The Reclusive Aristocrat -Part Two

Chapter One (continued)

When the strong, warm hands were taken from her marble-cold flesh, Rowena moaned in protest. She wrenched her eyes open, only to see the back of a tall, dark-haired man disappearing from her sight. An elderly, motherly looking woman with a shock of white curls escaping from under her mop cap immediately replaced him.

“Oh, me dear little duck,” she crooned, “Wha’ were ye doin’ out on a hellish day like today? And you wi’ child and all! Come, me pet, let’s get you cleaned up and fed.”

With an effort, Rowena shifted in the bath. The warm caress of the rose-scented water was a heavenly soothing balm to her body. She was so incredibly cold. Her fingers and toes were numb but they were starting to tingle. It was a bit painful, but Rowena welcomed the feeling; it meant that she would soon be warm again.

“Where am I?” Her voice was hoarse, and her throat ached. Her head was throbbing, and her stomach, empty as it was, gave a loud rumble. In an impulse, she felt for her swollen belly; the child moved, and she was reassured.

“You’re at Ketteridge House, dearie. I’m Mrs Hall, the cook, and this is Trixie, the maid. The master and Mr Porter found you on the driveway, a little while back. What’s yer name? Where d’ye come from?”

Rowena did not truly want to reveal anything. There was no need to explain why she had been chased from her home by her half-brother, once he found out she was with child. The child she and Peter created just before he went to the continent to fight Napoleon. Peter … her betrothed, her love. The man to whom Rowena had given her heart and her body, and who had been killed at Waterloo on the eighteenth of June 1815. How she remembered every detail of Peter’s handsome face with his blue eyes smiling happily down on her, seconds before he rode off to London where his regiment waited to board ship. He had been a captain in the Yorkshire Regiment, a predictable career for a third son to the Earl of Carlisle.

Suddenly realising that Mrs Hall was waiting for an answer, Rowena began to rise from the bath. “I should not impose on your hospitality longer than strictly necessary,” she said. “Please give me my clothes, and I will be on my way as soon as possible.”

“Pish and nonsense!” Mrs Hall exclaimed, and Trixie chimed in, “Ma’am, it’s a pitch dark night outside! The snowstorm’s still raging, where’d ye go from ‘ere?”

“Yes,” Mrs Hall clucked, “come on, dearie, let’s get ye into bed. I’ll bring up yer supper soon.”

“Thank you, Mrs Hall,” Rowena replied. “Yet I will not retire for the night until I have thanked my host for his kind hospitality. If you could ask Trixie to restore my dress into some shred of decency, I would be very grateful.”

Trixie and Mrs Hall shared a look of surprise but they did not object. The little maid took Rowena’s sodden dress and left the room. Mrs Hall curtsied and did the same. Rowena was glad that she still seemed to have retained a bit of authority, even though she was no longer looking like a lady.

 

Alex was lounging in his favourite chair in front of the fire in his library, cradling a tumbler of whisky. It was one of his father’s last bottles, and he was very careful to make it last as long as possible, and not to indulge too often in the fine Lagavulin.

“How is our guest, Porter?”

The batman was about to leave but turned at the quiet sound of his master’s voice.

“Don’t know, major. Left ‘er te Mrs Hall an’ Trixie.”

“Yes, I know, but that was not what I meant. How is she? What does she look like?”

Porter scratched hid balding head, unsure how to respond. What did he know about women, anyway? “She’s pretty, I suppose. Got long dark hair, wavin’ like. Dark eyes, too. She’s short, and thin, way too thin, as if she hasn’t had enough to eat for some time.”

“How did she get here, do you think? And why, more importantly, is she travelling without her husband?”

“I don’ like it, major, I tell ye! She’s trouble. I can feel it in me bones.”

“Yes, well … we shall see on the morrow. Go and enjoy your supper, Porter.”

“Ta, major. Ring if ye’re wantin’ me te assist ye later.”

 

Never had Alexander Raventhorpe been meant to take up the reins of his father’s estate. He was a second son, a spare to his elder brother Reginald, who had been the fourth earl of Ketteridge for ten years after their father passed away in November 1804. Reggie had been groomed from an early age into becoming the heir his father longed for. He had succeeded only partially, since he had never married despite the old earl’s frequent attempts to shackle him to a demure little society miss.

Only recently, Alex had found out why Reggie had always fought off female company; his brother had told him in a letter just a few weeks before he died of an apoplexy. The letter had reached Alex on the eve of the battle, and he would always remember the sorrow it brought, because included in the dispatch had been his solicitor’s announcement of Reggie’s death. Reggie’s letter explained that he had always preferred the company of men over women, so it was up to Alex to provide an heir, or so his brother had written. Alex doubted that would ever happen now, damaged as he was.

Somehow, Alex mused, he had always suspected something with Reggie was different.

Since his brother had become the new earl, there had always been house parties at Ketteridge with lots of young, handsome society bucks, and very few women. Yet it was not until he was in the army that Alex had truly understood what was so different with his brother. Alex had encountered many of such men in the regiment. They had been careful not to show their preferences, because that would mean cashiering out, and a scandal attached to their names. Alex had never acted upon what he learned to notice, once in a while, when such men formed secret relationships, despite the danger of discovery and ruin. How could he when his own brother was one of them?

The door to the library clicked open, effectively dragging him out of his brooding. A soft but cultivated, female voice caressed his ears.

“Forgive me for disturbing you, sir, but I wanted to know whom I am indebted to. I hear that it is you I have to thank for rescuing me from the storm. I am most thoroughly obliged to you, sir.”

Rising from his chair, Alex slowly walked toward the sound and bowed. “You are welcome, madam. Please be so kind as to tell me who you are.”

He could instantly feel her hesitation in answering his very reasonable question. He decided to adopt a quiet manner and not press his unexpected guest into revealing her identity.

“If you are in some kind of predicament, madam, please know that you can stay at Ketteridge House as my guest, until you deem it safe to continue your journey. I am Alexander Raventhorpe, fifth earl of Ketteridge, at your service.”

Alex heard her sharp intake of breath, and her skirts rustled as she made her curtsy. “Forgive me, my lord. I was unaware of the nature of your station. My name is Rowena Drake, and I was on my way to London, to seek employment as a governess.”

“A governess? Are you a widow, madam? Perhaps you are in reduced circumstances, so that you need to earn your living? You must certainly know how difficult it will be to find employment in your present condition.”

Silence, again. Alex heard her shallow rapid breathing, indicating that she was nervous. He extended a hand, and softly said, “Come, madam. We need not stand here. We can talk before the fire. I trust Mrs Hall has given you supper?”

“Yes, my lord, and a very fine supper it was. Thank you again for your hospitality.”

