The Angel and the Sword Read online

  ‘Yes . . . no . . . sort of. . . .’ came the garbled reply as, at that moment, the slim figure of a young girl appeared at the entrance to the garage. It was Hettie. Having a strong suspicion that here, more than anywhere else, was the cause of Bill’s erratic behaviour, Sam nodded towards her. ‘Looks like you’ve a visitor,’ he said.

  Bill spun round, blushing miserably when he saw who it was. ‘Hettie. . . .’

  ‘Bill. . . .’ she responded so awkwardly, instantly Sam wondered if they’d had a falling-out. What a pair!

  ‘Why don’t you go for a walk,’ he suggested, scrambling up and reaching for a cloth from the bench to wipe his hands. ‘It’s near enough teatime and you’re no good to me as you are, lad. A little fresh air will happen clear your head.’

  Miracles might happen! Hettie threw him a grateful look before following Bill outside into the warmth of the afternoon, by common consent, turning away from the village and back towards Loxley, which even now, mixed up as she was, seemed to draw her from all points of the compass.

  He might look pleased to see her. ‘What’s wrong?’ she asked.

  Bill plunged his hands into the pockets of his overalls. ‘Must there be anything?’ He scowled.

  ‘Oh . . . I wondered, that was all, only you seem in a bad mood.’

  ‘Do I? I can assure you, I’m not.’

  ‘They’re still on at me about Europe,’ she said, puzzled by his obvious animosity.

  ‘What a surprise,’ he responded, shooting her an enigmatic glance that only made the situation worse.

  They’d reached the top of the lane. Nimbly, he vaulted the dry stone wall shielding the lane from the meadow beyond, turning to help her over, piqued when she ignored him, preferring to scramble over herself. ‘You might look as if you’re bothered,’ she said, feeling hurt and confused and only too horribly aware that her temper was stirring. Whatever could have happened between now and their last meeting when he’d been so happy to see her? Was he having second thoughts? Heaven forbid if he’d decided he didn’t care for her after all!

  ‘Hettie, I’m going to college!’ he burst out, shocking her, the last thing she’d expected.

  They’d begun to walk down the meadow towards the hall but, at this, she cannoned to a halt, staring up at him in consternation.

  ‘I thought you’d decided against it,’ she wailed.

  Bill’s gaze, normally such a steady one, was curiously evasive. ‘I . . . I hadn’t really thought about it but. . . . Now I’ve decided I want to go!’

  ‘But why . . . I don’t understand!’

  ‘I have to, Hettie, can’t you see?’

  She could see and part of her accepted it made sense. But equally she was sure there was something else he wasn’t telling her. ‘But we’ll never get the chance to see each other,’ she said, slowly, the reality of it hitting her as hard as if he’d dealt her a physical blow. ‘What about us, Bill?’ she asked quietly, aware now of her heart thundering in her ears, like she’d just asked the most important question she’d ever asked anyone ever and worse, knew that the answer was going to be one she didn’t want to hear. It was there, plain on his face. He was going to college where he’d forget all about her. He didn’t care about her at all.

  ‘There’ll be evenings, weekends,’ he pleaded.

  ‘You’ll have homework . . . college work!’

  ‘There’s that, of course. . . .’

  ‘So you’ll see me when and if you can manage to fit me in?’ She fired up indignantly and yet, part of her was aware she was being unfair. Why shouldn’t he go to college and make the best of himself? She’d gone away to school, much as she’d hated it. ‘I might as well go to Europe. There’s nothing to keep me here,’ she muttered, disconsolately.

  Bill stood, running his hand through his hair. It was obvious she knew nothing of her grandmother’s visit and he realized now there was no way he could tell her. The old woman had stitched him up good and proper; knowing full well he was bound to put Hettie’s needs first. He swallowed miserably. How could he give her up given the way he felt?

  ‘It . . . it might not be a bad thing, Het. It won’t be forever after all,’ he said.

  It would just feel like forever. If this was love, you could keep it! Hettie’s pride stifled her instant heartfelt retort that she loved him, that she never ever wanted them to be parted. She couldn’t believe he was doing this to them. She wouldn’t give him satisfaction! He could do whatever he wanted without her! ‘It will be forever, Bill,’ she uttered fiercely, even though her voice was trembling and she hated with a passion the fact they were falling out. Her grandmother was right after all. She was too young to fall in love properly and especially with someone like Bill who didn’t even appear to know his own mind any more. So saying, without giving him another glance, she walked smartly away, knowing instinctively that he stood watching her until she was out of sight.

