The Outcast's Redemption

* * *

It was Grace’s habit to rise early, but this morning she was aware of an added urgency. There was a stranger in the garret. She was quite accustomed to taking in needy vagrants at the vicarage, giving them a good meal and a bed for the night, but Mr Peregrine disturbed her peace. She was afraid her father would invite the man to breakfast with him.

As soon as it was light Grace slipped out of bed and dressed herself, determined to make sure that if their guest appeared he would not progress further than the kitchen. When she descended to the basement she could hear the murmur of voices from the scullery and looked in to find Mrs Truscott standing over the maid as she worked at the stone sink in the corner. They stopped talking when Grace appeared in the doorway.

‘Ah, good morning, Miss Grace.’ Mrs Truscott looked a little flustered as she came forward, wiping her hands on her apron. ‘I was just getting Betty to wash out Mr—that is—the gentleman’s shirt. So dirty it was, as if he had been travelling in it for a week. We didn’t heat up the copper, not just for one shirt, Miss, oh, no, a couple of kettles was all that was needed and look—hold it up, Betty—you can see it has come up clean as anything. All it needs now is a good blow out of doors and it will be as good as new.’

‘Did Mr Peregrine ask you to do this?’ asked Grace, astounded at the nerve of the man.

‘Oh, no, Miss Grace, but I could see it needed washing, so I told Truscott to fetch it off the gentleman at first light, saying I would find him a shirt from the charity box to tide him over if need be, but he said he had another to wear today, so all we have to do now is get this one dry.’

Betty had been nodding in agreement, but she stopped, putting up her nose to sniff the air like a hound.

‘Begging your pardon, Mrs Truscott, but ain’t that the bacon I can smell?’

‘Oh, Lordy yes.’ The housekeeper snatched the wet shirt from the maid’s hands and dropped it into the basket. ‘Quick, girl, it will be burned to a crisp and then what will the master say? Oh, and there’s the bread in the oven, too!’

Grace stepped aside and the maid rushed past her.

‘Give me the shirt, Mrs Truscott, I will peg it out while you attend to Father’s breakfast.’

‘Oh, Miss Grace, if you are sure?’

‘I am perfectly capable of doing it, so off you go now.’ Smiling, she watched the housekeeper hurry back to the kitchen then, putting a handful of pegs in the basket on top of the shirt, she made her way outside. The sun was shining now and a steady breeze was blowing. Grace took a deep breath. She loved spring days like this, when there was warmth in the sun and a promise of summer to come. It was a joy to be out of doors.

A clothes line was fixed up in the kitchen gardens, which were directly behind the stable block. As she crossed the yard Grace heard the noise of the pump being worked and assumed it was Truscott fetching more water for the house, but when she turned the corner she stopped, her mouth opening in surprise to see their guest, stripped to the waist and washing himself.

Her first reaction was to run away, but it was too late for that, he had spotted her. She should not look at him, but could not drag her eyes away from the sight of his half-naked body. The buckskins covering his thighs could not have been tighter, but although he was so tall there was nothing spindly about his long legs. They were perfectly proportioned. He had the physique of an athlete, the flat stomach and lean hips placing no strain on those snugly fitting breeches, but above the narrow waist the body widened into a broad chest and muscled shoulders, still wet and glinting in the morning sun. He bent to pick up his towel, his movements lithe, the muscles rippling beneath the skin. As he straightened she noted the black beard on his cheeks and watched as he flicked the thick dark hair away from his face. Droplets of water flew off the tendrils, catching the light. Like a halo, she thought wildly. A halo for a dark angel.

‘Good morning, Miss Duncombe.’

Her throat had dried. She knew if she tried to speak it would be nothing more than a croak so instead she inclined her head, frowning in an effort not to blush. She forced her legs to move and walked on, feeling very much like one passing a strange dog and not knowing if it was going to attack. The line was only yards away from the pump and, keeping her back to him, she concentrated on pegging out his shirt. Her fingers felt stiff, awkward and her spine tingled at the thought of the man behind her. She had noticed faint scars on his body, signs that he had not lived a peaceful life.

* * *

It was very quiet, perhaps he had gone, after all he had finished washing himself and it must be cold, standing in this chill wind, naked...

‘Thank you for going to so much trouble for me.’

