had a home or a business premises. She had nothing other than the paltry few pounds Rupert Mayhew had paid her for Lucy’s board and tuition. And now she would have to return it…and Lucy. For she had nowhere to board her or teach her. She didn’t know whether to laugh or wail at the irony that she had been uncertain whether to send Lucy home. The decision had now been made for her and she was desolate.

‘I only came here to find John…to repair the roof before the rain comes,’ she mentioned in a low, flat tone as though merely talking to herself. ‘I no longer have a roof to repair…’

He pushed her back away from him to look at her. She met his gaze quite candidly, aquamarine eyes wide and sheeny. Small white teeth clenched on her unsteady bottom lip, making him aware how poignantly hard she strove for control.

‘Come back inside…I want to talk to you,’ he stated softly, yet in the tone of voice that brooked no refusal. She swallowed as though about to speak, then gazed past him.

‘Here’s Gregory,’ she announced quietly as the elderly man slowly rounded the corner of the manor on his bowing legs. ‘Gregory and his wife Martha have helped me at the Summer House for five years,’ she tremulously informed him, while persistently plucking his restraining hands from her arms. At her third attempt he slipped his hands deftly about so that they gripped hers rather than the reverse. But she pulled backwards, twisting her fingers to free them until he finally relinquished her.

Rebecca walked slowly towards Gregory and took the man’s arm, partly in affection and partly to aid his progress.

Luke leaned back against the warm mellow brickwork of the Manor and watched her slowly pass him without another glance. He didn’t move from the wall until the trap was screened from view by poplars at the end of his drive.

Driving rain streamed in endless rivulets down the wide window pane, capturing Luke’s mesmerised attention.

‘Brandy?’ he offered Victor Willoughby, holding his half-full glass of amber liquid out indicatively, although his dark eyes were still with the wet afternoon. He swivelled the leather chair about, his long fingers purposefully rifling through papers on the leather-topped desk, as he gave Robin Ramsden’s man of business a cursory glance.

‘Thank you…no,’ the fair-haired forty-year-old man declined, but licked his lips a little ruefully, as though reluctantly denying himself. ‘We should plough on, I’m afraid, my lord. There are several other matters yet, besides those we have covered.’

Luke nodded and decided not to mention yet again that he had no wish to be addressed so formally. He gave Willoughby his full attention as he replaced his crystal tumbler on the desk and then pushed it away. ‘Tea?’ he suggested, feeling inhospitable drinking alone.

‘Why, yes, thank you,’ Willoughby accepted with a smile.

Luke glanced over at his brother, ensconced close to the bookshelves in a comfortable brocade armchair with an open newspaper across him. ‘Ross, find Judith and arrange for some tea to be brought to the study. Three cups…’ he advised his brother meaningfully. Ross delivered a pained look at the prospect of light refreshment but got up good-naturedly and strolled from the room to find the housekeeper.

Luke knew he could have rung for service but a response was erratic. Not that the servants were hostile now; far from it. They were more likely to be beavering away in some odd corner of this Gothic pile.

In the three days since he had been in residence at Ramsden Manor, having found the household provisions sadly lacking, he had immediately replenished all stock cupboards. The lack of alcohol had been his and Ross’s first consideration. Old Edward Miles hadn’t been lying when he had denied any knowledge of brandy about the place. And the wine store Ross had found was down to its last dozen dusty bottles. So he had made good in buying in both alcohol and foodstuffs and taken care of various other shortcomings at the Manor. That, together with the promise that back wages and severance bonuses would be paid when the estate was sold, had combined to make him increasingly popular.

‘Due to the rather dilapidated state of the property, I wouldn’t like to estimate how long it might take to achieve a sale,’ Victor Willoughby mentioned, drawing Luke’s thoughts back to business, as he leafed through documents in front of him. ‘Perhaps if I were to arrange for minor work to be carried out…neaten the gardens, a little redecorating, for example…’

Luke cut in quietly. ‘I haven’t the time or inclination to tarry here. I would be willing to accept offers for the freehold which reflect its state of disrepair. Renovation is necessary, I agree. But the building is solid and free from any rot as far as I can detect.’

