Old Sins Long Shadows (14 page)

‘
You do realise I like to hunt?’  He did not sound amused.

‘I do.’ She was confused and did not understand the turn in conversation.

‘
It is not the kill I enjoy, although there is a degree of satisfaction seeing the fox killed by the hounds. No, what I enjoy most is the chase.’ He turned to her and speared her with his stare. ‘I have a reputation of being a good huntsman and a prospect of an exciting chase makes me all the keener.’  Seeing her discomfort he suddenly smiled and became the charming James she recognised. Taking her hand in his once more he kissed each finger tips in turn. ‘You are extraordinarily beautiful, my dear. Do you fear me?’

‘
You overwhelm me, sir.’

‘
Overwhelm? I like the sound of that,’ he mused. He opened his lips and took her ring finger in his warm, moist mouth. His provocative gesture embarrassed her. Pleased at her reaction he slowly withdrew, gently sucking and caressing her with his tongue. ‘But what I like most of all is making you blush which I will look forward to doing, time and time again.’ He nodded a farewell and left her standing in the grotto, hiding the touched hand in her skirts, as he disappeared back out into the heavy rain. She shivered unsure if it was the cold atmosphere within the stone grotto chilling her bones, excitement at his promise or fear of his threat.

Miss Petherbridge’s shoes tapped along the windowless passage of the servant’s quarters, her keys jingling in tune to the sway of her walk. She had a mind to inspect the Chippendale window seat which was now stored in the lumber room in the female quarters. She wished to inspect the damage of the upholstery, with a view to ordering a long overdue repair next week. She unlocked the door of the little room and peered in. The room, largely neglected for lack of habitual use, was cold, dark and cheerless holding ghosts of the past. An abandoned wicker baby carriage lay on its side. Next to it sat a cylindrical commode made of ash and decorated with tulipwood banding, the beauty of the wood hiding its primitive function. Chairs, stools and tables were recklessly stacked, long forgotten and gathering dust. She spied a wicker wheelchair in the far corner that even Miss Petherbridge did not know existed or who had required it in years gone by. Luckily for her the Chippendale was near the door and after a quick inspection her work there was done. She was about to leave when she heard someone leaving one of the servant’s rooms. Keeping quiet she looked out and saw Janey shutting her door and walking down the corridor to the stairs at the far end. When she had gone, the housekeeper left the lumber room, quietly shut the door and made her way to Janey’s room.

Miss Petherbridge made regular checks on the servant’s rooms but she always gave them notice
. Today, however, she did not feel so generous. The Carhart girl had raised her curiosity and she had time on her hands, a bad combination in certain circumstances but not in this one. She wanted to know more about this woman and discover her weaknesses. It bothered her that she could not fault her and each day her confidence appeared to be growing whereas her own dwindled regarding her longevity in the role of housekeeper. She turned the handle and entered her room.

The room was tidy,
the bed immaculately made. Dried flowers hung from the wall and books lined the window sill. One pair of best shoes, highly polished, sat neatly below the window and on the far wall hung a single framed embroidery, lovingly sewn with miniature cross stitch depicting in great detail a beautiful woman in a Grecian dress. The folds on her gown and the gold on her trim had a graceful elegance that brought peace and tranquillity to the picture. Miss Petherbridge snorted at it and continued looking around the room. She was about to leave when a plain journal on the bedside table caught her eye. Using only one finger, as if holding the book in her hands would contaminate her, she lifted the cover and flicked it open. The private, hand written musings of a young romantic girl, together with her heartfelt poetry and sketches lay out on display as the pages turned one by one under the weight of the spine of the book. One particular page caught the housekeeper’s attention and she stabbed it with her finger to prevent further pages turning over. She instantly recognised the name, lovingly written and decorated with hearts, flowers and intertwined with ivy and ribbons. Again and again the name had been drawn, the care, tenderness and imagination evident for all to see. The name was James Brockenshaw. Foolish girl, she thought, to dream that there was any future with him. The housekeeper shut the book with distaste and stood looking at the closed cover. What if, by some strange turn of events, she did have a future? What if she did become Lady Brockenshaw. The idea that she would become her mistress was abhorrent to her. The housekeeper, her face contorted, took a step away from the book as if it exuded an offensive odour. Where Janey Carhart was concerned her hands were tied. She did not have the authority to dismiss the lady’s maid, only Lady Brockenshaw could do that. She could not express her concern to the mistress, there was no proof that anything was going on between the two of them and to accuse Janey was to accuse her son. Lord and Lady Brockenshaw would consider that an insult, that their son, heir to the estate, would dally with a servant or worse, fall in love with one. Suddenly Miss Petherbridge needed to get out of the room. She needed to breathe again. She would have to think about the situation. She needed to plan. Whatever happened she wanted Janey Carhart gone and off the estate.

Chapter 6

Rev
erend William Smith looked down from the ornately carved pulpit to the empty seats below. The service had been well attended this morning and his sermon on temptation had appeared to have gone well. At least the congregation had listened, whether they put it into practice when they returned home was quite another matter. He doubted very much if old George would stop drinking to excess every Saturday night or Richard Nankivell’s greed for profit would stop him selling poached pheasant in his little shop. He had learnt over the years that if a vicar was to be accepted and trusted within the Cornish community he must remain non-judgemental. After all, how can a shepherd tend his flock if he howls like a wolf and fills them with fear?

