The Secrets Of Wiscombe Chase. Christine MerrillЧитать онлайн книгу.
When the beast tired, they stopped and slept rough, not bothering with an inn. When it rained, Gerry threw an oilcloth over his coat and let the water run off him in sheets. Later, the sun returned and dried them, filling his nostrils with the smell of steaming wool and horse.
Kincaid had been right. He would miss this. But the whole point in buying a commission had been to gain the money to save the house and secure his future. He’d succeeded in that some years past. After Vitoria, there had been more than enough money to clear his debts, fix the roof and have a tidy sum left to invest.
He could have gone home then. But he had not. Even after Boney was sent to Elba, he had dawdled. The little Frenchman’s escape had come as a relief, for it meant a few more months during which he could delay the inevitable.
Now that the last shot had been fired and Napoleon was off to St Helena, he was out of excuses. It was time to return to his first responsibility.
And there, on the horizon, was the stone marker that indicated the beginning of the Wiscombe family land. His land, he amended. There had been no family living when he had taken up the sword. If there had been anyone left, the cowardly boy he had been would have appealed to them for help and avoided the next seven years of his own life.
Gerry shrugged at the thought and the horse under him sensed his unease and gave a faint shift of his own.
He stroked the great black neck and they continued on the road that wound through the dense wood surrounding the house. The wild, untamed nature of the property was more beautiful than any formal garden. Beautiful, but useless. Dense woodland was bordered on one side by rills and streams too small to navigate by boat and on the other by granite tors and bogs that made coach travel impossible.
His life might have been easier had his ancestors settled in a place capable of sustaining crops, cattle or industry. The land around Wiscombe Chase was fit for nothing but hunting. Since he did not intend to ever take another life, animal or human, it might be better to sell the lot to a sportsman who could appreciate it.
But after all the blood he had shed to keep it, he could not bring himself to entertain the idea. Some men at his side had fought for king and country. Others hated the French tyrant more than they loved their own cause. Still others wanted money or glory.
He had fought for his birthright. This ten square miles of wood and moor was his own country to defend and rule. It generated not a penny of income. If he was honest, he did not even like the draughty and impractical manor that had drained away the Wiscombe fortune. But, by God, it was his, to the last rock.
As if to confirm the wisdom of his decision, he saw a shift in the leaves on the left side of the road. He reined in and warned Satan to be still. A twig cracked and he held his breath, waiting. The stag stepped into the road, watching him as intently as he watched it. The spread of the antlers was broader than he remembered and the muzzle had more grey in it. But the left shoulder had the same scrape from his father’s bullet, so very long ago.
‘Hello, old friend,’ he whispered.
The deer gave a single snort, then tossed his head and disappeared into the trees.
In response, Gerry’s heart leapt with joy at the rightness of being home. Though he’d fought against it since the day he’d left, he belonged here. He spurred the horse to clear the last stand of trees and the house came into sight.
It had been near to ruin when he’d left. But now the heavy brown stone was clean and the roof sported new grey slate. The windows sparkled bright in the growing dusk. And every last one of them was lit.
Perhaps they had filled the house to the rafters with friends to welcome him home. He could not help the ironic smile this idea brought. He’d had no friends at all when he’d left England. To the best of his knowledge, that had not changed in his absence.
It likely meant that he was interrupting someone else’s party. He felt the same unholy glee that sometimes took him when charging on to the battlefield. It had never been the carnage that attracted him. It was the clarity that came when one knew life might end at any moment. Other fears paled in comparison, especially the fear of one’s own mistakes. He had learned to act before he was acted upon. After years of being life’s pawn, he had become the force of chaos that acted upon others.
He smiled. If ever there was an opposing army deserving of chaotic upset, it was the North family.
He cantered the last half mile, coming to an easy stop at the front door. The footman who came forward to take the horse did not know him. But then, in ’08, he had not been able to afford a servant at the door, much less the livery that this boy wore.
His butler had no such problems with recognition. The door opened and the expression on the man’s normally impassive face changed to surprise. ‘Master Gerald?’ Those words were smothered with a quick clearing of the throat and ‘Begging your pardon, Captain Wiscombe.’ But underneath the reserve, he was near to grinning, and so proud of his master that he looked ready to pop his waistcoat buttons.
Gerry had no reason for reserve with the man who had comforted him on the night his father had died. ‘Aston.’ He reached forward and offered a brief, manly embrace, clasping the fellow’s shoulder and patting him once on the back. ‘It is good to be home.’
‘And to have you home as well, sir. We have followed your exploits in the newspapers. It was very exciting.’
So they had heard of him here. Of course they had. Who had not? All the same, he was glad to have worn his uniform so that he might reinforce the image of returned war hero. Even after days in the saddle, the short jacket and shiny boots were more than a little impressive. And the sword at his side was proof that he was no idle fop in feathers and braid.
Aston looked past him. ‘Are you unaccompanied? Where is the luggage?’
‘Arriving later. I had it sent, direct from London.’ He smiled at the old servant. ‘I did not wish to wait for it.’
The man nodded back, taking his haste for a compliment. ‘We are all glad that you did not.’
Was that true above stairs as well as below? He sincerely doubted it. ‘Where is she?’ he said softly, looking past the butler. ‘Not waiting at the door for my return, I see.’
‘Come into the house, Captain.’ The man was still grinning over the new rank. ‘While you refresh yourself, I will find Mrs Wiscombe.’
‘Aston? Who was at the door, just now?’
It seemed the summons was not necessary. Lillian was standing on the main staircase. She looked as beautiful as he remembered and as enigmatic. He felt the same tightening in his throat that had come upon him the day they’d met. This time, he fought against it. While it might be fashionable to moon over another man’s wife, it did not do to be so affected by one’s own.
He straightened to parade-perfect attention, then looked up at her. ‘No one in particular. Merely your husband, madam.’
Her head snapped up to see him. Her face shuttled through a half-dozen expressions, trying to settle on the one that could both express her emotions and welcome him properly. He was pretty sure that none of what he saw resembled gratitude or joy. But before any of it could truly register, she gave up and her eyes rolled back as her knees began to fold under her.
‘Bugger.’ He lunged forward, putting his battlefield reflexes to good use, and caught her before she could reach the ground. The woman in his arms was heavier than she’d appeared at the altar. Hardly a surprise. He had changed, as well. But she was not too heavy. Had he found her in Portugal, he’d have described her to his mates as a ‘tidy armful’.
‘The bench, Captain.’ The butler gestured to a place beside the stairs.
‘The sitting room,’ Gerry corrected.
‘I will send for madam’s maid with the hartshorn.’
‘Nonsense,’ Gerry announced, carrying his wife through the open sitting-room doors to a divan by the fire. ‘She just needs to get