Sarah stared at the pages of the book. Her eyes did not see the words for she was thinking of her future. She must think, for she could not stand quietly by and let events overtake her. What would happen to her if she made no firm decision for herself? She sighed. She would marry Edward, that was what would happen, and knowing what she now did, she realized that such a marriage was unthinkable.
Only one course was desirable and that was to be with Jack. But if she could not be with him ... what then? For a long while she sat there, deep in thought, and then she said aloud, “I’ll have to go back to Longwicke, and Squire Eldon.” It was so simple. She smiled ruefully, remembering how afraid she had been of going back to her home village, afraid of what her eventual life would be.
But now everything was different. She was no longer so desperate to gain a portion of her father’s wealth, no longer hurt by his unfeeling behavior, and no longer prepared to do his bidding in the matter of her marriage. Too much had happened, and she had grown up a lot in the past few months. She hoped above everything else that she could marry Jack, but if not, then Longwicke it was; Longwicke and the odious Squire who had long lusted after her. She closed the book with a thud, surprised at the relative ease with which she had come to her momentous decision.
Mathilda’s voice floated over the wall from the courtyard as she asked Martin if he had seen Miss Stratford anywhere. Sarah sat quietly where she was, hoping that Mathilda would go searching in the opposite direction.
Carefully she put down the book on the limp, lifeless grass, and then leaned back again against the tree. From the kitchen came the sounds of the cook’s angry quarreling with a maid, and the maid’s tearful replies. The weather was so humid that it frayed the most even of tempers. The maid dissolved into floods of tears and Marks’s voice suddenly entered the quarrel. He shouted at the cook, and at the maid, he commanded the scullery boy to do his tasks, and then he slammed a door. Silence reigned in the kitchen. Sarah smiled, picturing the normally quiet Marks in such a mood that he was prepared to raise his voice.
Footsteps pattered along the path and stopped, and then skirts rustled across the grass. “Ah, there you are, Miss Stratford.”
“Did you wish to see me, Mrs. Ransome?”
“Seeing you is what I am here for, isn’t it?” Stiffly, Mathilda sat down beside her. “Now then, what’s this?” She glanced at the book on the grass. “Shakespeare? Is that not rather heavy reading for a young lady? A romantic novel would seem to me to be more suitable.”
“I like Shakespeare.” Sarah felt stubborn and on the verge of mutiny.
Mathilda smiled unexpectedly, and the smile changed her stern face into one which was really quite charming. “Do not think that I’m trying to find fault with everything, my dear. It’s just my way, I fear. I’m inclined to distrust every young girl since Melissa betrayed my confidence. It shook me so much. I had always loved and trusted my niece, and then to find out all that had been going on.” She shook her head sadly.
The older woman looked at Sarah. “Paul told me this morning how she died. Foolish wench, to meet a man, alone, on the moors like that. It was surely asking for trouble—but not the loss of her silly little life. She had so much to look forward to. There were few girls to match her for beauty and she could be so charming, although Paul tells me that she was anything but charming where you were concerned, my dear. London would have been at her feet, but she threw herself away on that worthless man.” Mathilda seemed puzzled. “Paul tells me he thinks the man she was meeting was a cousin of yours—Mr. Edward Stratford.”
“Yes, that’s what we think, and it does seem likely from all the evidence.”
“I cannot understand it, for he is not the gentleman I’d expect to hear mentioned. I was with Melissa when she met your cousin for the first time, and I must say that he made a most unfavorable impression, both on myself and on Melissa. She said afterwards what a dreadful young man he was, I beg your pardon, Miss Stratford. He is your kin, I realize, but really—what an oaf he is! I can scarcely imagine he has the wit to find his way to Mannerby, let alone do all the other things you credit him with. I saw him only last week with the Duke of Annamore and his daughter, Harriet, and my opinion of him was in no way improved, for he’s still a loudmouthed nincompoop. I was taken aback at seeing old Annamore with him; that old tyrant cannot normally abide the young men of today. I’ll warrant your cousin kept silent about his unfortunate discharge from the Army.”
Mathilda looked away, thinking of her niece. “I still cannot believe that Melissa was in love with him—unless her interest was purely in his wealth, which God forgive me for saying as she is dead, poor mite, and cannot defend herself.” Sniffing a little, Mathilda wiped a tear from her eye; she had been very fond of her niece, and deeply hurt by what she had done.
