Carisbrooke Abbey Page 5

  Recalling her wandering thoughts, she dismissed the feelings. She was tired. That was the problem, she told herself. The strange sensations she had been experiencing had probably been the result of waking in the middle of the night, and then having to dress Lord Carisbrooke’s wound. She would feel better once she was back in bed.

  Blowing out all but one of the candles she crossed the room and climbed into the handsome four-poster. She snuggled beneath the covers and then blew out the last light.

  But try as she might to put all thoughts of Lord Carisbrooke out of her mind, he haunted her thoughts. And when at last she fell asleep he haunted her dreams.

  * * * *

  ‘Come, Caesar.’

  Marcus, Lord Carisbrooke called to the large hound the following morning as he crossed the cavernous hall of the abbey. He was dressed for walking out of doors, with a many-caped greatcoat thrown over his coat and his buckskin breeches, and with battered Hessian boots on his feet.

  Caesar thumped his tail against the stone flags then rose from his place in front of the fire. He stretched, yawned and padded over to his master, then the two of them went through the abbey door and out of the house.

  It was a dismal morning. The sky was grey, threatening more rain.

  Marcus turned his steps towards the river. The rain had come down heavily in the night and he feared it would be flooded. If it was, the ford would be impassable.

  Why did there have to be such bad weather now, of all times, when there was a woman in the abbey? he asked himself with a frown. And why did it have to be such a disturbing woman? She wasn’t beautiful. She wasn’t even pretty. She was small and plain. Her eyes were grey, her hair was mousy, and her figure was unremarkable. But still she had unsettled him.

  He quickened his pace. His prowl turned into a stride as he crossed the broad, untidy lawns that surrounded the abbey. Beyond them was a gravel path, and further still was a tangled shrubbery where misshapen bushes fought for space.

  It was all the fault of that tree! If it hadn’t fallen and pinned her by the ankle, then nothing would have happened. But something about the sight of her struggling to free herself had touched him, and cracked the churlish armour that had been gradually growing around him over the last five years. It had been useful, his armour. It had protected him. From pain and hopelessness, fear and foreboding. And ultimately, despair.

  All this ... he looked round, his gaze sweeping across the lawns and shrubberies, before glancing over his shoulder to see the abbey itself ... would soon be gone. With no one to tend it, no new generation to nurture it, it would return to its natural state. The rhododendrons would become tangled, the lawns would become meadows, and the abbey would fall into decay. It was as inevitable as winter following summer; night following day.

  It had hurt him to begin with, the knowledge that the abbey would become a ruin, and that the grounds would grow wild. But bit by bit he had shut off the overwhelming pain. And now Hilary had made him start to feel again. It should have been unbearable. But for some reason, alongside the pain and despair, was hope.

  It was a fool’s hope, he told himself harshly. Nothing could change the future. Not even a plain young woman cast adrift in the world and carried to his door.

  He tried to turn his thoughts, but they would not be turned. They lingered on Hilary - Miss Wentworth, he told himself irascibly - and his first meeting with her. That tree had much to answer for! Not only had it led to a breach in his armour, but it had led to a reawakening of pleasures he had long since put aside. When he had taken her foot, the feel of it had stirred something inside himself he would have rather left undisturbed.

  Oh! but it had felt good.

  He gave an unwilling smile. Her foot had been so tiny. And when he had unlaced her boot and his fingers had brushed her skin through the tear in her woollen stocking, her dainty pink ankle had been as soft and smooth as the inside of a rose.

  He caught himself up. It was folly to think of such things. Why couldn’t she have indulged in floods of tears like any other woman? That would have driven away his feelings. But instead she had reacted to his hostility with pride and stubbornness, rousing his admiration and attracting him more. He had admired her resilience, the more so because he had had need of resilience himself. Different they may be, in gender and wealth and position, but they had something in common: they both knew what it was to endure.

  And her resilience was not all he admired. He admired her intelligence, and her tenacity. She had not taken no for an answer when he had declared he would not employ her. He would like to employ her. He would enjoy having her at the abbey ....

