Anna Jacobs

MISTRESS OF MARYMOOR

Anna Jacobs

Chapter 1

 Summer 1759

Uncle Walter turned up while Deborah was arranging the flowers in the little village church. She heard the door slam open then shut with a bang. Her heart sank even before she turned round. No one made quite as much noise with doors as her uncle, or shouted half as loudly. Closing her eyes she prayed for patience and needed it, too, for first he didn’t like her arrangement for the altar and pulled the flowers out of the vase, scattering them on the floor and telling her to do them again, then he went on to complain that her hair was too wanton and loose.

After scowling at her and breathing deeply, he announced his intention of crossing the village green and passing on his complaints to his foolish younger sister, who should be here chaperoning her.

Deborah had to wonder yet again at the disapproval she always saw in his eyes. Why did he hate her so? She was neither ill-favoured nor pert—nor was she remiss in any of her duties. In the end, she lowered her eyes and risked a lie. “My mother is working on your new Sunday shirt, Uncle. If you disturb her, she’ll not be able to sew for the rest of the day. You know how easily upset she is.”

She could see from his expression that he didn’t like the idea of slowing down progress on his new shirt, for her mother’s exquisite needlework was much called for by the folk at the big house. It was, her uncle said, only right that his poor relations pay back his generosity in any way they could. Generosity! Anger boiled up inside Deborah at the mere thought. He grudged them every penny of their keep and had housed his only sister in a damp cottage that had brought her low with a wheezing chest the previous winter.

“I shall visit Isabel tomorrow, then,” he decided. “I’ve arranged to go out shooting this afternoon with a neighbour and mustn’t keep him waiting. But make sure you keep that hair of yours tied back in a more seemly manner from now on, Deborah. Unlike your father, who was a wastrel and gambler, I have a position to maintain in this county.”

Yes, she thought rebelliously, the position of being the meanest man and the worst master for twenty miles around Newgarth. And she could only suppose he picked on her for her hair because it was truly her crowning glory and showed up his own daughter’s limp, mousy locks to disadvantage. Or it would have done if Deborah had been allowed to wear it in a more flattering style. But her uncle dictated even that, as he’d controlled every facet of their lives in the year or more since they’d had to throw themselves on his mercy after her father’s death.

When he’d gone she let out her breath in a long, slow sigh. If there were any alternative to her uncle’s charity, she’d seize it with both hands, whatever it was. Only there was nowhere else to turn. Her father’s sudden death had had left them penniless—worse than penniless, in debt—and her uncle was their only close relative. Her mother hadn’t been herself since they’d come here and they could no longer pay their maid the wages she more than earned.

Bessie had been with her mother since they were both girls and was more like a member of the family than a maid. She refused to leave them, but still, it wasn’t fair that she worked for nothing.

Deborah sighed and began to pick up the flowers, shoving them into the vase anyhow, no longer caring what they looked like. No one could spoil the day like her uncle.

* * * *

Late that afternoon, a man rode into the village. It was a rare enough event for a stranger to visit Newgarth but someone like him—so tall and darkly handsome—was enough to make heads turn, then turn again for a second look. Two young women nudged one another and giggled, an old woman sighed for the days of her youth and an old man yearned suddenly for the muscles he’d once taken for granted.

The stranger went first to the Bird in Hand to ask for directions and leave his horse, then followed the ostler’s pointing finger across the village green to the small cottage. Walking briskly along the stone-flagged path, he rapped on the front door, and then rapped again.

When it was opened by an elderly maid, he spoke curtly, with no smile of greeting, “I’m looking for one Deborah Jannvier.”

“Miss Deborah? Not the mistress?”

He tapped his riding crop impatiently against the side of his leg and repeated, “As I said, Miss—Deborah—Jannvier. Is she in or not?”

Bessie sniffed in disapproval of his brusqueness. “I’ll inquire whether she can see you, sir.”

As she stepped back, he pushed the door open with a growl of annoyance and followed her into the house. “She’ll see me.”

Bessie backed away from him along the small hallway, feeling suddenly nervous, for he was so tall and grimly determined.

He waved one hand to hurry her. “This is an extremely urgen
t
matter, a question of life or death.”

She slipped into the kitchen and closed the door, setting her back against it as if to keep out intruders. “Miss Deborah, love! There’s someone to see you. He looks like a bailiff’s man, but we don’t owe anyone money, do we? Not now.”

Deborah stopped stirring the large pan hanging over the fire and sighed. Her face was flushed, for they were making strawberry preserve that afternoon, though it had been a mediocre crop this year and they wouldn’t have enough of the preserve to last the coming winter. “No, Bessie, we owe nothing, so he can’t be a bailiff’s man. What does he want?”

“He didn’t say, except that it’s urgent, and to tell the truth, miss, I didn’t like to insist on knowing. Stern sort of face, he has. Not a gentleman by his manner, yet acts with authority.” She lowered her voice and gestured behind her. “He walked straight into the hall without I even invited him in and is out there waiting now.”

They stared at one another in dismay, then Deborah swung the jack to move the big pan off the flames and rinsed her sticky hands in the bucket. Pulling off her apron and working mobcap she pinned up the tumbled, shining mass of hair under a prettier, lace-trimmed cap and examined her skirt hastily for stains.

The maid didn’t move from the doorway. “Miss Deborah?”

“Mmm?”

“You shouldn’t see him on your own.” For there was something very masculine and forward about him. A good-looking man, the sort to set women dreaming, this, and no one but Bessie to guard Miss Deborah from his like, for her poor mistress never noticed things like that nowadays—or maybe Mrs Isabel just didn’t allow herself to notice things any more.

“Very well. Come with me.”

Bessie followed her young mistress back to the hallway, her face rigid with determination.