She grasped his hand, and a sudden spark flitted up his arm. Neither of them were wearing gloves. Her warmth attacked Alex’ senses as her soft skin touched his own calloused soldier’s hand. A delicate flowery scent caressed his nostrils. Lily-of-the-valley; a particularly expensive brand, he knew. Simultaneously, her badly suppressed gasp indicated that she was affected in exactly the same way. Fighting the sensation, he led her to the fireplace and made her sit down in an armchair opposite the one he had occupied before.

“Now,” he said in a level voice, “I have the distinct impression that you are in need of help. You must admit that it is highly unusual for a woman in your condition to be travelling without her husband. I do not seek to pry into your personal life, madam, but as a former soldier, I feel responsible for any person on my estate, be they someone who lives here or be they a guest. I beg you to tell me what brought you here.”

Rowena was still reeling from the incredibly unfamiliar sensations she had experienced moments before. She had never, ever known that kind of – she struggled to find the exact words – bewitching attraction towards a man, not even towards Peter whom she had been very much in love with. She knew passion, of course. Her short lived romance with Peter had been wonderful and truly satisfactory. A quick, almost fleeting burst of pleasure which – at the time – had made her long for more. They had not been together many times; Peter had many obligations that required his attention. All in all, their encounters had been short but passionate. It had been just her bad luck to become pregnant after so short a time.

At present, here Rowena was, experiencing sparkling sensations when this complete stranger touched her. This tall, dark and extremely handsome earl, with his military bearing and blind eyes, almost certainly a wound sustained in battle.

She studied him with avid interest, as he let down his long body into a chair opposite hers, and adopted a pose of elegant nonchalance. He could not see her, which was an unexpected advantage. She reckoned that, given the way the top of her head had barely reached his collarbone, he must have the better of her in at least five inches. Broad shoulders topped a lean, yet muscled frame. That much she had learned when he had effortlessly lifted her in his arms.

His features were all male hardness, strength, and sculptured authority. A broad brow, eyes the colour of a winter sky, a long, patrician nose and thin, unyielding lips. Raven locks, a trifle too long yet wavy, brushed his coat collar becomingly. He was not just handsome, but also devastatingly beautiful.

Rowena knew she could not, would not give in to the attraction she had just experienced when she touched Alexander Raventhorpe. Not when she could not read those beautiful blind eyes of his. His blindness had been a surprise to Rowena, and one she realised must mean agony to a man so proud and strong.

This man was like no one Rowena had known before; a member of the peerage. Yet there was another side to him. A side that was unpredictable.  She did not understand how she knew that, but there it was. She could not possibly reveal who she was; as an earl, Raventhorpe had the authority to send her back to Roderick, and that was the last thing Rowena wanted.  So she wisely opted to distract Raventhorpe and changed the subject. “You are blind, my lord?”

The short question took Alex unawares. He blinked, swallowed, then grunted, “Yes.”

“What caused it?”

“An injury at Waterloo. And I am not entirely blind, merely visually impaired.”

“Enough to see me when I was … improperly dressed?”

“No, madam, not at all!” He flinched at his own, sudden curtness but he felt it extremely important that she should know he had been unable to see her distinctly. When he continued, he made his tone a bit more placating.

“I can see the difference between light and darkness, and I am able to see movement. I can see bright colours but I cannot make out forms. For instance, I cannot see the difference between your dark dress and the seat in which you are sitting. I know the seat is dark brown leather, so I am assuming that your dress is also dark brown.”

Alex drew in a much needed breath because he could still sense her mistrust of him.

“I know your hair must be dark, too, because of the difference between it and your pale skin. I cannot make out your features, nor your figure. If Porter had not accompanied me, I would not have seen you in that hellish snowstorm. The snowflakes completely blurred my vision.”

“But it was you who carried me inside, and it was equally you who lowered me into that bathtub. Why?”

Irritated beyond the usual, Alex raked a hand through his hair. “I told you, madam. I am a former soldier, and I was born a gentleman. Two reasons why it is my duty to protect those who are in danger. You were in danger of freezing to death, so I carried you to safety as quickly as possible.”

“Yet you – a gentleman – touched me where it is in no way permitted; you laid a hand on me. That, sir, is not the way of a gentleman at all!”

To her utter surprise, Rowena saw an expression cross his handsome face that made her heart clench. His unseeing blue-grey eyes suddenly grew moist. He blinked, and struggled to regain his composure. What was this? Had he been a father, once? Had he lost a child, maybe? Rowena was considering apologizing, but his face instantly was the usual imperturbable mask yet again.

“I apologize if I inadvertently caused you offence, madam,” Alex stated as calmly as he could, yet inwardly, he was seething. Rowena Drake proved a woman of low breeding to speak so bluntly to him, and it irked him that he had misread her. But so it was; she had offended him by pointing out that he had touched her in a way he should not have.

He turned his face away from her undoubtedly scrutinizing gaze. “I think it best if you retire, madam. A woman in your condition needs her rest.”

Rowena knew when she was being dismissed, but she would not go meekly.

“My lord, pregnancy is not an illness. You should not stress the word ‘condition’ so when you refer to it. Goodnight, my lord, and thank you yet again for your hospitality.”

Rowena made a point of striding away with her head held high, even though she knew the earl of Ketteridge was unable to see it.

The Reclusive Aristocrat – Part One

Chapter One

 

Ketteridge, Leicestershire, England, December 1, 1815

 

She was going to die of sheer exposure. She was exhausted. Her limbs were shaking with the effort of simply putting one foot before the other. Her heart was pounding with exertion and weariness, but Rowena Drake doggedly kept trampling through the deserted copse. She had planned to escape the sting of the heavy snowstorm by leaving the road to find shelter in the undergrowth. The springy trees gave little protection, as they were now bare. The early winter dusk was quickly settling, and Rowena was desperate to find somewhere to spend the night. Hopefully, somewhere warm and dry.

Two weeks before, winter had caught the English Midlands by surprise. After a fortnight of dry, frosty nights and open, sunny days, the temperature had suddenly dropped. The wind had turned north and gained strength. It had brought packs of heavy, black clouds, pregnant with snow, which now flogged the empty fields and pastures. The wind blew between the cottages of small villages with a banshee’s howl.

As she trampled on through the hellish weather, weariness and hunger were beginning to take their toll on Rowena, but her journey had not nearly come to an end. Some days ago, she had left her home, Daveston Hall in Cumberland.  Rowena’s half-brother Roderick had become the next baronet after their father died, earlier that year. His estate was situated twelve miles west of Carlisle, and Rowena had covered them on foot, dragging her heavy portmanteau behind her. In Carlisle, she had spent the night in the cathedral, terrified that she should meet any of her acquaintances, if she put up at an inn. Her shame would be known all too soon.

The next couple of days, she had walked over the main road from Carlisle to Lancaster, sleeping in barns and even in the roadside undergrowth. She had not enough money to sleep at an inn every night. In Lancaster, she found a small inn and asked for a room. She needed to clean herself up and have a good meal for the first time in days. The landlady eyed her suspiciously. The woman clearly could not fathom why a lady would travel without a husband, a brother or a father. Rowena had none of these male protectors to help her.

