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‘Goodnight, Miss Cartwright. And thank you for an evening far more enjoyable than I ever expected it to be.’

He took her hand and lifted it to his lips, lingering a little over the kiss, wishing he dared kiss her properly but knowing he would be forever damned if he did.

It was several seconds before she could repossess herself of her hand, and by that time she was tingling with a sensation she could not describe. It was a feeling of being on the verge of something so exciting she was shivering. Her stomach was churning, her heart beating so fast she could hardly breathe, and her toes and fingers curled involuntarily. She climbed into the curricle without ever knowing how she got there. This man was dangerous! He threatened everything she stood for. She must be on her guard, always on her guard, lest he undermine her confidence and the tenets by which she lived crumbled to nothing.

She flicked the reins and, as the pony started forward, trotted round the circle before the door and out of the gate she found herself murmuring, ‘Remember whose daughter you are, Charlie Cartwright. And remember whose son he is.’

Born in Singapore, Mary Nichols came to England when she was three, and has spent most of her life in different parts of East Anglia. She has been a radiographer, school secretary, information officer and industrial editor, as well as a writer. She has three grown-up children, and four grandchildren.

Recent novels by the same author:

TALK OF THE TON

WORKING MAN, SOCIETY BRIDE

A DESIRABLE HUSBAND

RUNAWAY MISS

RAGS-TO-RICHES BRIDE

THE EARL AND THE HOYDEN

Mary Nichols

www.millsandboon.co.uk

Chapter One

1814

Seven o’clock on a fine spring morning was the best time in all the world to be out riding, Charlotte decided, as Bonny Boy took her over the park surrounding Mandeville and into the woods above it, where the soft ground deadened the sound of his galloping hooves. It was good to be home again after the uncomfortable heat of Jamaica and the unpleasantly rough voyage, though, thank goodness, she had not succumbed to seasickness. She had missed the worst of the long hard winter, although the Atlantic had given her a taste of it as they buffeted their way homewards in the Fair Charlie.

On one side of her, the wooded slopes, a mixture of dark green conifers and deciduous trees just beginning to show their pale green hid Mandeville from view. On the other, the heather-covered hills separated Mandeville from Amerleigh. The heather was not yet in bloom, but the gorse brightened the terrain with its butter-coloured blooms. Mandeville was hers, and had been ever since her father’s death two years before, along with the cotton mill at Scofield, five miles distant; the Jamaican plantation; the Fair Charlie—a slaver that, since the abolition of the abominable trade, had become an ordinary trading schooner—together with the lead mine under the ground over which she was riding, though that had become so deep and so frequently flooded it was hardly profitable. Did having all that make the sacrifices worthwhile?

What had she sacrificed? Her girlhood, perhaps. Her chance of marriage and children because she was well aware that her mode of living would put all but the most desperate and greedy off courting her. And the desperate and greedy she was easily able to rebuff. She did not want to marry; marriage meant handing everything she owned over to her husband and becoming his property, just as the plantation slaves had been her property, to do with as she pleased. She had been aware of the injustice of that long before her father died, but he always said he could not afford to give them their freedom; he needed their labour to produce the sugar on which a large proportion of his wealth was founded. ‘Besides,’ he had said, ‘free men can be dismissed if they do not work hard enough and that means they also lose their homes. They know they are better off as they are.’ Being a child at the time, a child brought up to believe her papa was never wrong, she had accepted his argument. A year after his funeral she had taken the long voyage to the West Indies to see things for herself.

The conditions in which the slaves lived and their treatment by the overseers had appalled her. She had offered them freedom, but as they had nowhere else to go, she had given them a weekly wage to remain in her employ. Daniel Mortlock, her plantation manager, had told her that acting arbitrarily would make the slaves on neighbouring plantations discontented and ready to cause trouble, but she had simply said what her neighbours did was no concern of hers, but if they had an ounce of humanity they would follow her example. She was adamant no human being ought to own another and he had been obliged to back down.

If she had a husband, everything would be in his hands and she was not prepared to forgo her independence. Not for anyone. Her biggest regret was that she would have no children. She told herself she would have to make do with other people’s children and that included the villagers and those who worked in her mill, but it could never be the same as having a child of her own, someone she could love, as only a mother can love a child.

If her mama had not died giving birth to her, things might have been different. She might have had brothers and sisters and her mama would have guided her, taught her how to behave, brought her up to be a lady, seen her safely married, and her brothers would have taken over from her father. Instead, her father had treated her as the son he never had, making no allowances for her femininity. He had called her Charlie, which she had accepted as his playfulness, but she knew now it was more than that. It was a refusal to see her as a daughter, when all he wanted was a boy in his own image.

She supposed he had loved her in his way, but he had never told her so, never by so much as a kiss on the cheek let it show. Sometimes, when she was small, she had lavished her affection on her governesses, but they had been chosen by her father for their strictness and practicality and she had been rebuffed. She had soon learned not to show her feelings. But the gentler side of her nature could not quite be stifled and she could, and did, show compassion to those less fortunate and could never be cruel to any living thing, human or beast.

She had become a fearless rider, fished the swirling rivers and hunted over the hills and dales. She was a good shot with both pistol and shotgun, and was not above acting as midwife to horses, sheep and dogs. Encouraged by her father, she had developed a good business head and was perfectly conversant with bookkeeping and accounts, a fact that sometimes flummoxed Jacob Edwards, her legal adviser, and William Brock, the mill manager, and had certainly shocked the manager of her plantation when she visited Jamaica. Oh, it was good to be home again!

She was so deep in thought she did not hear other thundering hooves until a rider suddenly appeared out of the trees to the side of the path she was using and caused Bonny Boy to rear. It took all her strength and skill to keep her seat and bring him under control, while the other rider had his work cut out to pull his own mount to a halt.

‘You confounded idiot!’ he exclaimed, still wrestling with the reins and not looking at her. ‘What, in heaven’s name, were you thinking of, racing about like a madman? You could have killed me.’

‘And you me.’

The sound of a female voice made him turn and look at her. What he saw caused him to stare in amazement. The figure riding astride the big horse was a woman, there was no doubt of it, but what a woman! Dressed in a man’s riding coat, her only concession to womanhood an open riding skirt, which revealed tan leather breeches and brown riding boots. In spite of his annoyance he could not help admiring her long shapely leg. Neither did she seem to subscribe to the feminine insistence of shielding her face from the sun because she was hatless and her skin was tanned and glowing. Her abundance of chestnut-coloured hair, streaked with the red of sunrise, had escaped from its pins and drifted across her face in wild curls. Her eyes were neither brown nor green, but a mixture of both, and they were regarding him angrily.

‘One does not expect to come across a lady jockey on one’s own land,’ he said, affecting annoyance, though he felt bound to acknowledge her skill in controlling her mount. ‘Especially one set on winning a race…’

‘I was galloping, not racing,’ she snapped. ‘If you had been looking where you were going instead of jumping out on me like some highwayman—’ She stopped suddenly to look more closely at him. He was a large man on a very big horse and towered over her. He was wearing a dark green uniform, its jacket decorated with black leather frogging and fastened with silver buttons. His breeches were also dark green and tucked into black riding boots. A dusty riding cloak was carelessly flung over one shoulder. On his head he wore a black shako beneath which his handsomely rugged features were set in a fierce line of disapproval, but even so she thought she detected a hint of humour in his dark eyes. ‘Did you say your land?’

‘Yes,’ he said. ‘You are trespassing on the estate of the Earl of Amerleigh.’

‘Oh.’ Her heart gave a sudden lurch as her defiant gaze met his. She could not look away, it was as if some alchemy, some chemistry in their make-up, had fused and produced a new element, something akin to fire, which threatened to consume them both in its heat. For a moment she simply stared at him. This was the man who had humiliated her so profoundly she had never quite forgotten it, had not been allowed to forget because her father had conducted a determined vendetta on the old Earl ever since. But the Earl had died six weeks before and here was his successor, larger than life.

‘So you are the Earl’s cub,’ she said, using the name her father had given him. ‘Then you ought to know the extent of the Amerleigh domain, and this stretch of land does not belong to it.’

He did not like being called a cub, but let it pass. ‘Of course it does. I used to roam here as a boy. I know every inch of it.’

‘But you are no longer a boy, are you, my lord?’ It was said with a false sweetness that disguised the bitter memories which the sight of him had invoked. And to rub salt into the wound, he did not remember her. ‘Things have changed since you went away. I advise you to speak to your lawyer before you accuse anyone of trespassing in future.’ She paused suddenly. ‘You do know…’

‘That my father died. Yes, Miss Cartwright, I do know.’

‘My condolences. You mother will be glad to have you home again.’

‘No doubt,’ he said, wondering how well she knew his mother or whether she was simply making small talk. She did not strike him as someone who went in for that sort of thing.

‘Now, you must excuse me, my lord, for I have work to do, even if you do not.’ She turned her horse to leave him, but he leaned forward and seized her reins.

‘Not so fast, madam…’ He did not know why he wanted to detain her, nor what he meant to say to her, but he was given no opportunity to find out because she slapped the back of his gloved hand with her crop, making him release the reins. He looked startled for a moment, then threw his head back and gave a hoot of laughter, which infuriated her.

‘If you think manhandling a lady is a subject for humour, then you are more uncouth than even I expected,’ she said, digging in her heels and galloping away, leaving him staring after her.

What had been going on in his absence? Six years he had been away, serving with the army in Portugal and Spain, six long years, during which the fortunes of war had ebbed and flowed, and the army had marched the length of the Portugal and back more than once. Now Viscount Wellington was on the offensive and preparing to rid the world of the upstart Napoleon for good. He was on French soil and marching towards Bayonne. If it had not been for the illness and death of his father, Roland would have stayed to the end, would have exalted with the rest of the troops in the hard-won victory.

He had written to his father once or twice in the early days of his service, but receiving no answer, had given up. If his father wished to forget him, then he would forget his father. Even his letters to his mother had been ignored, though he was sure that was because she had been forbidden to communicate with him. But three months before, she had written to tell him the Earl was gravely ill. ‘Come home, if you can,’ she had written. ‘We have removed to the dower house. It is more convenient.’ He wondered what could be more convenient about it. Compared to the rambling old hall where he had grown up, it was a doll’s house. He could not imagine his autocratic father living there.

The letter had been addressed to his headquarters, but at the time it arrived he had been behind the enemy lines, surveying the land and producing maps. It was weeks before the letter was put into his hands and by then a second one had followed it, informing him his father had died and he was now the Earl of Amerleigh.

He had obtained leave of absence and, with his personal servant, Corporal Travers, had returned to Lisbon and embarked on a transport ship. They had landed at Portsmouth and travelled by stage to Shrewsbury, where they had purchased mounts to take them the rest of the way to Amerleigh, taking a bridle path over the hills and ignoring the road. He had not expected to find a wild woman in men’s clothes galloping across the estate.

