Хелен Диксон – The Foundling Bride (страница 2)

‘I don’t want her here. Take her away—anywhere, I don’t care, as long as she is out of my sight.’

Bewildered, Nessa stared at her. She couldn’t believe what she was hearing. ‘Take her away? Forgive me, my lady—I don’t understand. Where...?’

‘To Castle Creek. Where else would she go if not to that libertine of a father of hers? And do not insult my intelligence and pretend you don’t know who I mean. Don’t play the innocent.’

She was so certain of herself, so dreadfully intimidating as she stood beside the bed.

‘You played your part in the wretched affair when they were carrying on behind my back.’

Nessa was feeling colder by the minute, and Lady Margaret’s words hammered on her nerves. ‘But Sir Robert is still in Mexico. There will be no one at Castle Creek.’

‘There are servants. Let them deal with her. It’s not my concern. It’s either that or the orphanage.’

Nessa remained silent, but inside her anger stirred. Suddenly this embittered woman put her in mind of a witch—and she even seemed to hiss. It was the only way to describe the low-pitched, hate-filled words. If Nessa had hoped for compassion in her for her dead daughter, she knew better now. There wasn’t an ounce of compassion in this woman.

In her grief at losing Meredith, her beloved mistress, Nessa wanted to shout her anger, to remind her that if she hadn’t been so against her daughter seeing Robert Wesley there would have been no need for them to carry on behind her back. She took a deep breath to calm her jangling nerves, telling herself not to sound desperate, not to plead for the babe in her arms, but to be reasonable.

Lady Margaret’s hatred was deeply rooted in the past. Robert Wesley’s father, whose family had been greatly involved with the mining of silver and lead in that part of Devon for decades, had been her first love, and she had never forgiven him for throwing her over in favour of Robert’s mother. Nothing would have persuaded her to allow her daughter to form a liaison with his son.

As young as she had been, Meredith had been possessed of a passion for Robert Wesley she hadn’t been able to control. Lady Margaret had seen it—lust, she had called it. Lust, not love. And in her opinion lust was wicked—a sin that destroyed.

In the beginning Meredith had concealed her condition from her mother and the other servants, but it could not be concealed for ever. When she had told her mother she was to bear Robert’s child, her mother had railed and stormed unendingly, her face twisted with fury, accusing her of behaving no better than a peasant girl and calling her a whore.

Had it been anyone else who had fathered the child she would not have objected so strongly and merely forced a marriage, but she had not allowed her daughter to marry Robert Wesley. It had been too appalling for her to contemplate—and Nessa’s young mistress had been too young and too weak to disobey. Lady Margaret had not even allowed her to write and tell him of her predicament, and had kept her confined to the house, allowing her to see no one but her maid.

But the servants had talked among themselves in hushed whispers, and when Miss Meredith had taken to her bed they’d made up their own minds about what ailed the young mistress.

Lady Margaret had had no intention of letting her daughter keep the child. But, whatever her objections to the child’s father, neither did she wish to become involved in any scandal. People would talk, and she did mind about that. Not that she cared for their opinion, but to draw attention to one’s self in any way she considered ill-bred.

She had decided that when her daughter had been delivered of the unwanted burden, if it survived she would see it dispatched to an orphanage in another county. She had not expected her daughter to die, and now it no longer mattered what happened to the child.

‘And me, my lady?’ Nessa’s voice was low, her expression controlled.

‘You?’ Lady Margaret spoke as if addressing someone completely stupid. ‘What about you?’

‘Am I being dismissed?’ Nessa asked.

‘Yes, you are,’ she replied, her face a mask, her mouth inflexible. ‘Your services are no longer required in this house.’

Nessa looked at the pale figure of her young mistress, feeling a deep sadness. ‘But—I can’t leave,’ Nessa objected. ‘Miss Meredith—’

‘Is dead. She no longer has any need of you. You heard what I said. Oblige me by taking the child far away from this house. I don’t want you here.’ Her eyes dropped to the child. ‘Either of you,’ she added.

