When her father dies, Charlotte Pelham faces poverty—then her former lover, Robert Beckwith, walks back into her life, seeking to make amends.
Together they set out to discover Charlotte’s legacy, following a trail that will lead them on a dangerous journey from England to the New World—and a rekindling of their love. Can their love and faith in each other survive the dangers of war and the deadly enmity of a powerful man?
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Rebel Hearts
Copyright © 2011 AJ Matthews
ISBN: 978-1-55487-868-0
Cover art by Martine Jardin
All rights reserved. Except for use in any review, the reproduction or utilization of this work in whole or in part in any form by any electronic, mechanical or other means, now known or hereafter invented, is forbidden without the written permission of the publisher.
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Smashwords Edition
Rebel Hearts
By
AJ Matthews
Dedication
To My Darling Wife, for her love and patience.
Chapter 1
Hampshire, England, Spring 1782
“Here you are, miss,” the post boy said, handing Charlotte an envelope. “All postage paid.”
“Thank you.” Charlotte found a halfpenny in her pinafore pocket to tip the youth and examined the handwriting on the letter, hope fluttering in her breast. It soon died away. “No.” She sighed. The script was familiar, but neither letter came from him. “Why doesn’t he write?”
“I’m sorry, miss?”
She waved the post boy away. “I wasn’t talking to you. Never mind, it doesn’t matter.”
The post boy touched his hat, mounted his horse and rode away.
Charlotte sighed again and tucked the envelope into her pocket, pausing as she crossed the farmyard to look up at the lowering skies to the west.
The strong wind was bearing another storm in from the Atlantic, a mass of thick gray clouds pregnant with rain. Thunder rolled around the hills above Portsmouth and echoed off the stone walls of the farm buildings. Threads of straw skittered across the cobblestones of the yard as the first gusts began to blow and she shivered as the cold wind pierced the poor, thin stuff of her dress. Winter was long past, but spring seemed reluctant to appear in this southern county of England. It reminded her of the last time she’d seen Robert. He’d left on just such a day to see his father and seek his fortune, and since then, not a word.
“Oh, enough,” she chastised herself and wiped an incipient tear from her eye. “He’s not going to write, he’ll never seek me out. I should get on with my life.” She looked at the farmhouse. “Such as it is.”
Ma Philips, the farmer’s wife would be there, with her squinting, suspicious eyes and penetrating sniff, but Charlotte was in no mood for the old woman’s jibes and sneers. The letter she bore quelled her natural tolerance for others this day.
She hurried across the yard to the farmhouse door, eager to get inside and warm herself. Gratifying warmth and the smell of stew and fresh-baked bread greeted her as she pushed through the door.
Ma Philips looked up from the hearth where she was stirring a pot with a ladle. “Shut the bloody door, wench,” she growled. “The fire’s smoking enough as it is.”
“I can hardly walk through doors like a ghost,” Charlotte retorted.
The old woman jerked and crossed herself surreptitiously. “There’s no need to be naming them,” she snapped, her piggy eyes darting to cover the corners of the room. “Just you mind your manners, girl.”
As much as she disliked Ma Philips, Charlotte never ceased to be amazed at the depth of the woman’s superstition. That she was a Catholic in a staunchly Protestant nation was curiosity enough. Her fear of ghosts, spirits and the fey folk bordered on the paranoid, even in a rural community much given to credulous belief in the supernatural.
“What you got there?” the woman demanded. “A letter? Give it to me then.”
Charlotte twitched it away from her outstretched hand. “Certainly not. It’s a letter for my father.”
The woman glowered, but she met her eye until she lowered her hand. “This is my house. The post boy’s supposed to give all mail to me.”
“My father would be interested in your definition of this house as being yours,” she retorted. “As for the mail, I know you’ve been intercepting ours. That’s why I saw the post boy first.”
Without another word, Charlotte hurried to the stairs, leaving Ma Philips glowering and muttering by the hearth. As she climbed up to the bedrooms, she thought of her father and the effect the contents of the letter would have on him. He was a kind man, a man eager to please, and one without a harsh word to say about anybody. But in the collapse of the family’s fortunes, she had seen all too clearly how weak he was and how much other, more ruthless men saw him as prey.
She knocked on his bedroom door and pushed it open without waiting for a reply. Her father sat in the rocking chair by the broad window overlooking the distant sea. The pale light shining through his wispy gray hair seemed to turn it into a halo about his head. The sight struck her hard, for it seemed he was already passing from the mortal world. Nicholas Pelham had seen fifty summers come and go, yet he looked older than his years by a decade. He turned his head as she stepped into the room. His face was blank, his features pinched with cold in spite of the good fire in the bedroom hearth. Only when he saw her did any animation come to his face.