He turned as Travers caught up with him. ‘You have just missed the most extraordinary creature,’ he said.

‘I saw her.’ Ben grinned. ‘I could see you were enjoying your conversation with her, so I held back. Who is she?’

‘I have no idea.’ He stopped suddenly and laughed. ‘Oh, it couldn’t be, could it? Oh, my, I do believe it was. What a homecoming!’

‘You know who she is?’

‘I think so. No, I am sure of it. Her name is, or was, Charlotte Cartwright and I have a feeling I shall be crossing swords with her again.’

The new Earl had matured into a handsome man, Charlotte admitted to herself as she rode away, remembering the slight figure he had been at twenty-one, good-looking, yes, with his curly brown hair and classical features, but proud and disdainful, disdainful enough to humiliate her beyond endurance. But she had been proud too and that meant not showing her hurt. Nor would she remind him of it now. If he had forgotten her, so much the better. But they were sworn enemies and would remain so.

She slowed to a walk, ruminating on what had happened six years before and all her anger bubbled up again. It had been her father’s wish to be accepted by society, and to that end he had entertained and had brought in teachers to show Charlotte the accomplishments a lady should have, including sewing, drawing and dancing, none of which she had particularly enjoyed. Besides, it was too late by then, her unconventional character had already been formed and she found it impossible to change, but to a certain extent he had achieved his aim simply because he was the richest man for miles around and could make or break any man he chose, and that included the Earl of Amerleigh. But not his cub.

To be rejected by a stiff-necked, conceited sprig, in a voice loud enough to be heard by anyone standing within ten feet of him, had been the outside of enough. It was the first time her father’s money had not been able to buy whatever and whomever he liked. Hoyden, the sprig had called her. Well, she supposed that was not so far from the truth. And plain. Was she plain? Her father had assured her she was not, that she was every bit as beautiful as her lovely mother had been, and the silly young fop needed his eyes seeing to. But looking in the mirror on her return home from the ball which both fathers had confidently expected to end in the announcement of the engagement of their respective offspring, she had admitted that perhaps Roland Temple had the right of it. And coming to that conclusion had in no way lessened her sense of grievance; if anything, it had heightened it. Oh, how she wished her father had never made that bargain with the late Earl. But wishing did not mean she would undo what he had done. Never, never, never.

She entered by the wrought-iron gates of Mandeville and was filled with the pride of possession. The red sandstone mansion ahead of her had been built by her father to tell the world how a mere nobody could, by dint of hard work and clever management, make a mint of money. It stood out from the surrounding countryside because the great trees that had been planted to make the park were still in their infancy, though there were several decorative trees and shrubs in the gardens near the house. Given a few more years, Mandeville would rival the best country seat in the area, if not the whole county. It already outshone Amerleigh Hall, which was crumbling into ruin.

She rode round the house and dismounted at the stables, an extensive range of buildings which housed several riding horses, four carriage horses and a couple of ponies. In the adjacent coach house there was a well-sprung travelling coach, a phaeton and a curricle. Having given Bonny Boy to a groom to be looked after, she ordered one of the ponies to be harnessed to the curricle and went into the house by a side door which took her through the kitchens.

She exchanged news with Mrs Cater, her cook, asked May, the scullion, about her chilblains for which she had provided an ointment, stroked the kitchen cat, which purred in delight, then went up to her room to change for the business of the day. She took not the slightest notice of the pictures that lined the walls nor the costly ornaments and furniture, all purchased by her father to impress. Her booted feet sank into the deep pile of the carpet, oblivious of the footprints she left behind. She was thinking of her encounter with the Earl and trying not to let it bother her.

Once in her bedroom, she flung off her riding coat and skirt, peeled off the breeches and washed quickly in cold water from the jug on her toilet table. Then she dressed in a plain grey skirt, a white shirt and a black bombazine jacket tailored like a man’s and fastened with braided frogging. This was the outfit she had devised to go to business, not quite mannish because it fitted her neat figure perfectly, but near enough to tell everyone she meant business and would stand no nonsense. She pinned up her wayward hair and, disdaining a bonnet, topped it with a tall beaver hat with a sweeping feather. Her riding boots she changed for half-boots in fine black leather, and thus apparelled, returned downstairs where the curricle was waiting for her to drive herself down to the valley where the cotton mill stood beside a fast-flowing tributary of the Severn.

She had been away a year and in that time the measures she had put in hand to improve the conditions of the mill hands had been allowed to go by default. She had come back to find the schoolroom unused and the children had returned to the long hours and unhealthy conditions that had been prevalent when her father first took over the business from his father-in-law many years before. ‘Mr Brock, there is a law about schooling the children we employ, which we have to obey, as you very well know,’ she had reminded him, though she had gone far beyond the minimal lessons she was required to provide. ‘We are no less bound by it than anyone else.’

‘We had large orders to fill,’ he told her. ‘We needed every hand to the looms or the ship would have sailed half-loaded. Your father would never have allowed that.’ Reminding her what her father would or would not have done seemed to be his way of objecting to her orders.

She needed Brock for the day-to-day running of the mill and so they had compromised on the hours of work and the amount of schooling the children had. She intended, little by little, to wear him down and have her own way. In the meantime she trod carefully and diplomatically, only too aware that as a woman she was despised; as the richest mill owner in the district she was treated with deference larded with a certain amount of contempt. She straightened her back, put her chin up and pretended not to mind.

Today, she inspected everything, watched the shuttles flying across the looms for several minutes, spoke to the mill manager about production schedules, dealt with her correspondence and gave a few orders, something she did almost every day of her life. Though she appeared to be her usual self, there was, beneath the cool exterior, a fluttering in the pit of her stomach, a feeling of unease, as if something was hanging over her, not quite a threat, but something that could upset her well-ordered routine. It did not take much puzzling on her part to put it down to the arrival of the new Earl of Amerleigh.

Roland rode on, noting, as he neared his home, that everything was looking decidedly neglected. Hedges were growing wild, ditches were uncleared, the workers’ cottages in disrepair. He stopped and dismounted at the church and went inside to look at the family vault. His father’s name, newly carved, was the last of a long line. He supposed his own name would be added in due time. Pushing such morbid thoughts from him, he returned to the road where Travers waited patiently with the horses, and they rode on towards the big house whose great chimneys and crenellated walls could be seen through a gap in the trees.

It had stood in its surrounding deer park since Elizabeth was queen and Harold Temple had become rich plundering the seas for his monarch and been made an earl on the strength of it. Succeeding members of the family had added to the house, furnished it lavishly and held sway over the village, from which it took its name, or perhaps the village grew up after the house—Roland had never been sure. Now it had a forlorn and dismal air. The lawns were uncut, the flower beds and gravel drive full of weeds. He noticed a broken window and peeling paintwork.

Roland rode on past it, down a long path beside what had once been a thriving garden and out on to a lane that led to the dower house. It was a square, red-brick building, having only a sitting room, a dining room, a parlour and four bedrooms as well as the usual offices. When he had left home six years before, it had been occupied by his grandmother, but she had died while he had been away. He had been very fond of the old lady who had defied her son and left Roland an annuity, not grand, but enough to provide him with a measure of independence, for which he was very grateful. He dismounted and handed his reins to Travers, then strode up to the door.

It was opened before he reached it and his mother flew out and into his arms. ‘Roland, oh, Roland, you are home at last. I have been praying for you to come and now you are here. Let me look at you.’ She stood back to appraise him. She saw not the slim, half-grown youth who had left home, but a mature, battle-hardened man, tall, broad shouldered, weatherbeaten. ‘You have changed.’

‘It has been six years,’ he said with a smile. It was not only physically he had changed; his character had matured too. The young man who had been haughty and proud, who felt himself, as the son of an earl, to be a superior being to the man who ploughed the fields, was gone. He had learned a little humility, to judge people on merit, not on their position in society. Rank in society was not the same as rank in the army and he much preferred to be known as Major, a position he had earned, than to be made much of on account of his title.

‘Oh, you don’t know how I have longed for you to come home,’ she said, leading him into the house.

He paused to speak to Travers. ‘Find the stables and see to the horses, I’ll join you when I can.’

‘Did you receive my letters?’ she asked, as they stepped into the hall and she relieved him of his riding cloak and hat. She was, he noticed, very thin, her face lined with worry, and he was sorry if he had been responsible for putting any of the lines there. And though she was dressed in deepest mourning, her blue eyes shone and her mouth smiled with joy at having him home again. ‘I wondered why you did not come at once.’

‘I was away from headquarters and could not be contacted,’ he said, following her into the drawing room and refraining from reminding her that his letters home had gone unanswered. ‘It was nearly two months before I returned and your first letter was put into my hand, only the day before the second arrived. I came as soon as I could. I am only sorry I did not arrive in time.’

‘Never mind, you are here now. Sit down and let me look at you.’

Roland pulled up a chair and sat on it, his head full of what he had seen: the poor state of the big house, the neglected air about the village, the arrogant Miss Cartwright and her assertion Browhill did not belong to the Amerleigh estate. When and why had it changed hands?

‘You are grown so big and strong,’ his mother went on.

‘That is down to the army, Mama. It made a man of the boy.’

‘You will always be my boy.’

He smiled and reached for her hand. ‘I know.’ He paused. ‘I passed the house. It looked thoroughly neglected. What happened?’

‘It is a long story. Your papa lost heart after you left. He did not seem able to do the work he always used to do and things went from bad to worse. Two years ago he had a seizure and Dr Sumner said he was not to be worried. I wanted to write and tell you what was happening, but your father forbade it. We moved here so that he might be peaceful and hoped to let the house, but there were no takers. After his last attack he suddenly changed his mind and said he must see you.’

‘I am deeply sorry I was too late. I would have been glad to be reconciled with him. Did he ever forgive me?’

‘I think so, though I always thought there was nothing to forgive, except perhaps your hasty departure, when he might have come round to listening to you, and you to him.’

Roland did not think so, but forbore to say so. ‘What would you have me do?’

‘It was his wish that you restore the Hall. It is, after all, your home. It has been the home of the Amerleighs for hundreds of years. One day you will marry and pass it on to your sons.’

‘I know, Mama.’ He gave a sigh. From what he had seen, it would be a monumental task and one that would take every penny he owned and more. ‘I had better see Mount-ford and talk it over with him.’

‘Yes. He will tell you about the lawsuit.’

His heart sank. ‘The lawsuit?’

‘Yes, your father was in dispute with Mr Cartwright over a strip of land that he said the man had cheated him out of.’

‘Browhill?’

‘Yes, how did you know?’

‘I came that way and met Miss Cartwright.’ He smiled wryly at the memory. ‘We had a few words about it.’