‘Indeed, my lord, I’m sure. I only meant…’

Luke interrupted him mildly. ‘I know what you meant and I thank you for your concern. The highest price possible isn’t my main consideration. Returning to Cornwall is, at the earliest opportunity.’ He gave the slightly disconcerted man a brief, conciliatory smile. ‘Shall I leave it to you to arrange for the sale of the freehold? And to deal with staff remuneration?’

‘Indeed, my lord,’ Victor Willoughby assured the preoccupied man who was again gazing through the rain-spattered glass into the drizzly-grey distance. ‘It may mean that several of my clerks will be working on your behalf, my lord.’ He coughed delicately. ‘Will payment for my firm’s services be taken from the proceeds of the estate sale, or will an earlier…?’

A small, cynical smile escaped Luke but he didn’t turn away from surveying the sodden landscape as he informed Willoughby levelly, ‘You will receive interim payments. I want the estate dealt with as a matter of urgency and will pay for that service accordingly. Your fees will not be dependent upon the actual sale. Should the matter be closed in record time, however, a bonus might…’ He allowed the enticement to hang between them for a moment. ‘I shall be travelling back to Cornwall next week and would like to leave in the sure knowledge that everything possible is being done to expedite matters. And that it is all in capable hands.’

‘Of course, my lord,’ Victor Willoughby assured him, but sensing that somehow he had just received a subtle reprimand.

A light tapping at the door heralded the arrival of Judith with a laden tea tray. She smiled at Luke, informing him pleasantly, ‘I’ve brought you some treacle biscuits, my lord. You remember, those you liked yesterday.’

‘Thank you, Judith,’ Luke said graciously, with a small smile for her. She blushed happily, pouring tea into wafer-thin china cups. Once this was accomplished and tea distributed she loitered, shifting uneasily from one foot to the other.

Luke raised querying brows at her, wordlessly inviting her to speak if something was troubling her.

‘It’s nothing really, my lord…’

‘Mr Trelawney, Judith…I thought we had agreed you would use that,’ he reminded mildly, hoping that Victor Willoughby was also taking due note.

‘Yes, sir, I mean, Mr Trelawney. Well, sir, it’s nothing really, as I said, it’s just your brother…’ Judith tailed off and shuffled uncomfortably again.

Luke sighed out, ‘Yes, what now? Is he sliding down the banisters? Rolling drunk in the drawing room?’

‘No, sir. He’s…er…rolling dice with Joan and Sally…in the hallway. If you want dinner tonight, Mr Trelawney, he had best leave the girls be so I can get them to the vegetables.’ She rubbed appreciative hands together as she expounded, ‘It’s to be smoked trout and roast guinea fowl with roast potatoes and fruit tarts with cream and…’

‘And as you pass him in the hallway, Judith, tell him I want him, would you?’ Luke cut into her menu, a slow hand spanning his forehead, soothing his temples.

Judith bobbed a quick curtsy before bustling busily from the study.

Poking professionally about in his cavernous document case, Mr Willoughby seemed deaf to the unusual discourse. But he ruined his nonchalance by admitting with doleful sympathy, ‘I have a younger brother…’

Luke nodded acceptance of the man’s tacit condolences before getting back to business. ‘The Summer House Lodge…where is the lease for that building? I haven’t found it among any of the documents in this study. Do you hold it?’

‘The Summer House?’ Mr Willoughby repeated, a trifle surprised. ‘Oh, you won’t find any lease for that; there is none.’

Luke frowned enquiry across the desk at him. ‘Are you sure? The building is presently used as a small school, by Miss Rebecca Nash. She rents the premises on a lease, I would have thought.’

As Ross sauntered back into the room, Luke glanced up idly, scowling a little at his brother’s impenitent smile. Picking up the newspaper he had previously been reading, Ross strolled across to the window by Luke’s desk, as though enjoying better light there to study it.