“Charlotte.”
A pale hand appeared from a fold in the blankets and reached for her. She knelt and took it and pressed it to her cheek as she gazed at him. His pale blue eyes looked like chips of ice, but there was a spark left.
“Was that the post boy I saw riding down the lane?”
“Yes, father.” She hesitated and then held up the letter. “I managed to reach him before Ma Philips was aware.”
He took the letter, and turned it slowly over and over in his hands, peering with shortsighted eyes at the wax seal. “I’m sure you must be wrong about her, my dear,” he said.
She stood up and drew a deep breath. “I’m certain I’m not, sir.”
His lips twitched in the ghost of a smile. “Well.”
“The seal is that of your attorney, sir.”
“Ah, just so. You were hoping for another correspondent?”
“I was. I…” She clasped her hands and looked down. “I’ve given up hope.”
“Never do that, child. I’m sure you’ll hear from Robert again one day. Where there’s life, there’s hope.” He peered at the seal again, and the paper fluttered as his hands began to tremble. “Although I have precious little hope left, to be sure. I fear this letter. Would you read it for me, my dear?”
She took it and began to read, her voice clear but pitched low.
“Dear Sir, I regret to inform you that the House Committee has found in favor of the petition for the enclosure of Stratworth Common, the area known as Leedown Spinney, and all lands pertaining thereto. Such legal documentation as you have so kindly provided was deemed insufficient evidence to back your appeal.
I await your instructions with the keenest attention,
I am, Sir, Your humble, obedient servant, David Walbrook, Attorney at law.”
“And by such words are dreams sundered.” He sighed.
She stared at the ocean, half-hidden now by the streaks of rain on the glass. “Is there nothing that can be done, father?”
“I fear not, child. All my remaining reserves were spent in pursuing the appeal to Parliament. Such things do not come cheap. The house is mortgaged. Your poor mother’s dowry is long gone.” His gaze wandered up and around the dark little bedroom. “Even this farm is entitled to my cousin Barnes. We may live here and draw rent from Mr. Philips for as long as I live, but the rent will be sufficient only to keep us in a modest comfort, my dear.”
“What of my dowry, Father? Could you not use the money to try and better our position?”
A faint smile creased his lined face further and he clasped her hand. “Bless you, child. A thousand pounds a year in the Funds will not amount to much use for me. Although you seem to have given up on Robert, your dowry and your beauty will at least render your estate more attractive to some other young fellow, hmm?”
“Perhaps, Father.”
He sighed and rubbed his chest beneath the blanket. “Many years ago I had a chance that would have taken our family to a new life. We would have lived beyond the powers of mean-spirited men and grasping attorneys.” He rubbed his chest again and a flicker of pain crossed his careworn features. “But the Good Lord decided otherwise.”
She bowed her head, unsure of what he was referring to.
He smiled and shook his head. “Listen not to an old man’s regrets, my dear. And although Fate decreed otherwise back then, not all is lost, not for you. I do have one last reserve, but I shall say no more of that at present. Let us speak no more of this. What is done is done. I’m tired, and if you’ll forgive me, I need to be alone with my thoughts for a while.”
“As you wish, father.” She curtsied, then rose and placed a tender kiss on his brow.
He reached up and clasped her hand. “One thing more, child, if anything should happen to me, take good care of my traveling chest. It contains things that are dear to me.” He looked away and his hand began to tremble harder. “Things of the past cast a long shadow into the present.”
“Nothing will happen to you, father.” She kissed him again, feeling a lump in her throat. “Rest easy now, and goodnight.”
She had barely passed beyond the door into the musty smelling passageway before the tears began to fall from her cheeks.
* * * *
At the legal chambers of Danvers and Walbrook in the heart of London, Robert Beckwith frowned at the pile of documents sitting on his desk. He was coming to realize the dreadful tedium in his father’s choice of profession for his oldest son. Paperwork bored him to tears, and as the most junior articled clerk in the practice, a great deal of it came his way for processing. His degree in law from Oxford was a mere matter of months old and didn’t bear close inspection, not after that incident had curtailed his studies. He suppressed the painful memory, knowing he should count himself fortunate and be excited at gaining a place in such a prestigious legal practice, but still he sighed.
It was early afternoon. Rain lashed against the windows as a spring gale swept over London town. Stray drops fell down through the chimney to hiss and splutter on the meager fire burning in the grate, and the air in the office felt close and stuffy.
