Nicola Cornick (12 page)

Annabella felt the irritation rising in her at this odious familiarity of his. Worse, the drawing-room door was ajar, and she could see her mother-in-law’s flushed red face in the opening as she eavesdropped shamelessly, and the maid grinning in the hallway behind her.

‘I scarce expected to see you again, sir!’ she said coldly. ‘The last time we met, your departure suggested that you would be taking your compliments elsewhere in future!’ Too late, she realised that he had interpreted this as jealousy on her part, for he was grinning complacently. He had a round, impudent face with pale grey eyes that somehow always managed to appear over-familiar, and now he was admiring her figure in a way she found frankly insolent. She sat down hastily, and Jeffries took a chair opposite, continuing his ogling. Annabella itched to slap his face.

‘You must forgive me,’ he said, with an obvious assumption that she would. ‘I was disappointed by your reticence on the occasion of the ball, but I understand that you feel you must observe the conventions of mourning a little longer.’

Annabella felt her temper rising. ‘My reticence did not stem from hypocritical conventionality, sir,’ she said, frigidly. ‘I infinitely regret that you find it dif
ficult to believe that I have no interest in your attentions!’

‘Ah, the respectable widow!’ Jeffries’s tone was still easy, but Annabella saw a flash of anger in his eyes. ‘Say no more, my love—we shall not quarrel again over this! But remember—’ his lips tightened into a humourless smile ‘—your distinction by Mundell and his set may be short-lived. They may drop you as quickly as they have taken you up, and then my attentions may not be so unwelcome!’

Sighing, Annabella wondered how obtuse, or just plain conceited, a man could be, and also how rude she was going to have to be to get rid of him. She raised an eyebrow. ‘Was that all you had to say to me, sir? If so—’

‘No, there was another matter.’ Jeffries was still smiling, and there was an unpleasant edge to it. ‘I came to warn you.’

‘To warn me?’ Annabella was so surprised that she forgot to be angry. ‘About what, pray?’ She watched him sit back, very much at his ease, and her mystification grew.

‘About Sir William Weston.’ Jeffries’s grey eyes slid away from hers. ‘He is not…a man to be trusted.’

All Annabella’s bad temper returned with a rush. ‘And what can you know of the case, sir?’ she asked scathingly. ‘I was not aware that the gentleman was known to you!’

‘I had not met him before that night at the ball,’ Jeffries admitted, ‘but he was known to me by reputation.’ He shifted a little in his seat, still avoiding her gaze. ‘And that reputation is not a sweet one, Annabella. I speak only out of concern for you.’

‘Very fine of you, sir,’ Annabella snapped. ‘I scarce consider you to be the man to criticise another’s apparently unsavoury reputation!’

Jeffries had the gall to look more sorrowful than angry. ‘I did not mean to imply that he had a penchant for women,’ he said apologetically, ‘although there were tales—’

‘I thank you, I do not wish to hear them!’

‘No, indeed,’ Jeffries murmured, with an unctuous smile, ‘I should not sully your ears. But this is more serious, Annabella.’ There was something in his tone which caught her attention. Her anger died a little. Could this really be as serious as he implied? She did not want to hear this, and yet…

‘What do you mean?’ she asked slowly.

‘I mean treason,’ Jeffries said, in the same ingratiating tones as before. There was a silence. On the mantelpiece the clock ticked loudly.

‘I think that you must be quite mad, sir,’ Annabella said faintly. ‘Treason? Whoever could think such a thing?’

‘I wish I was.’ Jeffries was determined to finish. ‘There was talk when I was serving under General Ross out in the United States. Weston was the captain of a frigate which was involved in the naval battle for Lake Champlain in ’14. When he came under fire, they say he retreated and ran instead of coming to the aid of a fellow ship…There was talk of dereliction of duty, but no charges were ever brought, for as you know, Weston has friends in high places. I had already heard some tales of him falling in with privateers when he was in the Indies, for how do you think
he made his fortune? But again, no charges were brought…I thought you should know…’

Annabella found that she was full of wild, unreasoning rage. Her thoughts were spinning in a kaleidoscope of colour and images. Chief amongst them was the memory of Sir William’s face. How could this man, who had not one ounce of Will’s integrity or courage, come here to make such outrageous accusations…? She stood up. ‘I thank you for coming to spread your wicked, unfounded gossip, sir,’ she said, her voice shaking with suppressed rage. ‘You will oblige me by leaving the house immediately. I want to hear no more of this poisonous tale. If no charges were ever laid against Sir William, it ill behoves you to raise such slanderous defamation again! Upon my word, this rings with spite and malice, nothing more! Good day, sir!’

