Anne Herries Read online

  ‘Maria! I am ashamed of you,’ said Rosalyn with a look of mild reproof. ‘Do not be a snob, dearest. Mr Wrexham is a very agreeable gentleman, and I am sure Jared will also be perfectly acceptable. Besides, I promised Lady Orford I would help introduce her tenants to the neighbourhood.’

  ‘Oh, well, if you think…’ Maria gave a little sigh of resignation. She had learned long ago that it was useless to expect Rosalyn to abide by her own very strict code of the behaviour proper to a lady. And she was only too aware that she was here because Rosalyn was too generous to turn her out. ‘Of course it is not for me to object. I am here only as your guest. You must do exactly as you wish.’

  Rosalyn ignored the opening.

  ‘I am sure you will enjoy yourself, Maria. Besides, I did promise Lady Orford. You would not want me to break my word?’ Maria silently shook her head. ‘I am sure they are very respectable people. Lord Orford would not otherwise have let them the house.’

  ‘No, of course not. You do very right to chide me, Rosalyn. I fear I am a foolish woman and I dare say I wear your patience to the limit.’

  ‘I know that you act always out of affection and concern for me.’ Rosalyn bestowed a careless kiss on her cheek. Despite Maria’s unfortunate ways, she was quite fond of her cousin and was at some pains not to hurt her by speaking too sharply. ‘Shall we have nuncheon, Maria? The walk has given me an appetite.’

  It was late, past eleven. Rosalyn heard the long-case clock in the hall strike the hour and yawned over her book. Maria had gone to bed nearly an hour earlier, but she had stayed on to finish the last chapter. However, the ending had proved only too predictable, and she laid the book aside with a sigh of disappointment.

  Sometimes…just now and then…she found her life a little tedious. Rosalyn was very attached to her home, a rambling old house, often draughty in the winter and filled with the clutter of years, but she was occasionally lonely. It was her own fault, of course. Aunt Susan had asked her to live with her in Bath, and Freddie would have welcomed her if she had taken up his offer to visit him at his London house. However, neither of the two alternatives would have suited her independent nature.

  At Lyston House, she was her own mistress, free to come and go much as she pleased—to ride about the countryside unaccompanied, to walk bareheaded and visit only with the friends she had known and liked all her life.

  She found society as it was lived in London and Bath a little too confining, too narrow. Rosalyn had a quick wit and rebellious spirit, both of which had been shamelessly encouraged by her father. While Sir Robert Eastleigh lived, his daughter had never known a moment’s boredom. They had been friends and constant companions, delighting in each other’s presence.

  Oh, she did miss him so!

  Tears stung her eyes as she recalled the last few weeks of her father’s life. After having been revoltingly healthy for as long as she could remember, he had succumbed suddenly to a debilitating illness, which had left him bedridden. He had hated every moment he was forced to spend lying there, a prisoner of his failing body, and lost his temper with everyone who came near him—everyone except Rosalyn. Only she had been able to placate him, to make him smile at his misfortunes.

  During those final weeks, they had drawn even closer. Rosalyn had been devastated by his death, and was not truly over it even now. All her family had tried to persuade her to go into society more now that she was free to do so, but she knew that she would never find a replacement for her beloved father amongst the gentlemen who frequented the drawing rooms of Bath and London. Sir Robert had been essentially a countryman, a huge man in both form and character with a bluff, good-natured manner…more alive and honest than most others she had met.

  It was odd, she thought, as she got up and wandered over to the window to look out at the moonlit night, but Mr Wrexham had reminded her a little of her father. No, that was wrong. She shook her head as she stood staring at the gardens, turned to silver now and more lovely than ever. They were not alike…except perhaps in their manner of speaking. Sir Robert had called himself a blunt man…too blunt for many, which was why he seldom went into society himself. Rosalyn had inherited many of her father’s qualities, though perhaps plain speaking was not always considered a quality but rather a fault.

  Her reverie came to an abrupt halt as she saw a shadowy figure lurking in the shrubbery. Someone was there! A man…at least, she was almost sure it was a man. Rosalyn felt a shiver of apprehension run down her spine. None of her own servants would be in the gardens so late. Besides, why would they need to hide in the bushes?

