An imposing figure in his dress uniform, Admiral Matheson was piped ashore. The gangplank of Her Majesty’s ship, Turlington, provided a small bridge from the ship to the shore of Van Diemen’s Land.
The admiral was well pleased with his tour of the remote southern colony, and was impressed with the way it had progressed.
Convicts and freemen alike worked shoulder to shoulder, laying the foundations for a future nation. There was already an air of permanence about the places he’d visited, solid buildings were being erected and commerce had commenced.
Representing the young queen was a privilege, as it had been with regard to her predecessor. She would be pleased to read his favourable report, for rumours concerning Governor Arthur’s treatment of the native population had reflected badly on her.
It had been explained to him that the natives were now safely settled on Flinders Island. The fact that the island was rather remote, situated as it was in Bass Strait, hadn’t escaped his notice. He’d been assured that they’d survive there, though.
Of all the places Augustus had visited, this island was the most reminiscent of England in its verdant landscape. He looked forward to a pleasant stay in Van Diemen’s Land.
A year younger than his older brother, the Earl of Kylchester, Augustus possessed the same grey Matheson eyes. They were hidden by his heavy lids, hooded from the constant need to shield his eyes from the sun. His face was handsome, although weathered from a life spent mostly at sea. Upright in bearing, he was muscular, lacking paunch, and silver-haired.
The admiral had never married. Although he greatly admired the female form and had left several broken hearts behind on various shores, he preferred to seek his comforts ashore when he could, rather than be an absent husband. He’d observed that to be a state which often led to trouble for the couples concerned. Sometimes, to his own satisfaction, though, he attracted the favours of sea widows, who were easy to woo and win.
Part of the Battle of Trafalgar fleet as a midshipman, Augustus Matheson had served under Lord Nelson on his last, fatal engagement – one that had brought the British fleet victory. That had been thirty-four years previously.
A band on shore struck up, playing the national anthem with excruciating gusto. The band consisted of a bugler, two fiddle players, a fife and a drum, none of whom seemed to have a sense of harmony. Augustus tried not to wince, for he was fond of music. The musicians were doing their best, no doubt. They just weren’t doing it together.
Face grave, he stood to attention, saluting the flag whilst they tortured his ear drums.
Now, he’d turned fifty and this was his last voyage. He understood he was to be honoured with a knighthood, followed by a posting to the admiralty. Augustus intended to find himself a wife, a socially aware female, competent enough to run the house he owned in London whilst providing him with companionship and comfort. He had in mind the sister of a younger colleague – a widow woman without means, but of comely appearance.
When the anthem stopped he stepped forward to accept the official welcome from the governor. He made his own short speech, bestowing on the populace warm greetings from the young Queen Victoria to the far-flung and obedient subjects of her budding colony.
Then came a fine dinner with selected guests, held in his honour and with all the pomp and circumstance with which the citizens of Hobart Town could honour his position. And – what could be more charming? – they’d provided him with a most delightful dinner companion, who later took his arm and paraded him round the room to make introductions.
He found himself cornered by the commandant of Port Arthur Prison, and reluctantly excused himself from the diminutive Arabella Bascombe, who stood at exactly the right height for him to view the twin charms of her decolletage without it being noticeable.
‘My husband has been on the mainland for several weeks,’ she thought to inform him.
‘We must talk again before the evening is over,’ he replied, kissing her palm and gazing ruefully into her glistening brown eyes for a moment. Her lips twisted into a small, secretive smile and she gracefully inclined her head.
He was looking forward to rumpling the fair Arabella’s petticoats.
The prison commandant was Charles O’Hara Booth. ‘I hesitate to take up your time with what could be a trivial matter, sir, but I have a letter addressed to your brother, the Earl of Kylchester, and wondered if you’d be good enough to deliver it on your return to English soil. Also, another addressed to a Mrs Siana Matheson. I didn’t want to send them on without verifying that the man is who he says he is.’
Augustus took the letters and read the name of the sender on the back. ‘Good God! These are from my brother Francis, who went down on the Adriana.’
‘You recognize his hand, then?’
‘We don’t often write, so I couldn’t swear it was Francis’s hand. How come you by these?’
‘I believe the man who wrote them to be an impostor, a prisoner who goes by the name of Piper, amongst others. Piper is a confidence trickster of some skill. The man who wrote the letters greatly resembles the wanted poster. He was apprehended in the bush without means of identification. He . . . Piper, claims to be Francis Matheson, a physician and surgeon.’ The man shrugged. ‘His doctoring skills are not without merit, but he has scars on his back from a flogging, which throws a great deal of doubt on his claim!’
‘My brother Francis is a fine physician.’ Augustus felt quite agitated at the thought of his brother being considered a convict, and especially that he’d been flogged. ‘Why do you consider this claim to be counterfeit?’
