The Master of Stonegrave Hall. Helen DicksonЧитать онлайн книгу.
of the stage!’
‘I—I realise that, but it was not all my fault,’ Victoria protested, setting her bonnet straight with trembling hands.
‘It most certainly was not,’ the elegant young lady attired in silver grey said, coming to Victoria’s aid, a deeply concerned look on her lovely face. ‘Are you hurt? Can I be of assistance?’
‘Thank you, but I am not hurt. The gentleman—’
‘My husband.’
‘Yes—he was quite right. I should not have been walking so close to the coach. But as you see the inn yard is a throng. I have just arrived in Malton myself.’
‘Well, you do not appear to be hurt,’ the young man said, clamping his tall hat on his head. Somewhat agitated and clearly wanting to be on his way, he peered at her intently. ‘You are all right?’ he asked impatiently.
Despite the sharp pain in her arm, which she realised she must have hurt when she had bumped into the side of the coach, and not wishing to make a fuss, she replied that she was.
‘That’s all right then.’ He gave Victoria one final brief glance before turning his attention to his wife. ‘Come along, Diana. We must get on. I see Bartlet is here with the carriage.’
‘Yes, I can see he is, but you go on, I’ll be along in a moment.’
Unconcerned, he strode off and did not turn to look at Victoria again.
‘I’m so very sorry. Are you quite sure you are all right?’ the woman called Diana asked, distraught on behalf of her husband’s rudeness. ‘We’ve been abroad and my husband is eager to get home. He—he...’
‘Please, do not concern yourself,’ Victoria was quick to assure her. ‘I really am quite all right—albeit a little winded.’
The lady looked anxiously at her husband’s retreating figure.
Victoria smiled at her. ‘You’d better go. Your husband is leaving you behind.’
‘If you’re sure—but can I not assist you in any way?’
Victoria saw in her eyes nothing but kindness and concern. She shook her head. ‘You are very kind, but I am not hurt.’
‘Well, if you’re sure.’
‘Perfectly, and thank you for your concern.’
Victoria watched her run across the yard in the wake of her husband. Still feeling a little shaken despite what she had told the lady, and her arm now beginning to throb, she made her way to the carrier cart, which was about to set off for the coastal town of Cranbeck.
‘I’ll be glad of the company,’ Tom Smith the carrier said, hoisting a sack into the back. ‘Mind you, I won’t have time to take you all the way to Ashcomb. I have to be in Cranbeck at my sister’s place by dark and not up on the moor. All kinds of miscreants travel the coast road at night. I can drop your trunks off in the morning on my way back.’
‘You’re quite right, Mr Smith, and I agree. It’s a brave man who ventures across the moor after dark. You can drop me off at Ashcomb lane end. I can perfectly well walk to the village.’
‘That’s settled then,’ he said handing her up onto the cart without more ado.
The arable farmland which was a feature of the Yorkshire lowland slowly gave way to moorland as the carrier’s cart climbed higher. They passed through sun-filtered woods, up grassy banks and down sheltered valleys, until they reached a narrow lane that veered off to the left and the small village of Ashcomb.
‘Will you be all right, miss?’ Tom asked as Victoria jumped down from his cart.
Adjusting her bonnet, she smiled up at him. ‘Of course I will and thank you for bringing me this far. You will bring my baggage to the cottage tomorrow on your way back, won’t you, Mr Smith?’
‘Aye, I’ll see to it. I’d take you all the way, but I’ll have to get a move on as it is.’
‘I understand. I shall enjoy the walk.’
Tom tipped his cap and urged his horse on. ‘Have a care how you go now.’
When he’d driven off Victoria stood for a moment to take in the view. The charm and tranquillity of the sweep of moorland, with rolling hills, folded valleys and the muted greens and browns of scrub and earth, wrapped itself around her in an endless vista and seeped into her bones. She breathed deep of the fresh tang of the sea beyond the moors. Combined with the warmth of late spring and the first petals of the season, it made a heady fragrance. Soon the heather would spring to life and, come July, these hills would be cloaked in glorious pinks and purple.
Two miles in the distance and nestling in the shelter of the surrounding hills was the sprawling village of Ashcomb. It was a quiet village in an obscure setting of moorland and fast-flowing streams, uneven red-roofed cottages and smoking chimney pots. Victoria was alive with that tingling thrill that surged through her whenever she came home. She drew in a deep breath, her heart soaring at the welcome sight, and the more she gazed, the more she wanted to avail herself of such joyous abandon and run. There was no disguising her love of this wild open land. The kind of satisfaction it gave her was not given by another but achieved from within, and with the fresh breeze on her face, she moved forwards, savouring every moment.
Ashcomb was home and she’d been away far too long. Her life at the Academy in York and the minor society events she’d attended with her friend Amelia and Mrs Fenwick, Amelia’s mother, had been exciting and fun, but Ashcomb and her mother remained the loves of her life, the fiery beacon on a faraway hill that beckoned her home. Here she would settle back into the leisurely rhythm of country life.
A flash of scarlet caught her eye. Pausing a moment, she focused on it. A woman was galloping along the side of the beck that ran along the valley bottom. A gentleman mounted on a chestnut horse was way behind her, and the way he was riding he was clearly in hot pursuit. The clothes they were wearing and their splendid horses told her they were gentry—they also rode the moors with the God-given right of those whose family owned them, and rode the lower slopes with authority and arrogance.
Eager to see her mother, whose health was giving her cause for concern, with a spring in her step and carrying a small satchel, Victoria started on her way, smiling happily at the sheep that nipped the short moorland grass on the side of the road. A narrow ditch ran alongside and, nearing a part of the road where it narrowed and turned sharply, she was snatched from her preoccupation on seeing a horse and rider in scarlet habit hurtling towards her. Too late the horse was almost on top of her when with a cry and a diving action she went headlong into the ditch.
There had been rain the previous day and the silt and grass at the bottom had become soggy. Oh, no, she thought in perfect horror. Momentarily paralysed and stunned, she lay there gasping. She knew she wasn’t hurt—although her arm had taken another knock—but she also knew she was angry. In fact, she was furious.
Retrieving her satchel and clawing her way out of the ditch, with her bonnet hanging down her back by its ribbons, her hair in disarray and her skirts muddied, she stood at the side of the road and stared open-mouthed at the woman who had pulled her horse to a standstill. The woman gave Victoria an imperious look down her long nose and when she spoke her voice was high pitched and haughty.
‘Why didn’t you look where you were going?’ And then on a more concerned note, she asked, ‘Are you all right?’
Victoria Lewis—the product of eighteen years of careful upbringing and the product of five years at Miss Carver’s Academy for young ladies in York which had, until now, produced a charming and dignified young lady—looked up at the stranger and regarded her with scathing animosity. The woman’s tone—condescending, authoritative and at the same time lightly contemptuous—made Victoria’s hackles rise.
‘I’ve almost been run over by your horse,’ she fumed, quite beside herself. ‘Of course I’m not all right. It is you who should have looked where you