Jeffries stood up too. There was an ugly look on his face, blurring the good-natured features into a sneer of malevolence. ‘Oh, it suits your purposes to disregard my words, madam, for I know you have high hopes of Weston! Well, he will never marry you, for what are you, after all? The destitute daughter of a disgraced merchant, whose own family want nothing to do with her! Weston is after bigger fish and don’t give a toss for you!’ He marched to the door and flung it open, sending Lady St Auby flying. Annabella felt sickened. She had temporarily forgotten her mother-in-law, with her habit of listening in to every conversation within the house. Now it could be guaranteed that the whole of Taunton society would hear the shocking tale, much embroidered, and before teatime. Lady St Auby’s features were a compound of delight
at the insults Jeffries had heaped upon Annabella, and unholy glee at being in possession of such a prime piece of gossip. As the front door slammed behind the Captain, Annabella caught her mother-in-law’s arm in a grip that made the older woman wince.

‘I had forgot your vulgar habit of eavesdropping, madam! If this story goes the rounds I shall have no hesitation in laying it at your door!’ She gave Lady St Auby’s arm a shake. ‘Further, I shall advise Sir William to sue you for slander! He is a rich man and can well bear the expense—which you can not, can you, madam? Now, for once in your life, make a decision based on sense rather than gratification!’

Lady St Auby recoiled from the fury she saw in Annabella’s eyes, but her daughter-in-law had already dropped her arm, privately shocked at the violence of her own emotions. She had known that she was falling in love with Sir William, had revelled in the romance and the pleasure of his attentions, had been looking forward to the declaration that she knew to expect when he returned. But first there had been Miss Hurst’s spiteful insinuations, then Lady St Auby’s sniping, and now Jeffries’s vicious slander. Was everyone determined to spoil her happiness? And how intolerable for Sir William that men such as George Jeffries should go around repeating their poisonous tales simply to cause trouble, and that women such as Lady St Auby would batten on them! Jeffries should be careful, Annabella thought, that Sir William did not call him out. But then, what did one do about such unpleasant gossip? Should it be given consequence by acknowledging and responding to it?

Remembering the incident, Annabella threw her
book aside in vexation and looked out of the dusty window on to Fore Street. She would have to speak of the matter with Caroline Kilgaren, whom she had arranged to meet for a shopping trip the following day.

Caroline would reassure her that it was all a hum and not worth a moment’s thought. And soon Will would be back, and it could all be forgotten. With a little sigh, Annabella picked up her book again and forced herself to concentrate on the page. At least it helped to pass the time.

A wet morning greeted her when she rose next day, with skies of an unrelieved grey to match her mood. It was still early when the knocker went and the maid brought in a bouquet of roses from the gardens at Mundell, the dew of morning still fresh upon the velvety petals. Unlike Jeffries’s tribute, these roses were still tight buds with a heady scent that promised the richness that was to come, and the card that accompanied them was written in Sir William Weston’s hand, telling her not to forget, and that he would see her soon. Annabella smiled a little dreamily as she put the roses into water, and hummed as she went about her tasks for the rest of the morning. The impact of Jeffries’s cruel words was receding, and she knew it would not be long until Sir William returned. Lady St Auby’s malice slid off her without touching, deflected by a love she was sure must be reciprocated.

The town was busy when she went out to the market. Since the incident with the pail of water, Lady St Auby had given her only the lightest of household tasks, and Annabella was quite amenable to doing the
marketing. She had an eye for good produce and the stallholders liked her friendliness. Where the maids tended to return with old vegetables about to rot, either because they wished to buy cheap and keep the change, or because the vendors fleeced them, Annabella usually found a bargain. But this morning the experience was far from pleasant.