  Suddenly, she heard a familiar barking. Sheba came running out of the shrubbery and a person followed…not a man’s figure, much smaller…a youth of perhaps twelve or thirteen years. He ran after the dog, calling to her in a strange-sounding tongue. Because of the moonlight, Rosalyn was able to see the young man quite clearly. He was wearing a turban and his clothes were odd…Indian! Yes, of course, that was what they must be. He was the pupil Mr Wrexham had spoken of earlier.

  He had caught up with Sheba. The dog stopped, its tongue hanging out, sitting back on its haunches and allowing the youth to stroke its fur. Rosalyn watched, smiling to herself as she saw the way her dog covered the youth’s face in enthusiastic licks. She wondered whether she ought to go out to them. The young Indian lad was surely too young to be out at this late hour? What could Mr Wrexham be thinking of to allow it?

  Her hand was reaching for the window latch when she saw another figure emerge from the shadows. A man this time, also dressed in those rather odd-looking clothes. He darted at the youth and had almost caught hold of him when he seemed to become aware of the intention. He gave a shrill scream, obviously startled by the sudden interruption of his play. Seeing the way he shrank back, Rosalyn unlocked the French windows, determined to investigate further.

  At that moment two things happened simultaneously. The man glanced towards her and Sheba sprang at him. Rosalyn could never afterwards be sure whether the shock on his face was due to seeing her or to her dog’s attack. He gave a cry of pain, clutching at his arm where Sheba had bitten him, then retreated a few steps. He was saying something in his own tongue, something addressed to the youth. Whatever it was made the lad shake his head and look fearful.

  ‘Sheba, no!’ Rosalyn called as she saw the fur rising on Sheba’s back. The bitch clearly sensed menace towards her new-found friend and was prepared to defend him with her life. ‘Who are you, sir? What are you doing in my garden at this hour?’

  Her question was addressed to the man. He stared at her for a moment, clearly undecided what to do next. She believed he understood her. Something in his manner told her that, though he continued to speak to the boy in his own language.

  Rosalyn had reached the boy and dog. She placed a restraining hand on Sheba’s collar, standing so that she was between the youth and the man. She raised her head, defying him to attack the young man again.

  ‘Please explain yourself, sir. What are you doing here—and why is this youth afraid of you?’

  He stared at her in silence a moment more, then turned and pushed his way into the shrubbery. She could hear the sounds of his retreat, twigs snapping, leaves rustling. He had obviously been angered by her interference.

  ‘He will not come back now,’ the youth said behind her as the sounds died away. He spoke in English, his voice cultured but with a slightly foreign accent. ‘You and the dog have saved me, mem-sahib.’

  Sheba was still growling low in her throat. Rosalyn could not recall her ever having attacked anyone before. She rubbed her fingers at the back of Sheba’s ears, shushing her.

  ‘Who was that man?’ she asked of the youth. ‘Why were you afraid of him?’

  ‘I am not afraid of him,’ the lad replied proudly. ‘I was merely displeased that he had followed me. I am not afraid of anyone.’

  ‘I see…’ Rosalyn hid her smile. He was certainly a very proud young man. She glanced down as Sheba stiffened, then barked. ‘Be
quiet, Sheba. You will wake the household.’

  ‘Is she your dog?’ The youth looked eagerly at Rosalyn. ‘She followed Sahib Wrexham home this morning. He said she belonged to Miss Eastleigh, our neighbour, and sent her away—but she came back and I saw her in the gardens when I could not sleep. She ran this way and I followed her. I am sorry if I disturbed you, but I wanted to be sure she found her way home.’

  The youth’s voice had a high, sing-song quality, but his command of the English language was perfect, which it would be, of course, if he had an English mother.

  ‘You must be Jared, I think? Mr Wrexham told me you were his pupil.’

  The youth seemed to hesitate, then nodded. ‘Yes, mem-sahib. I am Jared and Sahib Wrexham is my…I am not sure how to say it. Is the word tutor or teacher?’

  ‘In Mr Wrexham’s case, I should think tutor would be best,’ Rosalyn said with a faint smile, ‘since I do not imagine he teaches you the usual lessons, does he?’

  ‘What are the usual lessons?’