‘It’s common for escaped prisoners to claim they’re someone else, and there are plenty of barbers who practise as surgeons. Besides, where would he have received the first flogging?’
‘You mean you flogged him for a second time?’
‘A standard punishment for recalcitrant prisoners. It teaches them who’s in charge.’
‘I would be recalcitrant if I’d been unjustly detained. In this case, you may have flogged an innocent man. There is only one way to find out. I shall visit your prison and inspect this man for myself.’
‘He’s not at the prison, Admiral. I afforded the man the benefit of the doubt and made sure he had a ticket of leave whilst I investigated his claim. I’ve sent him to work the property he claimed to have inherited from William Matheson.’
‘That’s good of you,’ Augustus said curtly, but he couldn’t really fault the man’s reasoning. ‘I’d intended to settle the Matheson property whilst I was here, anyway. Would you be good enough to furnish me with a horse and directions?’
‘I’ll furnish you with an armed soldier, as well. I never take anything for granted, and this man might prove to be dangerous if cornered.’
They arranged to leave early in the morning, so Augustus bade his host goodnight. He discovered Arabella Bascombe lingering in the hall, arranging to depart. He took her cloak from a servant and slid it around her shoulders, murmuring. ‘A happy coincidence. I was just leaving myself. I’ve enjoyed your company tonight, my dear.’
‘Thank you, Admiral.’ Her eyes came fluttering up to his. ‘Perhaps you’d care to show me around your fine ship before I return home. My carriage will wait.’
His fine ship was an Albion class 11, built of good British oak more than forty years previously. Her commander was a first-class seaman who ran a tight ship and was a credit to the service. Augustus intended to mention him in dispatches.
‘It will be my pleasure. Most of the crew will be seeking entertainment ashore and the ship will be quiet. I have a bottle of wine we can share.’
Three hours later, Augustus sent the woman home in her carriage, escorted by two marines. He had a smile on his face, for she’d proved to have a passionate nature.
The watchkeepers grinned at each other when the admiral playfully pinched the lady’s arse as he handed her into the carriage.
‘Naughty, Admiral,’ she said, giving a little squeal and striking him on the shoulder with her fan.
They were still grinning when he strode back up the gangplank. He winked at them as he went past, giving a sigh of satisfaction.
His servant already had a bowl of water and soap ready. He set about washing his genitals. When they left port he’d have the ship’s surgeon examine him for disease, as a precaution, for you could never totally trust a woman with loose morals.
Francis saw the two men coming and called out to Jed, ‘Two men, they’re both in uniform. Soldiers, by the look of them.’
‘Stay in the house,’ Jed said quietly to Elizabeth and, loading a rifle in case it was needed, stood in the shadow of the verandah.
Leaning on the gate, Francis watched the uniformed men come closer. A puzzled frown touched his face. He hadn’t seen his brother for a few years, but he could almost swear it was Augustus. It was!
‘Gus?’ he shouted, striding jubilantly forward, a smile broadening on his face. ‘What the devil are you doing here, so far from the ocean?’
Dismounting, the admiral winced as he cupped his crotch and made the necessary adjustments. ‘Put a ship under my arse any day, my balls are black and blue from bouncing on that horse.’ He carefully looked his brother over. ‘I can safely inform the commandant he was wrong. You are certainly not Philip Piper.’
Francis was too overcome to speak as they hugged each other, making a great show of back-slapping to hide their emotion. Finally, they pulled apart.
‘You can’t imagine how glad I am to see you,’ Francis said. ‘I’ve been here for almost two years.’
‘I have a good idea, for the prison commandant filled me in on what’s occurred. You can’t blame him for being careful.’ Augustus grinned. ‘You and Will were always trouble when you got together. He’d be laughing now if he knew you’d been mistaken for a convict.’
‘Knowing Will, he probably arranged it before he died,’ Francis said drily. ‘I’ll go back to Hobart Town with you. If you vouch for me I’ll have access to William’s account, and can book passage on the first ship going to England. I sent a letter to Ryder, explaining the situation, and also to my wife, but I’ve heard nothing back.’
Augustus took the letters from his pocket. ‘They haven’t been sent. As far as the family is concerned, you’re dead, and I’m here to settle William’s estate.’ He chuckled suddenly. ‘You wouldn’t know, of course, but your delicious little wife has presented you with a son.’
‘A son?’ A smile spread across Francis’s face as fierce pride swelled inside him. He shook his head, bemused by the thought of having a son. ‘He’d be seventeen months old now. What did Siana name him?’
‘Bryn Francis Matheson.’
His brow wrinkled. ‘Bryn? An odd name.’
‘The name’s Welsh, I believe. The infant was born there.’
‘Ah, I see,’ Francis said, when he really didn’t see at all. Siana had an unhappy history with her Welsh kin, so why she’d chosen to be in Wales at that particular time, he couldn’t imagine. ‘I must get home to them as soon as possible.’