She jumped at the sound of his deep voice. She turned to find he was very close, towering over her. He was towelling his wet hair and with his arms raised he looked bigger and broader than ever. The skin beneath his ribcage was drawn in, accentuating his deep chest with its shadow of dark hair. What would it be like to touch him, to run her hands over his skin and feel those crisp, dark hairs curling over her fingers?

Shocked, Grace stepped back and hastily picked up the washing basket, holding it before her like a shield while she tried to gather her scattered wits. She must answer him.

‘It was nothing. We c-cannot have you going about the village like a beggar.’ She began to move backwards, as if she was afraid to turn her back on him. ‘Once you are dressed Mrs Truscott will serve you breakfast in the kitchen.’

He kept his eyes on her, his look dark, unfathomable. She felt like a wild animal, in thrall to a predator.

‘Then I had best make myself presentable.’

She swallowed.

Pull yourself together, Grace!

‘Yes. Please do. And do not take too long about it. My servants have a great deal to do today.’

From somewhere she found the strength to turn and walk away. She wanted to run, she could feel his eyes boring into her and a shiver ran the length of her spine. She had never met anyone who made her feel so ill at ease. Or so deliciously alive.

* * *

When Grace went down to the kitchen later she found their guest sitting at the table, enjoying a hearty breakfast. Mrs Truscott was also there, but Grace’s relief at finding that she was not alone with the man was tempered by the housekeeper’s behaviour. She was standing at one end of the table, watching the stranger with a look of motherly satisfaction while he addressed his plate of bacon and eggs. It was understandable, thought Grace, fair-mindedly, for the stranger had clearly made an effort to clean himself up. His hair was still damp but the dark curls were now brushed and gleaming and his lean cheeks were free of stubble, making him look much younger.

And much more attractive.

He looked up at that moment and she blushed.

‘Good morning again, Miss Duncombe.’

He rose, but Grace quickly gestured to him to sit back down. He was so tall she did not want him towering over her. Again.

‘Pray, go on with your breakfast,’ she told him, not meeting his eyes. ‘I came to fetch tea. My father and I always enjoy a cup at this time, before he goes to his study to work.’

‘I beg your pardon, Miss Grace. I’ve been that busy I forgot all about it. I will make it now, just as soon as I have cut some more bread for Master...er...Mr...um...’

‘Peregrine,’ said Wolf, as the housekeeper stumbled over how to address him. He gave her a reassuring smile, which would have included Grace, if she had been attending, but she was already busy at the range, preparing tea. He had noted the tell-tale flush on her cheeks when she saw him and thought how well the extra colour suited her. She was a long Meg, no doubt about it, but not thin. He watched her now as she bustled about gathering cups, milk and sugar. Her movements were actually very pleasing to the eye.

Wolf told himself this was no time to be considering a flirtation. But he could not resist one more small tease.

He said, ‘I would very much like some tea, ma’am, if you can spare it.’

She was pouring tea into the two fine porcelain cups as he spoke and he saw her hand shake a little.

‘You may have what is left in the pot.’ Still she would not look at him. ‘Mrs Truscott shall pour more water on the leaves for you, but if you will excuse me I must take these upstairs. Papa will be waiting.’

And with that she whisked herself out of the kitchen. The housekeeper let out a whistling breath.

‘Well now, I’ve never known the mistress so curt before. I’ll make fresh tea for you, master, don’t you fret.’

‘No, no, you heard Miss Duncombe. The remains of this pot will do well enough for me. And do you sit down and join me.’

‘Nay, Master Wolf, that wouldn’t be fitting, me being a servant and all.’

He pushed his plate away. ‘I have sat at table with much worse company than honest servants, Mrs Truscott, believe me. And I pray you will stop treating me like some great gentleman.’

‘But you are master of Arrandale, sir. How else am I to treat you?’

‘Like the scrubby schoolboy that used to creep into the parson’s garden and steal the best plums from the tree! Lord, how you used to scold me in those days. What a rogue I was.’

‘Aye, a rogue, sir, but never a villain,’ replied the old woman, her eyes unnaturally bright. ‘That I will never believe.’

But could he ever prove it? thought Wolf. He saw the housekeeper surreptitiously wiping her eyes and he continued cheerfully, ‘Now let us have that tea while it is still drinkable.’

‘It will serve several times yet,’ she told him, fetching more cups. ‘I shall use the leaves again for Truscott and me, and then dry them and give them to the poor.’