  ‘Oh, reading, writing, arithmetic…’

  ‘I can do all those,’ Jared replied, a hint of pride in his face. ‘Mama taught me to read when I was a small child.’

  ‘How old are you now?’

  ‘Fourteen and three months, mem-sahib.’

  Older than she had thought, but slight for his age. Rosalyn hid her smile. Jared was clearly very conscious of his dignity. He certainly had exquisite manners—manners that would be acceptable in any society. She thought it unlikely he needed to be taught English ways, even if it was his father’s intention to send him to a public school in England. So what was the real reason they had taken a house tucked away in the Cambridgeshire countryside?

  Rosalyn remembered that she had thought Mr Wrexham a very unlikely teacher. What was his true function—was he meant to be guarding the youth? And why had the man with the dark, resentful eyes tried to grab hold of Jared?

  She gave him a meaningful look. ‘Does Mr Wrexham know you are wandering about the countryside at this hour, Jared?’

  ‘No, mem-sahib.’ His expression became uneasy, anxious. ‘Will you tell him tomorrow when you come to the house?’

  ‘I do not think that will be necessary, do you?’

  ‘He would be angry with me.’

  ‘I think he would be very worried.’ Rosalyn frowned. ‘Who was that man just now? You were a little afraid of him, weren’t you?’

  ‘He would not harm me.’ There was a scornful look in Jared’s eyes. ‘He would not dare. My father would punish him if he tried—but I do not like Rajib. Sometimes he looks at me so strangely…as if he hates me. I know he never liked my mother. So I do not like him, but I am not afraid.’

  The boy lifted his head, a defiant air about him.

  ‘You should speak to Mr Wrexham. Perhaps if he knew you do not like Rajib he would send him away.’

  ‘Rajib is my servant.’ Again there was a hint of hauteur in the youth’s manner. ‘I may send him away if I choose—but then Nessa would have no one to share her duties. She is old and it would be too much for her.’

  ‘Who is Nessa?’

  ‘She is my ayah. She was also my mother’s friend and looked after her before she died.’

  Rosalyn saw a suspicion of tears in his eyes. He was clearly still grieving for his mother.

  ‘When did your mother die, Jared?’

  ‘Last year.’ He blinked hard but did not let the tears fall. ‘Everything was better when she was alive—now it has all changed. I am no longer wanted in my father’s house.’

  ‘What do you mean?’ Rosalyn’s compassion was aroused by the hurt tone of his voice. ‘That is a very odd thing to say. What makes you think your father does not want you?’

  The youth’s expression changed, as if a shutter had closed on his thoughts and emotions. ‘I am not allowed to talk about that,’ he said. ‘I should go back now.’

  ‘Will you let me walk with you?’

  ‘I can go alone. There is nothing to fear.’

  He was so proud, so dignified. Rosalyn’s heart went out to him.

  ‘I am sure you are right,’ she agreed. ‘But why do you not take Sheba with you? You can hold her collar as I am now. She knows her way…and you might get lost alone. If you let her go when you reach the house, she will come back when she is ready.’

  ‘You are kind, mem-sahib,’ he said, smiling suddenly. His teeth were very white and even against the dusk of his skin. ‘I like you. I am glad Sahib Wrexham asked you to visit us. I shall take Sheba with me—but only because I am not sure of the way.’

  ‘Of course.’

  Rosalyn hid her smile. She watched as the boy set off, a tight hold on Sheba’s collar. He turned his head to look at her; she waved, then went back inside the house and locked the French windows.

  Damian Wrexham watched from the shadows of the shrubbery, a frown on his face. He had not been close enough to hear what Jared had said to her. It was a deuced nuisance that they should have met in such unfortunate circumstances. He could only hope that nothing had been said or done to arouse her suspicions. Miss Eastleigh was an intelligent woman—an unusual woman.

  If she took it on herself to interfere…it could ruin his plans. And that could prove dangerous for them all.

  Rosalyn was yawning over her needlework when Maria came into the parlour the next morning. She had spent a restless night, dreaming of menacing men hiding in the bushes—and Mr Wrexham. She could not recall just what she had dreamt, but she knew it had caused her to start up in alarm.

  ‘Two letters for you,’ Maria said, handing them to her. ‘From Freddie and Mrs Buckley.’