Nessa was stunned by the viciousness of Lady Margaret’s words. ‘But—my lady—you can’t do that,’ she ventured bravely. ‘The child is your granddaughter...’

‘And Robert Wesley is her father,’ she snapped back.

Decency and honesty came first in Nessa’s mind, and she could not understand how a woman could discard her own grandchild. ‘But—but what you are doing, my lady, is—is cruel.’

Lady Margaret’s eyes sliced over her. ‘You—a servant—dare preach to me about cruelty. Life is like that. Now get your things and go.’

‘But—my money—and a character...

Lady Margaret walked to the door, then turned to look back at the servant. ‘A character? I don’t think so. Get the child ready. I’ll give you whatever money is owed to you before you leave. I have nothing more to say.’

She gave her a last withering look and left.

* * *

With the child held in one arm, and carrying a bundle containing her few worldly possessions in the other, Nessa left Beresford House. Not that she was sorry to leave. In fact she was relieved to be gone. Tall, and carrying herself upright, Nessa was near to weeping—but anger prevented it.

The big problem was what she should do. She wondered what life had in store for her. It was important that she found work, otherwise she would be unable to ensure that regular money went to her mother and father. They lived across the Tamar in Cornwall, and they both suffered from ill health. Without her money they would be turned out of their cottage. But who would employ her? She had not been given a reference, and without a character she would not find it easy to find employment in service.

With these thoughts heavy on her mind she followed a route which took her along the two miles of pathways to Castle Creek, mentally damning Lady Margaret with every step she took. The woman should be ashamed—getting rid of her granddaughter as she would a stray dog.

It was a hot day, and the child was heavy in Nessa’s arms. She was wondering at the reception she would receive when Castle Creek came into view. Commanding a view over the English Channel, it was a solid, square-built house, with crenelated walls and innumerable windows. It was bigger and more imposing than any house Nessa had ever seen. She found it quite awesome.

Reaching the lodge, she knocked on the door. Getting no response, she peered through the window. It appeared no one was at home. She carried on up the long drive to the house and reached the heavy wooden doors. The shutters were closed, and when she pulled the rope that rang the bell inside the house sounded hollow and empty.

An old man in working clothes and a floppy felt hat who was tending the gardens told her that the old master had passed on two months back. His son, Sir Robert, had been in Mexico on silver mining business. He had been notified immediately, but before arrangements had been made for him to return home he’d been fatally wounded. The house had been closed and the other servants dismissed until further notice.

When the man had shuffled off to go about his work, Nessa stared after him. Clutching the babe in her arms—an orphan, she realised—she looked around. The beautiful house had a look of desolation about it, a feeling of emptiness, as though all the life it had known since the day it was built had been whisked away for ever.

What was she to do? What was to become of them? She had to find work, and the child would only hinder her. But for now there was nothing for it but to take the child with her to Cornwall.

The journey was hard. Without the usual method of feeding a young baby, she had to buy milk to spoon-feed her.

She had a spinster aunt who lived in Saltash, but being a harsh, self-righteous woman she would not take kindly to her turning up with an infant. Perhaps by some miracle something would turn up.

One thing she was sure of—Lady Margaret might not want her grandchild, and she, Nessa, had no part of her, but she would not take Miss Meredith’s defenceless daughter to any orphanage.

* * *

Two days after the lumbering farmer’s cart carrying Nessa Borlase and her young charge crossed into Cornwall, leaving her at a crossroads to go her own way, with her spirits crushed and no hope of finding a place for herself and the baby, a young boy rode over the undulating terrain.

Gripping the spirited roan with his strong legs, Marcus Carberry bent low over its glossy neck as he rode—at great danger, it seemed, not only to him but to the animal, as he galloped with complete abandon across the great expanse of undulating parkland. At any other time he’d enjoy courting danger—the thrill of it. But today he rode his horse hard in an attempt to rid himself of his brother’s harsh words.