‘Well, yes, she does reside there. But there is no lease,’ Willoughby confirmed as his pale eyes darted from one brother to the other.

‘Why not?’ Luke asked a little too quietly.

Willoughby noisily cleared his throat and slid nervous fingers between his stiff collar and his warming neck as he sensed an atmosphere fomenting. ‘There was never any need of one,’ he quickly advised Luke. ‘Robin Ramsden and Miss Nash appeared to have…an agreement. She just resides and works there and he—’ He broke off, desperately seeking the right words, aware of two sets of brown eyes watching him now. The silence strained interminably.

‘And he…?’ Luke finally prompted him, in a voice that was silky with danger, while his eyes relentlessly pinned down the weak blue ones seeking to evade him.

‘And he allowed her to,’ Mr Willoughby concluded quickly, pleased with his innocuous phrasing. It didn’t have the desired effect of diverting Luke Trelawney’s piercing gaze.

‘Possibly he took pity on her…because of the tragedy which occurred some five years ago,’ Willoughby suggested hastily. ‘It would have been about the same time she took up residence at the Summer House. Yes, that must have been it.’ He nodded, sure he had now satisfactorily managed a delicate situation.

‘Tragedy…?’

Just one soft word coupled with a penetrating, fierce stare and Victor Willoughby readily explained. ‘Miss Nash lost both her parents in a carriage accident in the winter snows. Within the same week she learned of the death of her fiancé in the Peninsula…er…he was a captain in the Hussars, I believe. Then her brother disappeared, too. That I believe was, financially, the crux of the matter. For her brother held the purse strings on her father’s death. He was charged with administering her small inheritance for her but no one could find him. I believe they still can’t.’ He licked dry lips and glanced warily at Luke Trelawney, noting his narrow-eyed thoughtfulness.

‘And Robin Ramsden‥?’ Luke interrogated him calmly.

‘And Robin Ramsden appeared to take her under his protection…er…I mean to say, he looked after her, so to speak,’ Mr Willoughby flustered, unwilling to imply too much of what he had never been certain. He had his own theories but he was not going to voice them. Definitely not to this man who had become rather daunting in the past few minutes.

Miss Nash was a lovely woman…he had seen her once or twice and had drawn the only logical conclusion he could for his late client’s continuing aid and protection. This new lord of the manor seemed also to have taken an immediate personal interest in her. It was no concern of his…but she was very beautiful…

Luke shoved back in his chair and stood up. He walked to the window and stared out, appearing oblivious to his brother barely a yard away, even though Ross’s anxious hazel eyes followed his movements. But Luke was peripherally aware of Willoughby behind him, gathering together his papers and stuffing them abruptly into his case in readiness to depart.

A hard, humourless smile curved Luke’s mouth as he finally allowed himself to concentrate fully on Rebecca. It was all beginning to fall into place. What a gullible fool he’d been and that rankled. Everyone knew him for a cynic. No wonder she had been prepared to speak to Robin Ramsden on his behalf when believing he’d been discovered trespassing. Using charm and influence on the lord of this Manor was, by all accounts, nothing new for her. Well, that would suit him damn fine. There was no need for that to change.

Whatever Robin Ramsden had provided for her over the years, he knew he could improve on…a thousandfold. And he’d believed her to be some chaste provincial maid he would need to proposition with utmost care. She’d cried on learning of Robin Ramsden’s death. Was it the man or the meal ticket she mourned? he wondered. Perhaps it was the prospect of losing her home…the schoolbuilding. What was she teaching there, in any case? If provocative Miss Mayhew, the young temptress he recalled from the woodland pond, was an untried schoolgirl, then…Ross was teetotal.

What did it matter? Rebecca had obviously fallen on hard times five years ago and had survived in any way she could. It was a commonplace tale.

He had already decided to take her with him and this changed nothing. Logically it made things easier, he acknowledged with a callous smile. He could now proposition her without risking having her outraged or hysterical. Even enthusiastic virgins were damn hard to tutor and sometimes barely worth the trouble. By the time they were adaptable and accomplished he was usually bored and looking elsewhere.

