Burning Bright (Brambridge Novel 2) Page 4

  She edged back slowly onto a low stool, and picked a book out from her bag.

  “Can’t do no teaching today, Harriet,” Janey said as she deftly took the bobbin out of her mouth and wound it round the last piece of lace weft. “That Edgar’s riding us hard. He knows that we sent our lace off with you.”

  “No!” Harriet put her hand over her mouth, the book forgotten.

  “He’s demanding twice as much for half the price. In fact he’s refusing to pay us for the lace now, we can only exchange it for goods from his shop.”

  “I’m very sorry, Janey, I tried everywhere in Ottery St Mary, but they refused to deal with me. They said that there would be consequences for them if they didn’t deal with Edgar directly.”

  “Have you still got the lace?” Janey looked at her lace with little pause.

  “Yes, it’s in our cottage. Should I bring it back?” Harriet wrung her hands. The bale of lace still sat where she left it by the cottage door. “Oh, I should never have offered to help!”

  “You weren’t to know, Harriet.” Janey looked up for the first time. “We asked you to go. You are the only one in the village that knows them letters and numbers well enough not to be robbed. We’re getting desperate.”

  Harriet nodded. Agatha had taught her to read and write as there had been no village school when Harriet was growing up. Reading was her grand passion; she devoured everything from out-of-date papers to plays. Her aunt had been disappointed in her lack of interest in mathematics. In Harriet’s mind it was up there with the long confining hours of teaching. But the teaching brought them a little bit of money in addition to the housekeeping that Agatha did for the Vicar’s wife. At least for however long the village school stayed open.

  “How’s your father?” she asked.

  “Mam’s looking after him. It doesn’t help him being in bed all the time with his shoulder. If he doesn’t sail on the Rocket, he doesn’t get no pay. He’s terrible at making lace.” A single tear trickled down Janey’s cheek. “He’s going to be no use to anyone for the next month.”

  Harriet swallowed. It was her fault that the precious lace lay unsold, and that Edgar was now going to pay even less for them. She even felt responsible for Tommy, Janey’s father. Although she wasn’t the one to have swiped him with a sword, she had sewn him up, and now it was to be seen whether the stitches would hold. She was terrible at sewing.

  “Don’t look so sad, Harriet.” One of Janey’s sisters stretched where she sat. “Can you read us some more of that story?”

  “It’s not a story, silly,” a small boy’s voice said proudly. “It’s a play. And we’re all in it. We’re going to perform it at the Midsummer’s festival.”

  Harriet nodded. “It’s all the rage in London. It’s called Romeo and Juliet. Edmund Kean is playing Romeo at the Covent Garden theatre as we speak.”

  At the children’s blank looks, Harriet sighed. She understood. Even she hadn’t been to London or seen the acclaimed actor in a play. She gleaned everything she knew from reading the papers and from what her aunt occasionally revealed about her one short season there.

  “I’ll start, shall I?” She withdrew another, small battered book from her basket and opened it in the middle.

  “But soft, what light through yonder window breaks?” Harriet stood in order to speak more easily. “It is the east and Juliet is the sun!” She paced amongst the children as they sewed.

  “That I might touch that cheek.” Harriet blinked and backed away from Janey, who looked at her, spellbound. Harriet dropped her outstretched hand to her side and plumped back down on her stool. She coughed, as the children stared at her open-mouthed, their lace forgotten on their laps.

  A hot flush coursed up her neck. Harriet dropped the small book onto her lap and rummaged in her bag.

  “Coo!” uttered the little boy. “I thought you were a man then.”

  “So did I,” said Janey’s sister. “I thought you were going to kiss Janey!”

  The laughter broke Harriet’s embarrassment.

  “I thought so too,” Janey said quietly. “If only there was a man to speak like that about me.” She sighed and bent back over her work.

