Chapter Two

      A hazy October sun greeted Lizzie when she pulled back the curtains the next morning. The storm had subsided and it was a day to snatch a walk, if Mrs Croft did not immediately require her services. As luck would have it, her employer had chosen to entertain an acquaintance from St Mary’s congregation that morning and was looking forward to talking with her alone. A companion had always to know when her presence was not welcome, Lizzie thought, but this visit suited her well. She had expected life in Rye to be hedged around with every kind of petty rule and restriction and it was true that the work was tiring and the days monotonous. But when Mrs Croft did not require attendance, she seemed happy for Lizzie to spend her few precious hours of freedom walking the quiet lanes of the neighbourhood. The old lady might not have been so happy today, though, and it was best that she knew nothing of this particular ramble.

      She had a very good idea in which direction she should wander and, after a hasty breakfast, set off towards the Guldeford Ferry. This small boat service was the quickest means of crossing the river to the marsh opposite and Lizzie had discovered that Chelwood Place was a mere three miles away, across the river and lying to the left of the marshland. A casual comment to Hester, Mrs Croft’s maidservant, and she had the main direction in which to walk. Like so many estates locally, it was famous for the wool it produced and Hester warned her that if she found her way there, she might well have to walk through fields of sheep. Sheep did not bother Lizzie.

      The sky was a misty autumn blue, the sun growing stronger by the minute, but she knew from painful experience that the weather could change at any time. Several foot crossings and the small ferry were all that separated Rye from the marsh and thick mists could descend at any time. Just a few days ago she had begun her walk in brilliant sunshine, only to be turned within minutes into a veritable sponge by rolling, wet clouds. This morning she would risk a light costume, she decided, but wear a protective cloak. She could always abandon the garment once she arrived and bundle it behind a bush. Intent on looking her best, she had selected from a meagre wardrobe her second-best gown, a dress of primrose-floret sarsnet. It was a trifle old-fashioned, bought for her by Colonel Ingram as a peace offering before he returned to the Peninsula, but she had tried to bring it up to date by trimming it with French flounces. With a bright yellow ribbon threaded through chestnut curls and a primrose-silk reticule, painstakingly made over the last few evenings, she had checked the mirror and thought herself presentable. She hoped she could persuade Major Delacourt into thinking so, too.

      The ferry proved as dirty as it was ancient and she spread a handkerchief across one of its grimy seats before lowering herself carefully on to a broken plank. The ferryman gave her a disdainful glance, spat over the side and turned to the shepherd who had followed her on board. Their muttered conversation in an impenetrable dialect filled the short journey, but Lizzie was happy to be ignored—she was on another adventure.

      Once on the other side of the river she found the path to Chelwood without difficulty. As the maid had described, it skirted the marshland at its edge and travelled in a semi-circle inland. Beneath this morning’s high blue skies the marsh looked benign, but here and there the wooden structures marking a sluice gate raised their profile above the flat landscape, looking from a distance for all the world like a gallows. There was something primeval about this world, something deep and visceral, and brave though she was, she wasn’t at all sure she would want to venture into its depths. She was glad that Chelwood lay at its very edge.

      * * *

      An hour’s brisk walking had brought her to the gates of the mansion. They were immense, a rampart of black iron decorated with several rows of sharp-tipped spikes; they were also resoundingly locked. She saw to the side the lodge-keeper’s house and wondered if she dared lift the knocker and ask to be admitted. But what reason could she give for her visit? To stroll casually up the carriageway towards the house and ‘accidentally’ bump into Sir Justin was one thing, but to demand admittance on a formal visit when no invitation had been issued was quite another. Possibly there was a second way into the grounds, an entrance less thoroughly guarded. Veering left away from the lodge, she began to push through the deep grass which grew around the perimeter wall. She walked until her small boots were sodden with dew, but without finding any break in the masonry. The wall was as old as the iron gates, old and crumbling, and here and there large stones had come loose, sometimes falling to the ground altogether. There were footholds for anyone daring enough to climb and she stood for a while, calculating whether she could manage the ascent without damaging either her dress or her limbs. She would have to, she decided. She hadn’t donned her second-best dress and come all this way merely to turn around. But it was more than that. She didn’t know why, but it seemed important that she see Justin Delacourt and see him today. She would have to get over that wall. She chose a section which was crumbling more quickly than elsewhere, and, hoisting her petticoats up around her knees, she reached up and began hand over hand to climb. It was fortunate that the lane abutting the wall was narrow and largely unused for it would have been mortifying to be caught showing her stockings. Once at the top of the wall she saw to her dismay that a long drop lay before her, since the inside of the wall had not succumbed to the elements as badly and there was no easy path to the ground. She took a deep breath, closed her eyes and jumped, landing awkwardly on her ankle and bruising her shins. But she was in.

      A pain shot through her foot. She would not stop to worry about it: she wanted to catch Justin Delacourt before he left the house for the day’s business and she had already wasted too much time. She had landed in a thicket of trees that appeared to be part of a larger spinney. The undergrowth was lush and uncut and straggling branches obliterated her view. Pushing past the trees, one after another, she attempted to find a path, but there seemed always to be another row of trees to negotiate. Then the first drops of rain fell. She had been so busy clambering over the wall she had not noticed the blue sky disappear and a menacing black take its place. The few drops soon became a downpour and then a veritable torrent. She pulled her cloak tightly to her, sheltering her hair beneath its hood, but in a short while she was wet to her very skin. The ground beneath her began to squelch ominously and she was dismayed to see the lower part of her dress as well as her boots become caked in mud. How could she accost Sir Justin looking such a fright? There was no hope for it—she would have to abandon her adventure and return to Brede House.

      But she was lost. The spinney seemed to stretch for miles and she had no idea of the direction she should take. She could only hope that she would hit upon a road before she dissolved in the driving rain. She was bending down to loosen a twig that had become tangled in her skirts when she felt something hard and unyielding pressed into her back. A voice sounded through the downpour.

      ‘Right, me lad, let’s be ’avin’ yer. Yer can disguise yerself all yer wish, but yer ain’t gettin’ away. Not from Mellors. Chelwood Place ain’t open fer poachers—not now it ain’t.’

      She tried to turn round and reveal herself. There was a gun to her back, she was sure, but if the man who spoke knew her to be a woman, surely he would lower the weapon and allow her to go.

      He was taking no chances. ‘Keep yer back to me.’ He prodded her angrily with the weapon. ‘I knows yer tricks. Now walk!’

      ‘But...’ she started to protest.