Mr. Danvers was absent, dealing with a client. Adam Smith, Robert’s fellow junior was attending a meeting with Mr. Walbrook and Robert was alone. His attention wandered to the courtyard outside. The glass in the windows was of a previous age, being thick and uneven. It distorted the view, rendering the cloaked figures hurrying for shelter across the flagstones of the yard strange and dramatic.
A young man emerged from the office door and dashed off, his hand clapped to his tricorn hat to stop it from blowing away.
Robert recognized Adam. It looked as if he would be gone some time. Robert contemplated his retreating form in a state of gloom. Adam’s absence made the possibility of finishing work early so he could retire to the Fighting Cock tavern for a flagon of ale and a meat pie rather remote. Just then footsteps sounded in the passageway and he returned to his work with a stab of guilt.
The office door opened and Mr. Walbrook entered. He peered around at the empty desks. “Ah, Beckwith. On your own, I see.”
Robert rose to his feet and bobbed his head in respect. “Yes, sir.”
The older man grunted, lifted his periwig and scratched his scalp in thought. “Just so, just so. Smith was with me, but I’ve sent him on an errand to Berkshire.” He settled his wig back in place and paused again to think.
Robert waited. In his short time with the practice, he’d discovered Mr. David Walbrook was a legal genius, much sought after by the gentry and aristocracy, but outside of a court of law, his mind had a tendency to wander. Robert had learned to wait with at least the outward show of patience, but it wasn’t easy.
Walbrook stifled a belch, then sighed. “Oh well, there’s no hope for it.”
“Sir?”
“You’ll have to go down to Portsmouth, to a farm a league or so outside the town. I have some papers for a client, Mr. Pelham, to sign. You’re young and fit, so the coach journey won’t be much bother.”
The sound of the familiar surname struck under Robert’s ribs and gave his heart a wrench. Oh, but it couldn’t be. “Just outside Portsmouth, sir?”
Walbrook frowned. “Yes, boy, that’s what I said. Wash your ears out.”
Then it won’t be Charlotte and her father. Not there. Robert’s heart began to settle from its uneven rhythm and he became aware of Mr. Walbrook’s beady brown eyes regarding him with little favor.
“You looked most peculiar there for a moment.”
“I’m quite alright, sir, I do assure you.”
“Hmph. Quite frankly I’d rather send someone else. You’re an idle young hound, but with this pestilential war causing all manner of trouble, I’m reluctant to spare anyone more experienced. The papers are in my office. Come and see me first thing tomorrow morning. And I mean at six o’clock, not seven, you scamp. I’ll give them to you and brief you in your duty. Make sure you keep a record of all your expenses and avoid profligacy at all costs.”
In spite of Walbrook’s tendency to treat him like a callow schoolboy, the prospect of venturing outside the city filled Robert with a warm glow and a tingle of excitement. It would be good to get away from the boredom of the office and the harsh smoky atmosphere of the metropolis. There was only one thing he could say in reply. “Yes, sir.”
* * * *
Charlotte saw to her father’s needs and ensured he took his sleeping draft of laudanum before retiring to her room. As she entered, she disturbed a pair of mice that were nibbling at the crusts left from her supper and she shooed them away, cursing the farm and its plentiful vermin.
She sat on the end of the hard bed and gazed out the window. The storm had blown out and the wind dropped to a fresh breeze. An oak tree on the hill had been struck by lightning and she could see its shattered form as a stark silhouette against the remnants of sunset. She shivered. The poor tree reminded her of her family’s fall into hardship. It, too, had felt as sudden and cataclysmic as a lightning bolt.
The dull day was drawing to close. She lit her candle, one of a bundle of cheap tallow dips she’d found in a Portsmouth chandler’s store. They tended to smoke, but at least they didn’t stink as much as others of their type. Closing the shutters over the window, she prepared for bed. A scratching sound near the ceiling drew her attention, and she cursed the mice once more as she undressed. Not for the first time she missed the services of her maid. Her attire had perforce become much simpler once she had to deal with ribbons and hooks and laces all by herself. Now as a rule, she wore a simple blouse and only one petticoat.
Following life-long practice, Charlotte gave her hair the full hundred strokes of the brush. Her mother had insisted on the regime, saying it promoted a full glossy head of hair. When they still had servants and she’d had her own maid, she insisted on performing the chore herself. After her mother had passed away, Charlotte had kept to the routine, although now she tended to do so in the nude. She liked the feel of her hair brushing her bare skin, and it gave her a frisson of pleasure to indulge the feeling. And in any case, her maid had gone with the rest of the servants, victims as much as anyone in her immediate family to the spitefulness of one rich man and his ambitions.