  Harriet agreed silently. She had never experienced love, not in the way that Shakespeare described. She knew her parents had loved each other. Her breath caught as it always did when she remembered the accident that had taken Mother and Father away. She had been only six, but the memory of being in the carriage, her father smoking a cheroot, and her mother gently telling her a story was still vivid. And then the crash, the carriage tipping on its side. Her father crushed as the carriage crumpled, and her mother silenced forever by a jutting-out spar.

  Sitting up straight, Harriet pushed the Shakespeare book roughly into her bag. Perhaps Lord Stanton spoke like that in such a way to his ladies. She doubted it. Even sat on the floor after she had tripped him up she had seen that he was no longer a lean youth; now he was powerful, muscular and fierce. She shuddered. It was hard to imagine him needing to woo a lady. She wrinkled her nose. And certainly not a mere village school miss such as her. Lord Stanton did not seem to be the easy James that he had once been. That look on his face when she had suggested she might have been able to help him… she had shriveled inside.

  Harriet sighed and hugged her bag. “I suppose I had better take the lace to Edgar’s.”

  Janey looked up from the lace on her lap. “It’s alright, Harriet. We should have done it in the first place.”

  Harriet groaned. “It’s no use. Someone in Ottery will have told him that I took the lace there to sell. It’s my fault. I should be the one to do it.” Putting up her hands to quell any more protestation, Harriet bent to pick up her bag. “Remember everyone, the rehearsal at the school tomorrow. It’s the grand attack scene so I need all available hands to help me make the props beforehand.”

  The excited response carried her on her way all the way back home and into the stable where Isabelle cropped her hay patiently in the dim light. Pulling the reluctant pony onto the track next to the cottage garden, Harriet hitched the cart to Isabelle’s harness and heaved the deceptively light bale of lace from the cottage onto its wooden boards. Heart in mouth, she clambered onto the seat and set the pony off down the hill in the direction of the sea.

  Edgar’s shop was set in a low lying cottage, the last on the lane before it sloped down towards the beach. Leaving Isabelle outside, Harriet peered in through the uneven glass of the bay window, her view distorted. She really did not want to go in and she couldn’t see Edgar; only the corpulent bulk of a large lady leaning across the marble topped counter was visible.

  Harriet delayed her entrance, moving Isabelle and the cart so that they were not blocking the lane. She told herself firmly that it was a prudent measure, but she knew full well she was procrastinating. As a light breeze lifted the fine locks of hair from her head, she looked out across the fields all the way out into Longman’s Cove and up to Longman’s Point.

  Patting the few errant curls firmly back into the tightly held bun, Harriet resolved to be civil as she entered the shop. She knew how much the lace was worth and what she would accept for it. Edgar, the toad, paid too little. Her friends starved as a consequence.

  Drawing herself up straight to all of her four foot and ten inches, she pushed open the solid white door and entered the shop.

  CHAPTER 4

  Mr. Granger, the solicitor, stopped speaking and coughed into the silence. James struggled to speak, as anger consumed him.

  His mother gave a wild sob.

  “Hells bells,” Cecilia said quietly. James folded his arms and leaned heavily back again on the mantelpiece.

  “Damn man,” Edgar shouted as he jumped to his feet. “How can you be so calm? You've just lost your estate!” He gave a squeaky snort and sat down again, his head in his hands.

  James stared at him. He could hear his father laughing, see him seated at his desk in his study, the wooden baton with its curly tail beside
him, writing those words… I bequeath nothing… he disappointed me. He shuddered. Devil take it, he had banked on getting the estate. He’d had it all worked out, how he was going to erase his father’s presence—

  Mr. Granger, however, was not done. Pompously clearing his throat, he said, “If I might continue, there is more, although much of it does not make sense to me.”

  “Of course it does not make sense to you, fool,” Mrs. Stanton cried. “He must have been mad when he died. Look at this will. Only one hundred pounds per annum for me. What am I going to live on?”

  Mr. Granger viewed Mrs. Stanton with distaste. “I will assure you, madam, that I attended to your husband for two years, starting just after the present Lord Stanton—” He motioned to James—“departed. In fact, this will was made just after that event, and when I asked him repeatedly if he wanted to change it, he constantly said no. If I might continue?”

