Blackthorne. Ruth Langan
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his clothing meticulously pressed. Her voice had the screech of rusty wheels. His was as cultured as royalty.
The driver brought the team to a halt, then leapt down and opened the door to the carriage. A cloaked figure stepped out, barely glancing at the assembled staff.
“Welcome home, my lord,” Pembroke called, after clearing his throat loudly.
“I hope yer journey was a pleasant one,” the housekeeper added.
“Allow me to present your servants, my lord.” Pembroke turned to see that the maids bowed properly and the lads removed their caps.
Lord Stamford acknowledged each one with a brusque nod, then turned back as a little boy stepped down from the carriage.
Pembroke remained ramrod straight, no sign of surprise visible on his features. But his gaze flicked over the sun-bronzed skin, jet-black hair and wide dark eyes of the lad.
For his part, the boy stared around in bewilderment at the imposing fortress with its acres of manicured lawns and its turreted towers that caught the last rays of the fading sun.
The driver began unlashing trunks and dropping them to the ground. At a snap of Pembroke’s fingers several of the staff hurried forward to deal with the lord’s baggage.
“Ye’ll be wanting a late supper, m’lord,” Mistress Thornon said nervously.
“Nay. Nothing.”
As the cloaked figure moved past her she called to his back, “Your rooms are ready for you, m’lord. We’ve prepared your grandfather’s rooms for your arrival.”
He paused. Without turning he said, “I would prefer my old rooms, Mistress Thornton.”
“Your old...? But, m‘lord, beggin’ your pardon, they’re a bit small for the likes of... I mean, now that you’re the new lord of the manor and all...”
He turned.
Seeing the scowl on his face she couldn’t help taking a step backward. “At once, m’lord. I’ll see to it myself.”
He gave a curt nod. “I will wish to visit my grandfather’s grave, Pembroke.”
“Aye, my lord. On the morrow?”
“Now.”
Pembroke swallowed. “At once. I’ll take you there myself. But first, you may wish to greet your brother. When he heard that you were returning he became quite... animated.”
Quenton glanced up. A man’s face peered down from the upper window. In the reflected glow of firelight, it appeared ghostly-white.
He gave an audible sigh, the only hint of any emotion. “Aye. I’ll go up to him.”
As the two men turned away Mistress Thornton gathered her courage and asked, “What of the boy, m’lord? Where shall we put him?”
He gave a negligent shrug. “The east wing, I suppose .”
“Aye,. m’lord.” The plump housekeeper glanced at the boy, who continued to stand hesitantly beside the carriage. “Come, lad. I’ll show you to yer rooms.”
He moved along at her side as they entered the imposing foyer. Mistress Thornton noted that he seemed properly awed by the gleaming chandeliers, ablaze with the light of hundreds of candles, and, as they began to climb the wide staircase, wildly interested in the colorful tapestries that lined the walls.
“Are ye hungry, lad?” She knew not what to call him, since the lord had not bothered to introduce him, and the lad had spoken nary a word.
He nodded.
“Well then, after I take ye to yer rooms, I’ll see that ye have a fine meal brought up.” When they reached the east wing, she flung open double doors and led him inside a set of rooms that included a sitting chamber and bedchamber.
“This is Edlyn.”
A scowling serving wench, who had been coaxing a fire on the grate, got to her feet, dusting off her skirts.
“This lumpish, knotty-pated strumpet will help you unpack and see that you’re made comfortable.”
The boy giggled at the housekeeper’s colorful choice of words, unsure of their meaning.
“And what is yer name, young master?” Edlyn asked.
“Liat.” His voice had a musical quality as he spoke the word in two syllables. He made his way to the balcony, where he climbed onto a trunk in order to stare at the green, rolling land below.
“Liat? What sort of mammering, hedge-born, heathen name is that?” the housekeeper muttered under her breath. She crossed herself, then turned away with a sigh. “I’ll have his supper sent up on a tray.”
As she hurried away, her mind was filled with thoubling thoughts. Too much had happened too soon. The old earl had been so loved until his unexpected death. It was well-known that his grandson had been reluctant to return from sea to take over the estate. Already the rumors were flying about the return of Lord Stamford to his ancestral home, Blackthorne. Now, to add fuel to the rumors, he had brought with him a lad of questionable parentage. She had no idea what to expect anymore. But this much she knew. Life here at Blackthorne would never be the same again.
Oxford, 1662
THE CEMETERY WAS little more than a bleak, windswept stretch of hill beside the country chapel. Through a curtain of mist could be glimpsed the rooftops of the university buildings and picturesque houses nestled in a green valley below.
The vicar, a stooped gnome of a man, intoned the words meant to comfort the bereaved. But the words he’d spoken a hundred times or more had little meaning to Olivia St. John, who stood with head bowed, tears flowing freely.
It was almost beyond comprehension. Mum and Papa, falling to their deaths during one of their daily climbs. Still young and vital and full of life and love. And now they were gone. And she was alone. Alone. The word reverberated, like a litany, through her mind. No parents, nor grandparents, nor brothers or sisters. Alone, except for this aunt and uncle, who were complete strangers to her.
She glanced toward her mother’s sister, Agatha, Lady Lindsey, who stood beside her dour-faced husband, Robert. As the two simple wooden boxes were lowered into the gaping holes in the earth, husband and wife turned their backs, hastening toward their waiting carriage to escape the elements. As if on cue, the heavens darkened and the rain began.
Olivia stood alone, unmindful of the cold rain that soaked her clothes and turned the open grave into a sea of mud at her feet. It seemed fitting somehow that it should rain. “The angels in heaven are weeping,” Mum had often said of the frequent English rains.
She couldn’t tear her gaze from the two caskets as the village gravedigger slowly covered them with earth. Even when the task was completed, she continued to stand alone, grieving as though her heart would break.
“Come, girl. Your aunt will catch a chill.” It was the rough grasp of her uncle’s hand upon her wrist that had her turning away. As soon as she was seated, a whip cracked and the carriage lurched ahead.
Her aunt’s words, spoken through gritted teeth, penetrated Olivia’s layers of pain. “I told Margaret that she was marrying beneath her station, but she would not listen. Her inheritance has been badly mismanaged.”
“Inheritance?”
“Alas, there is little enough left. You are practically penniless.”
“We were forced to live quite frugally, Aunt Agatha. Mum said that her money was in London, and under your control. Yours and Uncle Robert’s.”
Her uncle’s lips thinned. “You can be grateful for that, young lady, or it would all be gone. Had it not been for our son Wyatt’s careful scrutiny, that befuddled father of yours, with his nose stuck in dusty old books, would have squandered his wife’s inheritance years ago.”
“Papa