‘Oh, no, not you too. Will there be no end to it?’

‘I do not know. Tell me what happened.’

‘Later. Now, I must go and have a room made ready for you, then you can change and we will have dinner.’ She bustled away.

He sat on for a few minutes, gazing at a portrait of his father that hung over the mantel. It showed a big, proud man, master of all he surveyed, supremely confident. How had he come to be so far in debt he had had to leave his ancestral home? His mother seemed reluctant to tell him.

He stood up and left the room to go in search of her and found her in one of the bedrooms supervising the making up of a bed for him. His portmanteau and haversack had been brought up and put on a chest under the window. A jug of hot water had been placed on the wash stand. ‘There, will that do?’ she asked.

‘Very well, Mama. I am used to far less than this.’

‘Come down when you are ready. I do not know what Mrs Burrows is making for dinner, but I am sure she will do her best.’

He washed quickly, changed his shirt, put on his best uniform and returned downstairs where they were served a simple meal in the dining room by Mr Burrows. He had been the butler even longer than his wife had been the cook. He had always been one to stand on his dignity in the hierarchy of the servants’ quarters and held sway over at least twenty indoor servants. Now, according to his mother, Mr and Mrs Burrows and one girl were all the indoor staff they had.

‘And outside?’ he asked, after Burrows had left them to serve themselves. ‘Gardeners, coachmen, grooms?’

‘We go out so little I cannot remember the last time the coach came out. I drive the gig when I want to go calling or shopping. We only have one horse and Bennett looks after it. He still does the garden and keeps an eye on the big house.’

Roland speared a piece of mutton on his fork. ‘Is that all that’s left?’

‘Yes, but we do not need them here and would have no room for them in any case. Some of them went to Mandeville. Jacob Edwards has done very well there. You remember him; he is a year or two older than you. He used to share your lessons before you went away to school and you used to go fishing together in the holidays.’

‘I remember.’ Jacob had been with him the first time either of them had set eyes on Charlotte Cartwright. It was at a horse fair that had come to Amerleigh. The boys had been enjoying themselves going round all the stalls and listening to the banter of the stallholders and had stopped at a shooting range where a row of wooden ducks were set up for the contestants to shoot down. Jacob tried first and had hit seven of the ten. Roland had his turn and hit the first nine, but failed at the last.

‘Missed!’ said a triumphant voice. He had swivelled round to find a girl of about twelve standing close by. She was well clad and well shod and her reddish hair was crammed under a blue chip bonnet, so she was not one of the villagers. There seemed to be no one with her.

‘You think you can do better?’ he had demanded, while the stallholder looked on, grinning from ear to ear.

‘Yes.’

‘You are more likely to shoot yourself than the ducks.’

She held out a brown freckled hand. ‘Give me the gun and I’ll show you.’

He laughed and gave it to her and was thoroughly chagrined when he found she could load and prime it and was astounded when, hardly seeming to take aim, she shot down all ten ducks in quick succession. ‘I told you so, boy,’ she said, returning the gun and taking a tiny squealing piglet from the stallholder as her prize. Any other girl of his acquaintance would have been more careful of her clothes than to hold the animal in her arms, but she did not seem to mind. Her father had come and fetched her then and given her a jobation for giving him the slip, but she just laughed at him.

It was Jacob who found out who she was: daughter of Mr Cartwright the owner of Mandeville, an estate on the other side of the hill from Amerleigh. Roland had returned to school without seeing her again that year, but on subsequent holidays he and Jacob had come across her out riding or fishing and they had shouted a greeting and sometimes stood over her on the bank to watch her fish. It was only on reflection now that he realised she had always been alone and he wondered if she had ever had any siblings or playmates. Jacob had admired her, for all the neighbourhood considered her wild and unmanageable. Roland had gone away to university and did not see her again until a few days before that fateful ball, galloping over Browhill, just as he had seen her today. She had not changed.

‘Father paid for Jacob’s schooling later, didn’t he?’ he queried, coming back to his conversation with his mother.

‘Yes. He has climbed his way up to be a lawyer and is Miss Cartwright’s man of business.’

‘Rubbing salt in the wound.’

‘Yes. It was all too much for your poor papa and he seemed to give up. The estate became neglected and he thought of nothing but revenge. It soured him, Roland.’

‘And he blamed me.’

‘In a way I suppose he did.’

‘And you? Do you blame me?’

‘No, you were young with your life before you and you did not know the whole story. I begged your father to explain the position to you, but he said he would expect you to comply simply because he said it was necessary.’

Roland closed his mouth on the comment that it was most unlikely that even an explanation would have made him change his mind. In the middle of the most lavish ball he could ever remember his parents holding, he had been told by his father that he was expected to propose to Miss Cartwright that very evening. He remembered his angry reaction as if it were yesterday. ‘Not for anything,’ he had said. ‘The chit is barely out of the schoolroom, if she was ever in one. She is a hoyden and ought to have been a boy. She is certainly plain enough.’ They had had a bitter quarrel and he had stormed up to his room where he had remained despite the entreaties of his mother to come down and his father’s threats that he would cut him off without a penny if he defied him. ‘If you do not obey me in this,’ he had shouted through the thick oak door, ‘you are no son of mine.’

Next morning Roland had left the house with no luggage except a small carpet bag and taken a stage to London, where he bought into the 95th, which later became part of the Rifle Brigade. His rise to his present rank had been made on merit as more senior officers had been killed and wounded, which he supposed was something the war had done for him.

‘Why was it so important to Papa?’

‘Your father and Mr Cartwright were once friends in a way, though the man had no breeding to speak of. They were both magistrates and used to meet at the courthouse and at the sheep market and talk about business. Mr Cartwright suggested our name coupled with his wealth would together make one of the most influential families in the kingdom. Miss Cartwright’s dowry would be prodigious; not only that, he was prepared to stand buff for your papa’s debts, which at that time were considerable. And there was cash in hand too. All to give his daughter a title. The offer was too tempting to resist and your father accepted a payment in advance, which of course the man demanded back when you left. Unfortunately, most of it had already been spent, some on that disastrous ball, on paying debts, and on new furnishings to impress Cartwright. I also had new gowns; your father said it was a matter of pride that his wife should be dressed in the latest mode…’

‘He did all that without consulting my wishes,’ he said, wondering if the proposed engagement had been as much a surprise to Miss Cartwright as it had been to him.

‘I am sorry for that, but he supposed you would agree for the sake of the dowry. You must not condemn him too harshly, Roland. In his day parents often arranged marriages for their children and the children rarely complained. Marriage was more of a business matter then, a joining of great houses, the making of a dynasty. If a man needed more than his wife could provide, he could easily find it elsewhere, and as long as he was discreet she would turn a blind eye…’

‘Times have changed, Mama. I prefer to find my own bride and I most certainly would not expect her to turn a blind eye, as you put it.’

‘Have you? Is there a lady…?’

‘No. I have been too busy fighting a war to worry about courting.’

‘Then it is not too late.’

‘Good Lord! Surely I am not expected to pay court to the chit, just as if the last six years had never been.’

‘No, I can understand you would not want to do that and it would not do. Two such strong characters as you both are would make for endless conflict. She is not one to bow to any man, husband or no.’

‘How far has this litigation gone?’

‘I have no idea, no one confided in me. Mountford will tell you.’

‘So the new Earl has come home at last,’ Mrs Elliott said, helping herself from a tureen of vegetables offered by one of Charlotte’s footmen. An invitation to Mandeville for supper was worth accepting if only because the food was sumptuous, much better than anything she was able to provide at the vicarage. Tonight Charlotte was entertaining the Reverend Mr Elliott, Mrs Elliott and their son, Martin, who had just been ordained as curate and was waiting for his first post, together with Sir Gordon and Lady Brandon and their twenty-year-old daughter, Martha. ‘The Reverend saw him arrive on horseback, with no luggage or servants, except one dowdy-looking fellow in army overalls, is that not so, husband?’

‘Yes,’ the parson agreed. ‘I hardly recognised him, he was so dusty and travel-stained. He had on a dark green jacket, which had certainly seen better days, and a black shako, just as if he were a common soldier. He dismounted to go into the church and stood before the Amerleigh vault. He was there some time in quiet contemplation and it was then I guessed who he was.’

‘Did you discover if he means to stay?’ Sir Gordon asked. Both Sir Gordon and his wife had succumbed to good living and were almost as round as they were tall. Sir Gordon owned a cotton mill in Scofield, not far from Charlotte’s, but as far as she knew, he rarely went near the place and knew very little of what went on there, but she invited him and his wife to dine occasionally because he was a great gossip and enabled her to keep abreast of what her competitors were doing.

‘And why would he not? It is his home and his inheritance, after all.’ This from Martin Elliott. He was a pale young man, and very thin, but not ill-looking.

‘Inheritance!’ Sir Gordon exclaimed. ‘Millstone would be a better description. How he will bring it about, I do not know.’

‘He probably has a private income,’ Lady Brandon put in, while Charlotte remained silent. She did not want to say anything that might inadvertently reveal that she had already met the gentleman in question. ‘Or he has become rich by the war. It sometimes happens, I believe. The victors plunder the vanquished.’

‘He will need every groat he can lay his hands on,’ Sir Gordon said. ‘His father has left the place in a sad state.’

‘Why did they quarrel?’ Martha asked, while Charlotte held her breath, hoping fervently none of her guests knew the real truth.

‘No one knows for sure,’ Mrs Elliott said. ‘But it was very sudden. I have heard it said it was over a woman. The Viscount, as he was then, was banished in disgrace.’

‘Now, now,’ her husband gently chided her. ‘It is no business of ours.’

She lapsed into silence, much to Charlotte’s relief, but the pause was soon filled by Lady Brandon. ‘Do you think we should call on him and welcome him home?’ she asked. ‘Though whether that be the great house or the dower house, it is difficult to say.’

‘I would not go so far as to suggest that, my love,’ her husband said. ‘He might find it a trifle embarrassing. Hold your horses and wait to see what he does. He might not stay.’

‘And whom do you suppose will take over the estate if he does not?’

‘I feel sorry for him, coming back to that,’ Mrs Elliott said, earning a sharp glance from Charlotte.

‘Why?’ Sir Gordon demanded. ‘If rumour be true, it was his quarrel with his father that sent the poor old man out of his mind.’

‘Was he out of his mind?’ Lady Brandon asked.

‘Of course he was. No man in his right mind would allow his estate to be run down like that. Do you not agree, Miss Cartwright?’

Charlotte, directly addressed, found herself saying, ‘I do not see how anyone but his doctors can know the state of his lordship’s mind, but it is very true the estate is in a parlous state.’

‘I am surprised you have not offered to buy it yourself,’ Sir Gordon said. ‘No doubt you could get it for a song.’

