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Authors: Rita Bradshaw

Tags: #Romance, #Sagas, #Historical, #Fiction

Candles in the Storm (27 page)

BOOK: Candles in the Storm
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The two girls were interrupted in their tête-à-tête at that moment by the Wynford sisters, and as the four young women began to speak of other things Francis sat pulling at the ends of his moustache with his thumb and finger. So Gwendoline thought William was sufficiently serious about some unknown attachment to be disinclined to fall in with their plans, did she? Well, well, well. And of course his relations were far too stately and socially conscious to see what was under their noses - if, of course, he was right about this. But surely William wasn’t seriously considering anything other than a romp with the girl, or at the most setting her up in a small dwelling in Sunderland or Newcastle?
 
Francis glanced over to where his nephew sat finishing his breakfast, somewhat apart at the far end of the table and with a closed expression which discouraged conversation. He rose to his feet and walked down the room, taking the seat at William’s side as he said, ‘Good morning, m’boy, I’m glad I’ve caught you. I’ve been wanting a quiet word, man to man as it were.’
 
‘Yes?’
 
The tone was hardly encouraging but Francis continued, ‘Now your father’s a good man, none better, but having been married for over three decades he’s out of touch with certain . . . practicalities us bachelors need to entertain.’
 
‘I’m sorry?’
 
‘Of course the bawdy houses and such serve their purpose but when a little filly catches your eye . . .’
 
It was clear William didn’t have the faintest notion where this was leading, and Francis took great satisfaction from the moment when he said, ‘I’m referring to the fishergirl, m’boy, the wench who so kindly hoisted you out of the water. She’s taken my eye and I rather fancy it’s reciprocated. I just wanted to make sure I wouldn’t be treading on any toes if I--’
 
‘You keep your filthy hands off her.’ His voice was low and deadly and such was the enmity in it that even Francis was taken aback. ‘You hear me, Uncle? You come within fifty yards of Daisy and I’ll kill you.’
 
‘What did you say?’ Francis’s outrage wasn’t entirely fabricated. ‘Don’t be a fool. The chit’s ripe and ready for it.’
 
‘You’ve got a cesspit for a mind, everyone knows it.’ William was experiencing a rage such as he had never felt before. ‘You leave her alone, I mean it.’
 
‘I see.’ Francis’s voice sounded thin and cold and came through lips that scarcely moved as he struggled to contain himself.
 
‘I doubt it but I’m warning you--’
 
‘
You’re
warning
me
? Why, you little popinjay you! I was seeing the world before you were even born. And what’s all the fuss about anyway? There’s enough to go round for the two of us--’
 
Francis’s words ended in a gurgle as William’s hands came out and grasped his collar to either side of his many chins, his knuckles forcing the older man’s head back as he ground out, ‘You’re not fit to lick her boots and that’s the truth. You’re putrid - contaminating everything you touch. Do you hear me?’
 
Francis was trying to wrench his nephew’s hands away from his throat, clawing vainly at the iron grip as his eyes began to bulge.
 
There had been sounds of consternation beyond the two of them, a concentrated drawing in of breath and one or two little cries from the ladies present, but William was oblivious to anything and anyone as he shook his uncle with each word as he repeated, ‘Do you hear me?’
 
‘I don’t think he can answer you.’ Augustus had reached his son’s side and his voice was icy as he added, ‘Remember where you are, William. I don’t know what this is all about but conduct yourself as a gentleman.’
 
‘A gentleman?’ William threw Francis back into his seat with enough force to send the chair rocking. ‘That is getting to be a dirty word in this house, Father.’
 
‘
William
.’ His son’s voice had not been low and Augustus was white with rage.
 
William now took a deep breath, rumpling his table napkin with deliberate control and throwing it down on the table before he got to his feet, his face close to that of his father as he said, ‘He’s scum, Father. You know it and I know it.’
 