‘Times are hard here?’

‘Times are hard everywhere, Master Wolf, what with the war and everything, but there’s no doubt that since your parents died, life has become much more difficult in Arrandale. The steward was carried off in the same epidemic and that made matters even worse, for there was no one to run the estate. These London lawyers don’t understand, you see. They expect their rents every Quarter Day and make no allowances for bad harvests, or sickness. What charity there is in the village comes from Mr Duncombe and his daughter.’ She hesitated. ‘There is some hereabouts that blames you for the troubles, Master Wolfgang.’

‘And with good cause. If I had not been so wild no one would have believed me capable of murdering my wife, I would not have fled the country and my parents would not have died.’

‘You don’t know that, sir.’

‘No, but it is what many believe, is it not?’

‘Aye, sir, it is. Which is why you must take care. There’s some in the village as would give up their own mothers for a shilling.’

‘I am aware of that, but I must talk to Brent, our old butler. Where will I find him?’

‘He lives with his niece and her husband in the house beneath the elm trees, at the far end of the village. His sight is very poor now and he rarely goes out.’

‘I need to see him alone, if possible.’

‘Then this morning would be a good time, the others will be off to market.’

‘Then I will go now.’

He rose and began to pack up the dishes, but Mrs Truscott stopped him.

‘You be on your way, Master Wolf, but be careful. There’s plenty hereabouts with long memories, and though you ain’t dressed like your old self there’s no disguising that tall frame of yours.’

‘I have been disguising this frame of mine for years, Mrs T., but don’t worry, I’ll take the lanes and skirt the village.’

‘Shall I tell Mr Duncombe you will join him for dinner?’ she asked. ‘He’d like that, I’m sure.’

Wolf paused at the door. ‘I would, too,’ he admitted. ‘But what of his daughter?’

The housekeeper gave him an enigmatic look.

‘Miss Grace will come round when she knows you better, sir, you’ll see. You could always charm the birds from the trees and that’s a fact!’

Chapter Two

Grace was in the morning room with her father when Truscott informed him that Mr Peregrine had gone out, but would join him for dinner. Mr Duncombe received the news with equanimity, but not so Grace.

‘Mr Peregrine is very sure of his welcome,’ she remarked, when they were alone again.

‘And why not?’ replied her father mildly. ‘We have offered him hospitality, as we would any of God’s creatures.’

‘But we know nothing about the man.’

‘He has a good heart.’

Grace shook her head. ‘You are too kind, Papa, too trusting. I have put him over the stables.’

‘Yes, so I understand.’ Her father chuckled. ‘I am sure he has slept in worse places.’

‘But you will have him sit down to dinner with us.’

‘Yes, dear, and I would remind you of what the Bible says: “Be not forgetful to entertain strangers.” Hebrews, my love, Chapter Thirteen.’

She smiled. ‘Somehow I do not think Mr Peregrine is an angel in disguise, Papa.’

‘Perhaps not, but I can assure you he is a gentleman and, I think, a man worthy of our help.’

More than that he would not say and soon retired to his study to work on his sermon. Grace tried not to think that he was running away from her, but she was left with the uneasy suspicion that Papa knew more about this stranger than he would tell her. She glanced out of the window. It was a fine day, if she hurried through her household duties there might be time for a ride before dinner.

* * *

Wolf found the little house under the elms without much difficulty. He had taken the back lanes around the village, his hat pulled low on his brow, and he adopted a slouching, shambling gait so that anyone seeing him would not think him a gentleman, let alone Arrandale of Arrandale. The house appeared to be deserted, but Wolf kept his distance for a while, watching and waiting. It was no hardship, for the sun was high and it was a warm spring day. At length the door opened and an old man limped out. Wolf recognised him immediately. The butler looked no older than he had done when Wolf had last seen him ten years ago. The old man sat down on a bench against the wall of the house and turned his face up to the sun. Wolf approached him.

‘Good day to you, Brent.’

‘Who is that?’ The butler peered up short-sightedly.

‘Do you not know me?’ Wolf dropped down until his face was level with the old man’s. He smiled. ‘Do not say you have forgotten me.’

‘I know the voice, but...’ The faded eyes stared into Wolf’s face. ‘Is it really you, Mr Wolfgang, after all these years?’