  Mr. Granger opened his fob watch again and inspected the time. James knew that the man had nothing to lose by being terse and rude. With no control over the estate, Mr. Granger assumed that the Stanton family was well on the way to bankruptcy.

  The lawyer cleared his throat. “The bulk of the estate, and ownership of the stone mine, I leave to the Friendly Society of Ottery St Mary, unless my so called son James finds and marries Marie Mompesson, the rightful owner of this manor within six months. Then the house and estate will go to him and his heirs.”

  A cold fury shook James. As clear as ever he could hear his father’s voice in the words. Ever since he had been a young boy, it had been the same. Disappointment, coldness, indifference. It was as if his father had wanted any excuse to get rid of him.

  This time his voice did not fail him. He clenched his fists and leaned towards the lawyer. “Tell me, Mr. Granger, who is Marie Mompesson?”

  “Well, Lord Stanton,” said the solicitor, edging away slightly, “it would appear that she is the granddaughter of the man from whom your grandfather won Brambridge Manor in a game of vingt-et-un.” At James’ glare, Mr. Granger sped up his delivery. “Your grandfather ousted the family, and moved his family, including your father, into the manor.” The solicitor sucked in a breath and slumped.

  The news wasn’t a surprise to James. It sounded like something his father or grandfather would have done. He drew in a breath.

  “And where exactly is she now, the Mompesson girl?”

  “No one knows. The family was not seen again when they left the manor.” Again, the solicitor opened his watch. “If you will excuse me, I am afraid Lord Stanton's delay has made me late for dinner with my acquaintances.” Taking out a card, Mr. Granger reluctantly waved it in James’ direction. “If you should need me, please don't hesitate to call on me in Ottery St Mary.”

  James strode across the carpet and took the card from Mr. Granger’s quivering hand.

  “One last question.” Cecilia waved her hand. “What happens in those six months should James not marry? How will the estate workers be paid and the tenancies maintained?”

  “In effect,” Mr. Granger replied pompously, not looking in Cecilia's direction, “the estate's finances are frozen as at today. All payments should pass through my accounts. I will, of course allow you to live in the Manor in a,” he coughed, “shall we say delicately, a caretaking position until the six months are up, or, Lord Stanton should find and marry the Mompesson woman. No changes can be made to the Manor in that time.” He nodded contemptuously at James, before he quickly gathered his papers together. “If I might ask you all to sign this piece of paper to show that you have heard and understood the import of the will?”

  Silently, the family members signed the written will. Mr. Granger pushed it together with the other papers and slotted them into a leather bag. He pushed his hat on his head and strode out of the room without a farewell.

  James turned to his family who looked at him, stunned. 'Find and marry the Mompesson woman’ still rang in his ears. James almost laughed aloud. He had spent two years in and out of battle grounds, courting death, not caring for himself and taking on the trickiest of missions. At the last hurdle he had been outwitted by his father yet again.

  With a frustrated grunt, he returned to the fireplace and leaned against it. He didn't know which was worse, the fact that his plans had been thwarted, or that he was actually considering finding the bloody woman. He had to have Brambridge. It was his. And his only way of getting back at his father.

  “Well, where are you going to start, cousin?” Edgar sneered, the open bonhomie of earlier gone. Disgust sat heavily in James’ stomach. It was not just his mother and sister who depended upon him, but it seemed as if Edgar too expected him to act as his provider.

  “Yes, James!” Lady Stanton pursed her lips and opened her eyes wide. “I expect you to find her within six months. Goodness knows what I am going to do on only one hundred pounds. Why, that will only cover one week of the season in London and I must have new gowns before we go.”

  James shook his head. “I think I might go and take a breath of fresh air.” He pushed himself away from the fire. “Clear my head y' know.” Walking at speed, he exited the morning room. In the hall, he turned into the dining room and pushed through the French windows into the knot garden. He marched further into the gardens until he came to the rolling lawns. With a sigh, he sat down on the grass, uncaring of the stains that would soon grace the seat of his breeches.