Augustus’s eyes were like chips of black lead. Lord Routledge was in the room, along with Sir Irwin McKenzie and others. What on earth was the boy thinking of?
 
The boy was thinking of murder. It was in William’s eyes when he bent down close to his uncle again, his voice quiet now but nonetheless ferocious as he said, ‘You might well be relying on me for your allowance in your dotage, Uncle. Just remember that, will you? But for the moment I’m telling you - not warning you,
telling
you - to keep away from her.’
 
Francis said nothing but the hatred in William’s eyes was reflected in his as he fumbled with his collar and coat with shaking hands.
 
William straightened, and not a muscle in his face moved as he walked steadily from the room without looking to left or right. Within moments a well-mannered murmur of conversation rose again, with nothing more contentious under discussion than the morning’s ride or the latest fashion, but even as Augustus schooled his face to show no emotion beyond urbane congeniality he knew this incident would be picked over and over with great relish until there was no more meat on the bone.
 
He would get to the bottom of this, damn it, if it was the last thing he did. The Frasers had always avoided even a whisper of scandal - wasn’t that why he had packed Francis off to the continent early on when his brother’s . . . peculiar tastes had become obvious? And he had been right to do so as this incident confirmed. Two minutes back and Francis was already causing trouble.
 
If Francis
were
at fault he would make sure his brother was promptly despatched whence he had come. And if it was William . . . Augustus’s thin mouth became tighter. It was high time the boy started behaving like the heir of Greyfriar, and his father intended to make damn’ sure he knuckled down and applied himself.
 
Chapter Twelve
 
It was the morning of Daisy’s sixteenth birthday, and for a little while she had forgotten that nothing had seemed right for the last few weeks. Gladys had been her usual surly self in the kitchen but Kitty had more than made up for her mother’s lack of warmth, shyly presenting Daisy with a fine new pair of gloves and a small box of chocolates and singing ‘Happy Birthday’ to her even though she herself looked a mite peaky.
 
Daisy offered to take Wilhelmina’s breakfast tray through to her mistress’s private quarters, and on entering the bedroom was presented with a thick woollen coat and cape by a smiling Wilhelmina.
 
‘Oh, it’s lovely, ma’am, beautiful.’ Daisy raised shining eyes from the box on her lap where the coat and cape were displayed. ‘Thank you.’
 
‘A small reward for putting up with a demanding and tiresome old lady, Daisy. And I
am
tiresome, am I not?’
 
Demanding maybe, fussy and even hard to please on occasion, but never tiresome. Daisy’s face was straight now and her voice soft when she said, ‘I don’t think so, ma’am.’
 
‘Go on with you, child. I think you are employing a little flattery now, or what your grandmother would term . . . ?’
 
‘Buttering up, ma’am,’ said Daisy, grinning.
 
‘Buttering up? Yes, that will do nicely. And your birthday having fallen most conveniently on a Sunday, I have asked Cook to provide a special birthday tea for you to take with you when you visit the village later. Harold can drive you there in the carriage if you so wish?’
 
‘Oh, no, thank you, ma’am. Kitty and I will manage between us. We . . . we like the walk,’ Daisy said hastily. Gladys would already be spitting bricks about the birthday tea, the idea of Harold being forced to escort herself and Kitty to the door of the cottage would send the little woman into a frenzy, and it would be poor Kitty who would bear the brunt of her mother’s venom for the rest of the week.
 
‘As you like.’ Wilhelmina was aware there was little love lost between her nurse companion and the cook and her husband - between Kitty and her parents too, she didn’t doubt - but such domestic complications irritated and annoyed her and so she ignored them.
 
Wilhelmina accepted she had never had an excess of equanimity or forbearance - it was a family trait - but she was also honest enough to admit that since her heart had begun to cause such problems her impatience and exasperation with those around her had reached new heights. Never one to suffer fools gladly, constant frustration now added to an already volatile temper. Therefore Daisy’s stoicism in the face of what amounted to considerable provocation at times was genuinely appreciated, the more so because the old lady sensed it was her companion’s kind heart - rather than the wage Daisy was paid - which enabled her to stay so unflappable.
 
