Bought for Revenge

Chapter Three

Mr Havenham was sanguine about the invitation he had issued to Mr Monserrat to dine at Oakenroyd, but Annabelle could not rest. She knew her father would enjoy the evening, so she stifled her own misgivings and set about preparing a sumptuous dinner to show their new neighbour that Oakenroyd was a household of some standing in the neighbourhood. She made several journeys to the housekeeper’s room to change her mind about the dishes they should offer their guest, until at last the housekeeper, Mrs Wicklow, gently but firmly refused to discuss it any further.

‘Cook has been in charge of the kitchens for the past twenty years, Miss Belle, as you very well know, and if I tell him that you have changed your mind again he is likely to pack his bags and go off in high dudgeon, and then where should we be?’ She ushered Annabelle to the door. ‘Now, miss, I suggest you take yourself for a nice walk around the gardens while the sun is shining. The roast beef and cod loin will do very well, then we have a fine ham and apple dumplings, and I am sure we will find a few dainty sweets for when the covers are removed. Don’t you worry, my dear, your guest will not be disappointed.’

A similar indecisiveness struck Annabelle over what to wear.

‘I am mistress of this house,’ she muttered to herself as she pulled out and discarded various gowns. In the end she chose a high-waisted robe of pale-green silk, cut low across the bosom and with tight-fitting sleeves to offset the chill of a March evening. One of her many cream-muslin gowns would have been more suited to a young unmarried lady who had not yet attained her majority, but following their previous meetings she wanted Lucas Monserrat to see her as mistress of her father’s house, composed and in command.

Their guest arrived promptly and was shown into the drawing room by the butler. He was again dressed in the regulation dark coat and tight-fitting breeches, and his manner of greeting was just as it should be. She met him coolly, alert for any sign of insolence in his manner, but he was perfectly polite. Relieved, but not yet wholly convinced, she took her embroidery to a chair by the window and left her father to entertain him.

The winter weather took its toll on her father’s health and he was not able to enjoy the local society as much as he would wish, so by the spring he was always ready for company. Despite their distance from London, her father was well informed and the two men conversed easily together on a wide range of subjects, leaving Annabelle free to set her stitches and listen to their conversation with growing interest. Perhaps the evening would not be too much of a trial after all.

The good mood continued throughout dinner. Mr Monserrat directed his attention towards his host. Their discussions ranged from politics and the price of corn to the recent war. As the meal progressed Annabelle found herself relaxing. She forgot her previous animosity and even interjected her own comments into the conversation upon occasion—it was hard to remain coldly aloof with a guest who entertained her father so well.

At the correct time she excused herself and left them to their port, but it was not long before they joined her in the drawing room. Darkness had fallen and the shutters were closed. She had ordered the log fire to be built up and a quantity of candles burned steadily about the room. Annabelle glanced around her with satisfaction. No hostess could be displeased with such comfortable and elegant surroundings.

‘Mr Monserrat has great plans for the manor, my dear,’ remarked her father as she helped him to his favourite chair beside the fire. ‘He intends to restore it, very much as it was.’

‘That is admirable, sir.’ She favoured their guest with a faint smile. ‘I hope you succeed.’

‘I intend to.’ His dark eyes rested on her, cool and considering. ‘I succeed in everything I undertake.’

A frisson of disquiet ran through her, but she tried to ignore it.

‘How fortunate for you.’

‘Fortune has little to do with it.’ He waited until Annabelle was seated, then lowered his long frame into a chair. ‘I make my plans and stick to them.’

Her father chuckled. ‘But you are a young man still, if you do not mind me saying so. Life has a way of upsetting the best-laid plans.’

‘Not yours, sir, surely.’ Those dark eyes flickered about the room. ‘You look to be very comfortable here. Everything you need to make you happy.’

‘Not quite everything.’

Annabelle was immediately aware of her father’s sadness. It was in the slight droop of his shoulders and the faint change to his expression, imperceptible to a stranger.

‘Papa.’ She flew out of her chair and dropped down at his side. ‘Do not talk of it if it makes you unhappy.’

He placed one gnarled hand upon her head while he addressed his visitor.

‘I lost my wife when Belle was born, and my son died of a fever some years ago.’ He raised his eyes. ‘So you see, young man, I too have had my share of sadness. Belle is now my only joy.’