Small knots of women stood about, baskets over their arms, their eyes sharp as Annabella walked by. The whispering started behind her back: comments about Sir William Weston’s sudden departure from Mundell Hall, allusions to the gossip Annabella had heard, speculation that he had dropped her. All of it was murmured in an undertone, the speakers looking hastily away when she turned to challenge them. She had seldom had so uncomfortable a trip out. So it seemed Lady St Auby had been unable to hold her tongue, or else Jeffries had been dropping his venom into other ears as well as hers…Annabella hurried back to confront her mother-in-law, only to be thwarted by finding her out on a visit to Mrs Eddington-Buck.

It was almost midday when the sharp rat-a-tat of the knocker startled her again. Annabella was so sunk in despondency that she scarcely wondered who it was. There was the sound of voices in the passage, and then the drawing-room door opened.

‘My dear Mrs St Auby! How do you do, ma’am?’ With a slight shock, Annabella recognised the stooping gentleman in the doorway as her father’s lawyer, Mr Buckle. She had not seen him since the time, immediately after her father’s death, when he had had
the unfortunate task of telling her that Broseley’s estate had nearly all been swallowed up by debt. He tipped the rain from his hat and handed it to the maid, gratefully accepting Annabella’s offer of a cup of tea.

‘An inclement day,’ he observed, divesting himself of his coat and fussily laying it out to dry, ‘but not a day of ill tidings, I am glad to say!’ He beamed at Annabella over his half-moon spectacles. ‘I have good news for you, young lady! Very good news indeed!’

Annabella got up and closed the door. There could be nothing untoward about an interview alone with her father’s man of business, and she was damned if she was going to share the news of any good fortune with her mother-in-law’s servants.

Mr Buckle was unpacking his case, shuffling papers self-importantly. ‘We have finally wound up your father’s business affairs,’ he said a little pompously, ‘and I am pleased to tell you that there is a residue from the estate—a very small residue given the significance of your father’s fortune at one time—but, nevertheless, enough to give you a modest income.’

Annabella’s gaze had wandered back to the tiny unfurling buds of the red roses, glowing softly on the corner table. She dragged her attention back. ‘But that is excellent news, Mr Buckle! Is it…’ she was almost afraid to ask the question ‘…is it enough to live on?’

Mr Buckle primmed his lips. ‘A moderate sum only, but with proper investment…yes, I should think that, if you are careful, it could be enough.’

Enough to help me escape from this house at least, Annabella thought, and found her attention almost imperceptibly drifting back to Sir William Weston again. Perhaps she need not worry about continuing much
longer in the St Aubys’ household…But this could only make it easier for her, for she would feel that it was less of an unequal match if she had some money of her own…Scolding herself for letting her mind wander to Sir William yet again, she realised that the door had opened to allow the maid in with a steaming cup of tea, and that Lady St Auby was lurking expectantly in the corridor. The door closed quietly and Annabella realised that Mr Buckle was still speaking.

‘…all the property has been sold to cover the debts,’ the lawyer was saying, ‘but there is one estate left. Well,’ he corrected himself, ‘perhaps estate is not the right word, for the property is small, but thirty acres, with a farm and a modest house…’

Modest was evidently one of Mr Buckle’s favourite words, Annabella reflected. And it suited his own moderate and respectable demeanour. It had always been a surprise to her that Bertram Broseley had chosen such a demonstrably honest lawyer, but then perhaps that was precisely why he
had
chosen him.

‘There is a problem, however,’ Mr Buckle was saying, suddenly fixing Annabella with a severe look as though the obstacle was of her own making. ‘The title to the property is in dispute.’

‘In dispute?’ Annabella was confused. ‘Do you mean that the house is not really mine?’

Mr Buckle made a deprecating movement. ‘No indeed, my dear Mrs St. Auby! The property is yours, inherited from your father who, in turn…erm…bought it from the late owner some five or six years ago. What is apparently in dispute is the manner in which—’ he cleared his throat discreetly ‘—your father purchased the estate.’