  It was the height of spring, and the grass was pushing up dandelions, daisies, and all manner of wild flowers. All the gardens he had walked through were unkempt. Unruly branches spread from the box hedges in the knot garden, the walled garden was covered in weeds, and the grass on this lawn was at least mid-calf length.

  Perhaps that was the bright side to the estate no longer being his. He no longer had to care for it. Gripping a dandelion by its head, he ripped it from the ground. Gods, he had had two years to formulate a plan to get back at his father. And all he had come up with was burn some portraits and paint the study yellow. His father had won. How pathetic.

  “James! James?” Cecilia called to him from the walled garden. Her head appeared around the corner of the doorway that led onto the lawns. The light glinted off her mahogany hair. She walked lightly towards him, her silk skirts brushing over the long grass. Flinging herself down beside him, she poked him in the side as if they were two-years-old again.

  He flinched, working hard not to move.

  “Cecilia.”

  “Take that you villain!” she shouted, ignoring him. “We smugglers will overcome your Frenchie ways. Alors!” Cecilia's accent was execrable.

  James shook his head. “Not now, Ceci.”

  Cecilia poked him again with her finger.

  He sighed and poked her back gently. “Ah, but Madame,” he replied quietly. “We Frenchies never give up—jamais.”

  Cecilia put her hands up in mock terror and leaned away. “Non Monsieur, pas les mains de terreur!”

  James sat quietly. His shoulder burned. The field doctor said he needed to rest it. The doctors in London had been more forceful; they had counselled going to bed for two months but he had ignored them.

  He looked at the sky as silence fell between them. Cecilia rolled onto her side to face him, and plucked a dandelion thoughtfully.

  “It's been too long, James,” she said mournfully. “And now this. I've been left with a patch of soil, and mother is incensed that her allowance is not big enough. Not big enough than to support at least five village families for a year.”

  James picked a dandelion and bit into the bitter stem. He said nothing and let Cecilia continue.

  “Nobody has thought of the estate workers who won't be receiving any wages, the villagers who depend upon us for custom, and the charities that we give to. Let alone the mine workers.”

  She was right of course. He had not even given a thought to the people that the estate supported. They would be worried for their futures.

  “I'll go to the solicitor tomorrow. I'v
e got Mr. Granger's card. I'll make sure that they are looked after,” he said.

  Cecilia didn't look mollified.

  “And what if they say there is no provision for them, James, what then?”

  “That can't be true, Cecilia, there has to be. The estate doesn’t function without them.”

  Cecilia's eyes softened. “Promise me, James, you will help us, help them if something goes wrong? I believe The Friendly Society of Ottery St Mary is merely an investing house, a group of supercilious townsfolk who wish to make a profit. Father belonged to it. They'll want to sell the estate as soon as possible after getting hold of it. Break it up into tiny pieces and sell to the highest bidder. And then the new owners will say they are not bound to the tenancies that were signed long ago and attempt to renegotiate.”

  “Are you saying that you want me to go after the girl, Marie Mompesson?” If she was still a girl.

  “No.” Cecilia looked away from him. “Well, yes, I supposed I was,” she continued sheepishly. “I can't think of being away from Brambridge, and you have to marry sometime. I never thought of either of us marrying for love. Goodness knows we've had so little of it.” She turned a suspicious look back to James and held his gaze for a few seconds before looking away, surprise evident on her face. “You don’t really care what I think, do you? You are going after her anyway, aren’t you? You’ve already decided.”

  James brushed at his breeches. “We all need something to live on,” he said quietly. Although for the last two years he had lived on nothing but what he had stolen from the occasional farmstead.

  “It’s alright for you. You’ve got those estates the King gave you.”

  James shifted uncomfortably. Cecilia was correct. He did own other land but it was tied up. And anyway, even if he owned a prince’s ransom he still would have come after Brambridge. His father owed him.

  “And from what I’ve read in the circulars, I don’t suppose you’ve had time to find anyone else suitable you’re interested in,” Cecilia muttered.