Charlotte smiled, thinking of the Earl and his fierce claim that the land on which they had almost collided had been Amerleigh land. If she was any judge of character, he would not part with his birthright to her. But, oh, taking the Amerleigh estate from him would be sweet revenge for the humiliation she had suffered at his hands. ‘What use would I have for such a place?’ she asked. ‘And we are talking as if the Earl is going to sell up.’

‘If he has any sense he will,’ Sir Gordon said.

‘I would not,’ Charlotte said suddenly. ‘There are too many people’s livelihoods depending on a healthy estate. I would look on it as a challenge.’

‘Is he one to rise to a challenge, do you think?’ Lady Brandon asked.

Charlotte shrugged. ‘I have no idea, but we shall soon see.’

The return of the Earl of Amerleigh caused no end of gossip in the village. The main gist of their curiosity was centred on whether he had returned with a fortune and whether he had married and would be bringing his wife to the Hall just as soon as it had been refurbished. And if he was not married, why, then he might be looking for a wife! Single young ladies in the parish and for several miles around were suddenly alert to the possibilities. Hence the bigger than usual congregation at church the following day.

Wondering what to wear, Roland had surveyed his wardrobe, which did not take long. Apart from his ordinary uniform and a dress uniform that he wore on formal occasions, he had a pair of overalls, a riding coat of Bath cloth which he had been wearing when he enlisted, a pair of calfskin breeches, half a dozen shirts, a change of underclothes, and a spare pair of boots. He had never needed more. He found some of his old clothes in a trunk, which his mother had brought to the dower house. There was among them a black frock coat and breeches, but when he tried them on, he found they were several sizes too small. The Roland who had gone away had been a stripling of twenty-one, slim as a reed; the Roland who had returned was broad of shoulder, deep-chested, with muscular legs and arms. He had perforce to ask Travers to spruce up his best uniform and tie a black mourning ribbon about his sleeve. Bennett had brought out the carriage, for which Roland had hired horses, and took immense pride in cleaning it so it gleamed as it once had, and he and his mother travelled in that.

After the service, the Countess placed herself between Roland and the parson on the church path to greet everyone and introduce them to her son. Among them were Lord and Lady Gilford, who had a substantial mansion on the road between Amerleigh and Scofield, Mr and Mrs Edward Trent of Shrewsbury; Sir Gordon and Lady Brandon, who had a country house on the slopes above Scofield, and several others whom Roland did not know. They were all accompanied by offspring.

That might have been the end of it, but the parson, conscious of his role as conciliator, addressed Lady Brandon. ‘My lady, I am sure the Earl needs no introduction, but I am persuaded you would wish to welcome him back in our midst.’ And to Roland. ‘My lord, you remember Sir Gordon and Lady Brandon, do you not?’

Roland bowed. ‘Your servant, my lady. Sir Gordon.’

Her ladyship acknowledged him with a slight inclination of the head. ‘My lord.’

Sir Gordon shook his hand and then drew Martha forward. ‘May I present my daughter, Martha?’

He bowed, remembering the schoolgirl he had seen about the village with her governess when he had been home in his youth. She had become an attractive young lady. ‘Miss Brandon.’

She bobbed a curtsy and kept her eyes downcast. ‘My lord.’

The parson had not done. ‘My lord, I believe you are acquainted with Miss Cartwright.’

It was only then he realised that Charlotte stood behind them. Gone was the strange riding gear and in its place was a watered silk gown in a soft dove-grey, topped with a matching short pelisse. Her amber hair, which had been so windswept when he had come upon her riding, was now pinned up beneath a simple straw bonnet, but he could see that it was already straining to escape.

He realised quite suddenly that plain was an inaccurate way to describe her. Not that she was a beauty; her features were too strong for that, but handsome might do. Her eyes were her most striking feature and they were looking at him in a way that made him feel uncomfortable. Disdainful, amused, irate, wary—he wasn’t sure how to describe that look. As far as he knew, she had not heard the hateful description of her he had flung at his father all those years ago, but remembering them now made him feel ashamed of words that never should have been uttered by anyone calling himself a gentleman, however irate he had felt. ‘Your servant, Miss Cartwright,’ he said, touching his hand to the peak of his shako.

She had thought he was tall when mounted, but now she realised he must be over six foot in height, a giant of a man and not one to be easily intimidated. But neither was she. ‘My lord,’ she responded coolly. She had not been brought up to attend church regularly, but she had realised that not to go might make for gossip. As she did not want anyone to connect her with his disappearance six years before, she had come, telling herself that she would take herself off immediately after the service. She had not bargained for the parson’s interference. She turned from him to the Countess. ‘My lady, how do you do?’

‘I am well, thank you. And you?’ The Countess was, as ever, graciousness itself, and whatever Charlotte felt about the late Earl and his son, she liked her and felt sorry for her.

‘I am in fine fettle,’ she said, risking a glance at the Earl. He was looking at her intently, as if trying to read what was going on in her head. She hoped not, because her thoughts were confused. She had to admit she found his rugged good looks attractive, more so than the immature looks of the boy who had disdained her, and had to tell herself sternly that he could never be forgiven that.

‘Did you have a good voyage home?’ the Countess asked.

She laughed. ‘The sea was somewhat rough, but I survived it.’

‘Miss Cartwright has recently returned from a visit to Jamaica,’ his mother explained to Roland. ‘She has a sugar plantation out there.’

‘Indeed?’ he said. So that accounted for the name of her house; Mandeville he knew to be a Jamaican town. ‘And slaves, too, no doubt?’

‘The trade slave has been outlawed, Lord Temple,’ she said, noticing the Countess’s look of shock that he should mention such a thing.

‘The trade, yes, but not the ownership.’

‘True, but there would be hue and cry if the law decreed they had to be freed,’ she said. ‘We should have no sugar, tobacco or cotton. It would be disastrous for the British economy.’ She wondered why she did not tell him that her slaves had been given their freedom instead of repeating parrot fashion the arguments her father had used when she had questioned him on the subject. Obstinacy, she supposed, and a mischievous wish to score a point over him.

His mother touched his arm, warning him not to continue. ‘Point taken, Miss Cartwright,’ he said, smiling as if he knew perfectly well what she was about. It disconcerted her to think he could read her mind like that.

‘Have you ever visited the Indies, my lord?’

‘No, never.’

‘Perhaps you should.’

‘One day, perhaps. Did you not find the climate uncomfortably hot?’

‘I do not suppose it was any worse than the heat in Spain.’

‘Probably not,’ he agreed. ‘One becomes used to it. But it is good to be back in England’s softer climate, do you not agree?’

‘Oh, most decidedly, and especially in springtime.’

The conversation ground to a halt. His mother plucked at his sleeve. ‘Good day, Miss Cartwright.’ He touched his hat again and, taking his mother’s arm, guided her to their carriage to return to the dower house.

‘Roland, how could you?’ his mother scolded him. ‘It is not like you to be discourteous.’

‘Perhaps I let my feelings on the subject carry me away,’ he replied unrepentantly.

Charlotte walked to the churchyard gate with Lady Brandon. ‘Charlotte, why did you not tell him you had freed your slaves?’ her ladyship queried, watching his departing back.

‘Because I did not choose to. He has no right to criticise me.’

‘Do you think he is married?’

‘I am sure I do not know.’

‘I should not be at all surprised if he did not have a Spanish wife tucked away somewhere, and we shall be expected to receive her. And just look at him! Was that meant to be a uniform he was wearing?’

‘It is the uniform of the 95th Rifles,’ Charlotte murmured. ‘I believe they are considered some of our finest fighters and always in the vanguard of any attack.’

‘Is that so?’

‘So I have read. And it seems to me that a green uniform is much more practical than a red one. It is less easily seen by the enemy.’

‘That is as may be,’ her ladyship said. ‘But I still say it made the Earl look devilish sombre.’

‘Good heavens, Catherine, he surely has reason to be sombre,’ Charlotte said, surprised to find herself defending him. ‘His father died while he was away and now he finds himself owner of a crumbling mansion and a run-down estate. It will be interesting to see how he comes about.’

‘No doubt he will marry an heiress.’

‘What happened to the Spanish wife?’ Charlotte asked mischievously.

‘Charlotte, is it in your nature to be perverse? Or is it simply that you enjoy provoking me?’

‘Oh, I am definitely perverse,’ Charlotte said, laughing.

They had reached her curricle, with its patient horse standing in the lane, and she bade her ladyship goodbye and drove herself home. In spite of telling herself what Roland Temple did was no concern of hers, that she despised him, she had frequently found herself thinking about him since his return and wondering how they would go on when they met again, because in a village as small as Amerleigh, they could not fail to meet. And now she knew. It was war.

Chapter Two

Later that day Roland fetched Travers, and they went on foot to inspect the big house. ‘I might as well go and see what needs to be done,’ he told him.

Taking the great key his mother had given him, he unlocked the stout oak door and stepped inside. Even the dilapidated state of the exterior did not prepare him for the interior. The downstairs rooms had been cleared of anything of value, leaving only the heavy old Jacobean furniture, which had long gone out of fashion; there was hardly a stick of decent furniture left and most of the carpets had gone. The walls were bare of pictures, though it was easy to see on the faded wallpaper where they had once hung.

Travers followed him from room to room. ‘If you don’t mind my saying so, Major,’ he said. ‘It could be a villa in Spain after the Frenchies have done with it.’

‘Yes.’ It was far worse than he had expected. How had it got like this? What had his father been thinking of to let it happen? Surely his mother was mistaken and it had nothing to do with Cartwright and a worthless strip of land? An unwise investment made by his father, perhaps. But if that were so, why had Mountford not advised him against it? His mother was right, a visit to the lawyer was called for, and the sooner the better.

They went up the wide, curving staircase and wandered about the first floor, containing the main bedrooms, the gallery and the ballroom, followed by the caretaker who had arrived from nowhere and seemed to think it his duty to be in attendance. The bedchambers were dank and those hangings that remained smelled of damp. A mouse scurried along the wainscot and disappeared down a hole. ‘What on earth happened?’ he murmured.

‘Happened, my lord?’ Old Bennett was clearly agitated.

‘Oh, I do not expect you to know,’ Roland told him.

‘No, my lord, but it grieves me to see the old place like this. We are all glad to see you home. Amerleigh needs you.’

The man’s words brought home to him that he could not please himself, that there were others involved, servants and tenants and those in the village whose livelihood depended on the work they did, directly or indirectly, for the estate. How had they been managing? The thought that some of them had gone to Mandeville incensed him, especially if this desolation was any of Cartwright’s doing. No wonder his father had wanted revenge.

‘Seems to me, Major, you’re going to need some blunt,’ Travers said as they locked up and left to go back to the dower house.