She had been underway on the stage coach from Lancaster to London for several long, uncomfortable hours, but her meagre coins had not lasted very long. When the coach had deposited her on the side of the road just past Tamworth, she had again continued on foot. She was at a loss as to how she was to reach London without money or food, for that matter. Rowena could not even recall the last time she had a meal. It was seven or eight days, maybe, since she had left her childhood home. There had been no more money for food. How low she had fallen, and in so short a time.

Now Rowena kept putting one foot in front of the other, stubbornly ignoring her fatigue and her gnawing hunger. She had not the slightest inkling where she was, and there was no way of orientating oneself, as the snow was now a curtain shielding everything within a few feet from Rowena’s view. Where was the road? When had she lost sight of it? Her foot suddenly caught in a rabbit hole, and she landed on her knees, her outstretched hands keeping her from falling flat on her face.

For a few moments, the lure of giving up was almost overwhelming. She was already numb with exhaustion. She read somewhere once that death from hypothermia was merciful, even blissful. One would just slowly but inexorably fall asleep, never to wake again. Rowena could feel herself drifting away at that very moment … No! No, she must go onward!

Fighting against the wind’s slashing stings, Rowena struggled to her feet and trudged on. She must be soaked to the bone, she thought. Her woollen cloak was drenched, as were her gown, undergarments, stockings and half-boots. Her hands in their sodden leather gloves had long lost all feeling. Sometime ago, she had lost her bonnet, and her hair hung in sodden strands around her face. She had lost her portmanteau long ago.

Eventually, Rowena realised she was going to perish in this white hell. She staggered on, each step more faltering than the one before. No, she would not give up. If she was to die here and now, she was going to die on her feet. She was the Baronet of Daveston’s daughter and she would hold on to her gentle upbringing. It was the only relic she had left of her family.

Then, all of a sudden, there was a light ahead. She blinked against the millions of snowflakes blurring her vision, welcoming the warm yellow glow with immense relief. Rowena waved her arms, shouting against the raging wind. “Help me! Help me, for the love of God!”

 

“Major, there is someone there! Ahead of us …”, James Porter yelled.

The deep, powerful voice of his master, clearly audible against the howling wind, answered in return. “Who goes there?”

“Help me! Please, help me!”

A woman. Some blasted female had managed to go astray on a day like this, and in this hellish weather. “Stay where you are! We are almost with you!”

Major Alexander Raventhorpe, fifth earl of Ketteridge, bridged the gap between him and the woman in three long strides, ignoring the protest of his batman Porter. A second later, he caught her in his outstretched arms. There. He could not have ignored that blasted protecting streak in him, if it killed him. Too many years of playing the soldier had stamped it in. First defend, then protect. If necessary, attack. Yes, that as well.

She was very light, his mind registered. Slender and feather-light. And she seemed to have gone limp in his arms. Her hair, even wet and cold as it was, suddenly caught in the stubble on his chin.

“We must get her indoors!” Alex shouted at Porter. He swept the woman up and waited for his batman to guide him towards the house, which he knew was not far.

“Aye, major!” Porter yelled back and took a firm hold of his master’s arm. “This way!”

Alex Raventhorpe was as good as blind. His eyesight had been seriously damaged by an injury to the head on the battlefield at Waterloo, in June of that same year. He knew the difference between light and dark, could see movements, provided they were not too fast. Occasionally, he could make out forms when they had bright colours. Faces were a blur, but he could fairly judge people’s moods by the tone of their voices. His hearing had considerably improved, since that June day, when he had become an invalid.

They reached the house and entered through the scullery door at the back. Alex lost no time but hailed his cook, who most certainly had to be busy in her kitchen.

“Quickly, Mrs Hall! We need some help with this young woman. She was in the driveway. Can you install her in one of the downstairs bedrooms?”

He saw a flash of her white apron, when Mrs Hall came bustling toward him. “Oh, my goodness, my lord! We ain’t putin’ ‘er in a servant’s room, for sure! This ‘ere is a lady, judgin’ by the quality of ‘er cloak. Mr Porter, take over from ‘is Lordship and put ‘er in the blue room. The bed in there is made. Trixie ‘ll light the fire in no time.”

It was taken out of Alex’ hands in the blink of an eye. Soon he was alone in the kitchen, with the sounds of hasty footsteps disappearing through the servants’ corridor and up the stairs. A lady, then. That definitively needed some enlightenment.

Alex shed his wet coat and hung it on a peg in the scullery. He had not many servants left at Ketteridge House, his country estate. He was the earl of Ketteridge but he hung away his own coat. The estate was in dire financial straits, and Alex had only recently regained most of his former strength. He was struggling to manage his derelict estate with the money from his war time winnings, which fortunately were ample enough. Investing his money in successful businesses had been easy, yet trying to revive his estate and make it prosper again proved a lot harder. He was in dire need of a steward but he had little chance of hiring such a man when he was unable to go to London. There were many matters that Alex could leave to Porter, but searching for a steward was not one of them. With a mental shrug, Alex put his troubles aside and climbed the servants’ stairs, determined to deal with the new problem at hand; the young woman he found in his driveway.

 

On the first floor in Mrs Hall’s “blue bedroom”, he heard his erstwhile cook give orders to Trixie, concern ringing in her voice.

“Easy there, Trixie. Lord, she’s so cold, poor mite, and so thin! We must wash her after we’ve removed those wet things. ‘Ere now, pour those buckets into the tub. Mr Porter said he’ll bring some more soon. You take ‘er by her feet and I’ll take ‘er under the arms.”

Alex stepped inside, careful to stay by the door. He knew Mrs Hall must have put the folding screen in front of the hearth, and he was not as familiar with this room as he was with his own.

“Are you in need of help, Mrs Hall?” he asked, but the cook instantly replied in a panic-stricken voice, “No, no, my lord, stay where ye’ are! It ain’t proper fer ye to even be ‘ere!”

“Mrs Hall, it cannot be improper since I cannot see the lady. Can you manage lowering her into the tub?”

“Well … she’s thin but Trixie an’ me are ‘avin’ a bit of trouble liftin’ her in ‘er present condition, my lord.”

Alex stiffened. “And what condition might that be, Mrs Hall?”

“She’s expectin’, my lord. She’s at least five months gone but she looks healthy enough.”

Wonderful. A pregnant woman, probably a married lady, had landed on his doorstep in the middle of winter. That could only mean trouble and mayhem. Would he now have to deal with an irate husband, too? He inwardly cursed at the notion that his hard-won peace was certain to be shattered in the days to come. He had to get her away from Ketteridge House as soon as possible, damn it all!