  ‘Aunt Susan?’ Rosalyn was surprised. ‘She wrote only last week. I wonder what…’ She gave a cry of surprise as she broke open the wax seal and began to read. ‘Oh, the poor child!’

  ‘Is something wrong, dearest?’ asked Maria. She seldom received letters of her own and looked forward eagerly to hearing Rosalyn’s news. Rosalyn obliged her by giving her a resume of the letter.

  ‘Cousin Celia’s daughter has been ill with scarlet fever. She is over it now, according to Aunt Susan, but still poorly. Her doctor advises complete rest for at least several weeks. My aunt wonders if we could have her here for a while…’ Rosalyn glanced at her cousin. ‘You would not object to that, Maria?’

  ‘I should hope I am not so heartless,’ replied Maria, slightly wounded that Rosalyn should even think it. ‘Write at once and say we should be happy to have the poor little lamb. You know how I love the dear children, not that I have met your Cousin Celia’s little ones as yet.’

  ‘I do not know what she is like now—her illness may have changed her—but when we last met, Sarah Jane was a horror,’ said Rosalyn. ‘All Celia’s children are—to say the least of it!—over-exuberant.’

  ‘Rosalyn!’ Maria chided gently. ‘What a thing to say about the little darlings. Of course, I know you are only teasing, the way you do sometimes—but you really ought not, my love.’

  ‘I can assure you there is nothing amusing about being at the mercy of Celia’s offspring. She has no notion of discipline—which is one of the reasons I do not choose to live with Aunt Susan. Celia and the monsters visit her far too frequently.’ Rosalyn pulled a wry face. ‘I cannot promise you it will be a pleasure to have Sarah Jane staying. Indeed, it may be quite the opposite, but I fear we must endure it. We can only brace ourselves for the ordeal and hope her stay will not last too long.’

  ‘Rosalyn dearest!’ Maria was truly shocked. She had never quite accustomed herself to her cousin’s plain speaking, and could never be sure if Rosalyn was funning or not. ‘I see what it is. You’ve worn yourself out with that mending. I’ve told you before, there is not the least need for you to trouble yourself. I can very well…’

  Rosalyn slipped her brother’s letter into her pocket. For some unaccountable reason she was restless, and her head ached.

  ‘Are you going out?’ asked Maria as she stood up.

 
‘I have a little headache. I think I shall take a walk.’

  ‘Yes, that is a very good idea,’ said Maria. ‘Leave that mending for me. It is always a pleasure for me to do those irritating little tasks for you.’

  ‘You spoil me, cousin. I do not deserve it.’ Rosalyn shook her head at Maria’s protest. ‘I may not be back for nuncheon. Do not wait for me, Maria.’

  ‘Do not tire yourself, my love. Remember, we are invited out this evening—though to be sure, I should not mind if we did not go.’

  Rosalyn was no longer listening. She took a warm shawl from the hall-stand, wrapping it about her shoulders as she went out into the back garden.

  What on earth was the matter with her? She was surely not so selfish that she resented the idea of having her cousin’s sick child to stay? No, no, it was not that; it would make little difference to her own life since Celia was sure to send the nursery maid. It was this strange restlessness that was making her have a fit of the sullens…the same feeling that had disturbed her sleep the previous night.

  Her thoughts took an abrupt turn as Sheba suddenly jumped at her from behind, almost sending her flying.

  ‘Heel! You stupid dog. Have you no sense?’ The man’s voice sent a shock of recognition through her. Rosalyn swung round to find herself face to face with her new neighbour. ‘Forgive me, Miss Eastleigh,’ he apologised. ‘I was returning this wretched animal to you. She pulled at the leash when she saw you and I foolishly let her go. Are you hurt?’

  ‘No, not really.’ Rosalyn smiled, her spirits lifting insensibly. ‘I am used to her ways. It was not your fault. She does this all the time.’ She shook her head at the dog, who was playfully jumping about her, pulling at her shawl. ‘Sheba! Bad girl. Sit!’

  To her utter amazement, Sheba immediately sat, head up, tail wagging, alert and ready.

  ‘Good gracious! She actually obeyed me. Did you teach her to do that, Mr Wrexham?’