She shut her eyes and set the brush down on the table with a clack. Enough. What was done was done. Any more gloomy thoughts and recollections of the happier past and she knew she wouldn’t sleep that night.
Rising, she took the warming pan and, squatting by the fire, filled it with hot coals, savoring the heat on her bare skin as she plied the tongs. At least her father had enough money to buy coal for their rooms, such as they were. The mice skittered in the attic again and she looked up. The noise stopped and she sighed and shook her head, resolving to get one of the farmer’s sons to set traps. Although she wasn’t frightened of the creatures as some women of her acquaintance were, she didn’t relish the thought of having them around her at night.
She ran the pan over the bed sheets to draw out the cold and slight dampness, before donning her nightgown and climbing in. As she lay in the half-light, she looked around the bare little room, with the cracked plaster walls showing the coarse stone in places and the sagging ceiling with old distempered paint. A sampler from some long forgotten but talented woman of the Philips family hung upon the wall above her head. Dread God, the lettering said, in fine yellow and green stitches amidst a wealth of green leaves and berries. While she admired the work, the sentiment left her unmoved. All her prayers over the last two years had counted for naught.
No, if she was to revive their fortunes, it would be through her own powers, and if they didn’t suffice, then she would learn others. Where there was life, there also hope resided.
“Ah. Gloomy thoughts again,” she chided herself. Punching the lumpy pillow into a more comfortable shape, she tried to settle, but knew she wouldn’t sleep just yet. “Oh well.” She sighed and threw back the bedclothes. There was one thing she could do that would distract her from her medley of thoughts and leave her pleasantly drowsy afterwards.
She arched her back and drew the hem of her nightdress up around her waist. There was still just a touch of chill in the air of the room to raise goose bumps on her exposed skin, but she knew she’d grow warmer before long. Unlacing the neck of the nightdress, she slipped her hand inside and began to caress her breasts, running her fingertips over the downy skin and around the nipples. They sprang erect under her touch, two sensitive buds that tingled in anticipation.
As usual, thoughts of Robert touching her there filled her mind, for all her intentions to forget him. “Oh, let it be.” She sighed. For tonight, she could imagine no other man. As she slipped her other hand down over her tummy, her troubled thoughts began to melt away as the act of self-pleasure took hold.
* * * *
In the attic above her, Jethro Philips lay enthralled, his eye pressed to the crack he’d made in the ceiling of the room below. This was going to be a good night. He could see everything. Charlotte Pelham lay supine on her bed, her nightdress hitched up below her ribs, hands wandering over her curvaceous body. As he watched, a plump round breast was exposed in the open neck of her nightdress and she slipped her hand between her thighs. As her fingers ran over her pussy, she gave a gasp that was audible even in the attic and she arched her back.
With a soft moan, he fumbled with the laces of his britches and drew out his hardening cock. As the young woman began to run her fingertips in quick circles over the petals of flesh between her thighs, he began to rub his cock with increasing urgency. It hardened in his hand and began to throb, a deep pounding beat.
* * * *
Charlotte moaned. The signals her pussy was sending to her brain burned her nerves like white-hot wires. Each breast throbbed with her heartbeat, feeling so tender and sensitive. The lightest touch on her nipples was enough to make her gasp. Her fingertips were slick with her juices, and she quickened the stroke between her thighs until her soft swollen mound glowed.
What would it be like with another man instead of Robert? She had no idea. In her present situation, it was academic, of course. She pushed the thought aside. Another, far stronger jolt of pure pleasure pierced her and she cried aloud. So close now. With what little self-control remained, she buried her face in the lumpy pillow to muffle the cry that would come and rubbed her thumb hard over her clit, and the world flared with a brilliant white light.
* * * *
“Oh God,” Jethro gasped as Charlotte’s muffled scream came from below. As she jerked and shuddered in release, so did he, his thick jets of cum spinning away into the darkness of the dusty attic. He’d come so quick, so sudden, he didn’t have time to reach for the cloths he kept there for the purpose. No matter. As the energy flowed from his body, he relaxed with a sigh. No one came up here besides him. It was his secret and his alone. He glanced through the crack in the ceiling again and saw Charlotte was relaxing. Turning her head, she blew out the tallow dip on the shelf by her bed. He smiled, feeling a wave of affection for her. “Goodnight, miss,” he whispered.