The silence following his words was broken only by the faint tick of the clock and the logs crackling in the fireplace. Belle expected their guest to say something, to murmur a word or two, of comfort, perhaps, or at least sympathy, but he said nothing. His face was impassive, the dark eyes thoughtful. She sought for something to break the silence, but within moments her father had roused himself and was smiling again.

‘We have a painting of Morwood Manor, Mr Monserrat. A watercolour. Perhaps you would like to see it.’

‘I would indeed, sir.’

‘It hangs on the landing. Annabelle, my love, perhaps you would accompany our guest? It is at the top of the stairs, you see, sir, and my legs are not what they were.’

‘I quite understand and would be obliged if Miss Havenham will show me the way.’

Annabelle wavered, wondering whether to suggest viewing it another time, in daylight, but that would require a further invitation. No, better to get it over with. She rose.

‘Of course, sir. Let us go now.’

She picked up a branched candlestick as they crossed the hall, explaining that they would need the extra light to see the painting properly. Her spine tingled as she led the way up the stairs, aware of his presence, the faint whisper of his footstep behind her, his warm breath on her neck—or was that her imagination? Surely he was not that close. She forced herself not to look around.

When they reached the landing she stopped by a small painting in a plain wooden frame.

‘Here it is.’ She lifted the candles higher. She had seen the painting many times before. It showed a long stone-built manor house with a slate roof and a gabled wing at each end. It had been painted in high summer. The creamy stone glowed against the backdrop of dark trees, and where there was now only rough grass and young saplings the artist had lovingly painted a sweeping drive curling between manicured lawns. ‘We keep it here on the upper landing so that it is out of direct sunlight and will not fade so quickly.’

He stepped closer to study the picture and Annabelle found herself looking at his profile, the hawkish nose and strong jawline, the lines of his face, so harsh they might have been carved from stone. In the dim light his hair was black as ink, his colouring so dark that even though his cheek was freshly shaved it bore a faint shadow. A man of dark thoughts, not one given to smiling. Strength emanated from his powerful frame. For all his fine clothes and good manners, he was not a man to be crossed.

Suddenly she was uncomfortable being here alone with him. The gloom and stillness were unnerving. She shivered and a few droplets of hot wax dripped on to her hand, making her gasp.

‘Here, let me hold that.’ He took the candlestick from her, his fingers brushing her skin and causing her to suppress another shiver, this time at the shock of his touch. She began to chatter to cover her nervousness.

‘This was painted just before the manor burned down. It is one of my father’s most prized possessions.’

To her relief he turned his attention again to the painting.

‘It is a good likeness.’

‘Is it? I have never seen another painting of the manor, so I cannot tell you.’

‘Who is the artist?’

‘I do not know…’

‘There is a signature.’ He held the candles closer and she peered at the faint scrawl.

‘I have never thought to look before…M.M.B…’

‘Maria Blackstone.’

She blinked. ‘Blackstone was the name of the family who lived there. Look—’ she pointed ‘—there is a small figure on the lawn.’

‘Yes, I see it. A tiny detail, easily missed.’

She leaned closer. The painting had been on the wall for as long as she could remember and she had not studied it for years.

‘It is a little boy, I think. I wonder who—’

‘Shall we go?’

His tone indicated that his interest was at an end. At the top of the stairs he put a hand beneath her elbow. Startled, she looked up and their eyes locked. His were black, unfathomable, yet she sensed danger and her breath caught in her throat. Panic gripped her, setting her heart thudding wildly, and the blood pounded so loudly in her ears that she was sure he would hear it in the gloomy stillness.

Annabelle swallowed nervously. She was being fanciful and foolish beyond permission. Straightening her shoulders, she moved away from him and began the descent, although she kept one hand lightly on the banister in case her shaking legs failed to support her.

Back in the drawing room, the tea tray had arrived.

‘It is a few miles to the Red Lion,’ explained Samuel as they came in. ‘I know you will want to get back while the moon is still high.’

‘I will indeed, sir.’ Lucas replied. He noted Annabelle’s tense countenance and could not resist teasing her, saying quietly, ‘Patience, Miss Havenham. Your ordeal will soon be over.’

Her brows rose and she muttered with icy politeness, ‘It is no ordeal, sir, I assure you.’

‘What thought you of the picture?’ Samuel enquired, unaware of the interchange.

‘Very interesting, sir.’