In an impulse, he ignored the cook’s startled cry of warning and crossed over to the bed, a white rectangle with blurred contours. He put out his hands until they encountered the figure of the woman. Soft, round flesh, unexpectedly bare and vibrantly feminine. Damnation! Mrs Hall must have already removed her clothes. She was so cold … God! What if she would expire here, in his house?

“Sir, she’s …”

“Yes, I know, Mrs Hall. Let me get this over with, so that you can tend to her as quickly as possible.”

Alex slid his hands under the woman’s limp body, lifted it and settled it in his arms. She was light as a new born kitten, her body slender and delicate. Her dark head fell against his shoulder, causing her floral fragrance to assault his senses. His own body – damnation! – reacted in a most improper but violent way. By Jove, he had no need for this, right now! Knowing how long he had been without a woman’s touch, he should have listened to sane, solid reason, instead of indulging in foolish gallantry. Yet he could not ignore how lovely it felt just to hold a woman in his arms once again.

He let her down into the tub, relieved because at that same moment Porter entered with more hot water, which distracted the two women. Mrs Hall would soon take over, he knew, so he supported the woman, while she rested in the warm water, and made sure her head was above it.

For the space of a heartbeat, he regretted not being able to see her clearly. Her face was a pinkish spot, her body nearly invisible now that it was immersed in the water. But he could feel the silken caress of her dark hair flowing over his fingers, not to mention the velvety touch of her flesh, and the curve of her slender bottom. Gently he let her body drop to the bottom of the tub and then, unable to help himself, he touched her stomach. It was swollen to a gentle mound, and he spread his fingers over it. Suddenly, the babe moved against his hand. Oh God … oh dear God … His heart contracted with a longing ache he had not thought he would ever feel. He would never have this. He would never have a woman of his own, a woman who carried his child, and on whose stomach he could place his hand and make contact with his very own babe.

“Ah …”

Dragged from his self-pity by the woman’s soft cry, he all but growled, “Mrs Hall! Quickly, she is coming round!”

The cook leapt from behind the screen and took hold of the woman’s body. Alex jumped up and fled the room.

Reserve and Reticence – Part Twenty

Twenty – A New Step Toward the Future

 

By the time the necessary explanations had been given, the long summer day was nearly over and Beth and Stephen had returned to The Queen’s Head with Oliver. The boy had consented to accompany them home but only because Mr Charles Thornton had convinced him of the necessity of a proper education.

“You need to learn all about accounting and economics, young fellow!” Mr Thornton had lectured. “You must know how the machines operate, what techniques are used to make cotton, how to manage a factory like Marlborough Mills, if you ever want to become someone of importance in the business. I intend to send my own son to a decent school when he is of age. He will be in need of it and so are you.”

It seemed to have had a result because Oliver was in good spirits and did not balk when Stephen mentioned Eton and Cambridge again. Stephen finally gained some territory in learning to deal with his soon.

Now Beth was in their private room at the back of the inn, a large and agreeable space, set under the roof. It was painted in fading green and pink colours and furnished with dark, solid oak items, which gave it a feeling of homeliness and comfort. Trixie was just done helping Beth into her night gown and now she was brushing out her mistress’ shiny brown tresses. Beth closed her eyes, soothed by the movements of the brush.

The lovely feeling stopped abruptly when the door opened. Trixie gave a startled cry, dropped the hairbrush and fled from the room as she did every night when her master came to join his lady.

“I do not understand why that girl is so frightened by the mere sight of me that she runs like a doe before a wolf,” Stephen chuckled as he stepped closer to his wife.

“Well,” Beth answered, “I myself have a faint idea of how she feels, my love. In your night clothes, your manly chest bared and with that predator’s look in your eyes, you are an impressive figure to behold.”

Stephen, however, had stopped listening. As always, he was overwhelmed with desire, seeing his beautiful wife in her snowy white night gown of silk, trimmed with Brussels lace. Her fine figure, with its delicate curves, was moulded to perfection by the thin, shiny fabric and the chocolate coloured waterfall of her exquisite hair – also as always – aroused him to near breaking point.

“Come here,” he breathed hoarsely and extended his hand. Beth obeyed, her dark eyes dancing with answering longing. When she stood before him, her heart was pounding hard and her body was becoming hot with arousal.

“Undress me, my love,” Stephen begged, closing his eyes and sucking in a deep gush of air, when her fingers began caressing his face and neck in a searing touch.

Beth lay her hands on his shoulders and brushed away the light silken robe to reveal the broad, tight-muscled plains of his tanned chest. Her fingertips followed the spread of fine dark hair that covered it, stroking his taut muscles, kissing the hardened nipples, nibbling at them until Stephen groaned with rising desire. He forced himself to stand still and enjoy her caresses, knowing how she delighted in the feel of his body under her hands. Now she let those hands roam feather-light over the flat, hard surface of his stomach, causing heat to flare wherever she touched. He felt her fingers on the rim of his loose trousers and shivered hard in rapt anticipation, when they eased down the garment. The moment she freed him, he could not bear it any longer and snatched her up. In two long steps, he reached the bed and threw himself onto it, placing her on top of him in one smooth movement as he landed on the mattress on his back. Kicking away his trousers, he shoved her nightgown high over her head, gasping at the sight of her exquisite naked body. Oh, God! She was so beautiful, his Beth!

With meticulous precision, he lowered her onto his rigid shaft, nearly losing it when he felt her folds tighten over his flesh. She moaned in rapture and began moving her hips in an answering rhythm to his own thrusts. His hands flew to her breasts and stroked the soft mounds, kneading the hardened tips with each caress, until she whimpered in mounting desire.

“Stephen … please, do not stop … please, Stephen …”

His own hard intakes of breath echoed hers as their passion rose with every movement and stroke. God! This was torture! Heat rose in shuddering waves with every thrust and exquisite pain kept searing through his brick-hard manhood in pounding gulfs, until it burst into millions of shards as he spilled himself greedily in her hot, silk folds. At the same moment, Beth came in a shuddering cry of delight, and her flesh squeezed tightly around him, sending waves of wonderful heat through his whole body. He held her in a hard grip, preventing her from collapsing onto him for just a few, marvellous seconds, because he revelled in the feeling of her taut, highly-strung form on top of him.

When he felt her muscles relax in the climax’ aftermath, he settled her close to his heart and drew the bedclothes over them both. All was well, all was perfect.