He should have reprimanded the man for his impertinence, but he was only stating a fact and they were more than master and servant: they were friends, comrades in arms who had shared bad times as well as good. ‘Yes, Corporal, I think I will.’

‘There’s the French gold…’

The day before the battle at Vittoria, millions of dollars, francs and doubloons had arrived in the French camp and Lord Wellington, who knew of it and was always having trouble paying his troops and buying supplies, had been anxious to lay his hands on it, but unfortunately the troops had found it first and in the aftermath of the battle had stuffed their pockets and knapsacks with it. The 95th was no exception; though Wellington had threatened to punish anyone who looted, there was no stopping them. Travers had returned to their billet with his pockets jingling. He had used some of it to buy himself out of the army in order to accompany his officer home.

‘I can’t take that,’ Roland said. ‘It’s yours.’

‘No, it ain’t, not rightly. And it seems to me you need it more than I do. There’s been many a time you’ve helped me out of a scrape.’

‘Thank you, Travers, but I doubt if it is enough to do more than scratch the surface of the problem.’

‘Then scratch the surface, sir.’

He laughed suddenly. It was good to have a friend, but talking of French gold reminded him that he had a little nest egg of his own, given to him by a grateful Spanish Count the first time he had been sent behind the enemy lines. His work done, and wanting somewhere to hide up before trying to make his way back to his own lines, he had taken refuge in the stable of a large villa and hidden himself in the straw. A dog had found him early the next morning, yapping its head off until its owner appeared. She was young and frightened, but he had soothed her and assured her he meant her no harm. He had only wanted somewhere to sleep. She took him into the kitchen and while the cook gave him a good breakfast, she went to fetch her grandfather.

Count Caparosso was an elderly man, wearing old-fashioned satin breeches, an embroidered coat and a bag wig. He was also very nervous. The French were near at hand and he was frightened for his granddaughter. After giving Roland a meal and asking him all about himself, he had asked him to take Juanita to safety. ‘She has an uncle in Coimbra,’ he had said. ‘Take her there. I shall pay you handsomely.’

‘Do you not wish to go yourself?’

‘No, I am too old to travel and I must stay and look after the house as best I can until this dreadful conflict is over.’

Roland had hesitated. The journey would not be an easy one, bad enough on his own, but with a gently nurtured girl it would be doubly difficult. The Count had seen his reluctance. ‘She is my only joy,’ he had said. ‘The jewel of my bosom, but I dread what would happen to her if the French find her here. I am an old man and I would not be able to defend her.’

‘How do you know you can trust me?’ Roland had asked him with a wry smile. ‘I might be as bad as the French.’

‘No. You are an honourable man, I can see it in your eyes and the way you are so courteous to Juanita.’

‘She is a lovely young lady and deserves every courtesy.’

‘So you will take her?’

It was necessary for him to make a start and so he had allowed himself to be persuaded. Juanita and her maid were given into his care, and though he had protested he wanted no recompense, his host persuaded him to accept a small bag of jewels and an ancient carriage pulled by two very scrawny horses. But it had been a good disguise after all, and though they had had one or two scary moments, he had brought his charge safely to the house of her uncle. He had become very fond of her by then and they had parted with a promise from him that if he were ever in Coimbra again he would call. He had done so once, over a year later, only to find she had married her cousin and died in childbirth. Poor little thing, she had been no more than a child herself.

Apart from a diamond ring that he’d kept, thinking that one day he might marry, he had turned the jewels into ready money in Lisbon, surprised and delighted to discover they were worth a small fortune. He had banked the money, intending to save it against the day when the army no longer needed him and he had to settle down in civilian life. Believing he would not be welcome at home, he had planned to buy a farm, work the land and breed horses. Together with his annuity and half-pay, it was enough for him to make a good start. Must he give up that dream for this rotting mansion? But the rotting mansion was his birthright and his responsibility; he could not please himself, not anymore.

‘I think I shall move in at once,’ he told Travers as they wandered about the almost empty rooms, followed by Bennett, hanging on their every word for a morsel of information that might indicate what his lordship intended. ‘It behoves the Earl of Amerleigh to live at his country seat, not at the dower house with his mama. Besides, there is very little room there.’

They went up to the attics where they found a couple of old beds with damp mattresses, one or two cupboards, a sofa and some uncomfortable chairs, which even the creditors had disdained. ‘Fetch it all down and make up two bedrooms,’ he told the two men. ‘You will need to take the mattresses down to the kitchen and dry them off by the fire. And light fires in all the rooms to air them. I will be back later.’

He set off back to the dower house to acquaint his mother of his decision. She was dismayed and tried to dissuade him, but he was adamant. ‘If I am to restore the Hall to what it was, I must live there,’ he told her.

‘How can you do that without servants?’ she said.

‘I have Travers and Bennett.’

‘You will make yourself a laughing stock.’

‘I will be a bigger one if I stay here, attached to your apron strings.’

She sighed. ‘Shall you take Mr and Mrs Burrows back?’

‘No, you need them. I will take on a woman from the village. Do you know of such a one?’

She thought for a moment. ‘There is a Mrs Fields. She used to work at the King’s Head, but lost her position over some dispute with the landlord. I never had a meal prepared by her, but I have heard she is a good plain cook. As long as you are not contemplating entertaining…’

He laughed. ‘That I am not. Will you do the necessary for me?’

Having agreed, she insisted on making up a parcel of clean bedding for him and gave him a basket containing a cold cooked chicken, a meat pie and a boiled ham. ‘You will starve if left to yourself,’ she said, forgetting, or not realising, that he was perfectly capable of subsisting on his own, and had been doing so for the past six years with the help of Travers. ‘I will have Mrs Burrows make something up for you every day until you take on a new cook.’

He thanked her with a kiss and left.

It was not the discomfort of the lumpy bed that had kept him awake that night, but the knowledge that he was in the devil of a fix. There was no money in the estate coffers and the only income was rent from the tenants and he had no doubt their holdings had been neglected too and would need repairs. The money from the sale of the jewels would only stretch so far and then what was he to do?

However, he had always maintained there must be mutual affection in a marriage, which was why, he supposed, he was still single. He had met no one to whom he could give his heart and now he wondered if he ever would. And if his heart was not engaged, could he bring himself to look for a wealthy bride? Would the women around here all be like Miss Cartwright—mannish, spoiled, arrogant? There was only one way to find out and that was to mix socially and assess the situation. But putting the estate to rights must come first.

He was used to rising early and it was no hardship to get up at dawn, eat a Spartan breakfast and set off on horseback for Shrewsbury. He planned to see Mountford, have a look for furniture and carpets to make the principal downstairs rooms of the Hall presentable, and buy himself some clothes.

It was a mild spring day and he stopped on the way to admire the pink-and-gold sunrise over the hills. He breathed deeply and continued on down into the valley to Scofield. As he approached the Cartwright mill, he could hear the bell, warning employees that time was running out. They came hurrying along, men, women and children, streaming in through the open gates.

He reined in to wait for them to pass before proceeding. Some of them noticed him, pointing him out to their fellows, others bobbed a knee or touched a forelock. Two of the girls he remembered seeing in Amerleigh. They were probably daughters of estate workers. He smiled at them. ‘Good morning, young ladies.’

They stopped and giggled, then, remembering themselves, dipped a curtsy.

‘You come from Amerleigh?’ he queried.

‘Yes, sir, I mean, my lord.’ It was the older of the two who answered him.

‘Tell me your names.’ He asked because he thought he should know all his people, and they were still his people, even if circumstances meant they had to work in the mill.

‘I am Elizabeth Biggs,’ the elder said. ‘This is Matilda.’ Her sister, too shy to speak, looked at her feet.

‘And do you enjoy your work?’

‘It’s work, ain’t it?’ Beth said. ‘Better than the workhouse anyday.’

Everyone had gone into the mills and the clanging of the bells had suddenly stopped. ‘Oh, my, we’re late.’ Beth grabbed Matty by the hand and ran towards the gates just as they were being closed. Roland watched, expecting the gatekeeper to hold them open for the girls, but they were shut in their faces. They stood for a moment, then turned sorrowfully away, their shoulders drooping.

‘Why doesn’t he let you in?’ he asked them.

‘No one goes in after the bell stops,’ Beth told him. ‘We lose a day’s pay. It’s to teach us not to be late.’

‘But you were not late. You were here, ready to go in. If I had not detained you…’ He stopped speaking and reached in his pocket for his purse. ‘Here,’ he said, offering them half a crown. ‘I made you late, so I must recompense you.’ It was more than the day’s wage they would lose and they hesitated. ‘Go on, take it,’ he urged, holding it out.

Beth accepted the coin, murmuring her thanks, and they scampered away just as Miss Cartwright bowled up in her curricle.

She drew up beside him. He doffed his hat. ‘Good morning, ma’am.’

‘What was the matter with Beth and Matty?’ she asked. ‘Was one of them not well?’

‘No, they were shut out for stopping to speak to me.’

‘Nonsense!’

‘I beg your pardon, ma’am?’ It was a question, not an apology, uttered stiffly.

‘I mean you must have misunderstood.’

‘No, I do not think I did. I spoke to them and they stopped to answer. It was a brief exchange only and the gatekeeper could see them quite clearly. He shut the gates in their faces. If that is how you treat your employees, Miss Cartwright, then I pity them.’

‘Save your pity for your own employees, my lord,’ she retorted and drove up to the gates, which were immediately opened for her. She disappeared through them and they were shut behind her, leaving him staring at the words Cartwright Mill painted in large letters on them.

Charlotte left the curricle in the yard where a small boy came to walk the pony away and look after it until she was ready to leave again, and went in search of William Brock. She was seething. To be criticised by the Earl of Amerleigh over her treatment of her employees was the outside of enough. At least she was employing them, which was more than could be said for him. ‘What is your policy over latecomers?’ she demanded.

He looked puzzled. ‘You mean the hands who are late for work?’

‘Yes, the hands.’

‘They are locked out, ma’am. It’s to teach them punctuality, Miss Cartwright. They are rarely late more than once.’

‘I assume from that you mean they lose a day’s pay.’

‘Yes, of course. It has always been so. All the others mills do it.’

‘Not this one, Mr Brock. The two I saw turned away today are good workers and now we have lost their labour for a day. That is not good business sense.’

‘Their looms are not idle, I can find good weavers who can manage two at a time.’

‘Not good enough. In future, you will instruct the gatekeeper to take the names of those who arrive late and you will see that they are deducted half an hour’s wages for every five minutes they are late. Is that clear?’

‘Yes, ma’am,’ he said resentfully.

‘Good, now let us get on with the business of the day.’