Sarah sat quietly, thinking that indeed it did seem ridiculous when one thought closely about Edward. Nevertheless, he had come to Mannerby, he had been meeting Melissa, and seemingly he had killed her.
Mathilda patted her hand in a friendly way. “Now, my dear, I feel that we understand each other a little better. At least I hope we do. There is much to do, for now that I know exactly who you are I realize that my duties toward you are more extensive than I at first thought. With your, er, background, and the position you’ll be expected to occupy in Society, you will be under close scrutiny from many directions. Each and every person who looks at you will be waiting and watching for you to make a slip.... I would like to help you all I can, so that we can thwart those unkind souls who’ll be only too delighted to see you flounder.”
Sarah nodded, remembering that just that type of unkind soul had flourished in her father’s house party at Rook House. “My father has already engaged someone to see to my education in that field, Mrs. Ransome.”
“But we can make a start, for I understand you don’t know yet when you will be going back to Rook House.”
“That is right. My father hasn’t been in touch with me at all.” Sarah looked away, not because she was hurt but because she did not wish to see the look of pity in Mathilda’s eyes.
“Come inside with me, my dear, and we’ll make a beginning of your education.” Mathilda stood.
As they walked across the grass toward the courtyard, Mathilda spoke again. “I understand there is another guest here.”
“Yes. Mr. Holland.”
“Hmm. Paul tells me he’s the same Mr. Holland who is so friendly with the Prince Regent.”
“Yes.” Sarah knew that she was blushing.
“Rather an exalted gentleman to while away his precious days down here at Mannerby! I cannot imagine that he can spare the time, unless—” Mathilda stopped and looked closely at Sarah. “Has Mr. Holland any special reason for coming here, Miss Stratford?”
Sarah’s face was flaming.
Mathilda walked on. “I thought yesterday that you and my nephew were, shall we say, happy in each other’s company. Now I’m not so sure that I have the story correct. Who are you in love with, Miss Stratford, my nephew or Mr. Holland?”
Sarah stopped in the shade of the ash tree. “Mrs. Ransome, I’m very much in love with Mr. Holland, very much so.”
“Really?” Mathilda seemed taken aback by such intensity. “Well, I’ve never met or even seen this Mr. Holland, but he must indeed be a paragon to have ensnared you so completely, my dear. Poor Paul, I fear his chances are virtually nonexistent.”
“Paul? Why do you say that?”
“Come now, Sarah. You surely do not expect me to think you’re not aware of my nephew’s feelings for you? He’s in love with you, and cannot hide the fact from his old aunt.”
Sarah lowered her eyes. “I’m sorry, really and truly I am, because I like Paul so very much and the last thing I would wish to do is hurt him in any way. But I love Jack Holland, and I always will.”
“That last is a sweeping statement, my dear Sarah. No one can say categorically that they will never love anyone else. You’ll find that that is the case too. Still, enough of all that. We have work to do. I have this morning written to your father about your wardrobe. It’s just not suitable and he should forward you a further allowance to have some more presentable gowns made. A young lady should not go abroad in such flimsy garb as you at present seem to have in your wardrobe, young Sarah, and I intend to see to it that improvements are made.”
“But Mrs. Ransome, my father had those gowns made. Indeed he chose the design of most of them himself.”
Mathilda sniffed. “Oh. Ah well, it’s done now. It will do him no harm to know that his taste is appalling.”
There was the sound of horses coming up the village street and Martin hurried to open the gates. “It’s Mr. Holland, miss, and the new horses from France.” He swung the gates open and stepped outside to watch.
Sarah held her breath, her eyes shining. Mathilda glanced at her, raising her eyebrows. “Well, I must confess that I am agog to see this wondrous Mr. Holland. Good heavens, child, stop that foolish grinning. Whatever next!” Mathilda bridled, determined that she would instill some sense in this young girl who so obviously wore her heart on her sleeve.
A groom appeared, riding in through the gateway leading three or four horses. Sarah’s eyes searched eagerly for Jack.
Then he was there. He rode bareheaded and his copper hair gleamed in the sun. He smiled at her immediately.