 

~~~~

 

Later, Stephen adjusted their bodies in a more comfortable position, their heads close to one another on the pillow. Beth’s slender limbs wrapped around his under the warm covers. In the light of a candle on the nightstand, he lay admiring her beautiful face, relaxed in deep sleep, her soft mouth curved in a smile. The dark lace of her eyelashes, spread on the fine velvet of her cheeks, caused his heart to skip a beat in shuddering love and affection.

How was it that this wonderful woman had come to love him? Him, a harsh, bitter man, with forbidding manners and no compassionate feelings toward his fellow men. What had she seen in him? It must have been something good for she had opened his heart to so many new things, such as love and compassion. She had changed him into a man capable of true human feelings, one who was deeply interested in the lives of those counting on him to guide and shape their daily existence. She had taught him to love, to care, to fear for those who loved him.

This past day, when he had witnessed Mr Thornton and his little family, Stephen suddenly realized what he wanted from life. Mr Thornton’s deep affection for his son had awakened a similar longing in his own bosom, a fierce longing for a child of his own. Beth’s child … his and Beth’s.

He had come closer to Oliver, today. He had suddenly understood how the boy longed to be independent and strong. Oliver did not think of himself as a son of Stephen because he grew up away from his father. Oliver would never be as close to him as little John was to Mr Thornton.

So, in the rosy light of dawn trickling through the window panes, Stephen sent a fervent pray to the Unknown Force that ruled the universe.

“Please, Lord, I beg you: give me a son of my own, and I solemnly promise to cherish him with all my heart. I thank Thee, oh Lord, for the precious, sweet woman You gave me. I will treasure her with my love and protect her with my life. That I do solemnly swear.”

 

The End

My most sincere thanks are for Joyce Mould, who provided the beautiful drawing adorning these posts. Thanks, dear Joyce.

This entry concludes Reserve and Reticence, my first attempt to a full-fledged Regency romance novel.

Next week, I will start with a fresh one. Please, join me for,

The Reclusive Aristocrat

Rowena Drake is unmarried and pregnant. Her lover, a cavalry officer, has been killed at Waterloo, so a marriage is no longer possible. Her brother, a rich baronet, has cast her out, after Rowena refused to give up her child. Now she is alone and without money, and desperate to reach London to find employment.

Alexander Raventhorpe, fifth earl of Ketteridge, Leicestershire, has been badly wounded at Waterloo, leaving him blind and scarred, with nightmares plaguing him. He has become a recluse at his almost ruined estate, with no inkling as to how he should remedy it.

Fate brings these two people together. Will Love bind or separate them?

Reserve and Reticence – Part Nineteen

Nineteen – A Lesson Gained the Hard Way

 

Having hired a horse from Burton, Stephen galloped into Manchester at breakneck speed. He was seething with rage at Oliver’s incredibly stupid decision of hiring himself out to a cotton manufacturer, just to taunt his father and prove his rebellion. As Stephen knew all too well, a cotton factory was a hellish place, especially for the small children the money-eager factory owners were so fond off. Employing a child was very profitable, their wages being very low. Their protests were non-existent, since often the child’s wages were the only source of income for the poorest of the large families. Working conditions were harsh, the working hours as long as fourteen hours a day and six days a week. Many children were beaten into submission when they dared complain against the dangerous conditions they were employed in. Many a child would get injured or would even die on the job. As a result, Stephen was blazing with fury when he skidded into a halt at the gates of Marlborough Mills on Princess Street.

He swung himself from the horse – a tolerably well-behaved bay – and fastened its rains onto a ring in the high, soot-blackened wall, surrounding the factory grounds. Pounding on the dark green gate wings, adorned with the factory’s name in golden letters, he shouted a demand for entrance. After a few moments, one half of the gate was cautiously opened to reveal the narrow face of an elderly man, clad in the dark blue cotton clothes, so typical for cotton workers. The man lifted his cap and asked in a reverend manner how he could be of service.

“I am Lord Stephen Fenton of Brixton Abbey in Leicestershire. I wish to speak to the proprietor of this factory at once.”

The doorman stepped aside to let Stephen in.

“If you’d care to follow me to the office, sir, I see if I can find master.” And so it was that Stephen was left  to cool his heels in a tiny room, full of desks laden with thick ledgers while the overseer went to find the owner.

 

~~~~

 

Mrs Oakham first made Isobel sit down and poured her a glass of brandy which the innkeeper’s wife downed avidly. Then Isobel started to tell them about Stephen bullying her husband into naming the mill where Oliver worked. Finally, she conveyed her fears to them, about what the baron wanted to do.

“He was just so fired up, m’ lady! He kept yellin’ curses and threatenin’ to burn down Marlborough Mills an’ ev’rythin’ in it!”

Beth closed her eyes in utter despair. So Stephen reverted to his usual rash behaviour, once again.

“Isobel, I am putting my trust in you completely. Go back to your husband and ask him to gather up some men and bring them to Marlborough Mills. I will go ahead and try to reason His Lordship before any harm is done.”