  Bah! Those thoughts were dangerous. The abbey was no place for a woman. For her own safety, she had to leave.

  Up ahead he could see the river. As he suspected, it had burst its banks and was now spreading over the adjoining fields. It was muddy and fast-flowing, and swirled in violent eddies as it caught on submerged rocks before continuing on its way.

  Caesar was already sniffing at the waters, casting his eyes longingly at a tempting branch that spun just out of reach.

  ‘Come, Caesar,’ he growled, as the hound put out a tentative paw.

  Caesar hesitated, then bounded back to him.

  Marcus surveyed the mass of seething water, hands thrust deep into his greatcoat pockets, then turned his steps towards the ford. It would be under water, but how far under he did not know. Once he had discovered that, he would be able to make a guess at how long the river would take to subside - although even that would be dependent on there being no more rain. He looked at the sky. Grey clouds hung low, covering it completely, and threatening more to come.

  He soon reached the ford. The water had covered the grey rock, and was half way up the black, which meant that even without any more rain the ford would not be passable for two to three days, and if it continued to fall, the ford might not be passable for a week. So what was he going to do with Miss Wentworth in the meantime?

  She couldn’t cross at the footbridge, that was for certain, he thought, as he glanced upriver towards the narrow rustic bridge that spanned the turbulent waters, because beyond it she would be faced with a long walk. He might have been unreasonable enough to suggest that she walk back to the village the night before, but now that his anger had cooled he would not countenance the idea. He could lend her a horse, but his animals were large and spirited, and although she might be able to ride them successfully in the abbey grounds he knew she would not be able to control them over rough terrain. There was nothing for it. She would have to remain at the abbey.

  But as soon as the ford was passable again, he would send her on her way.

  Chapter Four

  Hilary woke early. The grey light of morning was drifting in through the arched windows, revealing another gloomy day. It took her a minute or two to remember where she was. The massive stone chamber was so different from her cramped room in the Derbyshire lodging house that at first she thought she must be still dreaming. But gradually the events of the previous day came back to her. So, too, did her own difficult situation. Lord Carisbrooke had declared he would not employ her, and now she must embark on a search for another position.

  She pushed back the covers and climbed out of bed. Going over to the heavily-carved oak washstand, she remembered that she had used the last of the water to clean Lord Carisbrooke’s wound the night before. There was nothing for it, she would have to ring the bell and face Lund’s surliness. She was just about to do so when she heard a noise on the other side of the door. She jumped; then laughed. It was nothing more sinister than the sound of someone leaving a jug in the corridor! Sure enough, when she opened the door, there was a jug of water. Picking it up, she went back into her room and washed, then set about getting dressed.

  She took a dove grey gown out of her portmanteau and put it on. It was, like all her dresses, made of hardwearing linsey-woolsey, and although it was not beautiful at least it was warm. It had a low waist, its bodice buttoned up
to her neck, and its sleeves were long. No lace relieved its sober colour. It was plain and unadorned.

  Having donned her dress she brushed her mousy hair and arranged it into a knot, securing it with pins before leaving her room.

  It was a pity the abbey was so neglected, she reflected as she walked along the landing, for even in the grey light of the November day she could see that it was beautiful. Its high, arched ceilings were supported by fan vaulting, and its walls were made of golden stone.

  She began to descend. She felt like a child, dwarfed by the massive staircase. Its walls were so far apart that she could not have touched them if she had reached out with both hands. The steps, however, were shallow, for which she was thankful. Her ankle was still paining her, and she did not want to put too much strain on it.

  At the bottom she hesitated. The hall looked different in the daylight. She could see into every corner of it, as she had not been able to do the day before. She marvelled at the skill of the men who had built it. The huge slabs of stone were perfectly cut, and despite their austerity they were beautiful.

  She tried to remember in which direction the dining-room lay. She would not be surprised if she found it empty. If she did, she might have to go without breakfast, for Lund, like his master, did not welcome guests. But when she entered the dining-room she was pleased to see that the table was laid.

  The room was warm and comfortable. A huge fire burned in the imposing stone fireplace. The logs crackled, giving off a sweet smell. She went over to the fire and warmed herself.