Wolf grasped the frail, outstretched hands. There was no doubt of the old man’s delight. He said gently, ‘Yes, Brent, I am come back.’

‘Lord bless you, sir, I never thought to see the day! Not that I can see very much, for my eyes ain’t what they was.’ He frowned suddenly. ‘But ’tis not safe to be out here. Pray, step inside, sir.’

‘Let me help you up.’ Wolf took his arm and accompanied him into the house.

‘Forgive me if I sit in your presence, Master Wolfgang, but I’ve got a leg ulcer that pains me if I stand for too long.’

‘I think you have earned the right to sit down,’ replied Wolf, helping him to a chair and pulling up one for himself. ‘You served my family faithfully for many years.’

‘Aye, I did, sir, and very sorry I was when the old master and mistress died and the house was shut up for the last time. Very sorry indeed.’ He brightened. ‘Are you come back to stay, master?’

‘Not quite yet. First I have to prove my innocence. That is the reason I am here, Brent, I want you to tell me what you remember, the night my wife died.’

‘I remember it as clear as day, sir, but I told it all to the magistrate and he said there was nothing in it to help you.’

‘I would like you to tell me, if you will. Starting with the argument I had with my wife before dinner.’ Wolf’s mouth twisted. ‘I am sure you heard that.’

The old man sighed. ‘Aye, the whole household heard it, but if you will excuse my saying so, sir, we was accustomed to you and your lady’s disagreements, so fiery as you both were. You went out and Mrs Wolfgang ordered a tray to be sent up to her room. That left only the master and mistress and Sir Charles to sit down to dinner.’

‘Ah yes, Urmston, my wife’s cousin.’ Wolf sat back. Sir Charles Urmston had always been received warmly at Arrandale. Personally, he had never liked the man. Wolf and Florence had never needed much excuse to hurl insults at one another and on this occasion she had accused him of hating Charles because he was the man Wolf’s parents would have liked for a son, rather than the wild reprobate Wolf had become. The idea still tortured him.

‘I went out for a ride to cool my temper,’ he said now. ‘What happened while I was gone?’

‘We served dinner and Meesden, Mrs Wolfgang’s dresser, took up a tray for her mistress. Mrs Wolfgang did not come downstairs again. About eleven the mistress prepared tea in the drawing room, just as she always did, to be served with cakes and bread as a light supper. Then, shortly after midnight, I was coming upstairs to the hall when I heard a shriek, well, a scream, more like.’ The old man stopped, twisting his hands together. ‘If only there’d been a footman at the door, he’d have seen what happened, but it was late and they was all in the servants’ hall.’

‘Never mind that,’ said Wolf. ‘Just tell me what you saw.’

‘Mrs Wolfgang’s body at the bottom of the grand staircase, her head all bloody and broken and you kneeling over her. I remember it so well. White as a sheet, you was. The master and mistress came running out from the drawing room and you said, in a queer sort of voice, “She’s dead. She’s dead.”

‘Such a to-do as there was then. Mrs Arrandale fell into hysterics and we was all in a bustle. The doctor was sent for and the master sent word that your horse was to be brought round, as quick as possible.’

‘How incriminating must that have looked,’ Wolf declared. ‘If only I had waited, stayed and explained myself.’

‘Ah but your father was anxious for you. Even if Sir Charles hadn’t been pressing him I think he would have insisted—’

‘Charles? You mean Urmston urged him to send me away?’

‘Aye, sir. As soon as Sir Charles came in from the garden he told your father to send you off out of harm’s way until they could find out what really happened. But they never did find out, sir. Instead...’

‘Instead they found the Sawston diamonds were missing and I was doubly damned.’ Wolf finished for him. ‘Who discovered the necklace was gone?’

‘Meesden, sir. She had been fetched down to her mistress, when it was found Mrs Wolfgang was still alive. The poor lady was carried to the morning room and Meesden stayed with her ’til Dr Oswald arrived. Fortunately he was dining at the vicarage and was soon fetched. Meesden went up to Mrs Wolfgang’s bedchamber for something and came down screaming that the lady’s jewel case was open and the necklace was gone.’

‘And everyone thought I had taken it,’ muttered Wolf.

‘I never believed that, sir. Even though the evidence...’ The butler’s words trailed away.