 

~~~~

 

As the minutes ticked away, Stephen became more and more angrier. Where was the blasted mill owner and why had he not come running to attend to him? He gave it another minute before he walked through a door, leading to the factory’s inner courtyard. A flurry of activity greeted him, with workers carrying big cotton bales into a large shed, carts being loaded and unloaded, women shouting for more cotton, children running with errands. The whole busy scene was immersed in load noises but the loudest of them was the clanking of machines from the weaving shed.

Stephen resolutely went to investigate. A long hall, stacked to the rafters with cotton, led to a big sliding door, from which direction the clanking seemed to grow louder. With a mighty shove, Stephen threw open the door and stopped in his tracks as the deafening sound of a hundred working looms overwhelmed him.

He stared at the cacophony with open mouth, coughing now and then, when his airways became irritated with the ever-present cotton fluff. The sight was very impressive, that was the least one could say. The loom operators worked in a steady, ever-recurring rhythm, throwing the shuttle through the shed when the harnesses rose the yarn beams. It was so fascinating that Stephen forgot what he was there for in the first place, and he avidly took in all that he saw. Until he noticed the thin forms skidding under the huge warp beams, every time they were raised …

Scavengers! Small children used to pick up the cotton fluff spilled from the yarn … Oliver would most likely be one of them, as it was the lowest rung on the apprentice scale.

At that moment, the baron caught sight of a man, standing proud and tall on a raised platform, scanning the surface of the shed with eagle eyes. Everything in the man’s bearing radiated mastery and authority, his tall, broad-shouldered form towering over the clatter, as if he were the conductor of a huge mechanic orchestra.

Stephen’s fury was instantly rekindled as he burst toward the platform, darted up the stairs and grabbed the man by the lapels of his black cotton frock coat. The momentum of the attack caused both men to bump against the platform banister which cracked under their combined weight. They tumbled down and landed six feet lower, dangerously close to one of the huge looms. A few blows were exchanged, and Stephen found that the man was an equal match to his own formidable strength and fisticuff skills. The brawl did not last long because a couple of heavy-set workers plucked Stephen away from their master.

“Take him outside! Williams! Where are you, you lazy bastard?”

A short, slender man came running towards the master, plucking his cap from his head.

“Yes, Mr Thornton, I’m here! What d’ ya want me to do, sir?”

“Go get the runners! I want this lunatic thrown in jail for at least a couple of weeks! That’ll cool him down a bit!”

Stephen was so taken aback by this that he momentarily had no words to protest. Surely, the man could not do such a thing to him, a lord and a peer of the Realm? But the two strong fellows had him in an iron grip and they began dragging him to the sliding doors with grim determination. Nothing Stephen attempted to free himself had any result! Those blokes were simply too strong!

When they reached the courtyard, a woman’s voice cried out and Stephen saw a group of women running towards them. One of them was his Beth, and she had Oliver by the hand. Mrs Oakham and Isobel Burton were also there, but the fourth woman was unknown to Stephen. It was she who had cried out.

“Charles! Charles, stop this! He is a noble, a baron. You must release him at once. He could damage our business if he presses charges.”

She was a tall, very thin woman with regal bearings and a ramrod straight back. Her black hair was piled high on her head and not a single strand had broken loose of it to soften the beautiful but forbidding lines of her face, from the penetrating gaze of her black eyes to the severe, thin line of her mouth. When she came to a halt in front of the master, Stephen saw that she held a young child by the hand, a boy of maybe one year old, already showing the resemblance with his father, thick black hair and piercing blue eyes and tall for his age.

“Hannah, why have you brought the boy here? There was no need to drag little John into this! Take him to the house immediately!”

“If he is to be the master of all this one day, John has to learn quickly and from an early age. Have you seen him cry or whimper? No! He is my son and he is as strong as you like!”

Stephen saw the harsh features of the master relax as he picked up the boy and smiled at him.

“You’re not afraid, are you, Johnnie? No, I can see you’re not. Good boy, good fellow. Now run along with your mama.” While the boy was given over to his mother again, he threw Stephen a look of utter contempt, so distinctly that the baron was shocked by the vehemence of it.

This child – though not of noble decent – would do his part in the world, Stephen realized. How fortunate the master of Marlborough Mills was to have a wife and son who supported him in every step of his way in life!

“Now,” Thornton said, turning back to Stephen once again. “What is this all about? Who are you and what are you doing here?”

Reserve and Reticence – Part Eighteen

Eighteen – Solutions

 

The following morning, Stephen and Beth set off for Manchester in the Brixton Abbey travelling coach, a comfortable and spacious carriage that easily accommodated eight people, if necessary. Each of them was lost in their own thoughts as they progressed through the luscious, green fields and hills of Leicestershire.

Beth pondered over the account Stephen gave her of his conversation with Oliver. Because he had been raised as the heir to a title and an estate, Stephen behaved exactly as his father once had. He was firm and strict in dealing with his equals, yet stern and arrogant towards those who depended on him, his tenants and servants. In public, he rarely showed affection to those who were dear to him, and even in private, Stephen seldom dropped the last of his defences, as Beth knew all too well.

The previous night, they had made love, as they had every night since Stephen recovered from the chickenpox, but for the first time, neither of them had reached fulfilment. Both had lain awake for long hours, each of them ignoring the insomnia of the other, and their backs turned to each other. Now Stephen sat staring through the carriage window, brooding over the whole wretched situation but unable to resolve it. Beth herself still felt too hurt over her husband’s harsh treatment of his son to sympathize much. She was very much aware that she would have an impossible task to make Stephen listen to his children’s aspirations and wishes. He was too much the lord of the mansion to do so.

Suddenly, Beth realised they were riding through the outskirts of Manchester as she recognized the sign of The Queen’s Head inn.

“Stephen, we should not go further! We might easily scare Oliver away when he sees the carriage!”

“You are right,” Stephen acknowledged and swiftly rapped on the vehicle’s roof.

“Hodgkins! Pull up into the inn’s yard, if you please!”

“Very well, my lord!” came the reply, and then the coachman turned the carriage sharp left.

Wat Burton, the innkeeper, came rushing out of the taproom, wiping his hands on a rag.

“My Lord Brixton! What a pleasure to meet you again, sir! Come in, if you please.”

Burton bowed deeply and when he straightened, let his eyes grow wide open at the sight of Beth, being handed down from the carriage by Stephen.

“Miss Williams! How delightful …”

“Mr Burton, allow me to introduce you to Lady Brixton,” Stephen said, grinning broadly at seeing the innkeeper’s surprise. The man stammered a hasty apology and bowed even deeper. His wife Isobel, who joined him when she saw there was a lady present, curtsied reverently.

“My Lady, welcome in our humble establishment. Do you wish for a private room?”

“Yes, Mrs Burton, that would be most agreeable,” Beth answered and followed her inside.

 

~~~~

 

Stephen waited until his wife had gone before he went in search of Wat Burton. He and Beth agreed not to go to Mrs Oakham’s house together. Oliver might not trust his father and flee but he would not resent Beth, whom he loved and trusted. Therefore, Beth would go on her own and try to reason with the boy. Although he knew they were doing the right thing, Stephen was not entirely convinced that Oliver would listen to reason. He also was fairly sure the boy would not be at Mrs Oakham’s now, because it was broad daylight and people were at work. If he knew his son’s character just a tiny bit, Stephen thought it possible that Oliver was also at work, presumably in some cotton mill. So, when he found Burton in his cellar, taking stock of his beer casks, Stephen confronted him rather sharply.

“You know everything that goes on around here, Mr Burton. I will ask you straight away, then. Where is Oliver Bradley?”

Burton stiffened and looked the baron in the eyes in a defiant manner.

“Why are you asking, my lord? What is it to you?”

“He is my son. I want to take him back with me.”

The masterful tone the baron employed seemed to irritate the innkeeper, who straightened visibly but kept his voice level.

“I do not know where the boy has gone to other than to Mrs Oakham’s house, my lord. Why not look there for him?”

Stephen, annoyed with the man’s defiance, shot him a suspicious look.

“Oh, come on, Mr Burton. Do not insult my intelligence or your own! Which cotton mill has him enlisted on their payroll?”

When the innkeeper blanched visibly, Stephen knew he had hit the bull’s eye.

