Chapter Four

      ‘Lucy!’ Rebecca’s low disciplined voice carried easily in the quiet room and brought the girl’s brunette head directly around. Rebecca pointed indicatively at the book in front of her on the pine desk and mouthed, ‘Read!’

      Once Lucy’s attention was once more with her work, Rebecca glared at John. The young carpenter shifted from the open doorway where he had been loitering under the pretext of examining its battered wooden framework.

      Rebecca quietly left her own desk and, passing the few younger day girls who were chalking on small blackboards, entered the kitchen. John was kneeling on the floor, replacing tools in a canvas holdall.

      ‘The work must be finished now, John, surely?’ she asked the fair-haired youth. He scrambled up then, reddening, and she realised that he hadn’t heard her approach. He tugged at a lock of sun-bleached hair hanging low over one eye.

      ‘Yes, m’m…’ he mumbled. ‘Just a few more rafters to look at under them slates…once rain eases off a bit.’

      He had turned up, totally unexpectedly, within hours of Rebecca learning of Robin Ramsden’s death. The new master had sent him, John had shyly explained and he had set to work. Rebecca was grateful he had arrived so speedily too, for by dusk the first fat drops of rain were staining the dusty ground around the Summer House.

      John had been back each of the three days since, awaiting a break in the showers to carry out repairs. That was the problem. While he innocently surveyed the internal structure of the Summer House for chores to occupy him until he could get back on the roof, Lucy was purposefully surveying him. He was now watching her back, Rebecca realised with alarm. Her small parlour-cum-schoolroom often now found him lurking in its vicinity.

      ‘You still here, young man?’ Martha greeted John jovially as she entered the kitchen with a basket of washing beneath one capable arm. ‘Just about got this lot dry between showers,’ she informed Rebecca in the next breath. ‘Waiting for them biscuits to get out the oven, I suppose,’ she again addressed the blond youth.

      ‘Well, I wouldn’t say no, Martha.’ He dodged her playful swipe at him.

      ‘You’d best get yourself up on that roof then and earn some. Rain’s eased off a bit now.’

      He sauntered from the kitchen, cradling his prized tools beneath one arm.

      ‘Never going to rid ourselves of him now, are we?’ Martha mentioned with a shrewd meaningful look towards the parlour door.

      Rebecca sighed, approached the open kitchen door, and surveyed the dripping landscape. ‘I’ll have to speak to Lucy again. She distracts him…’

      ‘Distracts him?’ Martha echoed with a derisive snort. ‘That young miss is a bundle of trouble, if you ask me. Why, even my old Gregory has had eyes made at him. Not that I’m worried…or he’s capable,’ she added with a good-natured smile. ‘But that young John…now there’s a different matter,’ she warned with a sage wagging of her grey head.

      ‘I know she tends to flirt,’ Rebecca admitted, biting anxiously at her bottom lip.

      ‘You’re looking a bit brighter today, if I may say so, Miss Becky,’ Martha changed the subject abruptly.

      ‘I do feel a little less anxious, Martha,’ she said quietly. ‘The shock of hearing of Robin’s death made me a little illogical. But since then I have been thinking…perhaps things aren’t quite so black. Now I have had time to consider…’ She sighed, reflecting that ‘consider’ hardly began to do justice to the sleepless, fretful nights she had endured since first learning of this tragedy. ‘I certainly can’t honestly blame Mr Trelawney for wanting to return to Cornwall or to the home and estates he has there. Nor could I have complained had he wanted to take up residence at Ramsden Manor and charge me rent for using this building. It is his property, after all, to do with as he wishes. Because Robin was so good to me I tend to forget that I am just here on sufferance. But Mr Trelawney has sent John to repair the roof, so with all things considered, he has been quite kind…quite nice…’

      ‘Gregory says he thinks the young master be quite taken with you too,’ Martha mentioned with an astute narrowed look at Rebecca, as she deftly folded laundry. ‘He says last time he laid eyes on his lordship, he were watching you walk away from him as though…’

      ‘He feels sorry for me,’ Rebecca cut in quietly. ‘He realises that I shall be dispossessed and is good enough to sympathise. But I shall manage. I believe it will be some months yet before the matter of the estate is settled. I must use that time to again search for Simon. And I must now succeed,’ she announced vehemently, concentrating on memories of her twenty-four-year-old brother and her inheritance, held within his grasp.

      It wasn’t a great fortune. But her five thousand pounds was the dividing line between poverty and self-respect. It would have been her dowry on her marriage to David. It was hers by right and she now needed to invest it for her future; to keep her free of soul-destroying drudgery as a provincial governess or companion. For she was aware that very little else awaited her once her rent-free tenancy of the Summer House was terminated. She was a spinster of almost twenty-six now and meeting someone to love and marry was increasingly remote.

      She rarely socialised. Even when in London with Elizabeth they had visited the theatre on only one occasion due to Elizabeth’s recent confinement.

      There was always the chance that a widower with children might take her on and provide her with a reasonable life. She sighed wistfully, for the notion of a loveless, convenience marriage for respectability and shelter was dispiriting. Since David no one had attracted or excited her…Her meandering thoughts circled back to Luke Trelawney. Her heart rate increased and a spontaneous rush of blood stained her cheeks at what would have been her next thought. She abandoned it immediately.

      Her fingers sought automatic comfort from her silver locket, and she thought of dear David. She concentrated on his fine straw-coloured hair, his rounded face and the light freckling that dusted his nose and cheeks. It was so unfair. He had loved her dearly, although his parents had been keen for him to make a match with a young woman of better family. A middle-class merchant’s youngest daughter was certainly not what they had in mind. The fact that all the Nash children had been well educated and had good connections mattered little.

      David’s father, Sir Paul Barton, was a baronet with a certain social