  Chapter Two

  ‘The post, Your Grace,’ Soames murmured, proffering the silver salver bearing the morning’s post to Bronwyn, who sat drinking coffee in Katherine’s sitting room. Her face broke into a wide smile of approval.

  ‘Another card from Hettie!’

  ‘Where’s she got to now?’ Katherine demanded but only after their old family retainer had retired. This was family business. She stood by the empty fireplace, fingering an exquisitely carved bird; one of several similar woodland creatures discovered in the cottage last inhabited by Reuben Fairfax, their ex-gamekeeper, whom Katherine still hated to think of as her husband’s by-blow. She returned the bird, a kestrel, wings outstretched, to its resting place. News of Hettie, on whom she doted, had at least snapped her out of her reverie.

  ‘They’ve reached Venice,’ Bronwyn replied, reading out loud, ‘Dizzy has a cold. The hotel summoned the doctor, who confined her to her room . . . Heavens – but in summer? “Please tell Bill I miss him.”’ She paused, wishing, too late, she’d kept this last to herself. Inwardly cringing, she waited for the inevitable outburst.

  ‘We’ll tell him no such thing – she’s being deliberately provocative, of course!’ Katherine snorted, clearly irritated and right on cue.

  ‘Bill is her best friend,’ Bronwyn protested at once, ignoring her mother-in-law’s small moue of disapproval which, for once, left her unperturbed. Delighted as Bronwyn was that Hettie was taking the chance to travel around Europe and at an age when she was most likely to reap its benefits, she still felt uneasy about the way Katherine had so successfully engineered events. Worryingly, after her initial refusal to countenance the trip, Hettie had been too compliant by far for her mother’s liking, setting off with Dolores, her ex-governess, without a whimper of protest, so unlike her when, more usually, she had an opinion on everything, no matter how minute. Pig-headed some would say, Bronwyn conceded, knowing who to blame for it too and throwing Katherine a glance touched by a surprising fondness. But some altercation had occurred between Hettie and young Bill, Lizzie’s eldest, before her daughter had left. Bronwyn treated Katherine to another, this time uneasier, glance. ‘I saw Lizzie the other day,’ she added belatedly, remembering the news that had brought her hurrying up here. ‘Isn’t it wonderful about the baby?’

  Katherine frowned. ‘Another baby on the way? For heaven’s sake! But where on earth will they put it? The house is crammed enough already!’

  Inadvertently, it appeared poor Bronwyn had only wandered from one thorny subject to the next. But if that was how Lizzie liked it? Imagining if she tried hard enough, she might even manage to find a subject upon which they both agreed, the younger woman subsided back into her chair. ‘At least she thinks Bill’s settled at college,’ she murmured, wise enough now to refrain from telling this overbearing woman what Lizzie had added, that her dear son had spent so much time moping around the house of late, she’d been glad to get him out from under her feet. There’d been no need to ask why and a good part of Bronwyn felt sorry for it. She was sorry for Hettie too, if she’d never dare to admit
it to Katherine.

  ‘You shouldn’t concern yourself so with the servants,’ Katherine pointed out sharply.

  She meant not to lower herself by engaging in conversation with a woman whom Katherine considered working class. But what if Lizzie was working class! Bronwyn happened to be inordinately fond of Lizzie Tennant even if, for now, expediency made her bite her tongue. She was tired of arguing. ‘I wonder what Reuben’s up to nowadays?’ she asked, trying fresh tack and remembering the way Katherine’s expression had softened when she’d held Reuben’s carving. If she’d never admit it, Katherine missed him as much as everyone else. Once upon a time, Reuben Fairfax had been a fixture around this place. But he’d gone, disappeared as if he’d never existed, and there was no way to find out where he’d hidden himself. Katherine stiffened visibly. ‘I’m afraid I’ve no idea where Reuben is and that’s just the way I’d like it to stay,’ she added, as if she felt she needed to.