  She had not been there more than a few minutes when Lund entered the room, bearing a tray.

  ‘Breakfast,’ he said dourly, taking a pewter platter from the tray and following it with a tankard, putting both on the oak table.

  Hilary looked at him in perplexity. The platter contained a hunk of cold beef, and in the tankard was ale.

  ‘For your master?’ she enquired.

  ‘His lordship’s been up these two hours,’ said Lund.

  His manner suggested that if she had not been such a sluggard she would have been up two hours herself. Hilary instinctively glanced at the clock, but it showed that she had not been tardy. It was not yet eight o’clock.

  Deeming it wiser not to make a reply, she asked, ‘Then whose is the breakfast?’

  He favoured her with a sour look.

  ‘For Mr Ulverstone?’ she enquired.

  He gave a heavy sigh, as though he had been tried to the utmost limit of his patience. ‘For you. Who else?’

  She looked at the meat and ale in astonishment, and then her mouth quirked. The abbey was, indeed, not welcoming to women!

  ‘I will have tea, please,’ she said hurriedly as Lund was about to leave the room.

  ‘Tea?’ he asked gloomily.

  ‘Yes, please, tea,’ she said firmly. She must have a drink of some sort, and she could not possibly drink the ale. ‘You do have tea?’ she asked, when he made no move.

  ‘Aye, we do,’ he said grudgingly.

  ‘Then I will have a pot, please.’

  Still muttering, he left the room.

  Hilary sat down and looked at the beef. It was such a large hunk she did not know what to do with it. She was used to having her meat sliced thin, if she had it at all, but this slab would have fed a wolfhound!

  Still, she must be grateful she had anything to eat. She picked up her knife and fork ... and then set them down again as she heard the sound of the heavy front door opening and closing. Footsteps crossed the stone-flagged hall, and Lord Carisbrooke entered the room.

  He was looking vigorous. His pallor of the night before had disappeared, and had been replaced by a healthy colour. His large body was encased in his usual badly-fitting clothes, but even so she could not help noticing the splendour of his enormous frame. He was a good match for the abbey. Both were magnificent. And both were forbidding.

  It was the grizzled hair at his temples that made Lord Carisbrooke seem so, she realized. But beneath the forbidding demeanour she sensed something else, a sorrow deep inside him that his wealth and position could not counteract. She could see it in his eyes. What lay behind his gruff manner? she wondered. And why was he so averse to having a woman at the abbey? Was it because ....

  But she was becoming fanciful again. Chiding herself for having too much imagination, she bade him a down-to-earth, ‘Good morning.’

  He returned her greeting gruffly.

  Knowing that she might not see him again before she left, she said, ‘I will be leaving today, and in case I don’t have a chance to speak to you again I would like to thank you for your hospitality.’

  ‘My hospitality?’ he rumbled, with a lift of his shaggy eyebrows. ‘That is a strange word for it!’ A spark of humour lit his eye. Then it was extinguished, and something darker took its place. ‘As to your leaving the abbey, it’s impossible.’

  Had he decided to appoint her? she wondered. She felt a mixture of emotions. She would certainly be relieved if she did not have to look for another position, but the atmospheric abbey disturbed her ... and so did its enigmatic owner.

  His next words dispelled her hopes, however.

  ‘The river’s flooded,’ he said. ‘The ford’s impassable. You won’t be going anywhere.’

  This was a blow. Not only was she not to be appointed, but she could not leave the abbey to look for work elsewhere.

  ‘Is there no way across? Surely there is a bridge?’

  ‘There is. But it won’t take a coach, and you cannot walk far.’

  ‘Is there no other way out?’ she queried.

  ‘None.’ He spoke gruffly, and sounded as unwilling to have her as she was to remain.

  He threw his gloves on to the table. Then he noticed her platter.

  ‘What’s that?’

  ‘Breakfast,’ she said.

  She could not help it. As she looked at the plate of beef and the tankard of ale, her mouth twitched.

  ‘Breakfast?’

  He looked irritated, and then to her surprise he laughed.