 

~~~~

 

“Beth!” Mrs Oakham’s voice rang with pleasure as she beheld the young woman on the threshold with eyes sparkling with fondness. “Come in, child! How are you? Is it true that you have married that scoundrel Fenton? I could not believe the rumours that came to me from Woolworth.”

Beth felt herself blushing like a schoolgirl under Mrs Oakham’s blunt words. A tug of longing ran through her as they reminded her of Granny Bradley, Mrs Oakham’s sister, and she was again struck by the resemblance between the two sisters, in manner as well as in countenance.

“Yes, Mrs Oakham, I am Lady Brixton now, but my husband is no longer a scoundrel.”

She paused searching for the right words to describe the changes in Stephen’s behaviour over the last weeks. Her mouth curved into a smile as she saw the beloved face of her husband in her mind’s eye.

“Stephen is a good man, Mrs Oakham, but his huge responsibilities often prevent him from taking the time to listen to people. Instead, he rushes on and barges in and mostly, the regrets come when the damage is done. I am endeavouring to try and change that in him, but it is a difficult task as I am fighting years of unchallenged solitary control over a regal estate like Brixton Abbey.”

Mrs Oakham took Beth’s face between her small, slender hands, hands that were streaked with hundreds of tiny wrinkles from hard, honest work.

“Let me see how you fare,” she whispered earnestly and peered into Beth’s eyes like she would have done with a child that behaved badly.

Beth banned all thoughts from her mind. Only Stephen remained. He often was the only object of her affections, lately.

“There is a new, bright light in your gaze, child,” was the elder woman’s statement. “You are happy, I can tell. Now what is it that brought you and your husband to Manchester?” And, when she saw Beth’s astonishment, she added, “Oh, never fear, Manchester is but a large village. Everybody knows everything about everyone else. In fact, …”

She was suddenly and brutally interrupted by a loud banging on the front door and a voice, which Beth recognized Isobel Burton’s, cried in panic. “Mrs Oakham, is Lady Brixton with you? I have to talk to her! His Lordship has rushed off to Marlborough Mills, threatening to murder the proprietor for employing Oliver at the factory!”

Reserve and Reticence – Part Seventeen

Seventeen – Consequences

 

Pacing before the empty fireplace of their bedchamber, Beth failed to find solace in it. She came up here after a yet another day of fruitless searching, wanting to escape the chaos downstairs, where servants and family were going about their businesses in a dazed way, upset as they were with Oliver’s disappearance. She fervently hoped Stephen would come home with some good news about the boy, who was now missing for three whole days.

Three days! Hundreds of horrors could have befallen Oliver as he wandered the dark country roads all by himself and without protection. He could fall into a stream or a crevice or be attacked by wild animals. Worse, he could be ambushed by highwaymen or taken by baby farm hunters. They would sell him to some cruel master, and he would be forced to work like a slave, fed just enough not to starve. He would eventually fall ill or get injured and die …

Beth’s heart shrivelled as she imagined all this. She plumped down on the stool in front of her dressing table and was abruptly met by her pale, drawn face. Good God, she looked like a ghost! Her hair had escaped her bun and her clothes were rumpled and askew. Her hands were trembling and sweating as was the rest of her body. It was sheer terror at the thought of what Oliver’s fate might be, right now.

Earlier that evening, she had to comfort poor Lily who was frantic about her twin brother’s fate. Lily knew her brother as well as she knew herself. They were like two sides of a coin, the one completing the other, where one of them failed. Henrietta, too, had needed support, frightened as she had been over her grandson’s fate. Beth had not known if she really had offered some comfort to either grandmother or granddaughter but she tried, nevertheless. Now, she had nothing more to give. She was starved of comfort, she just needed to know. She needed her husband and what he had learned about Oliver.

Pulling the bell cord to summon Trixie, she suddenly knew what to do, and when her little maid entered, Beth instructed her to help her into her riding habit.

 

~~~~

 

Dusk was settling in when Beth slowed Sparkle into a walk as she rode into Woolworth. It had occurred to her – though a bit belatedly – that Oliver might have let Ruby into his confidence, give the close relationship the Mertons had with Granny Bradley.  Scarcely had she dismounted, then a shriek pierced the quiet evening, and Ruby came hurtling out of her cottage, balancing a howling Johnny on her hip.

“Ruby, whatever is the matter?” Beth hastily secured Sparkle’s reins on the cottage fence and took Johnny out of Ruby’s arms. The hysteric slip of a woman collapsed against Beth’s chest, her lithe body shaking with distress.

“It’s His Lordship! He’s going to murder Ben! Oh, sweet heavens, do something!”

Only now, Beth saw her husband’s big black stallion, Parsifal, tethered at the rear of the house, snorting and tapping his foot in frightened agitation. A neighbour showed up, attracted by Ruby’s wailing, and Beth handed over Johnny to her.

“Ah, Myrtle! Look after them, please. I need to go and look what is going on.”

“Wha’ever it is, it’s been goin’ on for quite a while, m’lady!” the woman replied, clutching Johnny to her ample bosom. “’E’s in a foul temper, ‘e is, ‘Is Lordship!”

Beth hurried around the back of the cottage and stopped abruptly in her tracks, not quite believing her own eyes! Her husband and Ben Merton were having a heavy round of fisticuffs in the cottage back garden, pouncing and grunting and snapping at each other like two bulls in the same pen! For a brief, frightfully uncertain moment, Beth had no inkling about what to do to end this senseless fight. The two men were of an equal height and strength, each dealing and receiving the other’s blows with no clue as to whom would succumb first and be rendered unconscious. Both were equally dirty and sporting black eyes and bleeding cuts on the lips. An instant later, Beth grabbed the first bucket she could place her hands on and tossed it over the combatants. As it happened, it was the Mertons’ chamber pot.

The two pugilists stood gasping and panting … and wrinkling their noses as soon as they realised what it was they had been showered with. Or rather, Stephen who received the most of the stinking contents of the bucket, which made him even more enraged.

“Devil’s teeth, Beth! What is the meaning of this? Are you insane?” His blue eyes blazed with fury but Beth did not give in.

“Pigs wallow in refuse and frankly, my lord, you two were very much acting like pigs.” She smiled unexpectedly and added, “No offence intended to the poor pigs …”

The radiance of that smile broke Stephen’s fury and made it vanish like snow in the sun. His Beth was so right, he admitted silently. He had indeed failed to act like a gentleman and brought down his anger and fear over Oliver on someone else instead of dealing with it. A conciliatory grin on his face, he extended a hand to Ben Merton.

“I am truly sorry, Merton. I had no business attacking you like I did.”

Merton grinned back and replied. “That’s alright, my lord. Forgive me but I must refuse your … erm … hand.”

He gestured at Stephen’s dripping, smelly hand, which made them both burst out with a good healthy laugh.

“Come, my love,” Beth said, still smiling, “let us get you home and into dry clothes.”

Stephen returned her smile, his eyes lightening with pure, unabashed joy.

“Yes, my darling, let us just do that.”

