Capturing Sir Dunnicliffe (The Star Elite Series)
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Authors: Rebecca King
CAPTURING SIR DUNNICLIFFE
The Star Elite
Book One
By
Rebecca King
© Rebecca King 2013
The moral right of Rebecca King to be identified as the author of this work has been asserted in accordance with the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act, 1988.
All rights reserved.
No part of this publication may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopy, recording, or any informational storage and retrieval system, without the permission in writing from the author.
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and events are either the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to any actual persons, either living or dead, events or locales is entirely coincidental.
Further books in a new series will be published shortly.
HAPTER ONE
H
arriett was cold, wet and tired. She trudged up the narrow pathway toward the small, single-storey stone cottage, relieved to be able to return home at last. She had spent most of the day at Mrs Partridge’s house, nursing the woman through a particularly bad bout of putrid lungs. Luckily, the tincture she had made had worked and, although it had taken a lot of coaxing to get the woman to drink the foul-smelling brew in order to help herself, it had enabled the woman to sleep peacefully at last. It meant that, after giving Mr Partridge a lot of reassurance, and further direction on the tinctures, Harriett was free to leave.
Dusk had descended
along with a heavy drizzle that now hung in the air, soaking Harriett’s woollen cloak and exploring under the edges of her hood with chilly intent. She should be pleased that Mrs Partridge was getting better, and delighted that she was finally on her way home, but she couldn’t shake off the sense of despondency that had settled over her, ever since she arrived back in Padstow.
As s
he walked up the narrow, cobbled road, the heels of her sturdy boots rang hollowly on the stone cobbles, echoing the fact that she was the only person out and about on such a dismal night. An assortment of large houses with mullion windows, bracketed by small fishermen’s cottages, lined the street on either side of the path she walked; the windows glowed with a welcoming warmth and hospitality that heightened her sense of being alone in the world. Fishermen had already returned home to spend the evening with their families; shop-keepers had closed for the day, and most of the children were tucked up in bed, leaving Harriett out, all alone.
Harriett sighed deeply. “Just go home,” she mumbled to herself, trying to ignore the perva
sive sense of doom that was settling over her. She kept her eyes on the cobbles beneath her feet, feeling lonelier than she had ever felt.
By the time she reached
her single storey home, she was soaked to the skin. She should be glad to be there, but as she closed the door behind her, she was starkly aware of the thick silence within the stone walls.
She stood for a moment just inside the door, ignoring the pool of water
growing at her feet, and studied the sparsely furnished kitchen. It was a rectangular room, lined on one wall by a huge fireplace that had a small oven to one side. Pots of all shapes and sizes hung from the ceiling above a large dresser sitting against the opposite wall. From the far end of the room it was possible to see the sea, and the edge of the small fishing port of Padstow, if she craned her neck a little to the left and stood on tip-toe. Otherwise the view overlooked the field to the side of the cottage. In the centre of the room sat a large table and an odd assortment of chairs of various sizes. It was a relatively sparse room and, although it had suited her purposes, had little about it that was appealing in any way.
Beside her
, another window overlooked her small, neatly tended garden where she grew all the plants and herbs she used for healing. She didn’t need to wander through the cottage to know that beside her was a small bedroom that used to be hers, containing one solitary bed, a small wash stand and a chair. Through the door opposite her was a small hallway that took her to her bedroom, and opposite that was a larger room that housed her work, and was lined with a vast array of jars, boxes and pots she used for her potions. Her witch’s den, she had called it.
It was the only home she had ever lived in and while most of the
time it had been her sanctuary, a place to get away from the relentless gossip and prying eyes, of late, it had also become her prison. The walls of the old fisherman’s cottage seemed to close in on her each day, until she wasn’t certain she fit there any more.
Slowly easing her sodden cloak from her shoulders, she hung it on the back of the chair to dry before turning to the fireplace with a frown.
Her sense of loneliness increased tenfold.