* * * *
Charlotte blew out the candle and lay back to stare into the darkness. The mice were moving around over her head again. “Goodnight, mice.” She sighed, punched the pillow again and settled down to sleep.
* * * *
Robert made his way through the murky night to the Fighting Cock tavern. He’d splashed out a halfpenny for the services of a linkboy and the skinny little man walked ahead of him now, his flaring torch held high to light the way through London’s gloomy streets. Robert turned his collar up to shield his neck from the damp air, pulled his tricorn lower on his brow and grinned.
In spite of the dirty night and the prospect of an early start in the morning, he felt happier than he’d ever been since coming up to London. He would be traveling the country at the chambers’ expense on minor, but still necessary, business, and the time away from the city would be time spent in thinking over his future. Robert admitted to himself he craved excitement. An occasional spell with fencing swords in a cheap salle des armes in Spitalfields served to hone his reflexes, but did little else.
His Reverend father refused to buy him an ensign’s commission in the army back when he really was a callow schoolboy. He thought back to that night with regret and a touch of anger.
The old man had stood before the fire that evening, a tall, stern figure in his rusty black clerical coat with its frothy, bone-white cravat, and had lectured him. You may prove a hero, my son, but you could equally be dead, and dead men earn no pence. You’re too sinful a little wretch to follow me into the Church. No, it’s the law for you, my boy…
Although the army would be sure to shrink in size now the war in the Colonies was all but over, he would’ve had at least five years with the colors and there was always the prospect of winning a fortune.
A muffled shout brought him out of his thoughts and he looked up and around, wary of footpads. His hand closed on the blackjack in his coat pocket as he kept walking and peered into the gloom. The linkboy hovered, his eyes wide, ready for fight or flight. A few lanterns burned here and there over storefronts and at street corners, but their light, and that of the torch, only served to make the areas of shadow that much deeper. From one such patch, which marked the entrance to an alleyway, came the sounds of a scuffle. Even as he traced the noise, a man flew out of the mist and landed on the cobblestones, almost at his feet.
Robert jumped back and drew his weapon. The man groaned and rolled onto all fours, then collapsed facedown. Another shout sounded and he heard the scrape of metal on metal. He looked about. The linkboy had already fled, torch flaring in the rush of air as he ran. The street appeared otherwise deserted. Drawing a deep breath, Robert approached the alley, blackjack raised and ready for trouble.
“For God’s sake, sir. Help me!”
The voice sounded right ahead, and Robert realized he was backlit by a lantern across the street. With his night-adjusted vision, he saw three men struggling with each other, knives drawn. One had his back to the alley wall, his knife flashing in a frenzied figure eight which denied his assailants the chance to stab. Such a tactic would only last so long before he tired and the men would slip past his guard.
“Piss off, you,” snarled one of the figures, a hulking brute that turned to glare at him. “Mind yer own business, cully.”
The voice was high-pitched, surprising given the man’s bulk. His dialect was pure Southwark, the slum across the Thames, and a bad part of town.
Robert gritted his teeth and advanced. Seeming sure his warning wouldn’t be ignored, the brute had half-turned back to the combat, but became aware of Robert’s advance and looked back at him with an expression of anger.
“Di’ n’t you hear me?” he bellowed and rushed at him, arms outstretched.
Robert brought up his arm to strike, but with a swift change of balance, lashed out with his foot and caught the man on the right kneecap. It sufficed to swing him off-center just enough for Robert to swing his blackjack across the beefy face. Bone crunched in a most satisfying manner, but the brute grunted and shrugged off the blow, caught him about the waist and slammed him into the wall. Robert grunted as his breath whooshed out and drew his arms down. As the man’s head came up, he clapped his hands hard on the cauliflower ears. The brute bellowed and relaxed his clench for a moment. Robert gouged an eye and sought to wriggle free, but some instinct made the man lash out, and his blow struck him on the side of his head.
Everything went very dull and quiet for a moment and his eyes rolled in their sockets. He was aware of falling to the ground and the brute standing over him. He fought to clear his head of the fuzziness and pain. He had to get up and quickly, or the man might just kill him.
Another body slammed to the ground almost on top of him. The shock restored some function to his wits and Robert jerked aside. Scrambling back and using the wall for support, he tried to rise. As he looked up, a figure moved behind the brute and silver flashed. His attacker gave a grunt and looked down with surprise at the short length of blade that had emerged from his stained leather jerkin. A gout of blood erupted from between his lips, and making no further sound, he dropped and lay still.