  ‘He was Harry’s brother,’ Bronwyn answered quietly, aware she was taking a chance in rattling this particular skeleton in the Loxley cabinet. But Katherine must have feelings on the subject and it didn’t do her any good to keep her emotions so consistently in check. A stiff upper lip was one thing but, as usual, she took it too far. There was something else Bronwyn needed to mention and this was altogether too good an opportunity to miss. ‘I was surprised he didn’t come to the funeral. It was in all the papers. Surely he must have seen it?’

  Her mother-in-law’s response was unexpected. ‘Mayhap he did,’ she murmured, enigmatically. ‘Mary Compton thought she saw him during the service or, at least, someone very much like him but he’d left before she had chance to find out for sure. I’d have told you at the time but. . . . Well, my dear, you were grieving for Harry. I didn’t want to upset you when there was perfectly no need.’

  Such an unwarranted show of sensitivity, and from Katherine, of all people, was surprising but the news itself was encouraging. Perhaps Reuben had cared about Harry after all? Somehow it mattered that he had. ‘But I wonder why he didn’t stay on?’ Still digesting the news, Bronwyn frowned. It wouldn’t have hurt him, surely? He surely could have waited to see them if only to check that they were alright? Temporarily, the discussion was halted as the door opened and Soames reappeared.

  ‘A visitor, Your Grace. A Mr Roland . . . de Loxley?’ he intoned and with only the barest of tremors in his voice to indicate the news distressed him. The name made both women start.

  ‘De Loxley?’ Katherine demanded.

  Wondering what further surprises the day was likely to bring, Bronwyn put down her coffee cup and stood up. ‘You’d better show him in,’ she said, throwing Katherine an uneasy glance.

  Moments later, the old man returned to usher in their visitor, a man in the prime of middle age, his dark hair, greying at the temple, worn short and neatly cut. He was wearing a tweed jacket and jumper over casual trousers, the whole effect understated and yet obviously expensive. Bronwyn found her hand enveloped in a cool, firm grip.

  ‘Please forgive the intrusion,’ he murmured in a voice bearing only the faintest of accents. ‘But I was over in England on business and this seemed altogether too good a chance to miss. . . .’

  Bronwyn was charmed. He turned to Katherine, who took his hand frostily, her gaze sweeping over him from head to foot.

  ‘I’m afraid you have us at a loss . . . Mr de Loxley. . . ?’ she exclaimed stiffly.

  ‘Please, let me tell you why I’m here,’ he returned, standing up to the scrutiny remarkably well. His explanation was both swift and succinct. He wondered if they might be related, he told them, to their general astonishment. His family were wine-makers, settled in the Loire valley for generations reaching back to the Civil War when, Royalists to a man, his ancestors had fled from Cromwell’s England to a France which had apparently welcomed them with open arms. He smiled, his eyes twinkling. ‘Our connection goes back to a younger brother of the fourth Duke. . . . Tenuous, I know but a link for all that!’ he finished warmly.

  ‘Nell Loxley’s uncle?’ Bronwyn frowned though thinking, on reflection, that the story their visitor had just imparted was not so very outlandish. From all she knew of Nell Loxley’s immediate family, during the time of the Civil War, they were scattered all around Europe.

  ‘How did you come across this information?’ Katherine demanded, sounding put out.

  Roland de Loxley sat down, looking towards her eagerly. ‘It was something rather mundane, I’m afraid, a series of articles on English stately homes published in one of our qualities, one in particular focusing on Loxley and the discovery of some remains, several years ago, by the vicar here, a Mr Lawrence Payne. I understand it led to a clearer understanding of your family’s ancestry?’

  ‘I might have known,’ Katherine muttered crossly. Bronwyn meanwhile, merely looked worried. Whilst her redoubtable mother-in-law had to admit the truth of all that had been uncovered those years since concerning Nell Loxley and the two local brothers, one of whom she’d married, the other with whom she’d fallen in love, she hardly liked to be reminded of the fact that generations of staid and, in the main, eminently respectable Loxlians issued from an illegitimate line. If he did but know it, their visitor was skating on extremely thin ice. ‘It was only hearsay. . . .’ Katherine’s tone was icy.

  Belatedly Roland de Loxley became aware that he might have caused offence. ‘I do hope I haven’t spoken out of turn? Our connection is very well known to the rest of our family. I’m only surprised . . . you’ve never heard of us?’