The man had been leaning against the wall near the front door, but he straightened up and stared at the younger woman without making any apology for his rudeness in pushing into their home. “Deborah Jannvier?”

“Yes. Won’t you come through into the parlour, Mr—er . . . ?” 

“Pascoe. Matthew Pascoe.” He followed her into the tiny front room but before she could invite him to take a seat, he asked sharply, “Might I ask your father’s full name?”

She looked up at him in puzzlement and not a little apprehension. Other men didn’t seem to take up as much space in a room as this one and his broad shoulders spoke of great physical strength.

His voice became sharper. “Your father’s full name, if you please?”

“Paul Edward Jannvier.”

“Born?”

“In Lancashire, near Rochdale, in 1709—and died eighteen months ago.” Was it only eighteen months? she wondered. It seemed much longer.

He fumbled in the pocket of his coat. “Then you’re definitely the one I’m seeking.”

She exchanged puzzled glances with Bessie before indicating a chair. To her relief he took it, but he was no less disturbing sitting than standing. She put up her chin and gave him back look for look as she waited for him to explain why he was here.

“I’ve brought a letter for you, Miss Jannvier, from your great-uncle—Ralph Jannvier of Marymoor House, the other side of Rochdale.” He passed her a crumpled missive and got up to stand by the fireplace while she read it, impatience visible in every twitch of his long, lean body.

Bessie, stationed near the door, saw Deborah gasp in shock and stare blankly into space for a moment before re-reading the letter carefully. Trouble, then. Always more trouble. That poor girl had had more than her fair share of it lately. She cast a suspicious glance at the stranger. If he’d come here hoping to get anything from Deborah’s Uncle Walter in payment of her late master’s debts, he was bound for disappointment, for Mr Walter and that long-nosed wife of his were a pair of mean toads, and you’d not convince Bessie otherwise, not if you talked all night!

But when Miss Deborah looked up and studied the messenger, who was now standing by the window silhouetted against the sunlight, she didn’t look anxious only thoughtful, so Bessie breathed more easily. Not bad news, then. Or at least, not very bad.

“Do you know what this letter contains, sir?”

“Yes. I wrote it for your great-uncle. He was too weak to do so himself.” His voice betrayed nothing of his feelings, nor did he volunteer any more information.

Blinking her eyes against the patterns left in them by dazzling sunlight, Deborah looked down again, frowning. “And if I agree to this offer?”

“We can set off at once, ride cross-country and be at Marymoor House before morning. Your uncle’s not got long to live and he’s urgent to see you. Pray God we arrive in time.”

“I must think. Give me a few minutes to consider the matter, at least.”

Matthew shrugged agreement and continued to watch her as she sat there, head bent, staring at the piece of paper. Wisps of hair were falling out of the cap, drawing attention to the slender white neck. She was pretty and to his relief seemed respectable. Moreover, when he’d asked for her at the inn, people had spoken kindly of her. But even if she hadn’t been respectable—which had been a distinct possibility with Edward Jannvier’s daughter—Matthew wouldn’t have let that stop him from dealing with her. She was, quite simply, the path to his dearest ambition, so he would take that path whatever the cost, because it offered him hope of a better future than he’d ever dreamed of in the hard years of his growing up.

She stayed where she was for a moment or two longer, head bowed, then looked up and asked, “Do you know exactly what my uncle wants me to do?”

“Yes. Though he forbade me to speak of the details.”

“Will you tell me this, then? Is it anything unlawful or—or harmful to others?”

He shook his head. “No. Ralph Jannvier wouldn’t ask such a thing of anyone. He’s stern, harsh in his judgements sometimes, but honest and direct in all his dealings.” And Matthew owed him a great deal, even affection, though that wasn’t something either of them ever spoke about. He watched her nod and guessed her answer before she even spoke.

“Very well, then. I’ll come with you, Mr Pascoe, but you’ll have to provide a horse for me. I don’t have a mount of my own, or even the means to hire one.”

He nodded. He hadn’t really expected her to refuse, given the circumstances, but he felt relieved nonetheless not to have to waste time on persuasion—or even force. “I’ll go and get the horses while you change your clothes. Wear something warm, for we’ll be riding through the night.”

He left the room without another word, not waiting for the elderly maid to show him out. He was thoughtful as he walked slowly back across the village green. Ralph’s great-niece was pretty enough to turn heads, something he hadn’t expected. Matthew would have stopped to watch her walk past, that was sure. Her eyes were the most striking part of her, being a vivid blue with a very direct look to them, and her hair, what little he could see of it under the cap, was pretty too, curly and of a light brown colour burnished with red-gold glints. She didn’t look like a Jannvier, well, not like Ralph, who had had the dark Jannvier looks until age faded them, nor like the paintings of various ancestors hanging on the walls at Marymoor. Perhaps she favoured her mother’s side of the family?

His frown deepened as he continued to think about her. Her face seemed full of contradictions, somehow, and that in itself was intriguing: the nose straight and determined, the lips tender and full, the eyes full of intelligence and the cheeks as rosy as a child’s. It didn’t give an easy clue to her nature, that face didn’t. But she was pleasing and wholesome in appearance and wouldn’t be unwelcome in his bed.

* * * *

As soon as she had heard Mr Pascoe leave the house, Bessie went into the hall and banged the front door shut behind him, then whisked back into the little parlour. “You can’t go off on your own with a strange man, Miss Deborah! Who knows what’ll happen to you? And how do you know he really does come from your great-uncle? Have you ever seen Ralph Jannvier’s handwriting before?”

“Mr Pascoe seems an honest enough man and this—Oh, Bessie, it’s a chance of something better for us all—perhaps our only chance of getting away from here.” She clasped the maid’s hand for a moment. “If there are risks involved, so be it.”