He thought of Wenna, something he hadn’t done for a week or more. He was bored and looking elsewhere, he acknowledged sourly, yet she had always been the perfect mistress. Passionate, obliging, skilful, discreet, faithful…the list was endless. One of his large, dark hands curled into a fist. She’d suited him fine until he’d come here.

Chapter Four

‘Lucy!’ Rebecca’s low disciplined voice carried easily in the quiet room and brought the girl’s brunette head directly around. Rebecca pointed indicatively at the book in front of her on the pine desk and mouthed, ‘Read!’

Once Lucy’s attention was once more with her work, Rebecca glared at John. The young carpenter shifted from the open doorway where he had been loitering under the pretext of examining its battered wooden framework.

Rebecca quietly left her own desk and, passing the few younger day girls who were chalking on small blackboards, entered the kitchen. John was kneeling on the floor, replacing tools in a canvas holdall.

‘The work must be finished now, John, surely?’ she asked the fair-haired youth. He scrambled up then, reddening, and she realised that he hadn’t heard her approach. He tugged at a lock of sun-bleached hair hanging low over one eye.

‘Yes, m’m…’ he mumbled. ‘Just a few more rafters to look at under them slates…once rain eases off a bit.’

He had turned up, totally unexpectedly, within hours of Rebecca learning of Robin Ramsden’s death. The new master had sent him, John had shyly explained and he had set to work. Rebecca was grateful he had arrived so speedily too, for by dusk the first fat drops of rain were staining the dusty ground around the Summer House.

John had been back each of the three days since, awaiting a break in the showers to carry out repairs. That was the problem. While he innocently surveyed the internal structure of the Summer House for chores to occupy him until he could get back on the roof, Lucy was purposefully surveying him. He was now watching her back, Rebecca realised with alarm. Her small parlour-cum-schoolroom often now found him lurking in its vicinity.

‘You still here, young man?’ Martha greeted John jovially as she entered the kitchen with a basket of washing beneath one capable arm. ‘Just about got this lot dry between showers,’ she informed Rebecca in the next breath. ‘Waiting for them biscuits to get out the oven, I suppose,’ she again addressed the blond youth.

‘Well, I wouldn’t say no, Martha.’ He dodged her playful swipe at him.

‘You’d best get yourself up on that roof then and earn some. Rain’s eased off a bit now.’

He sauntered from the kitchen, cradling his prized tools beneath one arm.

‘Never going to rid ourselves of him now, are we?’ Martha mentioned with a shrewd meaningful look towards the parlour door.

Rebecca sighed, approached the open kitchen door, and surveyed the dripping landscape. ‘I’ll have to speak to Lucy again. She distracts him…’

‘Distracts him?’ Martha echoed with a derisive snort. ‘That young miss is a bundle of trouble, if you ask me. Why, even my old Gregory has had eyes made at him. Not that I’m worried…or he’s capable,’ she added with a good-natured smile. ‘But that young John…now there’s a different matter,’ she warned with a sage wagging of her grey head.

‘I know she tends to flirt,’ Rebecca admitted, biting anxiously at her bottom lip.

‘You’re looking a bit brighter today, if I may say so, Miss Becky,’ Martha changed the subject abruptly.

‘I do feel a little less anxious, Martha,’ she said quietly. ‘The shock of hearing of Robin’s death made me a little illogical. But since then I have been thinking…perhaps things aren’t quite so black. Now I have had time to consider…’ She sighed, reflecting that ‘consider’ hardly began to do justice to the sleepless, fretful nights she had endured since first learning of this tragedy. ‘I certainly can’t honestly blame Mr Trelawney for wanting to return to Cornwall or to the home and estates he has there. Nor could I have complained had he wanted to take up residence at Ramsden Manor and charge me rent for using this building. It is his property, after all, to do with as he wishes. Because Robin was so good to me I tend to forget that I am just here on sufferance. But Mr Trelawney has sent John to repair the roof, so with all things considered, he has been quite kind…quite nice…’