Following the service he had stood at the church door and shook everyone’s hand, asking after their well being and thanking them for attending
. Some had shyly smiled their goodbye while others preferred to chat and hold up the line of people wishing to exit the church. As he gathered his notes he could hear many of them still chatting in the churchyard. This chance to meet their neighbours and talk was as an important part of the service as singing the hymns and, he suspected, the sole reason some attended at all. Gossip was passed about, local and national news discussed and offers of help given and accepted. Some wives would sneak home early to finish off the Sunday roast leaving their husbands to indulge in the only social event they attended in the week, apart from market day or a farm sale in the area. He enjoyed the gentle hum of voices with the occasional laughter for it signified that although this village was small, its community was strong and full of life.

A shadow stood in the doorway and caught his eye and as he descended the pulpit stairs he watched for the person to make themselves known
. As a result of being seen, the girl walked in and the vicar instantly recognised her as Lady Brockenshaw’s maid. Every Sunday morning service Lord and Lady Brockenshaw attended and her maid would always accompany her. He had also met her at the village dance, although today she looked rather tired and troubled.

‘
Hello Janey. Can I help you?’ he asked.

She hesitantly walked down the
aisle, touching each pew as she past. She ignored his question.

‘
I enjoyed your sermon, vicar.’

‘
I’m glad to hear it.’  He watched her with his watery blue eyes and Janey nervously smiled as she finally came to stand before him. There was a short silence. ‘Does Lady Brockenshaw wish to see me?’ 

She shook her head,
‘It was on Lady Brockenshaw’s insistence I came to see you. She is quite well and sitting in her carriage with Lord Brockenshaw. They are talking to someone and she said I should speak to you.’  She started to take a great interest in the wooden carvings of the pulpit. ‘It’s a beautiful pulpit. Was it carved locally?’

‘
As much as I like the pulpit, I don’t think it was of carpentry skills Lady Brockenshaw wishes you to talk to me about.’  He smiled kindly at her and she sighed.

‘
Lady Brockenshaw senses I am not quite myself.’ Then she added rather proudly, ‘She is very sensitive to other people’s emotions, you know.’

‘I have often thought that myself,’ he sat down in a pew and patted the seat beside him, ‘and she feels that if you cannot tell her what is bothering you then you might wish to speak to me?’ Janey nodded and took a pew. The vicar waited, noticing the young girl twisting a white handkerchief in her lap. ‘Something is troubling you. Perhaps I can help?’

Janey looked up and searched his face
. He knew she was wondering how much she could trust him. He had seen that look many times from his parishioners and he had learnt over the years to just sit and wait, for they usually came to the conclusion they could and would open their hearts to him. It wasn’t long before Janey did just that.

‘
Oh, vicar,’ she sighed, ‘sometimes I feel like I’m walking in the clouds and at other times I feel I’m in so much trouble that I’m drowning.’

‘
Go on,’ he encouraged gently.

‘
I can’t tell you the details but I’m in this situation and I don’t know which path to follow. At times this path,’ she waved her right hand, ‘seems so exciting, everything I’ve ever wanted. The answer to all my dreams, yet I feel this knot of anxiety right here,’ she made a fist and placed it on her stomach. ‘I feel uneasy, frightened, a feeling that it’s wrong. That if I take this path there is an air of impending doom waiting for me.’ She shook her head, ‘I’m not explaining myself very well.’

He patted her hand,
‘On the contrary, I think you are explaining it very well. You feel you have to make a choice and you don’t know which choice to make.’  She nodded, a smile touching her lips. He reached out and gently held her left wrist, ‘And what of this path?’ She looked at her left hand, the wrist encased in the vicar’s warm, soft hand, as if she hadn’t seen it before.

‘This is nothing.’

‘
You see nothing at the moment, but that doesn’t mean there’s nothing down this path at some point in the future.’

‘
I don’t undersand.’

‘
I mean if it doesn’t feel right, perhaps it is because it isn’t right at this moment in time. Have you asked God for guidance?’

She nodded,
‘Every night but he hasn’t told me what to do.’

‘
It sounds like he is telling you, but you are not listening child.’ At her confusion he explained, ‘If a child runs into the road and is about to be crushed under the wheels of a carriage, do you hesitate to run out and save the child from certain death?  No, of course not, because you know it is the right thing to do. You know it is right, there is no doubting your actions.’ It was his turn to make a fist but he laid it on his heart. ‘You know it is right in here. It seems to me that if this situation is causing you such worry then perhaps at this time it is not right for you to tread this path and it’s God’s way of telling you this.’ He reached for a Bible and read an extract from Proverbs. ‘Trust in the Lord, my dear, seek his will and he will show you which path you should take.’ He looked up from the pages and saw tears threatening to spill from Janey’s eyes. ‘Have I upset you, child?’ She shook her head.

 
‘No, vicar, you have not. At times I have felt as if I am going mad. I usually pride myself on having sound judgement but lately I have begun to doubt myself and what I believe in. I have felt like the moral anchor of my life is being slowly cut away from me and I fear once it’s gone I shall be at the mercy of the rough sea.’ She smiled brightly, ‘but now I feel stronger. Thank you for your guidance. All will be well. Things are clearer to me now.’ She stood up. ‘I must go. Lady Brockenshaw is waiting for me.’

‘
Janey!’ she turned back smiling rather too brightly back at the vicar, ‘I’m always here, you know. I am always willing to listen.’

‘
Thank you vicar, but I will be fine now.’

He watched her leave, a spring in her step and a smile on her lips but Reverend Smith was not so happy
. She had spoken of a threat to her moral anchor. If a situation or, as he suspected, a person was trying to manipulate her feelings and beliefs to the extent of causing her to doubt herself, then that person was dangerous. That person, be it man or woman, would not stop merely because Janey had chosen not to follow them down that path. One can follow a path by choice or by force. He hoped to God it would not be the latter.