Samuel nodded. ‘It is an accurate representation of the way the manor used to be. Feel free to call again and look at it whenever you wish. Bring your architect, he may want to copy the detail.’

Lucas felt a smile tugging at his mouth when he saw the flicker of alarm in Annabelle’s eyes.

‘I am not employing an architect, Mr Havenham,’ he said. ‘I have drawn up my own plans for the builder.’

‘Such a lot of work,’ sighed Samuel. ‘The place has been sadly neglected. I always intended to do something about it, but…’

He trailed off and Lucas said cheerfully, ‘I do not despair of returning it to its former glory. The house is already under way and I have made a start on taming the wilderness that was once the park.’

‘I wish you good fortune, then, Mr Monserrat. If we can help in any way, you only have to ask. In fact…’ Samuel straightened in his chair ‘…if anyone knows the lie of the land it is Belle. She grew up playing in those woods and grounds.’

‘Oh, no, Papa. I am sure Mr Monserrat would be better advised to study a map.’

‘Nonsense, my love, you know every dell, every spring and stream at Morwood.’

‘But surely you could be more helpful to him, Papa,’ she persisted. ‘After all, you remember the house and grounds as they were before the fire. You have not yet given up your horses, a gentle ride would be good for you.’

A strange look came over Samuel’s face. Fear? Revulsion? Lucas could not decide, but a definite tremor ran through the old man as he shook his head.

‘No, my dear,’ he said quietly. ‘I do not care to ride there any more.’

‘I would be honoured if Miss Havenham would give me the benefit of her knowledge,’ said Lucas. ‘Perhaps, ma’am, you would ride out with me one day and show me these, er, streams and dells.’

‘An excellent idea,’ put in his host, rousing himself once more. ‘And you should do it soon, while the weather holds. What about tomorrow, sir?’

‘Papa, I do not think—’

Samuel was so caught up in his own thoughts that he did not hear her.

‘Yes, if you are free, Monserrat, I think tomorrow would be most convenient. I know Belle intended to spend the day at home, but Dr Bennett is coming over to play chess with me in the afternoon, and it is very dull work for a young lady to be sitting with two such elderly gentlemen when she would much rather be roaming free over the fields, what?’

Annabelle opened her mouth and closed it again. Her father had anticipated every objection. Lucas rose.

‘Then it is settled.’

Lucas came towards her, smiling with unholy amusement at her consternation.

‘I must be going. I shall call for you tomorrow, Miss Havenham.’ His back was to his host and he added quietly, ‘It seems you are not rid of me quite so easily.’

She bit her lip before replying with much feeling, ‘Nothing about you is easy, Mr Monserrat.’

Apollo was fresh. The big grey sidled and sidestepped playfully when Annabelle rode away from Oakenroyd, and she was glad that she could give her attention to controlling her mount and did not have to make conversation with the man who rode beside her, mounted on a hunter of equal size and strength to Apollo.

‘I am somewhat surprised you agreed to ride out with me, Miss Havenham.’

‘I did not choose to do so.’

‘If you really did not wish to come, you could have told your father the truth about our first meeting.’

Apollo took exception to a wood pigeon flying out of the hedgerow and she quietened him before making her reply.

‘That would upset him and he would be obliged to cut your acquaintance. I would not have him on bad terms with a neighbour.’ She glanced behind her. ‘And as you see, I have Clegg with me today.’

‘You would be quite safe, even if you had not brought your groom.’

His tone was perfectly sincere, but Annabelle had not forgotten his insolent manner, nor the hard looks he had given her when she had come upon him at Morwood.

‘Perhaps,’ she said coldly. ‘I would rather not put it to the test.’

‘I can see I have some work to do to gain your good opinion, Miss Havenham.’

‘A great deal,’ she retorted.

‘But you will allow me to try?’

‘That implies good behaviour does not come naturally to you.’

‘Of course not. I was in the army for fifteen years and they teach one discipline, but not society manners. Pray allow this boorish soldier a chance to redeem himself.’

He smiled, softening the harsh features. The dangerous look in his eyes disappeared, replaced by something warmer, an invitation to share his amusement. Annabelle was shaken by the transformation and had a great desire to smile back. Instead she looked away, not ready to capitulate. She pointed to a nearby lane.

‘If we turn in here, we can go across the moors and gallop the fidgets out of these horses.’