They went on to discuss other matters, then she inspected the looms, peeped into the schoolroom where the young man she employed to give the children an hour’s tuition during the midday break was preparing his lessons. She could not afford to take all the children off their work at once, so they came to him in two shifts. They were given a good dinner and then settled down to lessons. Any that showed promise she intended to send to school. She hated employing children, but knowing that not to do so would harm their families, she tried to make their working conditions as pleasant as possible.

By the middle of the afternoon, she had done as much as was needed and, sending for the curricle, drove herself to the Shrewsbury office of Robert Bailey, her mining engineer, to talk to him about opening a new level. The encounter with the Earl that morning had added to her annoyance with him and made her all the more determined to thwart him. He was a thorn in her side. For the first time in her life she was being illogical and unbusinesslike, but she could not help it. She did not care what it cost, she wanted that new adit.

‘If you do not mind my saying so, Miss Cartwright,’ the engineer said. ‘You are thinking like a woman.’

‘I am a woman, Mr Bailey.’

‘So you are, but you have always figured things out like a man, pros and cons, objectively.’

‘And who is to say that I am not being objective now? The deep level is causing problems with flooding, so we need to abandon that and sink another. There is lead down there, you know it as well as I, and lead commands a very high price, so we weigh that up against the cost of bringing it to the surface and we arrive at the conclusion that it will take less than three years to make a handsome profit. And it will give work to many.’ Even while she was arguing with him, she was picturing Roland Temple, Earl of Amerleigh, standing where the engineer was standing now, telling her he would have his land back. When she had extracted all she could from the mine, she might offer to sell it back to him at a highly inflated price. She wondered if he would try to raise the money or give up. Why did she sense the Earl was as stubborn as she was? And why, oh, why did it matter?

Charles Mountford, who had been the family lawyer ever since the late Earl had inherited the title twelve years before, was in his forties, dark haired, dark eyed and dressed in black. He had been expecting his lordship, he said, after the usual greetings had been exchanged. ‘Please take a seat.’ He indicated a chair placed on the other side of his desk, then he sat down and began shuffling papers. ‘May I offer condolences on the demise of your father,’ he said. ‘And congratulations on your coming into your inheritance.’

‘And what exactly is my inheritance?’ Roland asked him. ‘Apart from the title, that is.’

‘Amerleigh Hall and its domain—very little else, I am afraid.’

‘I thought as much. Tell me what happened. My mother said something about a lawsuit.’

‘Yes, that has been unfortunate.’

Unfortunate for whom? Roland wondered; not for the lawyers, he was sure, but he did not speak aloud. ‘Tell me how it came about.’

The man coughed as if reluctant to begin, then, seeing Roland’s look of impatience, made a start. ‘The estate had not paid its way for many years, harvests had been poor and taxes heavy on account of the war, and in order to recoup the late Earl invested in stocks that he hoped would make a quick profit, but they failed, leaving him with heavy losses.’

‘Did you advise him to buy them?’

‘No, I did not.’ The man was outraged by the suggestion. He was very small and wiry and his bony hands were continually on the move as he spoke. ‘I do not know who advised him. It might have been Cartwright, but if he did, he did not take his own advice, or he was high enough in the instep to absorb the loss. As soon as I heard what had happened, I begged his lordship to retrench, but he would not. He continued going on as he always had, entertaining lavishly, buying the latest fashions for her ladyship, maintaining horses and hounds—for he was Master of the Hunt—and gaming. The more his pocket pinched, the more he gambled and the more he lost.’

‘And all this happened in the last six years?’

‘No, my lord, it started while you were at university, but he would not have told you of it even if you had been at home.’

Roland acknowledged the truth of that. ‘So when Cartwright came along with a lifeline, he seized it?’

‘Yes. Unfortunately he did not envisage you would not agree to the arrangement. Naturally, Cartwright demanded the money back. The Earl did his best, sold off a few paintings and ornaments and managed to find the initial capital, but Cartwright refused it. He wanted a vast amount of interest as well. He was a businessman, he said, and money was a commodity like anything else and should make a profit. Your father had deprived him of the profit he expected, namely a title for his daughter, so he was entitled to make it another way. He offered to expunge the whole debt in exchange for Browhill. The strip of land was nothing but heather and scrub, so I advised his lordship to agree. Soon after that Cartwright began successfully mining for lead…’

‘Poor Papa. That must have galled him. According to my mother he thought he had been tricked into parting with the land and Cartwright knew there was lead there even before he suggested taking it. Is that true?’

‘I have no way of knowing. It was enough that your father believed it. He thought if he could recover the land and take over the mine, the profits would be enough to set all to rights. After all, there was a war on and lead was needed for ammunition, not to mention for roofing, piping and paint.’

‘Are you still pursuing the suit?’

‘I have had no instructions to the contrary. Of course, if you should instruct me otherwise…’ He stopped to look enquiringly at Roland.

Roland had been prepared to drop it, but the notion that his father had been bullied into agreeing to the transaction when he was far from well made him hesitate. ‘Tell me, when the bargain was made, was it wrapped up tight? No loopholes?’

‘That is what we have been endeavouring to discover, but Cartwright was far from co-operative and I have no reason to think his daughter will be any more so. My dealings with her have led me to believe she can be stubborn. And as money means nothing to her…’

‘On the contrary, I think it means everything to her.’

Mountford gave a twisted smile of acknowledgement. ‘She has that from her father. He made a fortune trading cotton, sugar and slaves.’

‘So she would not mind losing a few pounds fighting me.’

Mountford shrugged. ‘Who is to say? Do you want me to continue with it?’

‘I will think about it and let you know. Now, what about the house and its contents? Could they not have been saved?’

‘As soon as the Earl’s problems became common knowledge, the dunners were on the doorstep. Tailors, vintners, jewellers, saddlers, butchers, those he has lost to at the tables, not to mention estate workers and servants, all turned up, wanting to be first in line for whatever was going. I was obliged to advise his lordship that simple retrenchment was not enough.’ It was said apologetically. ‘He stubbornly refused to sell, but in the end he did allow himself to be persuaded into moving into the dower house, letting it be known it was on medical grounds and as soon as his health recovered he would return to the main house. The Hall was put up for rent, but no one came forward and he was obliged to realise whatever assets he still had, except the house itself and the rest of the estate, to pay everyone off.’

‘And have they all been paid?’

‘I believe so, yes.’

‘That, at least, is a relief.’

‘If I were you, my lord, I would endeavour to sell,’ Mountford went on. ‘There must be someone who has the blunt to restore the place.’

Roland was reminded of Charlotte Cartwright. How she would crow! She might even put in a bid herself. He would not give her the opportunity. ‘No,’ he said. ‘I am surprised at you suggesting such a thing. I will bring it about myself.’

The man gave him a tired smile. ‘It will cost a great deal.’

‘I am aware of that,’ he said, standing up to leave. ‘I will find the wherewithal.’

His next call was at a tailor’s shop where he bought two new coats, two waistcoats, pantaloons in superfine and riding breeches in soft leather, several shirts, a dozen muslin neckcloths, and a pair of Hessians, arranged for them to be delivered, then he returned to Amerleigh, and, with Travers, set off to inspect his domain.

The estate was large and included dairy farms on the lower ground and sheep grazing higher up and some woodland in between. It had never occurred to him that it would not continue to dominate the surrounding country and its people for centuries more, not even when Cartwright had turned up and bought up the neighbouring estate, pulled down the old house and built an edifice that had the locals wide-eyed with astonishment. He was a mushroom, the detractors said, and like a mushroom would flourish for a day and then be gone. How wrong they had been. It was Amerleigh that would crumble before Mandeville unless he did something about it.

They rode round the village, noting that there were few people about. ‘All working at the Cartwright mill,’ the smithy told him when he asked. ‘’Twas the only work they could get when his lordship let them go.’ He spoke to one or two of the older women who remembered him as a boy and welcomed him home, convinced that now he was back, the jobs would return and the repairs to their cottages be put in hand. From the village, he made his way to the Home Farm where Ben Frost gave him a catalogue of grievances, which did nothing to improve his despondency: his barn leaked, the window casements on the farmhouse were rotting, and, what was worse, a wall separating his sheep from the road had collapsed and the animals were straying onto the highway. Roland promised he would do what he could and then set off up to Browhill to take a look at the disputed land.

The mine was set in the side of the hill. There was a great wheel-house in the centre of the site and several brick buildings were scattered about, one of which had a very tall chimney from which a column of smoke drifted. The sound of their horses must have alerted its occupant, for he came out to meet them.

‘My lord Temple,’ he said, recognising Roland. ‘What can I do for you?’

‘You can show me round,’ Roland said.

The man was middle aged, with a stooped shoulder and a distinct limp. His name was Job Bunty and he had once been an Amerleigh gamekeeper, shot, if memory served Roland correctly, by a poacher he had tried to arrest. The man picked up a lantern from a niche in the rock and lit the candle inside it with a flint. ‘This way, my lord.’

‘Is it worked out?’

‘No, my lord, but it’s got mighty deep, two hundred foot and more. After all the rain we’ve had, there’s a deal of water down there and the pumping engine don’ seem able to shift it all. Mind your head, my lord, the roof’s low.’

Roland did not need telling; the lantern cast an eerie glow over a narrow tunnel running steeply downwards. They had to proceed in single file, almost bent double. And then it suddenly opened out to a huge vault. Roland stepped cautiously forwards and, taking the lantern from Bunty, swung it over a great void, noticing the ladder attached to the side, disappearing into the murk below his feet. He picked up a stone and dropped it down the hole. After several seconds he heard the splash. ‘Come, let us go back and you can show me the rest.’

Back on the surface, they passed several men who had just come up from a different level and were extinguishing the candles stuck on their hats. Two young lads, stripped to the waist, were pushing a loaded truck on rails. Their guide led them to the washing floor where the ore was separated from the dirt and other minerals in running water. ‘In Mr Cartwright’s day it was done by small boys,’ Bunty told Roland as they walked on. ‘But Miss Cartwright won’t have them standing in water in bare feet and now it’s the bigger lads who do it and they are provided with boots.’

They arrived at another building where the ore was crushed to prepare it for smelting, work which was done by women, usually the wives of the miners. Next was a blacksmith’s shop, where the smithy sharpened the miners’ picks and drills, and the changing house, where the single men lodged, which was ill lit and gloomy. Everything was covered in fine, grey dust. They were just going to walk up the hill to look at the smelting mill when Charlotte arrived on horseback. Seeing the two men, she dismounted and strode over to them. ‘What are you doing here?’ she demanded without preamble.

‘Assessing the situation,’ Roland answered lightly.

‘Oh, I see, you still think this is Amerleigh land.’

‘Naturally I do.’

‘Then you are mistaken. I would have expected your lawyer to have told you that.’

‘He told me that it was wrested from the late Earl under extreme duress.’

‘I know nothing of duress.’

