Destitute On His Doorstep (17 page)

I
t was a silent, tense ride back to the cottage. With all her emotions bottled up inside her, Jane rode a little ahead of Francis with her lips pursed tightly as she tried to come to terms with their encounter with their mutual enemy. On reaching the gate they halted the horses, neither making a move to dismount.

Putting aside his fury at coming face to face with his most bitter enemy, Francis was deeply concerned for Jane. What had Atkins done to her to put such fear in her eyes? He had seen it when she had first set eyes on the man and she had let the mask she had so carefully kept in place slip, revealing a very frightened, vulnerable young woman hiding a damaged heart, a young woman who was in desperate need of protection.

Francis gave her a careful scrutiny. ‘You're quiet, Jane. I can sense Atkins's appearance has upset you.'

She stared at him through terror-and hate-filled eyes. ‘Upset? Yes, I am upset,' she said fiercely. ‘I am upset that he has come here looking for me since I hoped and
prayed never to set eyes on him again. He was and still is a horrible man—a monster.'

‘Did he hurt you very badly?'

‘It was more than that,' she answered quietly. ‘The first time I met him was when he came to Bilborough during the war, before my father was killed. When I went to live in his house in Northampton he told Gwen that I was the most wicked and obdurate girl he had ever allowed under his roof. I half-believed him, for I felt only terrible things about him.'

She was about to dismount when he said firmly, ‘Don't get down. I want you to come back to the Hall with me.'

She stared at him. ‘But I'm not, Francis. I shall stay here at the cottage.'

‘Don't be ridiculous. You are coming home, Jane, and you are staying there until this matter is resolved. I will not have you here alone while Atkins remains a danger to you.'

Still she resisted. ‘No, I will not. I will not run from him again, Francis.'

‘You will. You will stay where you are safe under my protection. I will not allow you to stay here.'

She glared at him, her face bright with indignant pride. ‘You will not
allow
it? I cannot believe you said that. I can decide for myself what I will and will not do. I am outraged that you seem to have taken it upon yourself to protect me, which, I recall, is what you told Jacob Atkins. I never asked for your protection. I certainly don't expect you to protect me. And I definitely don't want you to.'

As indignant as she was, Francis's jaw tightened. ‘I
can see my concern for your welfare has displeased you, Jane. It was not my intention. Understandably you are distraught—which I must assume is why you are being unreasonable?'

‘Unreasonable?' she flared. ‘Because I don't want to be protected by you or by any man? When I left Northampton after four years of abuse at the hands of a monster, I swore that from that day on I would look after myself and nothing has changed. I prefer it that way.'

A gleam of anger showed in his eyes. His face became hard and there was a visible menace in the set of his mouth. He turned his back to shut out the lovely vision she presented, of the child-woman who was now exhibiting such alarming self-possession. ‘Damn it, Jane! Do you have to be so—difficult?'

‘Unreasonable! Difficult!' She lifted her head in that defiant way Francis was beginning to know so well. ‘Yes, if it suits me I shall be anything I please.' She turned her blazing, defiant eyes on him, but Francis was not fooled. Inside he knew she was hurting very badly. ‘I thank you for the chivalrous feelings you possess towards me, but they are not necessary.'

‘In the light of our encounter with Jacob Atkins I beg to differ,' he bit back harshly, feeling that they were in danger of losing something of their former intimacy with Atkins's arrival.

‘And I will not be dictated to. Have you no principles or sense of fairness where women are concerned?' Jane bit back in frustration.

Urging his horse close to Arthur and leaning forwards so his face was close to hers, Francis's voice dropped to
a low, icy whisper. ‘You're mistaken if you think I care a damn about the kind of principles you speak of. Don't bother lecturing me on principles and don't mistake me for a gentleman, because I'm not. I am anything but. I have just fought a war in which I have done things that would offend and shock your maidenly sensibilities.'

‘I doubt it,' she bit back. ‘I had not been in your presence one minute before I made up my mind that you were the most conceited and arrogant upstart I had ever met.'