‘You will, Francis, you will. You’ll be the guest of the Royal Navy. We sail in a week or so, for the western part of the continent. The west is a difficult place to settle, for its climate is hot and dry. They have requested more convicts, for the existing settlers are short of labour. As soon as I’ve finished the flag waving and the ship is provisioned, we shall set sail for England with all speed.’
He flicked a glance at the soldier, who was tending to his horse and pretending not to listen. ‘Trooper, I’d be obliged if you’d go back to the commandant when you’ve rested and taken some refreshment. I’ll write him a letter, and if I were you I’d stand out of earshot whilst he reads it.’
‘Yes, Admiral,’ the soldier said, and grinned.
‘Now,’ Augustus clapped Francis on the back, ‘introduce me to your companion at the house.’
‘His name is Jed Hawkins.’
‘I didn’t mean the watchful, silent one with the loaded rifle, I meant the small one with pretty red hair, who’s hiding herself behind the shutter.’
Francis chuckled, his brother hadn’t changed. ‘Sorry to disappoint you, Gus, but that lady is Mrs Hawkins. If you look at her the wrong way, no doubt Jed will rip your bruised balls out by the roots and choke you with them.’
‘I would that,’ Jed growled.
‘That would be a pity,’ said the admiral with genuine regret, ‘for I’m very fond of my balls.’
As Siana had predicted, she received several offers for Cheverton Estate. Most of them were an insult, and were curtly refused. Two offers were upped considerably, but still they were not high enough to tempt her to sell.
With Josh still in attendance, she went back to the manor. Gathering up all of Daniel and Esmé’s belongings, she dispatched them to Esmé’s parents’ address in London. Let them deal with it, for Daniel was not her responsibility.
Packed into sealed boxes, the papers pertaining to estate matters were stored in the library, for she didn’t know what else to do with them.
She managed to track down her former housekeeper, Maisie Roberts, two manservants, a gardener and maid. She persuaded them to move back into the house, with the promise of reference of service to the new owner, when the manor was sold.
An army of village women were set to clean the manor from top to bottom for the shillings it earned them. Dust sheets were thrown over the furniture.
Outside, the gardens were made presentable, the stream cleared of debris, the potholes in the road filled. The flood in the cellar had subsided a little, enabling Siana to empty the cellar of wine. Some of it had been spoiled by seepage. The bottles above the tide mark were loaded into the carriage and transported to her house in Poole.
Wondering about the state of the foundations, she consulted with an engineer. The remaining water was pumped out, the cellars inspected.
‘The foundations are solidly built,’ he reported back, ‘and a little dampness from time to time won’t damage them.’ But he recommended that the stream be dredged and deepened so the flow was diverted past the house in times of prolonged rain, not under it The work cost her a fortune, but the house received certification as to its soundness.
Thanks to Rudd Ponsonby, the fields were being worked again. Edward Forbes would have approved her industry, and the constant activity stopped her thinking about Francis.
She sold several pieces of monogrammed silver to finance repairs to the outbuildings, farming machinery and stock. Thanks to Josh, she received a good price directly from a silversmith, who intended to melt it down and rework it.
Maryse and Pansy came to the house to help choose what should be sold. The pair ran about like a couple of excited children at being back at the manor, bringing life to the place.
‘I always loved living in this house,’ Maryse said a trifle wistfully.
‘Me too,’ Pansy agreed, giggling as she slid down the banister. ‘We stood at the top of these stairs and watched Papa kissing you, once. You blushed and sprang apart when we made our presence known. It was the night of the harvest supper, do you remember, Maryse?’
Maryse lost her smile. ‘I don’t remember much about that night, except I tripped over and hurt my ankle.’ Abruptly, she changed the subject. ‘Wouldn’t it be lovely if Papa hadn’t gone down on that beastly ship after all, and he walked through the door, right now!’
They all gazed in the direction of the entrance, quiet for a moment. Tears coming to her eyes, Siana whispered for the hundredth time, ‘Perhaps he managed to swim to shore. He could be on his way home to us.’
‘You only say that because you want it so much,’ Pansy flung at her almost angrily. ‘Aunt Prudence said it’s your Welshness, and you shouldn’t fill our heads with such nonsense. She said we should get our mourning over and done with and get on with our lives.’
‘What does Aunt Prudence know? I’d rather believe Papa was coming home than believe he is dead.’ Maryse’s glance went to the portrait of Edward Forbes. ‘Siana knew when Edward Forbes was going to die. Rosie told me. She said it amazes her just thinking about it.’
‘Everything amazes Rosie,’ Pansy observed, taking Siana in a fierce hug that would have horrified Prudence. ‘I’m sorry I was so mean. I miss Papa so, but you’ve had much more to bear, for you lost your child, and your first husband too.’