‘No, I can understand you would not even know the meaning of the word,’ Roland said. ‘But I can tell you no gentleman would have dunned another in so vindictive a fashion.’ His emphasis on the word gentleman was not lost on her.

‘And no honest man would renege on a debt,’ she retorted.

He wondered if she knew exactly how the debt had occurred. ‘My father offered the capital sum back, but your father insisted on exorbitant interest.’

‘There is nothing illegal about that.’

‘No, but my father would have found it given time. He was not given time simply because your father was set on making himself more money from the deposits in this mine.’

She laughed, wondering if there were any truth in what he said. ‘I suppose I am to take it that you are going on with that ridiculous claim.’

He had been wondering if it was worth the time and money, not to say stress, the lawsuit would involve. Thinking about what Mountford had told him, it seemed to him his father was as much to blame as Mr Cartwright. The old Earl should not have spent the money he had been given before making sure his son would do as he wanted, and when he had not, should have offered it back immediately without being asked, then Cartwright could not have dunned him. It was six of one and half a dozen of the other, a silly squabble that should never have occurred. Roland regretted that he had been involved, albeit unwittingly. On the other hand, if the mine really did belong to the Amerleigh estate, the profits could certainly be put to good use. ‘You could revert the land to the Amerleigh estate and then there would be no need for the lawsuit to continue.’

‘Certainly not,’ she said, determined not to give an inch. ‘I am about to open up a new adit. Now, please leave. I am too busy to argue with you.’

Roland bowed and returned to his mount, followed by Travers, doing his best to keep a straight face.

‘You may laugh,’ Roland told him as they rode back to the village. ‘She is a veritable shrew, but I shall get the better of her, you shall see.’

‘Oh, I am sure you will, Major.’ Travers found it difficult to give his master his proper title, but Roland did not mind that. As far as he was concerned he was going into battle and it was one he might enjoy, considering no one was likely to be killed because of it.

‘Miss Cartwright, ’tis madness,’ Jacob Edwards told her the morning after her encounter with the Earl at Browhill. He had been summoned to Mandeville to be told she wanted to release funds for a new shaft to the Browhill mine. He was a young man of thirty, dressed in an impeccable dove-grey morning coat and pristine shirt. No one seeing him would have believed he had once wandered barefoot about the village lanes in torn breeches. ‘It is not like you to go on beyond the point of a venture making a profit.’

‘Profit is not everything.’

This statement made him laugh; it was so unlike her. ‘If not profit, what do you hope to gain?’

‘Gain nothing,’ she said, ‘but keep everything.’

‘I am not very good at riddles. Pray explain.’

She began pacing the room impatiently, swishing her grey skirt about her as she turned at the end of each perambulation. He watched, admiring her shapely figure and striking features. He had admired her for years, ever since he had come across her as a child, but she gave no indication that she was aware of it or would consider an approach by him. In her eyes he was simply her factotum, someone to carry out her orders, occasionally to advise, never to look on with affection. He doubted she was capable of it.

‘I do not want Amerleigh given the slightest opportunity to repossess it,’ she said.

‘The land might have been part of his domain, but he never mined it, nor did his father,’ he said. ‘The late Earl never established a claim to mining rights.’

‘Would he need to, given he owned the land?’

‘I do not know.’

‘Then find out.’

‘Very well, ma’am.’ He bowed himself out and she soon followed. She had spent the morning at the Scofield Mill, supervising the loading of barges with bales of cotton cloth, to be taken to Liverpool by river and canal for loading on to the Fair Charlie. She hated the name, but as her father had chosen it to mark her birth, she would not change it. As soon as it was safely aboard, she had returned home to meet Jacob Edwards. Now, with an unaccustomed hour or two to fill, she decided to go for a ride. Not for a single minute did she admit, even to herself, that she hoped she might meet the Earl. The confrontation the day before had roused her in a way that nothing had ever done before. Accustomed as she was to making deals, striking a hard bargain, taking it for granted her orders would be obeyed, it was a refreshing change to have to fight for something. It was the battle itself that put the gleam into her eye.

She went to the kitchens, sent May to the stables to ask Dobson to saddle Bonny Boy, then, taking a basket, filled it with a can of milk, some eggs and a jar of cook’s homemade preserve, all of which she intended to take to Mrs Biggs. The poor woman had recently had another baby and she was struggling to manage since her husband had lost his position as under-gardener at the Hall. The two oldest girls worked at the mill, but they could not earn enough to keep the whole family.

‘It is the Earl’s responsibility to look after his people, not yours,’ Cook told her.

‘Yes, but Beth and Matty work for me. I must do what I can to help them. Besides, I doubt the Earl has had time to see to such things and from what I have seen of him, his pockets are to let.’

‘How can that be? He is an aristocrat, is he not? They always find money from somewhere for what they want. If not, they fall into debt and think nothing of it.’

Charlotte knew this to be true, especially of the late Earl. It was why his heir had come home to desolation. She could almost feel sorry for him. Almost. But that did not mean she was prepared to see the villagers suffer. She had been helping them and would continue to do so. She went up to her room to change into her riding habit and put on her boots, then went back to the kitchen to pick up the basket. Five minutes later she was walking her horse down the drive and out of the gates in the direction of the village, balancing the basket in front of her on the saddle.

Mrs Biggs, who had seven children, lived in a little cottage near the church. Until he had been turned off by the late Earl’s lawyer, her husband had been a conscientious gardener who did his best for the family, but since then he had become low in spirits and very bad-tempered. He did not like charity, but for the sake of the children was forced to accept it. Charlotte tried to go when he was not at home, in order not to embarrass him.

Mrs Biggs bobbed a curtsy and accepted the basket with gratitude. ‘Will you stop and take some refreshment?’ she asked, as she always did.

Charlotte knew that providing her with refreshment would mean others in the family going short and she would not have dreamed of allowing that. ‘No, thank you, Mrs Biggs, I have other calls to make. How is the little one?’

‘All the better for what you bring, ma’am. We all are. Do you think that now the new Earl has come home, he will re-engage the staff?’

‘I am sure I do not know, Mrs Biggs. Let us hope so.’

She stopped to cuddle the baby, unmindful of her expensive clothes, and to talk to some of the other children before leaving, telling Mrs Biggs to send one of them back with the basket another time and she would give him a penny for his pains. She loved children and longed for some of her own, but to do that she must marry and, as she had forsworn to do that, she must put all thought of being a mother out of her head.

Leaving the cottage, she decided to ride further afield and set off through the village along the lane that ran beside Amerleigh Hall, intending to go up through the wood and on to the hill. She reined in when she saw workmen mending a broken wall beside the road. One of the men looked up at her approach and she was surprised to discover it was the Earl himself in overalls. ‘Good afternoon, my lord,’ she said coolly.

‘Miss Cartwright,’ he answered and waited.

‘My lord, I am surprised to see you mending walls.’

‘It needs doing,’ he said, wondering what censure was coming next. ‘Mr Frost’s sheep have been straying onto the road, so he tells me, and I enjoy working with my hands. It is calming.’

She slipped from the saddle and, picking up her trailing skirt, walked towards him, leading Bonny Boy. ‘I can understand you need something to calm you, my lord, and building walls is certainly a creditable occupation, but there are men in the village without work. Their families are suffering because of it. Could you not have employed one or two of those?’

His face darkened with annoyance. ‘Whom I employ is my affair, madam.’

‘Of course.’ Antagonising him was not the way to influence him, she realised. ‘But I am concerned for the people who once worked on the estate, and because you have but lately returned, I thought you were perhaps unaware of their desperate plight.’

He wiped his hands on his overalls and walked over to stand in front of her. ‘I would not have made a very good officer if I remained blind to what went on around me, Miss Cartwright. I am very well aware of the state of affairs in the village.’

‘Then you will think about re-employing the men? There is one in particular, a man called Biggs. His wife has recently been delivered of her seventh child and they are at their wits’ end.’

‘When circumstances allow I will do what I can.’

His words confirmed her suspicion that he was pinched in the pocket; no wonder he wanted her mine and the profits it made. ‘Thank you. Does that mean you intend to stay?’

He laughed. ‘Would you have me gone again so that you may ride wherever you like, acting Lady Bountiful?’

‘That is not, nor has ever been, my role, Lord Temple. But starving people do not work well or willingly.’

‘I am aware of that, Miss Cartwright, I do not need a lecture.’

He could not explain to her, of all people, that it was not callousness that held him back from helping the villagers, but the necessity to conserve his resources. He wondered why she had not married; she was still young and her wealth must surely be a great inducement. Could it be that prospective suitors were put off by her habit of saying what was in her mind and interfering in their affairs? If she had been anyone but who she was, he might have enjoyed working with her to help the villagers. As it was, enjoyment was the last thing on his mind.

She was about to remount when she became aware of a carriage being driven very fast along the lane towards them. She hesitated, waiting for it to pass, at the same time realizing that there was a small child on the road. She let out her cry of warning, but Roland had seen him too and dashed into the road to rescue him.

Charlotte watched in horror as the coachman tried to pull the horses up. They reared over the man and boy. The coach slewed round and toppled over and Roland and the boy disappeared. The coachman was thrown down beside the wall, which knocked him senseless, and the screams of the vehicle’s occupants filled the air as it turned over.

Charlotte dashed round the overturned coach to the spot where she had last seen Roland and the boy, but was overtaken by Travers, who had been working on the wall with his lordship. The horses were struggling to stand and he quickly released them from the traces, but there was no sign of the Earl or the boy. ‘Major!’ he shouted.

‘Over here.’ The voice, though breathless, was surprisingly strong and came from the ditch on the other side of the carriageway. A moment later, his lordship’s head appeared, followed by the rest of him, carrying the senseless boy in his arms. ‘Had to pull him into the ditch,’ he said calmly, laying the boy gently on the grass beside the unconscious coachman. ‘I think he might have a bump on the head. He’ll come to his senses directly.’ He looked up and saw Charlotte standing uncertainly beside him. ‘Are you hurt?’

‘No, my lord. Are you?’

‘Nothing but a bruise or two.’

She knelt down beside the boy, aware that a portly man dressed in a coat of blue superfine and nankeen pantaloons was climbing from the overturned carriage. He had lost his hat and his hair was awry and he was very angry. ‘Imbecile!’ he shouted, addressing Roland. ‘Letting your brat wander about the public road like that.’

‘I think he is but slightly injured, sir,’ Roland said coolly. ‘But I do thank you for your kind concern.’

‘Yes, well, he should not have been in the road,’ the man said, recognising the put-down for what it was. ‘Did he not hear us coming?’

‘No, he could not,’ Charlotte put in. She had recognised the six-year-old Tommy Biggs, who had come round from his fright and was looking from one to the other, trying to understand what was being said. ‘He is deaf. But your coachman has no business to be going at such a speed he was unable to stop in time. Tommy could have been killed.’

