Whisper Of Darkness. Anne MatherЧитать онлайн книгу.
mud would doubtless stain the navy blue suede of her boots, and it squelched sulkily beneath her, as if anticipating her eventual downfall.
By the time she reached the gate which opened into the copse, Joanna was hot and tired, and the autumn beauty of the surrounding hills made no impression on her irritated disposition. It was a cool September afternoon, and she had dressed accordingly in a belted coat of wine-dark suede over a sweater dress of a toning rose colour. Aunt Lydia had expressly said that she should be prepared for it being cooler in the Lake District, and she had taken her advice without question. Now, she felt she could have done without the warm clothing or the boots, though wellingtons would not have come amiss.
Beyond the gate, a notice reading: ‘Private Land. Trespassers will be prosecuted’ aroused only a moment’s interest. Obviously Mr Sheldon did not encourage visitors, and remembering what Aunt Lydia had told her about him, perhaps it was understandable. He had chosen to hide himself away from the world, and obviously he would not welcome intruders.
The birds in the trees all around her were making their preparations for the night, and protested loudly as her feet crunched on fallen twigs and other debris, left by the previous night’s rain. She supposed the lane was wide enough to take a Land Rover, and probably that was what one would need to get up that rutted track, but apparently Mr Sheldon’s staff were not cosseted in that way, and Joanna’s lips tightened as her case began to hang ever more heavily from her aching fingers.
Then two things happened so suddenly that seconds later the offending suitcase had fallen from her nerveless grasp. There was a shot, a distinct explosion of sound, that ricocheted round the copse with an ear-splitting blast that sent all the birds skyward in panic-stricken flight. Joanna knew how they felt. She wished she could escape in similar fashion. But instead she was forced to remain where she was, albeit shaking from the tips of her toes to the top of her head, and gaze at the diminutive figure that had sprung out of the trees just after the shot and now stood facing her in the middle of the track.
What was it? she asked herself, dry-mouthed, staring at the aggressive creature that confronted her, still gripping the smoking shotgun in its hand. No more than four and a half feet tall, dressed in filthy jeans and ragged sweater, a cap pulled down low over its eyes, she guessed it must be a poacher she had disturbed at his work, and judging by the size of him, little more than a boy.
Not that this reassured her. Nowadays children committed the most abominable crimes, and she was in no position to argue with a cartridge full of small shot. Somehow she had to convince him that she presented no threat to his livelihood, and to this end, she took a tentative step forward.
‘Stay where y’are!’
The voice was pitched low, but its message was unmistakable, and Joanna licked her lips and tried again.
‘I—if you’ll get out of my way, I promise I won’t mention having seen you,’ she said, in what she hoped was her best and most convincing tone. ‘Honestly, I’m not interested in what you’re doing. I just want to get on my way——’
‘—to Ravengarth,’ finished the boy gruffly. ‘Aye, I know all about that. But you can’t go to Ravengarth. You’re not welcome there. If I was you, I’d go back where I came from, before I point this gun in your direction.’
Joanna could hardly believe her ears. This simply could not be happening, she thought incredulously. Any minute now she would wake up to find Lottie by the bed with her breakfast tray, and Ravengarth and Jake Sheldon and his troublesome daughter would still be just an idea in Aunt Lydia’s neatly coiffured head. Nightmares like this were an occupational hazard, and in a day or two she would find someone who welcomed her services, who did not require certificates and diplomas to prove that she could teach good manners to their small offspring, or handle the kind of correspondence she had been receiving herself for years.
But it was no nightmare. Without thinking she took another involuntary step forward, and the woods rang again with the deafening roar of the shotgun. It dispelled for ever the thought that this might not be happening, and Joanna stepped back quickly, tripped over her case, and sat down heavily on a mouldy pile of leaves.
What happened then shocked her almost as much as the shotgun had done. The child, for it was obviously nothing more, started laughing, shrill peals of merriment filled the air that was still trembling after the explosion, and amidst her fear, and the dismay at the ruination of her coat, a surge of angry suspicion swelled inside her. She tried desperately to recall exactly what Aunt Lydia had told her about Antonia Sheldon, but all she could remember was her age—eleven years—and the fact that she had succeeded in ridding herself of three governesses in as many months.
However, before she could struggle to her feet and put her suspicions to the test, another figure strode out of the woods behind the child, a tall, equally threatening figure in the gloom cast by the trees, who grasped the barrel of the shotgun in a powerful hand, wrenching it out of the child’s grasp. At the same time, the man grabbed hold of the urchin before it could move, holding it securely by the scruff of the neck, as he transferred his attention to Joanna.
She, for her part, got to her feet with as much elegance as her shaking legs would permit her, brushing away the muddy leaves, and endeavouring to regain her composure. Aware of them watching her with varying degrees of hostility, she realised that until now she had not even speculated about the man who was to be her employer, but across the yards of track that separated them she was suddenly made aware that if this was he, he was not the prematurely-aged invalid she had imagined.
‘Miss Seton?’ The man was speaking now, ignoring the howling that had replaced the peals of laughter issuing from his prisoner’s mouth, and she nodded. ‘If you’re not hurt, perhaps you’ll follow me.’
Joanna gasped. That was it! No apology, no explanation; no offer to carry her suitcase that was as muddy now as her coat. He had simply turned away, propelling the screaming child ahead of him, the safely breached shotgun hooked over his free arm. Of course, he might have found some difficulty in handling the shotgun, the suitcase and the child, she acknowledged reasonably, but he didn’t even offer any regret at this deficiency in his capabilities.
Clamping her jaws together, Joanna hoisted her suitcase once more and set off in pursuit of her apparently unwilling rescuer. To add to her weariness, her legs were decidedly unsteady now, and resentment flared anew at this cavalier treatment. She was doing them the favour, goodness knows, she muttered peevishly. She didn’t have to come here. She didn’t have to stay. And if this was the kind of treatment the other governesses had had, no wonder they hadn’t stayed either!
They emerged from the trees above an incline, with a trout stream gurgling at its foot. Approximately halfway down the slope, the house she had glimpsed earlier clung tenaciously to the hillside, its grey walls mellowed by russet-coloured creeper. The track wound down to its stone gateposts, and set around the main building were stables and garages and the usual miscellany of outhouses. It was bigger that Joanna had expected, larger, but not so well-kept, and she wondered if they had the same problem with housekeepers as they had with governesses.
She had not yet seen the man’s face clearly. In the shadows of the wood it had been impossible to glimpse more than an impression of his features, and besides, she had been too shocked and disturbed to pay much attention to his appearance. He was tall and powerful, lean without being thin, with strong muscular thighs that swung him down the track without any apparent effort. Was this Jake Sheldon? she wondered, struggling after him. Could it be? She would know soon enough if he turned and let her see the scars which Aunt Lydia had said had driven him to take refuge in this remote and isolated part of the country.
The child was something else. She found it incredible to believe that the uncouth demon of the copse was in reality an eleven-year-old girl! What was her father thinking of, allowing her to run around in that state, and with a loaded shotgun in her hand? She could have killed herself. She could have killed Joanna! And after all, that was the greater of the two evils so far as Joanna was concerned.
The child’s cries had subsided to a muffled sobbing by the time they reached the gates of Ravengarth, but Joanna could not find it in her