Although she was glad that her childhood friends, Jemima and Eliza, had found a way through their recent troubles, Harriett couldn’t help but wonder if they would ever return to Padstow and, if they did, if their friendship with her would be able to survive. She felt a strange pang of loss she couldn’t quite put a name to.
Although she wasn’t usually a sentimental person, she had shed a tear or two when she had heard the raw emotion in Jemima and Eliza’s voices as they exchanged vows with Peter and Edward, and had cheered as loudly as everyone else when the wedding party had swept joyously out of the church. While she was delighted that Jemima and Eliza had found happiness, Harriett couldn’t help but feel envious of them. Her best friends were now married to wealthy men who clearly adored them. Their lives had taken a new twist that was miles away from the small fishing village in Cornwall where they had grown up.
Harriett’s life in contrast
, was spent alone; a frugal lifestyle on the very fringes of society, where the only people who came to her were ill and needed her services as a witch. She was looked upon with suspicion by people who were ignorant of what she did, and didn’t care what she got up to in the privacy of her small cottage, as long as she didn’t hex them.
Heaving a sigh, she eyed the
black lump of fur lying before the cold and empty grate with a critical eye. If it wasn’t for the occasional flicker of his tail, she would have believed he was stuffed; that is, until he opened one yellow, baleful eye to glare at her as she approached the fireplace.
“Come on, you need
to find somewhere else to sleep,” Harriett sniffed at him and nudged him off the rug, ignoring the annoyed hiss he sent her way as he arched his back and stalked haughtily toward the bedroom in disgust.
With fingers that were shaking from cold,
she quickly lit the fire and set a pot of water to boil before heading to the bedroom to change out of her wet clothing. Once there, she lit the fire there too before drawing the shutters and curtains. Quickly changing her wet muslin dress for one that matched the moss green of her eyes, she tugged a thick woollen shawl around her shoulders and went back to the kitchen to contemplate what she could eat for tea.
She hadn’t had time to eat much at all that day, but couldn’t summon the energy, or enthusiasm
, to cook anything and hadn’t got anything other than a few apples to eat. Scrunching up her nose, she took the pot off the boil and made herself a cup of tea instead.
Then there
was a knock on the door. She paused, and thought about ignoring it, only for her conscience to remind her that she wasn’t callous enough to ignore anyone who needed her assistance.
“Hello, Harriett.”
Harriett’s face remained impassive as she stared blankly at the man on her doorstep. He was the last person she needed to see right now, and she wanted to close the door in his face, but good manners forbade her. She stood back to allow him to enter.
“How are you?” The deep cultured tones were
soft as he walked past her, a wealth of meaning hidden in their husky depths that Harriett closed her ears to.
“I’m fine tha
nk you,” she replied carefully.
“I wasn’t aware you had returned to Padstow,” he began, moving into the room to pause hesitantly beside
the well-scrubbed kitchen table, a large box in his hands.
Harriett didn’t need to look inside the box to know what was in
it. The delicious aroma of baking scented the air, and made her stomach rumble loudly.
“Cook sent these over for you,” he added almost conversationally, sliding the box onto the table without waiting to
see if she would accept his offered goodies. Whenever he came to see her, he always brought an assortment of pickles and preserves, or fresh vegetables dug up from the Manor’s gardens. Today, it appeared that Cook had been busy making a vast array of pies and pastries.
She
wanted to be able to refuse them, but couldn’t bring herself to ignore such a bounteous offering, even if it was from Simon de Mattingley, her father.
“How are Jemima and Eliza? I trust they are well now that the business with Scraggan is concluded?”
Harriett’s eyes met and held those so very similar to her own
. She shuddered as the memory of the sordid little man named Scraggan came to her mind.
“They are fine
, thank you, as relieved as I am that it is all over,” she replied. “If you didn’t know I was back, why are you here?”
