see that you are well informed!’ And how did she know about that? Annoyance deepened. ‘I suppose that I must learn that nothing remains secret for long in this house.’
‘Very true. Besides,’ she continued, ‘I have had my fill of protection, of betrothals and marriage.’ She breathed in steadily as her wayward emotions once more threatened to slip beyond her grasp. ‘Primarily I shall go to Leintwardine Manor. It is part of my jointure and only a short distance from here. I shall be comfortable there. It is a place of … great charm.’
‘I still do not think you should do anything precipitate,’ Mansell insisted. ‘Take time to decide what is best for you.’
‘I shall remove myself from this place as soon as may be. By Friday, if that can be arranged.’ He noted the faintest of shudders once again run through her slight frame and did not believe that it was from cold.
‘You sound as if you hate it here.’
‘I never said that.’ For one moment her eyes blazed, glinting gold and green in their depths, only to be veiled by a swift downsweep of sable lashes.
‘You do not appear to appreciate the very real dangers,’ he pursued the point, but knew he was losing the battle. ‘I feel a sense of duty to see to your comfort—and safety.’
‘How so?’ Her gaze was direct, an unmistakable challenge. ‘You have no duty towards me. You need not concern yourself over my future, my lord Mansell. After all, until yesterday, you were not even aware that I existed as a member of your extended family. After tomorrow, I shall take my leave.’
Abruptly she stood to put an end to the discussion and walked from the room without a backward glance, leaving food and wine untouched, her black silk skirts brushing softly against the oak floor. The wolfhound shadowed her once more, leaving Mansell alone in the solar to curse women who were obstinately blind to where their best interests might lie.
‘And the problem is,’ he confided to Sir Joshua when he walked with him to the stables an hour later, ‘I find that however much I might wish to accept her decision, to let her make her own arrangements, I simply cannot do so. God save me from difficult, opinionated women!’
Chapter Three
‘A sad occasion, my lord.’ Mr Gregory Wellings shuffled the papers before him with all the professional and pompous efficiency of a successful lawyer.
Thursday morning.
They had chosen to meet in a room that might have been transformed into a library or study, or even an estate office, if any of the previous Brampton lords had shown the least inclination towards either books or business. Since they had not, it was a little-used chamber, of more recent construction than the original fortress, but neglected in spite of the splendid carving on the wooden panelling and the wide window seats, which might tempt someone at leisure to sit and take in the sweep of the distant hills. Although it was rarely used, there was clear evidence of some recent attempt at cleaning, presumably for this very event. Where else would it be possible to invite Lord Edward’s legal man to read the will to those who might expect some recognition? The floors had been swept, the heavy hangings beaten to remove the worst of the dust and cobwebs. A fire burned and crackled fiercely to offset the dank air. The mullioned windows, larger than many in the castle, had been cleaned and, although still smeared with engrained grime, allowed faint rays of spring sunshine to percolate the gloom. A scarred, well-used oak table served as a desk for Mr Wellings to preside over the legal affairs of the dead, the surface littered with documents and letters, frayed ribbon and cracked seals. The two documents before him, upon which his thin hands now rested, were both new, the paper still in uncreased and unstained condition.
Honoria had taken a seat on an upright chair beside the fire. Lord Mansell stood behind her, leaning an arm against the high carved mantel. The lady was as impassive as ever, but Mansell’s concern for her well-being increased as the days passed. If she had slept at all the previous night it would have been a surprise to him. Her hair and skin and her eyes were dull as if they had lost all vitality and he knew with certainty that she was not eating enough. If only she had some colour in her cheeks and not the stark shadows from exhaustion and strain. Whatever was troubling her was putting her under severe stress, but she clearly had no intention of unburdening her anxieties to him. Whenever possible she absented herself from his company. When they met they exchanged words about nothing but the merest commonplace. Why are you so unhappy? he asked her silently, glancing down at her averted face. Surely your freedom from Sir Edward with a substantial income in your own name should be a source of happiness and contentment, not despair? But he found no answer to his concerns. Perhaps she was indeed merely dull, with no qualities to attract.
But, he decided, quite unequivocally, she should not wear black.
Lady Mansell’s spine stiffened noticeably as Mr Wellings cleared his throat, preparing to read the final wishes of the recently deceased Lord Mansell. The present lord, on impulse, leaned down to place a hand, the lightest of touches, on her shoulder in a gesture of support. She flinched a little in surprise at his touch, glancing briefly up at him, before relaxing again under the light pressure. After the first instant of panic, he recognised the flash of gratitude in her eyes before she looked away. So, not impassive or unmoved by the situation, after all!
Also present in the chamber, as requested by Mr Wellings, was the Steward, Master Foxton, on this occasion accompanied by Mistress Brierly and Mistress Morgan, Lord Edward’s cook and housekeeper of many years. They stood together, just inside the doorway, nervous and uncomfortable in their formal black with white collars and aprons, to learn if they were to be rewarded for their long and faithful service. Uneasily, their eyes flickered from Mansell to the lawyer, and back again. The brief sour twist to Foxton’s lips as he entered the room suggested that they had little in the way of expectations from their dead master.
Mr Wellings cleared his throat again and swept his eyes round the assembled company. He knew them all from past dealings at Brampton Percy, except for the new lord, of course. He would be more than interested to see Lord Mansell’s reaction to Lord Edward’s will. He straightened his narrow shoulders and lifted the two relevant documents to catch the light. ‘My lord, my lady, this is the content of Edward Brampton’s will.’
He turned his narrowed eyes in the direction of the servants and inclined his head towards them. A brief smile, which might have been of sympathy, touched his lips. ‘Lord Edward left a bequest to Master Foxton, Mistress Brierly and Mistress Morgan in recognition of their service at Brampton Percy. They shall each receive a bolt of black woollen cloth, a length of muslin and a length of linen, all of suitable quality and sufficient for new clothing. They shall also be assured of their keep and a roof over their head until the day of their death.’
Mr Wellings paused.
‘Is that the sum of the bequest, sir?’ enquired Mansell in a quiet voice at odds with the grooves of disgust that bracketed his mouth.
‘It is, my lord.’
‘It is interesting, is it not, Mr Wellings, that the final part of the bequest will fall on my shoulders, not on those of my late departed cousin?’
‘Indeed, my lord.’ Wellings’s sharp eyes held a glint of humour at the obvious strategy of his late employer.
‘It is quite insufficient, but much as I expected.’ Mansell dug into the deep pocket of his coat and produced a leather pouch. How fortunate, he thought sardonically, that he had come prepared. As the pouch moved in his hand, the faint metallic chink of coins was clear in the quiet room. He approached Foxton and handed over the pouch.
‘I have noticed that every member of this household is in need of new clothing, Master Foxton. If you would be so good as to arrange it, this should cover the expense and more. I expect that those in my employ should be comfortably and appropriately clothed, as would any lord.’
‘My lord …’ Foxton stammered, holding the pouch tightly. ‘This is most generous …’
‘No.