  Katherine drew herself up to her full height. A powerful and intimidating woman, unused to being baited and worse, in her own lair. ‘You’d be amazed how many folk would like to lay claim to our family, Monsieur de Loxley!’ she answered haughtily.

  For the first time during the interview, Roland de Loxley appeared uneasy. ‘Well, there it is. I can only reiterate that I hope you don’t mind I’ve looked you up? If I’ve inadvertently caused any offence, I do apologize. . . .’

  One of them at least remembered their manners. ‘Of course you haven’t,’ Bronwyn interceded pleasantly. ‘Why on earth should we be offended? We’re delighted to see you. Are you here for long?’

  He flashed her a grateful look. ‘Roland, please,’ he countered, all smiles again, the most amiable of men, moreover one refusing to be riled even by Katherine. ‘A few days,’ he answered quickly. ‘Though I was hoping I might be able to stretch it to longer. I’m put up at The Oak in the village. I’d take it as a huge compliment if you would allow me to get to know you both a little better? My mother will be absolutely delighted when I tell her we’ve been in touch. . . .’

  ‘Look at this – best we’ve had this month!’ Holding a tray full of eggs, the day’s quota, Pru Flite shook off her wellington boots and hurried into the kitchen of Merry Weather farm where Ursula Hamilton stood at the table making up a flask for Freddie, who’d been up in the fields since daybreak, giving the distinct impression he was avoiding her. Since she’d told him about the baby, or the lack of one, things had been difficult between them to say the least. She looked up and, despite her uneasiness, still managed to find a smile. Ursula had always got on well with Pru, who’d been with them for years, first arriving at the farm as a young land girl and then, discovering she liked the life so much, seeing no reason since to leave. She rented a cottage from Freddie on the land bordering Loxley and had made herself so useful they couldn’t do without her now.

  ‘You must have hexed the hens,’ Ursula joked, surprised at a little, rising stab of resentment at the thought. She’d looked after the hens herself during old Raith Hamilton’s time and had been lucky if there’d been eggs enough for the farmhouse’s needs, never mind the ever growing number of villagers they now supplied. Raith had used to tease Ursula remorselessly at the birds’ lack of productivity, as had Freddie. It had been a brainwave on her part to let Pru take over.

  ‘Wise birds, hens. They sense when they’ve met their match!’
Pru returned swiftly, depositing the tray on the table and sitting down to cup her capable hands around the mug of tea Ursula poured and pushed across the table. Her gaze grew suddenly serious. ‘Are you alright, Ursula?’ she asked. ‘Only . . . you have been rather quiet of late.’

  That was Pru, always spoke her mind. It was on the tip of Ursula’s tongue to tell this pleasant and still attractive woman exactly what was wrong. The baby that wasn’t and never would be, her aching sense of loss and, worse, her inability to share her feelings with Freddie. All they’d succeeded in doing so far was to skirt around the problem, both apparently too concerned with their own loss to cope with the other’s misery as well. It might even do her good to talk to Pru and yet inhibition – or pride, she wasn’t sure which – held her back. It didn’t feel right talking to anyone else about something so personal, even Pru, especially when she and Freddie had yet to resolve the issue themselves.

  ‘Oh, you know how it is – too much work, not enough time,’ she said and, well intentioned as it was, passed off the enquiry before moving the conversation to other, less important matters: the weather, Freddie’s plans for winter planting, the butter in the dairy that refused to turn. Pru was no fool and Ursula had the uneasy feeling she hadn’t fooled her in the slightest.

  On the excuse of taking Freddie his flask, she finished her tea and removed herself outside, away from her employee’s too penetrating gaze, into the remains of the summer and a welcome cool breeze which fanned her overheated cheeks. As she walked, still with the lithe and easy steps of a girl, into the scene of her childhood, centring her no matter what problems life threw her way, Ursula began at last to relax. Behind lay Loxley, golden in the sunshine, and beyond, the Old Hall, raising its broken turrets into a bright blue sky dappled with fluffy, cotton-wool balls of scudding cloud. Hurrying now, suddenly longing to see Freddie, she pressed on towards the meadow, her spirits lifting when she saw it dotted with canvas tents, colourful strips of bright blue and green. This week the field had been rented by a troop of Venture Scouts, the scheme Ursula’s own, putting to good use an otherwise unproductive pastureland and bringing in a steady and surprisingly lucrative income to the farm. It was a relief to know she could still get some things right.