‘And you are nothing but a silly, foolish girl who has no idea what you are up against when you try and pit your will against me and a sadistic murderer like Jacob Atkins.' He leaned back and yanked on the reins, causing his horse to shy away from Arthur. ‘Now, if you are determined to stay here, kindly dismount and I will take Arthur back to the paddock. I think enough has been said between us for one day.'

Still angry, but also feeling confused and hurt by Francis's attack, which she had foolishly and unwittingly provoked, so that she could scarcely think, without saying a word and feeling tears welling at the backs of her eyes, Jane slipped from the saddle and looked up at him, faltering a moment, her anger diminishing by the second. ‘Francis, I'm sorry.'

He looked down at her, his own anger melting at the sight of her tear-bright eyes. ‘So am I. It is only this present danger and my concern for you that made me speak as I did.' Leaning down to her, with his hand he tenderly cupped her cheek. ‘Have it this way if you must, Jane. I will leave you with your independence since it is clearly so important to you, but I shall not leave you
alone. Jacob Atkins is our mutual enemy and we will shoulder this together. I will speak to Isaac and have men patrol the grounds. He will probably stay at one of the taverns in Avery so I shall have someone watch him.'

Jane watched him ride away. Not until he was out of sight did she turn and go into the house. One thing was uppermost in her mind. Despite their differences, both she and Francis had been deeply shaken by Jacob Atkins's arrival, both knowing he was not going to go away and neither of them knowing what would happen next.

 

It was Brutus, one of Frances's wolfhounds, that sensed all was not as it should be. Francis came awake with a start—not that he slept deeply, his years as a soldier had taught him to sleep with one eye open. He was alert, all his senses focused. He felt rather than saw Brutus prick his ears and lift his head from the carpet beside the bed. Pulling himself upright, he lit a candle and, looking at the clock on the mantelpiece, verified the time. It was midnight. A frown drew his dark brows together. Getting up from the bed, he put a hand on the dog's neck, and felt the hair there standing up with warning. The animal's head swivelled, following something unseen. He was growling, a low and constant rumble that Francis could barely hear, but he could feel the vibrations travelling up his arm and arousing all the nerves in his body.

His heart beating fast now, Francis padded across to the window and looked out. The moon hung low over the tree tops, casting an eerie grey in the cool but oddly tense night. There was an urgency in him that made him
uneasy. The night was calling, the shadows beckoning. Slipping into his linen shirt and breeches, he left the house with Brutus close on his heels, as silent as the wolf who had fathered him. The moon slipped behind a cloud, but Francis could still see the faint silhouettes of trees and outbuildings.

The steward's house drew him. Its shape squatted a little way back from the lane. He stood looking at it, wondering at the reason for his unease. Suddenly a glow appeared from the buildings at the back of the house, a glow that was fast becoming brighter. Sprinting round the house, he was just in time to see two dark figures running out of the yard and become swallowed up by the night. Were it not for the squeal of the terrified horses in the stable next to the building where the fire had been started, and the speed with which the flames were taking hold of the straw and hay stored there, he would have given chase, but the urgency of getting the fire under control was paramount to all else.

Isaac, who had been woken by the squealing of the horses, had led them outside and was tethering them to a post away from the fire. Together they began trying to damp down the flames with water from the horse trough. When Jane appeared in her night attire, having had no time to dress, with so much dry tinder in the small stable, great whorls of flame were shooting out of the door and through the roof, sending a shower of sparks into the sky. The smoke filled their nostrils, stung their eyes and scorched their faces, nearly driving them back. With no time to ask Francis what he was doing there or to enquire how the fire had started, unable to think of anything but the urgency of the moment, she
snatched a bucket and began pumping water from the well and passing them to the two men to pour on the flames. With her hair flying out all over the place, she resembled a mad woman.

Thankfully they had caught the fire early and together the three of them soon had the blaze under control.

Isaac went to calm the two horses straining to be free. Jane lifted her head in a vague semblance of the girl she had once been. Grim-faced, soot smeared and unkempt, Francis stood beside her, staring at the smouldering remains of the stable.