  It was a rumbling sound and she found it very appealing. It made her think of the sea. It was deep and powerful.

  But it was also dangerous.

  ‘I take it this was Lund’s idea, not yours?’ he asked.

  She nodded.

  His mood sobered, and she had the feeling that his thoughts had wandered from her breakfast to Lund, and thence down some dark pathway she could not follow.

  ‘What is it?’ she asked.

  The words were out before she had time to think about them. She had no right to pry into Lord Carisbrooke’s private life. But he had looked so haunted that she had wanted to reach out to him.

  He looked at her, his eyes gazing into her own, and for a moment she thought he was going to tell her what it was that troubled him. Then the shutters came down. ‘You’d better have something else to eat,’ he growled.

  He crossed to the fireplace and pulled a large bell rope hanging next to it. Somewhere below them, a bell clanged.

  Hilary wanted to speak in order to dispel the tense atmosphere that had surrounded them, but Lord Carisbrooke’s look was not inviting. He had withdrawn from her, and she dare not venture a remark.

  They remained silent. Hilary sat at the large oak table and Lord Carisbrooke stood in front of the massive stone fireplace, until Lund entered the room.

  ‘Some hot rolls for Miss Wentworth,’ Lord Carisbrooke growled, ‘and chocolate.’

  ‘I’ve brought her tea,’ Lund complained.

  ‘Tea will do very well. I asked for it,’ she explained to Lord Carisbrooke.

  ‘Very well. But rolls, Lund, and look sharp about it.’

  Having deposited the pot of tea on the table, Lund retreated, grumbling, to fetch some hot rolls.

  Hilary’s thoughts returned to Lord Carisbrooke’s assertion that she would have to remain at the abbey. She had been thinking it over in the long silence, and the more she thought about it, the more she didn’t like
the idea. Lord Carisbrooke was a man of strange moods, but even so she was drawn to him. Disturbed by her uncontrollable feelings, she felt it would be better if she removed herself from his vicinity.

  ‘How long do you think it will take for the ford to become passable?’ she asked him.

  He turned to face her, eyeing her from beneath drawn-down brows. ‘Eager to get away?’

  Whether he was teasing her, or whether he was annoyed she could not say. She could read neither his tone of voice nor his expression.

  ‘There is no reason for me to stay.’

  He regarded her steadily. ‘It’s impossible to say. It depends on the weather. If it continues to rain you could be here for a week.’

  She shivered. The prospect was not inviting.

  ‘If the Red Room isn’t good enough for you, you can choose another one,’ he growled, with some relenting of his manner.

  ‘Thank you. I think, however, I would rather remain there.’ Although the room was cavernous, it had the advantage of being familiar. ‘Once I’ve removed the rest of the dust sheets and opened the windows to let in some fresh air, I think it will be very pleasant.’

  He looked disbelieving, but said, ‘Very well.’

  Lund re-entered the room with a platter of hot rolls. Lord Carisbrooke glanced at them, evidently satisfied.

  ‘You can explore the abbey if you wish to do so,’ he said, ‘but you are not to venture out into the grounds.’

  Hilary was startled by his strange edict.

  But before she had time to reply, he said, ‘I’ll leave you to your breakfast,’ and strode out of the room.

  * * * *

  Hilary set about removing the rest of the dust sheets from the furniture in her chamber with a will. It was nine o’clock, and after finishing her breakfast she had decided to try and make the room as cosy as possible. She took the large sheets from the furniture carefully, so as not to disturb the dust that had settled on them, and stacked them in the corner of the room. She uncovered another small oak table, which she set on the other side of the bed; a wardrobe; and an elaborately carved settle, which she pulled, with some difficulty, to the foot of the bed. She stood up, straightening her back, and examined her handiwork. The room already looked much better, though it could not be said to appear comfortable. The heavy oak furniture was in the Gothic style with pinnacles and sharp points. The settle in particular looked more like a church pew than a homely seat, and, like the rest of the furniture, had been designed for display rather than comfort. But it had an austere beauty about it, and she hoped that when her few personal items were added, the room would have a softer feel.