towards the track that lead to Westbrook, Ross grunted a low, lascivious laugh. ‘I’m most definitely at her service. Servicing that wench would be no hardship—’
Luke pulled his horse up sharp and swung about in the saddle. His perfect features were savage as he ground out, ‘Touch her and I’ll—’ The fierce caution ceased mid-flow. He was as aware as Ross of what he had astonishingly been about to threaten.
‘—be most put out,’ he remedied, relaxing a little. But a wry grimace was the closest he got to apology…or to analysing his aggression, before he urged his lumbering nag into something approaching a canter.
Rebecca gently disengaged herself from the grey-haired woman’s firm embrace. ‘It’s good to be home, Martha,’ she greeted her with a sweet smile as the woman dabbed at her eyes with her grubby starched apron. ‘Hush,’ Rebecca soothed. ‘I’ve only been gone just four weeks. I’ll wager you’ve hardly missed me at all,’ she teased. She contentedly surveyed the familiar pristine interior of her kitchen at the Summer House. Everything looked as meticulously ordered as it always did when Martha Turner was in attendance.
Martha and her husband Gregory lived in a tiny spartan dwelling, on the perimeter of the woodland Rebecca and Lucy had just traversed. Their cottage was situated barely a stone’s throw from the Summer House, easily within walking distance for the elderly couple who made the journey each day.
While Martha prepared meals and cleaned, generally helping Rebecca run the household, her husband coaxed the sizeable vegetable patch situated along the western flank wall into providing Rebecca and her boarding pupils with fresh produce. Gregory Turner also tended the few chickens and geese they kept with the same natural diligence, ensuring his wife always had fresh eggs and poultry available to prepare nourishing fare.
The Turners’ property, which had been settled on them by Robin Ramsden on their retirement from his service, had very little tillable land surrounding it. Woodland predominated on three sides, rendering it picturesque but poorly self-sufficient. In a way this unfortunate situation had benefited Rebecca and she often felt ashamed acknowledging it. She was well aware that she would never have been able to pay this dear couple for their aid. But she could offer an arrangement whereby, in return for housekeeping and gardening services, the Turners helped themselves to whatever surplus eggs, poultry and fresh fruit and vegetables the Summer House gardens produced.
Approaching the large floury patch on the scrubbed pine table, Rebecca idly dusted her arms free of pastry traces from Martha’s welcoming hands. She peered at the mouthwatering sweet and savoury ingredients assembled for supper. As her stomach gurgled a little, she realised just how hungry she was. She had eaten nothing since departing from the King’s Head hostelry early that morning at Guildford, when setting out on the last leg of her journey home.
Martha’s silver-bright eyes were crinkle-cornered as she regarded Lucy, standing subdued and quiet by the open kitchen door. Her smile faltered a little and Rebecca knew Martha was focussing on the bruising about Lucy’s eye. As she noted Martha’s troubled reaction to the injury, she finally relented and gave Lucy a small smile.
It was the first token of friendship she had felt capable of bestowing on the girl following the fiasco at the woodland pool. She was still in equal parts furious and bewildered by Lucy’s behaviour.
Having both changed hastily into dry dresses, their final trek through the woods had passed in strained, chilly silence. Rebecca had decided that until her anger was again under control, it was best to keep quiet and keep walking lest she say or do something she might regret. But every speedy step taken had been filled with an inner wrangling about whether to contact Lucy’s stepfather to ask him to fetch her. The fact that her meagre income would be again reduced, leaving her in severe financial difficulties, had been the only consideration in the girl’s favour. As she looked at Lucy now and met those injured blue eyes, Rebecca sensed a niggling sympathy. Lucy seemed resigned to being rejected.
‘This is Lucy…Lucy Mayhew, who is going to be joining us for a while,’ Rebecca introduced her, with a strengthening smile for Lucy. ‘Lucy, Martha and her husband Gregory have been giving me invaluable help here at the Summer House over the past five years.’ Trying to lighten their moods, she indicated Martha’s laden table. ‘Martha’s cooking is delicious, Lucy, it is very easy to over-indulge.’ Lucy gave the cook a shy smile before perching demurely on a kitchen chair and gazing interestedly about.
Such a picture of youthful innocence, Rebecca couldn’t help ironically surmising. But she cheered herself with again acknowledging just how fortunate she had been since the double tragedy of her parents’ and fiancé’s deaths some five years ago. At that time, circumstances had conspired to make a future in harsh employment or marriage to the first man to offer for her seem the only avenues. Instead, she now had a kind and generous landlord, friendship and aid from the Turners and also from dear friends who lived close by. But, most of all, she had this small, pretty Summer House, providing her with home and employment. She sighed her contentment, acknowledging that she would persevere with Lucy’s education.
Martha fetched a stone jug from the dark pantry and set about filling two glasses with aromatic lemonade. Rebecca smiled her thanks, determined not to let this afternoon’s humiliating episode spoil her pleasure at being home. Consciously recalling the incident allowed raven hair and earthy dark eyes to once more dominate her thoughts, but only momentarily before she determinedly banished them.
Luke Trelawney disturbed her by fascinating her far too much. But he had now gone and she would never again see him or his brother Ross. The strange bittersweet pang tightening her chest at that certainty made her fingers instinctively seek the large silver locket she wore. She could feel its warm, solid shape beneath her cotton dress. Her fingers smoothed its oval silhouette as she held on to the dear memory of David, her mourned fiancé.
‘I knew you’d be wanting some lemonade. I made that fresh this morning.’ Martha broke into her wistful reverie, arms crossing contentedly as she watched the two young women draining their tumblers. ‘I knew you’d be along and hot and thirsty,’ she emphasised with a wag of the head. ‘Mind you,’ she cautioned, rolling her sleeves back to her elbows before expertly pummelling the dough on the table. ‘Mind you…’ she repeated for good measure ‘…Gregory reckons that rain is on the way at last and you know he’s rarely wrong.’ Her head bobbed again as deft hands rolled the pastry into a ball. ‘His legs have been playing up bad again…a sure sign o’ wet on the way…biscuits are nearly done,’ she tacked incongrously on the end. ‘I can smell them coming along nicely.’ She smiled at Lucy. ‘I reckon a healthy young lady like you can polish off quite a few before her dinner.’
Lucy nodded, settling expectantly back into her chair like a biddable child. Watching her, Rebecca wondered how she could veer so rapidly between wanton sophistication and childlike innocence. But if what Gregory predicted was true and rain was on its way, she had pressing matters to attend to. She replaced her tumbler on the table.
‘Has John fixed the roof while I’ve been away, Martha?’ she enquired anxiously, remembering Robin Ramsden’s promise that he would send his young carpenter to repair some summer storm damage.
‘No…we’ve seen not hide nor hair of that young man. Gregory was going to attempt it hisself…but his affliction in the knees meant he could barely rise up three rungs of the ladder.’
‘Is Lord Ramsden returned yet from Bath?’ Rebecca quickly interrogated.
‘Well, he wasn’t at the manor five days ago when Gregory fetched the provisions but Miles was expecting him at any time. I reckon he must be at home now. If you chase that John up he’ll be over and fix that roof quick as can be before his lordship finds out he’s been idling again while he was away.’
‘How many staff remain?’ Luke asked the sombrely dressed elderly man standing stiff and quiet behind him, as he idly surveyed the weed-strewn gravel driveway. The chippings were piled high at the perimeter of the circular carriage sweep, testament to how long it had been since it was tended or raked. Numerous coach wheels were quite visibly imprinted in the dusty grit.
Both dark hands