‘Who has done this to me?' Jane whispered, her throat aching with the smoke she had breathed in. ‘Someone who hates me. It has to be someone who must want me to suffer to perform this terrible act of vandalism—to set fire to my home.'

‘I don't know who did this, but I have my suspicions.'

‘Had you not arrived when you did, they might have set fire to the house.' She clasped her hands to her cheeks in despair. ‘I can't bear it. I can't bear to think about it.' Somewhere in the far spaces of her mind she felt the first stirring of awareness. It was an awareness that she hadn't quite grasped yet, but it was on the edges of her consciousness and soon she would find it. ‘I have a dreadful sense of foreboding, of vindictiveness, for whoever is to blame for this crime against me harbours an implacability that is remorseless.' Wrapping her arms about her waist, on trembling limbs she moved away from him.

In her distress, Jane was unaware how Francis watched her with carefully hooded eyes. He could not
pretend that he was not worried by what had happened, yet only the jagged pulse that had leapt to life in his throat attested to his own disquiet as he stared after her, with mingled feelings of regret and concern.

As Jane looked around at the devastation, her eyes fell on a bucket of whitewash Isaac had left against the wall of the house. He was in the process of whitening the passage in the house that opened on to the yard. Slowly her eyes moved on upwards and the cause of her unease was made plain. She stood as one stunned, staring at the bold, ugly letters that had been painted on the wall of the house, deeply shaken by what she saw. Witch.

That single word had been daubed on the stones, the watery liquid having run down the wall so that the statement looked grotesque. They had all been so absorbed in putting out the fire that none of them had noticed it.

Francis came to stand beside her, his face troubled. A trickle of sweat streaked his neck and his thick hair was tousled and flecked with bits of charred straw. Jane could feel her heart beating painfully in her chest and a small shudder ran through her. Unconsciously she stepped closer to Francis, taking comfort from his nearness. The night was warm and her nightdress clung to her with humidity and damp.

‘Whoever did this will be found and punished,' he said, his voice quivering with a low, quiet anger.

‘It's why they did it that worries me,' Jane whispered. ‘That word has followed me. It's a nasty word to have hung around your neck.' Her spirits struggled beneath the weight of judgement against her. ‘I have been condemned as a witch by the people of Avery without the
benefit of a hearing. That single word bears out their verdict—they will kill me if they can. Alice was right. Some people don't forget.'

Francis didn't disagree. How could he when the evidence was starkly painted before his eyes. ‘Atkins is still in Avery, staying at the White Hart?'

Jane was not surprised. Ever since he had presented himself there had been a prickling sensation at the base of her neck and she was for ever looking over her shoulder. ‘I knew he wouldn't be far away. I know him too well to know he will not meekly go away and leave me alone.' She looked at Francis sharply. ‘Do you think he is behind this?'

Seeing Jane's white face tight with shock and dark, fear-filled eyes, anger swelled suddenly in Francis's chest, a huge, solid thing, pushing hard enough to burst it. ‘We can't know for sure. We can't be certain of anything where that devil is concerned.'

‘Perhaps this is his way of punishing me. I can't help thinking…'

Francis felt the tension running through him snap like a broken wire. He'd been strung up like a puppet since he'd left the Hall. He knew that while ever Atkins was within the area Jane would not be safe. He knew Atkins. He knew how the man worked. He was a man who held grudges, a man who would not come out into the open and face his adversary alone. He would work behind the scenes, making things as unpleasant for his victim as he possibly could.

‘Atkins is capable of anything, Jane. If he is responsible for this, he'll regret it. I meant what I said. I'll kill him.'

Jane turned her thoughts away from this new and
dangerous direction and said, ‘How did you know to come here—what did you see when you arrived?' she asked.

‘I sensed something was not right—and my dog Brutus was uneasy. When I got here the straw in the stable had just been lit. I saw two men dart into the woods. I would have given chase, but my immediate concern was to put out the fire.'