 

~~~~

 

Later that evening, when they prepared for bed, Beth brushed her long, brown hair in front of her dressing table mirror. It was a soothing activity which allowed her to calm down from the excitements of the day and God knew how much she needed that since Oliver’s disappearance. After a while, she noticed that her husband too seemed to have need for reflection. Stephen was sprawled in his favourite armchair near the hearth, staring blankly into the distance.

“Stephen …” Beth said softly, putting down her silver-backed hairbrush before braiding her hair in a single plait on her back. Her husband looked up, a dazed expression in his eyes.

“Yes?” he replied and smiled sadly at her.

“You are brooding over Oliver, are you not? You must not, dearest. We will find him, eventually. I actually have an inkling as to where he might have gone to.”

“You have?” Stephen swiftly stood and came to her. He gently pulled her up by the upper arms and looked into her face, full of avid anticipation.

“Yes,” Beth answered, sliding her arms around his neck. “I think he might have headed for Manchester, to Mrs Oakham’s house.”

Utter bewilderment showed in Stephen’s blue eyes. “Manchester? But … but why would he go there?”

“When we were at Mrs Oakham’s, a few months ago, Oliver showed great interest for the cotton mills and everything regarding the cotton manufacturing. He even went to one of them, one day, and asked to be shown around and be explained the process. The overseer sent him on his way, of course, although he was old enough to be put to work. The man knew him as a relative to Mrs Oakham, though.”

“A relative? What are you saying? I do not comprehend!”

“Mrs Oakham is Granny Bradley’s sister, do you not remember? That makes her Oliver’s great-aunt.”

“Oh, Lord …” Stephen breathed, his face suddenly turning white.

“What is it, my love? Tell me!”

Before answering, Stephen took a deep, shuddering breath.

“I am an utter fool, Beth. The boy tried to tell me about his interest in cotton, but I cut him short. I overruled him in a very dictatorial manner and forbade him everything that did not relate to the running of Brixton Abbey. I drove him away, Beth. I gave him no other choice than to flee.”

Even though she was witnessing Stephen’s distress, Beth could not help feeling suddenly angry with him. She could very well imagine how Oliver must have felt, being subjected to the full brunt of his father’s innate arrogance, which had been drummed into Stephen from a very tender age. The sudden realisation that Stephen and his son were part of a totally different world, and would not easily see eye-to-eye, made her feel utterly sad.

She had an enormous task still ahead, unfortunately, if she wished the two of them forging a closer bond.

 

 

 

Reserve and Reticence – Part Sixteen

Sixteen – Looking For A Missing Boy

 

After it had become evident that the missing Oliver was not to be found on the Abbey grounds, a large party was assembled, consisting of all footmen and tenants, who were not immediately necessary to the estate’s adequate daily functioning. Their mission was to begin searching in an ever widening circle, starting from the Abbey grounds and through the fields and woodland surrounding the estate. Stephen explained this to the assembly in clear words.

“Last night, my son went to bed at his usual hour of nine o’ clock, as the maid assigned to my children’s personal needs has confirmed. Even if he managed to leave the Abbey right after that time, he cannot have roamed more than a couple of miles from the estate. No horse has been taken from the stables, and I cannot believe that any cart driver or coachman, that happened to be in the estate’s vicinities, would have picked him up without notifying me or without questioning the boy as to his reasons for being out that late alone. Therefore, we shall begin the search as I instructed and report back to my lady Brixton every two hours. She will be coordinating the search efforts.”

Beth, seated next to a very distressed Henrietta, calmly listened to her husband’s speech but inwardly, she was all turmoil. What could have been exchanged between father and son, the previous evening, that it had driven away a thirteen-year-old in fear? All sorts of horrible thoughts were assaulting her brain, such as the baron striking out at the boy or threatening him in some horrible way. Instantly, she chided herself for thinking so badly about the man she was married to, about Stephen, for Heaven’s sake! How could she? But then, a little voice in her head began reciting all the horrid things the Fentons had done to her family, and how vicious Beth herself had always thought Stephen to be. Although her heart screamed in disgust that she simply could not think in that way about the man she loved, her brain calmly summed up all Stephen’s mischief. She had to talk to him, she now realised. She had to talk to him, and it could not wait.

However, she had to wait until the evening before that talk could take place.

 

~~~~

 

Oliver Bradley-Fenton reached the outskirts of Manchester early in the morning, just as the sun began mounting above the rooftops. After a long run, way past the boundaries of Woolworth, he set foot toward the industrial town and was picked up by a band of gypsies heading North. They asked no questions, used as they were at being harassed by the English authorities. They just gave him a bowl of soup and the loan of a blanket against the chilly night air and took him along.

Now, after he said his farewells, he was tired and hungry, but those inconveniences did not bother him for the moment. What an adventure this was! He had escaped the wicked baron of Brixton Abbey, the haughty man who called himself a father but was, in fact, nothing but a tyrant and a bully. As Oliver began looking around to find his bearings, he recalled the conversation he had with Fenton the night before.

Oliver was no fool. He knew very well he could never inherit the baron’s title nor the Brixton estate. He was a bastard. The more vicious people in the village had branded him and his sister with that charming nickname as long as he remembered. It had never bothered him because his grandmother taught him it did not matter he had no legal descent as long as he strove to become a good person. Lineage meant nothing, Granny said, when you were a scoundrel with no pity for other people’s misfortunes. His so-called father was such a miscreant, Granny said, and Oliver should never make Fenton a role model. It was far more important that Oliver made a good life for himself and Lily. He needed to protect and love his sister, because it was much harder for girls to find a place in the world than for a strong and smart boy.

So, on that dreadful day, when Fenton took them away from Gran and brought them to the Abbey, Oliver swallowed his fear and anger. Even when he wanted nothing more than to thwart his so-called father, he understood all too well what advantages might be drawn from a connection to a rich and powerful noble like Fenton. Oliver would bide his time and learn as much as he could.

Then, Fenton married his governess, and everything was turned upside down because now Oliver was not sure he could trust Beth anymore. Oh, she still was good to him and Lily and she had nursed them through the chickenpox like a mother would, but she also did not spend all her time with them like she used to before she married the baron. No, Oliver was no fool at all. Once the couple would have a child of their own, he and Lily would be related to the background of Beth’s life.

The proof of all this became clear to Oliver when Fenton told him he was to go to Eton soon and learn all about Latin and Greek and other useless items. Afterwards, he was for Cambridge and had to learn about how to run an estate like some upgraded steward. He would do a full day’s work for a meagre salary, and all the major decisions would come from Fenton and his offspring. He could be cast out at any time or at the whim of the baron whenever the man fancied another servant to run the estate.

No, Oliver wanted to build a worthy life for himself. When Beth took them to Manchester to live with Mrs Oakham, Oliver once visited a cotton mill and was impressed by the sheer power and working of it. The mighty looms, clacking and humming, and handled by the weavers, enchanted him. He wanted to be a part of that.  He planned to start at the bottom of the chain and work his way up, until he was an overseer and run the shed all by himself. Maybe, he would rise even further! Dreams were great, and Oliver wanted to live his dream to the full.

Yet, when he mentioned – very cautiously, mind – to Fenton that he wanted something other than becoming a steward, the baron rudely cut him off and became angry. In very clear terms, Fenton stated Oliver was to obey the baron’s orders without any protest or he would be chastised until he did. There was always the military, the baron told Oliver, to bend a rebellious spirit into submission. Oliver was to have no doubts the baron would buy him a commission in some faraway barracks if necessary.

At that precise moment, Oliver knew he would always hate Fenton and never, ever submit to him.