Robert found himself alone with another man, a tall fellow in a caped cloak and tricorn hat. The man sheathed a blade in a scabbard, part hidden by his cloak, and stepped forward to offer his hand in assistance.
“I thank you for your help, sir,” he said.
Robert accepted his clasp and was hauled to his feet with surprising strength. “You’re most welcome, sir,” he replied, rubbing the filth of the alley floor off his hands and eying the man. His accent was American, which gave Robert a moment’s unease. Not all Colonials supported the rebellion against the King, but it paid to be cautious around them until one was sure of where their loyalties lay.
The Colonial had been scrutinizing him as he himself was being scrutinizing to him. He flashed a grin, swept off his hat and executed a bow. “One day I hope I’ll have the chance to repay you, sir, but for now, I fear I must leave.” Without another word, he strode away and vanished into the murky night.
Robert stared after him, then down at the two dead men at his feet. The brute laid still, his blood a dark and spreading pool on the ground. The other man was better dressed, almost dandified, and a scratch-wig such as those favored by clerks lay upended by his head like a defunct bird’s nest. His eyes were open, unseeing. Robert looked out at the road. There was no sign of the third man. He took a deep breath, looked around, then walked away from the scene. A pint of ale would be a welcome sop to his hurried feelings. He had the sense that he may have stumbled into something rather more mysterious than an attempted street robbery.
Six o’clock the next morning saw Robert waiting for Mr. Walbrook to arrive in the office. For all his words about punctuality, the junior partner was running late and Robert spent the time dwelling on the fight in the alley. He had spent a restless night contemplating the circumstances and trying to fathom what the American was doing there and why he would’ve been set upon by a clerk, a bruiser, and a ruffian. Robert had not gone far beyond the conjecture that spying was involved before Mr. Walbrook entered the office, and he stood to greet his superior.
“Beckwith. Ah, good, good.” The older man closed the door and laid a file of papers on the desk in front of Robert. “I’m glad you saw fit to humor us by being on time for once, young man.”
“There was a disturbance near my lodgings, sir,” he replied as Walbrook indicated he should sit. “Two men were killed it seems.”
“So I heard.” Walbrook frowned. “One was a clerk in the employ of the Earl of Guilford, the other a notorious bruiser-for-hire known as Jimmy the Eunuch. I’ve had occasion to meet that person in more than one court of law.”
Robert recalled his attacker’s odd, high voice and suppressed a shudder when he remembered the brutal strength of the man. “What happened, sir?”
“The clerk was found with a bloodied sword in his hand, a weapon that matched the fatal wound in the bruiser’s body. No doubt it was a robbery that proved as lethal to the perpetrator as it did his victim.”
Robert blinked in surprise. “The clerk was armed with a sword, sir?”
“Yes, it was of a type known as a midshipman’s dirk.” Walbrook raised his pale eyes to regard him. “Not the kind of thing a clerk would normally carry, I grant you, but no doubt the man suspected violence could befall him on the streets at that time of evening and prepared accordingly.”
“What was he doing there, sir?”
“I gather he was employed on some kind of errand for his Lordship. It seems he was attacked and both men slew each other in the melee.” Walbrook stirred and shook his head. “Enough idle gossip, young man. Let us turn to the matter in hand.”
Robert sat up straight and tried to look attentive. Inside, his mind was working. He was surprised Walbrook had condescended to gossip even so much. Knowing the man’s penchant for secrecy and discretion, he had to be quite rattled to pass the time in idle chat with a mere junior. Robert wondered what had disturbed him so. As for the circumstances in which the dead men had been found, they were certainly news to him.
He could only suppose the American had returned to the scene once he himself had left and planted the sword in the clerk’s hand in order to fake the cause of the thug’s death, unless the third man had returned to do so. But for what reason? It began to look more and more suspicious and he wondered if he should report his part in the affair.
Walbrook had already removed the red legal tape on the documents and was spreading them out. “Here is the crux of this vexatious matter,” he said. “Our client, Mr. Nicholas Pelham, sought to prevent the enclosure of an area of land in Hampshire known as Stratworth Common, and attached woodlands known as Leedown Spinney…”
“Mr. Nicholas Pelham, sir?”
“Just so. What the devil’s the matter with you, boy?” Walbrook peered at him. “Every time I mention that name you turn as pale as a ghost.”
“The family is known to me, sir. At one time my family and the Pelham’s were neighbors.”
“Then I trust your familiarity will serve you well.”
“Yes, sir,” Robert said, feeling as if his heart were in a vise.