‘Aye,’ growled Wolf. ‘My wife always kept the key hidden behind a loose brick in the fireplace.’ He was suddenly aware of his neckcloth, tight around his throat like a noose. ‘To my knowledge only three people knew of that hiding place. Florence, her dresser and myself.’ His mouth twisted. ‘I have no doubt Meesden told everyone that fact.’ The distress in the old man’s face confirmed it. Wolf reached out and touched his arm. ‘Think, Brent. Are you sure there was no one else in the house that night?’

‘Well, ’tis only a feeling...’

‘Tell me.’

Brent paused, his wrinkled brow even more furrowed as he struggled to remember.

‘I told the magistrate at the time, sir, but he made nothing of it. You see, once I had taken the tea tray into the drawing room for the mistress I prepared the bedroom candles. I was bringing them up to the staircase hall when I heard a noise upstairs. Voices.’ The old man sat up straight. ‘I thought it was Mrs Wolfgang talking to someone.’

Wolf’s lip curled. ‘Some would say it was me. That I returned and pushed Florence from the balcony.’

Brent shook his head. ‘When I saw you kneeling beside Mrs Wolfgang’s body I could tell you’d just come in. It was bitter cold that day and we had the first heavy frost of the winter. There was still a touch of it on the skirts of your coat, as there would be if you’d been out o’ doors for a length of time. I told the magistrate, but he paid no heed to me. He thought I was just trying to protect you.’

‘And no one else in the house saw or heard anything?’

Brent shook his head slowly.

‘No, sir. Your father and the magistrate gathered everyone in the servants’ hall and asked them that very question, but ’twere bitter cold that night, so those servants who had not gone to bed was doing their best to stay by the fire in the servants’ hall.’

‘But the voices you heard upstairs, could it have been my wife’s dresser? Surely Meesden might have been with her mistress.’

‘No, sir. When Meesden brought her mistress’s tray downstairs after dinner she said she was going to bed and she passed on Mrs Wolfgang’s instructions that on no account was she to be disturbed again until the morning. Quite adamant about it, she was, and then she went to her room. The maid who sleeps next door heard Meesden pottering about there, until she was sent for, when it was known her mistress was still alive.’

Wolf frowned, wondering if there was some little detail he was missing. He said, ‘I must visit the house. Jones is living there, I believe.’

‘Aye, Master Wolfgang, he is, and he would be willing to talk to you, I am sure, but take care who else in the village you approach, sir. There’s many who lost their livelihoods when Arrandale Hall was shut up and they would not look too kindly upon you.’

‘That is understandable, but if I do not try I shall not make any progress at all.’ Wolf rose. ‘I must go. Thank you, Brent.’ He put a hand on the old man’s shoulder. ‘No, don’t get up. I will see myself out.’

‘You’ll come again, sir. You’ll let me know how you get on?’

‘I shall, you may be sure of it.’

* * *

Wolf walked back through the lanes, going over all the old man had told him. He would not risk going through the village in daylight but he would make his way to Arrandale Hall later, and perhaps, once it was dark, he might call upon one or two of the families that he knew had worked at the house, the ones he felt sure would not denounce him. The pity of it was there were precious few of those. He had spent very little of his adult life at Arrandale. Some of the old retainers would remember him as a boy, but most of the newer staff would have little loyalty to him, especially if they believed he was the reason Arrandale was closed up.

The thud of hoofs caught his attention and he looked round to see Grace Duncombe riding towards him on a rangy strawberry roan. She sat tall and straight in the saddle, made taller by the very mannish beaver hat she wore, its wispy veil flying behind her like a pennant. Wolf straightened up and waited for her. She checked slightly, as if uncertain whether to acknowledge him, then brought her horse to a stand.

He touched his hat. ‘That is a fine mare. Is she yours?’

‘Yes.’ Her response was cool, but not unfriendly. ‘Bonnie is my indulgence. I have a small annuity from my mother that I use for her upkeep.’

He reached out and scratched the mare’s head.

‘You need not excuse yourself to me, Miss Duncombe.’

She flushed and her chin went up. ‘I do not. But people wonder that I should keep my own horse when we have had to make savings everywhere else.’

‘I imagine she is useful for visiting your father’s parishioners.’

Her reserve fled and she laughed. ‘With a basket of food hanging on my arm? I cannot claim that as my reason for keeping her.’ She smoothed the mare’s neck with one dainty gloved hand. ‘I have had Bonnie since she was a foal and cannot bear to part with her.’