Simon
paused and considered her with a wry twist of his lips. He shouldn’t be surprised that Harriett was intelligent enough to recognise his rather clumsy attempt at a lie, and knew that if he tried to make excuses, she was clever enough to detect those too.
Harriett deliberately let the silence stretch between them, knowing he was thinking of a
way to explain his sudden visit without admitting the truth.
“I wondered how you
were,” he replied weakly, unable to tell her what had really driven him to visit the cottage that morning.
“My lord
-” she began, only to pause when he raised his hand, palm outward, to halt her.
“Please
, Harriett, I am your father. Don’t call me ‘my lord’, I beg of you. If you won’t call me Father, then please call me Simon.”
Harriett sighed loudly. Something deep within
suddenly crumbled, and she waved him to a seat at the table. As he sat, she was acutely aware that the seat was probably the shabbiest thing he had ever sat in, but a small, defiant part of her refused to apologise for the state of the place. After all, it wasn’t as though she had actually invited him there. It was he who had insisted on ‘dropping by’.
Tipping
up her chin, she watched him push the box of food across the table.
“Simon,” she began once he had settled in the chair. Without asking, she made him a cup of tea
. She was surprised when he began to sip the steaming liquid, while staring down at the scarred table-top almost absently. She knew instinctively that he had something on his mind, and wondered when he would stop prevaricating. “I don’t meant to be rude, but why are you here? It is such a horrible night to be out and about.”
“I wondered if you were al
l right,” Simon replied honestly. “That’s all.” His biggest regret was being forced out of her life while she was a young child. As her Father, he longed for a closer relationship with his estranged daughter and often felt the need to see her, even if she was often distant and overly cautious around him.
He was s
tunned and delighted by her ready acceptance of using his name tonight. Having asked her on numerous occasions over the past several years to call him by a less formal name, he had almost given up expecting her to call him anything other than a rather abrupt ‘sir’.
“How did the wedding go? Smoothly I trust?”
In reality, he knew very well how the wedding had gone. He had been standing hidden in the farthest corner of the churchyard, taking note of just how stunningly beautiful his daughter had looked before entering the church. He had been driven to go and see for himself that she was indeed safe and well, and had taken no notice of anyone else there.
He hadn’t been aware that she had returned to Padstow early, until h
e had heard from one of the villagers in the pub that Harriett was busy treating a poorly Mrs Partridge. Unable to stem his curiosity and worry, he had hurried over to Harriett’s cottage to make sure she was alright, and nothing had gone wrong.
Harriett frowned. “The wedding was fine; beautiful
, in fact. I just decided to come home early because I wanted to be at home.” Her words dropped between them, and she knew that her guess at the real reason for his visit was accurate when he imperceptibly relaxed. She wondered who in the village had told him she was back. As far as she was aware, nobody had even known she had left.
“
I had heard someone had seen you in the village, so decided to check that everything-” his eyes met and held hers, “-
you
were all right.”
“You have someone looking out for me?” Harriett wasn’t sure if she should be pleased or appalled. After all, she had been living on her own for several years now, and felt she was doing an adequate job. It galled her
to learn that her father, who had spent little time helping to raise her, had now taken it upon himself to get people to watch her.
Simon shifted uncomfortably in his seat, wondering if he should come clean. Something
urged him to remain quiet. She was too still; too cautious. It warned him that she was not going to accept his interference in her life without arguing about it. Just hearing her speak his name tonight was more progress than he had made in several years, and he wasn’t going to do anything to jeopardise that. His eyes met and held hers, silently pleading with her to accept him.
“I was in the village and someone said they had seen you coming out of Mrs Partridge’s house. I wondered why you were back so soon, and if you were well.
That’s all, Harriett.” In essence, that was the truth.
He longed to be able to reach out and touch her.
To give her a hug, and stroke her too-pale cheek, but he knew she wouldn’t allow him to touch her. A deep ache settled around his heart at the loss, and he felt a familiar sadness settle over him.