Walbrook returned to perusing the papers. “The estate is not an inconsiderable area, measuring some two thousand acres of land. I pressed Mr. Pelham to provide more evidence that would support his case against the Enclosure Act, but he was unable to gather more than the barest documentation in his support.”
Walbrook turned over a sheet of paper and perused the crabbed legal writing on the next. “The principle, Sir Stephen Mountford, won the case before the Committee in Parliament. As Lord of the Manor of Stratworth, he had a cast-iron argument in his favor.” The pale eyes peered at Robert again. “Thus I was obliged to notify our client by post this week. The enclosure of the common and Spinney will go ahead. Is that clear, young man?”
“Yes, sir.”
“Good. Your task is to convey these documents outlining the case and its outcome, present our compliments and regrets, and also our invoice for services rendered. Mr. Pelham is a widower, currently residing with his daughter at Oakshott Farm near the village of Stuttley in Hampshire. I gather it’s not far from Portsmouth. You are to return as soon as possible, Beckwith. No tarrying in the port’s taverns.”
“The thought never crossed my mind, sir,” he replied with grave sincerity.
“Hmph. Good, good.” Walbrook cast an eye out the window at the growing daylight. “Well, the post coach will be leaving soon. You’ll be traveling inside.”
“Thank you, sir.” It was a relief to know. Outside seats were cheaper and fine in good weather, but an English spring was changeable enough to make interior seats much sought after for all their expense.
“I don’t want those documents getting wet,” Walbrook said with a glare.
“No, sir.”
Robert accepted the satchel of papers from him and departed, knowing exactly where he stood in the hierarchy of Danvers and Walbrook.
* * * *
Charlotte rose with the cock-crow the next morning. Throwing fresh logs and a scattering of sea coal on the fire, she stirred up the embers until it began to blaze. Hanging a pot of water on the hook over the fire, she hopped back into bed until the chill had gone from the air and then used the hot water to wash.
Dressed and neat for the day, she went along the passageway to her father’s room and knocked on the door. “Father?” There was no reply. She knocked again. “Father? Are you awake?”
Still no reply, and at this, a small nugget of dread began to make itself felt in her breast. Her father was a light sleeper, even the laudanum he took seldom ensured more than six or seven hours sleep, and she would not allow his physician to increase the dose. She tried the door and found it neither locked nor bolted. Opening it, she went into the room.
Her father was lying on the floor by the bed, one arm outstretched, almost touching his solid old traveling chest. His eyes were open but unseeing. A shattered glass lay close by his hand, small blue pills scattered about the floor around him. Blood had flowed from his mouth and small cuts in his hand, but she saw in one horrified glance that it was long congealed. He was dead.
Somehow she’d long expected to find him thus, and her reaction was more one of grief than shock. Her scream came out as a weird ululation. It attracted the attention of two of Ma Philip’s sons, who thundered up the stairs and into the room. They stumbled to a halt and stared down at the body. Both removed their woolen work hats and crossed themselves.
“Dead is he, miss?” the youngest, Jethro, asked.
“Idiot! Of course he be dead,” his brother Fred exclaimed in a near hiss. “Hush your noise now, Jethro, and give me a hand here. ‘Tisn’t decent letting a man’s mortal remains lie on the floor like a dead chicken in a henhouse.”
Charlotte stood back, her heart pounding, and let them tend to his body. They pulled back the eiderdown and sheets and laid him out, straightening his legs and crossing his arms on his breast with difficulty, for the rigor mortis had set in during the cold night. Unlike their oft-brutal mother and oft-absent father, the boys possessed a degree of fellow-feeling.
Jethro displayed even greater sensitivity when he fished two halfpennies from his grubby pants and placed them upon the eyes of the dead man to keep them closed. The pills crunched under his heavy boots as he stepped back and crossed himself again.
“We’d best tell our Ma, miss,” Fred said, twisting his hat in his hands. He looked uncomfortable. “She’ll see the doctor and parson is sent for, don’t you fret.”
“Thank you, Fred. I shall send a message to our cousin as soon as I can to notify…to notify him of my poor father’s demise.” Her heart had settled to a more regular beat, but her throat felt tight. She raised her chin in defiance of fate, for she knew her cousin would allow only the briefest of respites before turning her out. “I won’t remain a burden on your family for long.”
Fred made to speak, instead, giving a kind of helpless twitch of his head and a jerk of his shoulders. Taking Jethro by the arm, he led him from the room, and she waited until their big work boots clattered on the stairs before bursting into tears.