Later that morning Daisy had just given her mistress her medicines and performed one of the daily massages Wilhelmina needed on her legs and feet as a consequence of her poor circulation when a tap at the door of the private sitting room preceded Gladys’s entrance into the room.
 
‘Sorry to bother you, ma’am, but Kitty’s ailing and Harold’s none too good neither so lunch will be a little late,’ the cook said importantly.
 
‘Ailing?’ There was a note of alarm in Wilhelmina’s voice. The bubonic plague outbreak in Glasgow was still spreading in that city, and people all over Scotland and the north east had been warned to look out for signs that the disease had escaped the city confines.
 
‘Oh, it’s all right, ma’am. They were both talking to the butcher’s boy when he called, and he’s gone down with influenza.’
 
‘Influenza? Oh, dear, and I thought we had escaped that.’ An influenza epidemic at the beginning of the year had taken old and young alike at its height, but over the last few months it had appeared to burn itself out. Nevertheless, influenza was preferable to the plague, and Wilhelmina’s voice reflected this when she said, ‘Hopefully a few days in bed will put them to rights, Cook.’
 
‘Yes, ma’am.’
 
‘Talking of which, I am a little tired today. I think I will have a lunch tray in bed later, after a nap. Shall we say two o’clock? And, Daisy, once you have tucked me up, why don’t you get off to see your grandmother?’ Wilhelmina added kindly.
 
‘Thank you, ma’am.’ Normally her half-day began at one and it was barely noon now.
 
‘What’ll I do with the hamper, ma’am?’ Gladys had not budged from her position just inside the door, and although her face was deadpan the cook couldn’t quite keep a trace of elation from coming through in her voice. ‘It’s too heavy for one to carry, and Harold is in no fit state to drive the carriage.’
 
‘Yes, thank you, Cook.’ Wilhelmina’s voice was sharp and stated quite clearly she would not be played for a fool. ‘I will let you know later.’
 
Once Daisy and her mistress were alone again, Daisy had just begun to say, ‘It really doesn’t matter about the hamper, ma’am, although it is very kind of you. I’ll take what I can carry today, and the rest can be used up here,’ when there was another knock at the door.
 
A subdued Gladys put her head round the door and said, ‘It’s the parson, ma’am. He’s called in to see how you are on his way home from the morning service. I told him you were tired and going to take a nap shortly, and he asked if you could spare Daisy for a moment.’
 
Try as she might, Gladys could not keep her inner resentment from filtering through in her voice again. Asking for that fishergirl, indeed. What were things coming to in this household?
 
‘Pop along and bring the parson in here, would you, Daisy?’ Wilhelmina then turned to the cook, adding, ‘And I am sure a tray of coffee and biscuits would be most welcome. Some of those shortcake ones the parson is partial to, I think, Cook.’
 
When Daisy entered the drawing room Parson Lyndon was standing at one of the large windows looking out into the bright September sunshine. He turned from it, his pleasant, good-looking face breaking into a smile as he said warmly, ‘Good morning, Daisy, or is it afternoon now?’
 
‘Afternoon, but only just, Parson.’ Daisy smiled widely at this man she had come to like and respect as one of the most benevolent people she had ever known. His increasingly frequent visits to the house, and the way he had begun to include her in the discussions he shared with the mistress, had gone some way to making up for William’s absence of late.
 
In the last month he had made only one appearance at Evenley House, and that had been with his father, but it wasn’t just the fact he had kept away for the last few weeks so much as his manner when he had come that concerned her. He had seemed remote and withdrawn, as though he had something pressing on his mind. She was glad William’s uncle had stayed only briefly in England, though. His one visit to see Miss Wilhelmina had been enough to set her teeth on edge for days.
BOOK: Candles in the Storm
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