“Jack—” Sarah stepped toward him but Mathilda’s hand restrained her.
“Don’t go near that man,” she hissed, her voice shaking.
Startled by the dramatic change, Sarah turned to look at her and saw the blanched skin and eyes filled with distaste as Mathilda stared hard at Jack.
With tight lips Mathilda drew herself up to her full height. “Mr. Hobson! I wonder that you have the audacity to come.”
Jack had been about to dismount but he paused when he heard Mathilda, his eyes losing their warmth as he sought her black figure in the shadow of the ash tree. His glance flickered from Mathilda to Sarah and then back.
“Mrs. Ransome, I presume,” he said at last, dismounting and handing the reins of his horse to Martin.
“The same. I say again that I’m astounded at your nerve, sirrah, in coming here, beneath this roof, as my nephew’s guest.” Mathilda still held Sarah firmly by the arm.
Jack walked slowly across the courtyard, flicking his dusty sleeve with his handkerchief. He looked the picture of elegance, even after the long ride from Plymouth, and he inclined his head politely to the bristling Mathilda. “Mrs. Ransome, I think perhaps we should go inside to discuss this. After all, it’s rather public out here.” He spoke softly, indicating the courtyard with its small crowd of spectators as the grooms and servants watched.
Mathilda sniffed, glancing around, and then nodded stiffly. “Sarah, stay by my side.” She swept inside in an angry flurry of black silk.
Sarah stared at Jack, bewildered, and he smiled at her. “Shall we go in?” he murmured, reaching out and touching her lips gently with his fingers.
Jack took up a position in front of the fireplace, looking at Mathilda, who sat stiffly in her chair, her back straight, her eyes full of outraged anger. He smiled a little. “Mrs. Ransome, I believe you have something you wish to say to me.”
“Indeed I have, sir. Were I a man I would strike your face for what you’ve done.” Mathilda’s bosom was heaving with emotion.
Sarah sat down, arranging her lemon-flowered skirts with exaggerated care, her fingers moving nervously. “Please,” she looked up at Jack, “will someone explain what this is all about?”
Jack met her gaze, his gray eyes a little sad, but before he could speak Mathilda sniffed disdainfully. “I doubt, my dear Sarah, if he dares—after telling you so many lies.” With a snap she opened the black fan which dangled at her wrist. She flapped it to and fro before her hot face, looking at Jack with an expression of challenge.
Slowly he raised his eyebrows. “Mrs. Ransome, you seem so very certain that I am guilty of a crime.”
“And so you are, sir, and so you are!” Mathilda snapped her fan again.
Sarah plucked the folds of her gown again. “Oh please! Have done with all this and explain yourselves!” she pleaded.
Mathilda sat back. “Very well, Sarah. This is the man who ruined Melissa. She was his mistress, the foolish wench, and so ruined her chances of a fine marriage!”
Deadened, Sarah looked at Jack.
He was pale. “It is true—at least, it’s true that Melissa was my mistress. That her life was ruined forever I would certainly deny.”
Mathilda snorted rudely. “And what else could her life be but ruined? She was one of the loveliest girls in London and of a family good enough to attract suitors by the score. The world lay before her and instead she chose to become your harlot. I cannot understand it, for by all the saints, sirrah, you’re not worth it!”
Jack inclined his head coolly. “No doubt you regard it as your sole prerogative to be insulting, madam. As to your niece’s unblemished, wondrous reputation and future happiness—”
He was going to mention the witchcraft! Sarah put her hand out swiftly. “No, Jack! Not that!” She glanced at Mathilda’s taut face and then back at him.
He paused, looking unhappily at Sarah, and fell silent.
Mathilda did not seem to notice the little exchange. “Sir, you’re not deserving of anything other than insults. Why did you not marry her?”
“Because I had but recently lost my first wife under rather unsavory circumstances which left a certain stain that would undoubtedly have touched Melissa.”
“And afterwards, when the talk had died down?”
“By then Melissa had decided that Edward Stratford’s fortune offered her more than my humble self,”
Mathilda looked at him, her mind busy with what he had said. Sarah stood up. “But why didn’t you tell me, Jack? You even denied knowing her.”
“She hadn’t been kind to you. I thought such knowledge was preferably left unimparted.”
“I would rather have heard directly from you than in this other way.”