‘Are you his mother?’ The man reached in his pocket and withdrew a purse.

‘No, I am not, but that is not to say his mother would not appreciate some recompense. She is poor and doctor’s fees will come hard.’

The moans coming from the coach grew into a wail. ‘George, am I to stay here all day while you bandy words? Help me out.’

The man gave Charlotte a handful of coins and turned back to the coach. A head had appeared in the door of the vehicle, which now lay on its side, one wheel still gently spinning. The woman’s round face was bright red, her hair such a vivid orange Charlotte could not believe it could be its natural colour. And it soon became apparent, as her husband struggled to haul her out, that she was exceedingly fat.

‘Can you look after the boy?’ Roland asked Charlotte. ‘See that he does not move until I can examine him properly. I had better see to the passengers.’

‘Of course.’

He left her to lend the fat gentleman a hand and together they pulled the lady free with a great display of petticoats and set her upon her feet on the road.

‘You are unhurt, ma’am?’ Roland asked.

‘I am bruised black and blue,’ she retorted. ‘And will undoubtedly suffer considerably, but I do not expect you to concern yourself with that. Be so good as to send for another conveyance to carry us forwards. We are in haste…’

‘That much I had deduced,’ Roland said wryly. ‘But you know what they say, “more haste less speed”. The delay will undoubtedly outweigh the advantage of the speed you were driving. I am sure your coachman will agree with that. When he regains his senses, that is.’

‘And a little less of your impertinence, if you please. If you had kept your child under control—’

‘The child does not belong to his lordship,’ Charlotte said and watched with a broadening smile as the woman’s mouth dropped open in astonishment.

‘His lordship?’ she managed at last.

‘You have been directing your abuse at the Earl of Amerleigh,’ Charlotte went on, throwing a glance at Roland, who had turned away to hide his laughter.

The woman swivelled round to look Roland up and down as if unable to believe this rough-looking man in the faded overalls could possibly be a member of the aristocracy.

‘The lady ain’t bamming,’ Travers put in. He had been busy catching the horses, which, apart from a tendency to take fright, were unharmed. ‘So you’d be wise to address his lordship with more respect, especially if you want him to help you.’

‘Oh, I do. My lord, I cannot think what came over me. The shock, I suppose. Please forgive me. I took you for—’ She stopped, not daring to put into words what she had taken him for.

‘It is no matter, ma’am,’ Roland said, doing his best to be serious at the woman’s complete volte-face. Then, to Travers, ‘Do you think we can right this coach?’

‘Don’t see why not.’

The two men, both exceptionally big and strong, strode over to the coach and, with a great deal of heaving and pushing and rocking of it, managed to turn it back on to its wheels. Roland went all round it, examining it carefully. ‘I think it could be driven,’ he said. ‘If you take it slowly, it will carry you to the next posting inn.’

‘Thank you, my lord,’ the woman’s husband said. ‘But Greaves is in no case to drive. Perhaps your man…’

‘What about it, Travers?’ Roland asked. ‘Fancy tooling a coach, do you?’

The corporal, busy harnessing the horses again, looked up and grinned. ‘Very well, sir, but what about the wall?’

‘We will finish it tomorrow. Miss Cartwright and I will carry the boy home and deliver him safely to his mother. I am sure Mr…’

‘Halliwell,’ the man said. ‘James Halliwell, at your service, my lord. I will furnish your man with the wherewithal to return home.’

‘Then I suggest you help Mr Greaves into the coach, and off you go.’

‘Inside?’ Mrs Halliwell squeaked, looking at her coachman, who was now sitting up, but still looking decidedly dazed. She obviously thought it was beneath her dignity to ride inside with a servant.

In the event Greaves disdained the comfort of an inside seat and insisted he would be perfectly at ease sitting beside Travers on the box and proved it by getting shakily to his feet and climbing up there. Mr and Mrs Halliwell clambered in and Roland secured the broken door with a strap and they set off, walking the horses very slowly and carefully.

Charlotte, still kneeling beside young Tommy, watched them go, then turned back to the boy, who was moaning softly.

‘Do you think he is hurt anywhere beside his head?’ she asked, stroking the boy’s muddy cheek with a gentle finger. ‘I do not think he can speak because of his deafness.’

Watching her, he suddenly realised he was seeing a very different woman from the one he had hitherto encountered and could not help gazing at her. Gone were the strong features, the firm jawline, the glittering eyes, the coldness of the hoyden, and in their place was a mouth that was tenderly soft and eyes full of warmth, as she comforted the boy. It was most disconcerting. He pulled himself together to answer her. ‘A doctor will be able to tell,’ he said. ‘We must send for one at once.’

‘I will fetch Dr Sumner. It will only take a few minutes on Bonny Boy.’

‘Very well. I will carry the boy to his home if you tell me where that is.’

‘The thatched cottage beside the church. His name is Tommy Biggs.’

‘Biggs?’ he queried, as he helped her to mount. ‘That is the name of the family you mentioned, is it not?’

‘Yes, it is,’ she said, surprised that he had remembered it. She had not thought he had even been listening.

Unfortunately, Dr Sumner was out on a call, but his housekeeper promised to give him a message as soon as he returned and Charlotte had to be content with that. She emphasised the urgency and rode back to the Biggs’s cottage where she found Roland sitting on a stool beside a dilapidated sofa on which the boy was lying. Mrs Biggs, her face white and drawn, admitted her and then went to stand beside his lordship to look down on her son. Two toddlers hung on to her skirts.

‘How is he?’ Charlotte asked.

‘He seems confused. His lordship has said it often happens after a blow on the head, but it should not last. I do not know what would have happened if his lordship had not been there, ma’am. He could have been killed. He should not have been so far from home, I don’t know what got into the little devil.’

‘He is like all small boys, Mrs Biggs,’ Roland said. ‘Into mischief, and the fact that he is deaf does not alter that.’ He smiled at the boy and was repaid with a brave grin in return. ‘He is a plucky little fellow.’

‘The doctor is coming,’ Charlotte said. ‘I left a message.’

‘Oh, but, ma’am, I ain’t sure tha’s necessary. He’ll be his old self by and by…’

‘Better be on the safe side,’ Charlotte said, knowing the reason for the woman’s reluctance and producing the coins Mr Halliwell had given her from the pocket of her habit. ‘The man with the coach was most apologetic and anxious to do what he could to help. He gave me this to pay for a doctor and anything else Tommy needs.’

‘Oh, thank you, ma’am. Perhaps it would be best to have him checked over…’

Again she offered refreshment and again was politely refused and Charlotte and Roland left soon afterwards, with Charlotte promising to return to find out what the doctor said and if there was anything else Tommy needed.

‘You do care for those people, don’t you?’ Roland said, taking up the reins of her horse and leading it, obliging her to walk beside him.

‘It would be a callous person who did not.’

She was still on her high ropes, he realised, trying to teach him his duty, to make him feel guilty. He decided not to rise to the bait. ‘Enough to take on their welfare?’ he queried.

‘The two oldest girls, Beth, who is fourteen, and Matty, who is a little over a year younger, are my employees. You met them. I am told you gave them half a crown.’

‘So I did. Your mill hands, shut out because they were too polite not to answer me when I spoke to them.’

‘One cannot let tardiness go unpunished,’ she said. ‘But I have told Mr Brock that, in future, anyone who arrives late will not be locked out, but will lose half an hour’s pay for every five minutes. After all, I am the loser when their looms stand idle all day.’

He laughed. Her good deeds seemed to be tempered with self-interest. But was that really true? She seemed genuinely concerned about the boy, and the look of tenderness on her face when she had been comforting him had showed a gentler side to her nature that stayed with him.

‘There is nothing wrong in that,’ she said, stung by his laughter. ‘Everyone must do the work they are given.’

‘Even me,’ he said.

‘Yes. It was fortunate you were working or you would not have been in a position to save Tommy’s life. It was a brave thing to do.’ It choked her to say it, but it was nothing but the truth and she was always one to give credit where it was due.

‘I am a hardened soldier, Miss Cartwright, used to carnage, but you did not flinch when I handed the boy over to you. Other young ladies would have swooned away.’

She laughed. ‘And then you would have had two patients instead of one and no one to ride for the doctor. I am not such a fribble, my lord, and I never have been.’

He could readily believe it. He stopped and bent to cup his hands for her foot. She sprang astride the saddle, giving him a glimpse of a well-turned ankle, settled her feet in the stirrups and took up the reins.

‘Good day to you, my lord,’ she said, trotting away, leaving him standing looking after her, stroking his chin in contemplation.

He could not make her out. Was she still the spoiled, imperious chit of his earlier acquaintance or had she changed? Until this afternoon he would have said she had not changed one iota, but would the spoiled hoyden have concerned herself with the problems of a poor family? While they had been waiting for her, Mrs Biggs had sung her praises, telling him how generous she was and how without her they would be in dire need. He was unsure if the woman was deliberately trying to make him feel guilty or was too simple to realise how her words sounded. While his father had been ill and his mother too mortified by their straitened circumstances to go out and about, Miss Cartwright had been free to act the lady of the manor and perhaps she was not inclined to let that go. He chuckled to himself. If he had married her when his father suggested it, that was just what she would have been.

The devil of it was that their paths were bound to cross, living so close, and it was wearying to be for ever sparring, especially if they both wanted to do good by the villagers. They had to find some kind of harmony to their day-to-day encounters. He would do well to adopt a soft approach and avoid argument, leaving that for when the real battle began.

He turned and strode back to the Hall. There was a little more furniture in the house now, a proper dining table, a few chairs, a desk and some beds, but it was still minimal and the marble-floored entrance hall contained nothing but a small table and a faded Sheraton chair. He had instructed builders to make repairs to the roof where it let in the rain and to make good broken window sashes, but he had not yet put in hand a full-scale refurbishment. He wondered if he ever would. There he was, an aristocrat who had to watch every penny, trying to do justice to all his people, while that hoyden had more money than she knew what to do with. Paying lawyers would not trouble her at all, but it would drain his own minimal resources. His head told him to let it go, but his own stubborn pride resisted. The profits from that mine would make all the difference, not only to the restoration of the Hall, but to the tenants and villagers who looked to him to keep their dwellings in good repair. Was ever a man in such a coil?

Chapter Three

Charlotte, riding home, berated herself for a traitor. She had sworn the man was her enemy and yet there she was, conversing with him as if he had never said those hateful words six years before. Six years was a long time to hold a grudge, but what had he done since returning to make her think he had regretted his outburst? Nothing. He had accused Papa of cheating the Earl out of his land, had intimated he meant to continue with that ridiculous lawsuit, and had even gone up to the mine and poked about as if he owned it. It was enough to make Papa turn in his grave.

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