The exertion, the sensation of flying over the ground, did much to ease the tension Annabelle was experiencing. They raced neck and neck along the track that cut through the rough moorland. The gorse was coming into bloom; in a few more weeks there would be huge splashes of brilliant yellow dotted over the moors, contrasting sharply with the black, almost lifeless heather that would turn first dark green, then purple as the summer progressed. She felt at home here, free to roam, but the approaching woods reminded her that her freedom was now curtailed. That wall of trees was her boundary. The land surrounding Morwood Manor was no longer hers to ride over as she wished. She tried not to be downhearted. Her father still owned sufficient land for her to enjoy a daily gallop. She must not be greedy.

They pulled up in the shadow of the trees and waited for Clegg to catch up before joining the track that wound its way down through the woods to Morwood. Annabelle saw immediately that changes were in progress. The encroaching undergrowth had been cut back to make the path through the woods once again wide enough for a carriage.

A laugh escaped her. ‘It is like “Sleeping Beauty.”’

‘I beg your pardon?’

She had been so engrossed in her thoughts she had forgotten her companion. A self-conscious flush touched her cheeks.

‘When the prince arrives and wakes the princess. The forest has been growing around the castle for a hundred years and he has to hack his way through the brambles.’

He looked around. ‘Just five-and-twenty years has been enough to change the woods out of all recognition.’

They continued towards the house. Even before it was in sight, the sound of hammering could be heard ringing on the breeze, along with snatches of song from the workmen.

‘Your coming is timely, Mr Monserrat,’ she conceded. ‘You have brought a great deal of work to Stanton at a time when it is much needed.’

‘I have heard the harvests were bad last year.’

‘Dreadful. They called it the year without a summer, the crops rotted in the fields. The farmers had nothing to harvest, so the labourers had no work and no money was spent, thus the tradesmen suffered too.’ She shook her head, remembering the sad, strained faces in the town. ‘My father did what he could, set men on to renew the road from Oakenroyd to Stanton and rebuild the stone walls.’

‘And he borrowed money to do it.’

‘Yes.’ She looked across, frowning slightly. ‘How did you know that?’

‘A guess, merely. Ah, here we are.’

They emerged from the trees and the house now stood before them. It was just over two weeks since Annabelle had ridden here last—and been so rudely accosted, but she must try to forget that. She was astonished by the transformation. A forest of scaffolding was growing up around the old walls, the sweeping drive was covered with wagons and much of the ground between the house and the woods had been cleared of weeds and saplings.

‘I shall lay new lawns, of course, but not until the builders and stonemasons have finished their work.’ He pointed to one side of the house. ‘I propose to plant a rose garden there, on the west front.’

‘In the painting the roses are on the other side of the house.’

‘Yes, but they never prospered there.’

‘You were fortunate to find anyone to remember such a detail.’ She gazed at the busy scene with mixed feelings. Of course it was a good thing for the manor to be restored, but the abandoned ruin of the old house had been so peaceful, a tranquil haven that she had come to look upon as hers alone. That was all gone now.

Lucas watched the play of emotion on her face. She had grown up here, she considered it hers. He quickly stamped down the tiny flicker of sympathy. Annabelle Havenham was merely losing her playground: twenty-five years ago he had lost his home and his parents, everything he held dear destroyed in one terrible night. He was obliged to push the memories aside so that he could continue.

‘I have a stonemason inspecting the old walls of the house,’ he said. ‘To see which of them can be made sound. Much of the house will have to be rebuilt. Strange thing is that where the walls have collapsed much of the stone has gone. Robbed for other buildings, perhaps.’

‘There is an abundance of stone on the far side of the rise.’ She pointed with her crop to a tree-covered hill behind the house.

‘Will you show me?’ Lucas turned his horse. ‘We could go there now.’

She led the way. The old path around the base of the small hill was just passable, but although the trees were still bare of leaves she had to push the grey through the undergrowth, where the brambles were so high they snagged at her skirts. Eventually they reached a very uneven area of ground. The trees were much thinner here, growing between haphazard grassy mounds. Annabelle walked Apollo beside one particularly large mound and reached down to push aside some of the vegetation with the end of her crop.

‘This whole area is made up of piles of cut stone. It is very overgrown and the stones themselves are covered in lichen, but you will see that they are all dressed, ready to use.’

‘And use them we will. Thank you, Miss Havenham. I wonder why it was brought here?’

‘I think my father had some idea of building a house on this spot.’