Chapter 2
Ma Philips made a decent showing of being concerned at the sudden death beneath her roof. “There’s little doubt that Mr. Pelham’s affairs broke his heart,” she told her sons. “I know the fellow placed all his faith in that last throw against his neighbor, but there, you can never trust a politician to jump the way you think.”
“What about Miss Pelham, Ma?” Jethro asked.
She sniffed and cocked her eye at the ceiling. Her sharp ears could hear the sounds of muffled sobbing. The young woman possessed the good looks and the poise that had never been her lot, and the jealousy they aroused when she first set eyes on the girl had been strong ever since. But now? “Well, she’s full of pride, that one. It won’t hurt her to see the Good Lord has little time for those full of pride.” She crossed her breast. “She can stay until Mr. Barnes decides what to do. If he has any sense, he’ll see her married off and in the charge of a man, prepared to handle her willful ways.”
Jethro looked wistful and she scowled. The boy had a habit of mooning after their attractive lodger—as well as doing other things over her, but it would do him no good. Before she could box his ears for his evil thoughts, a knock sounded at the kitchen door and Fred went to open it.
“It’s the parson, Ma,” he called back.
Ma Philips sniffed again, having little time for the heretical notions of the Protestant faith, especially its equivalent of the priesthood, but a dead man’s soul was at stake, and she wanted no ghosts haunting her home. She put a decorous smile on her face and went to greet the man. He stood on the threshold, shaking moisture from his cloak and broad-brimmed round hat, for a drizzle had fallen all morning. “Welcome, vicar. A sad day, sir.”
“Yes, indeed, Mrs. Philips.” The man had a long, bony nose and a tendency to look down it. He gave her such a look now and added a sniff as well. “I gather that poor Mr. Pelham has passed away?” He sounded doubtful, as if he’d been called out to false alarms in the past.
“Yes, vicar. He’s lying in his bed upstairs. His daughter’s with him.”
“Ah, yes, his daughter.” The man frowned and nodded. “Good. May I go up?”
“Of course, sir. Jethro, show the gentleman the way.”
Once they had gone, she turned to Fred. “Now, boy, go and fetch the undertaker,” she said with relish.
* * * *
Robert reached Portsmouth two days after leaving London. The great port was busy with sailors and naval officers, soldiers appointed to marine duties, and the countless clerks, chandlers, merchants and whores who all served the fighting forces of the British Empire in their own specialized ways. Robert saw little of it beyond that when they arrived not long after dark, the coach pulling up outside the George Inn, the terminus for the post coach and traditional roosting place of his Britannic Majesty’s naval officers. As a humble articled clerk, he couldn’t afford to stay, but found adequate lodgings for the night elsewhere.
In the morning, it took him a matter of an hour to hire a horse, establish directions to the village of Stuttley and set off on the final stage of his journey. He breathed deep as he rode the hired horse up the lanes toward the village, relishing the tang of the salt sea air that washed over the hills and fields from the coast.
It was his only quantum of solace that morning. The prospect of seeing Charlotte again was not a pleasant one by any means. He felt a distinct shame at his failure to write to her. But he’d set off that day two years ago with such hopes for the future, a future in which she would share. His father had decided otherwise.
He sighed. Perhaps she was no longer Miss Charlotte Pelham. A beauty such as hers attracted men great and low. He’d been the lucky one she’d chosen to be with, even to dally with, on those heady summer nights that seemed so long ago.
They’d had an understanding back then, but surely her father would have married her off once they knew he would never come back. She would be living elsewhere, and although Robert had no desire to renew acquaintance with her father, at least he would be there for a purpose.
He felt a sense of accomplishment as the church tower of Stuttley appeared ahead. But the mournful tolling of the church bell gave him an inkling that all was not right. The sight of the funeral cortege emerging from the ancient church and into the churchyard put a damper on his bright spirit.
Dismounting by the churchyard wall, he took off his hat and held it to his chest as a mark of respect. The six pallbearers bore their sorrowful burden with measured step up the path to where a fresh pile of earth awaited it. Behind the vicar, there walked a young woman, her head up, hands clasping a broad-brimmed hat before her, matching the burly men step for step. Robert started.
“Oh, dear God.”
It was Charlotte. She was one of the most beautiful women he’d ever seen. Absence had only increased his desire to touch her long, pale, flaxen hair now secured at the nape of her neck by a black ribbon. It seemed to shine with a white gold light that outdid the sunshine. Her refined features reflected her grief. Her high cheekbones bore a flush beneath a delicate tan not usually found on gentle ladies. Her carriage and step was graceful and erect, so achingly familiar, no disconsolate slouching showed there.