Memories flooded back to Siana. Edward’s portrait still hung on the staircase, overseeing his domain. Time had made him look different to her. The attraction and excitement he’d always represented had faded, as though the scales had fallen from her eyes. She stared at the painting for several minutes, trying to imagine being naked in his arms, bending herself to his will, loving him. But she could only bring Francis to mind. Ashley’s death had ended the Forbes family line, now it seemed as if the ghosts had moved out too. Just as she thought that, something creaked in the upper levels of the house. She shuddered as she thought of Daniel.
Cheverton Manor was a moderately large house which would need constant maintenance into the future. As such, it would be a drain on her finances, especially since Daniel had squandered much of the capital. Siana had already sold the Dorchester house, and had returned most of the expensive furnishings to the provider, at a loss.
She gave Pansy a hug in return, pleased that the girl had snapped her out of her melancholy. Sentiment had no place in her life. She had a family to provide for, and must put them first.
She was pleased, therefore, when two days later, Oswald Slessor told her he had a likely buyer for the place.
‘He’s from London, a man who describes himself as a scholar and a gentleman of means. He’s looking to settle in the country.’
‘What is his name, Sir Oswald?’
‘I don’t know, for he’s dealing through an agent, John Taggart. His client said he won’t consider buying the place without meeting the owner. He suggests Thursday would be a good day for him to look it over, for he intends to call on friends in the district then. The agent’s message said his client would like to meet us there at eleven o’clock. Unfortunately, I’m presiding over the quarter sessions. Can someone else accompany you?’
It fell to Josh to provide her with an escort. ‘I’ve got to go to Dorchester anyway, so I’ll leave you there and pick you up on the way back. Keep one of the manservants with you when you show him around.’
The day was cold, but dry. At Cheverton Manor there was a fire lit in the drawing room. The staff had been warned in advance, and were dressed formally. The clock with the blue enamel and gilt face ticked time away on the mantelpiece. It was a pretty timepiece, one she hadn’t really looked at before. Everything seemed strange to her. The house was as alien to her now, as it had been to the impressionable peasant girl she’d once been – the girl who Edward had fallen in love with and woven his schemes for.
The client was late. She hoped she hadn’t wasted her time. Then she heard a light carriage approaching at a fast trot. She resisted the urge to answer the bell, for she’d posted a manservant in the hall, and he would do his job.
There was a rumble of voices, a knock on the drawing-room door. She turned as it opened, a smile on her face. Her eyes widened at the sight of the figure standing there, her smile faltering. ‘Marcus Ibsen?’
Amusement came into his eyes, warming their depths.
Her glance swept from his fine leather boots to his dark trousers and velvet-trimmed top coat, then up to his tall top hat. On his little finger he wore a gold ring set with a ruby. He looked exceedingly elegant. She chuckled when he swept the hat from his head and bowed.
‘At your service, Mrs Matheson. I succeeded in surprising you, then?’
‘I’m totally amazed by the transformation. Where is your robe? I formed the impression that you were a monk.’
‘I was never a monk, though I was considering following my father into the Church of England before I decided the profession was not for me. You could say I was a pilgrim when we last met.’ Taking her hands in his he kissed both her cheeks. ‘You’re wearing mourning, Mrs Matheson. Have I come at a bad time?’
‘I’ve lost my son, who was the heir to this house. And they tell me my husband has drowned on his journey to Van Diemen’s Land.’
Their eyes formed a connection. ‘You cannot bring yourself to believe it, can you?’
She shook her head. ‘If he was dead, surely I would know it in my heart.’
He tucked her arm into his. ‘It was you who taught me to believe in my instincts. I’m sorry your son died. How are your other children?’
‘They are well. Bryn thrives. He is a confident and delightful boy who has kept me sane through the trials I’ve experienced of late.’
‘I’m pleased. Tell me, how is Miss Matheson?’
‘Pensive at times. Her heart still bruises easily. But she has hidden strength and is proving to be more resilient than I thought her to be.’
‘Tell me about her whilst we inspect the house and outbuildings. Then when you leave, I will follow you home and, with your permission, will renew my acquaintance with her. Shall we start at the top and work our way down?’
The attic door was still firmly bolted. She was reluctant to enter, for she remembered a time she’d been locked inside with only the portrait of Edward Forbes’s first wife to keep her company. She told him, ‘This door used to rattle so badly in the wind that you could hear it in the library. When I lived here, once it slammed shut and trapped me inside. Francis rescued me.’
Her skin prickled. This house had never really welcomed her, now she was stirring up painful memories and the ghosts were coming back to life. She felt better when his body came between her and the door. ‘There is no need for me to inspect the attics.’
They turned aside and headed down the stairs, wandering from room to room. ‘I’d like this house to go to someone who will run the estate as it should be run, Marcus.’
‘A man has been hired to assess the land on my behalf. Should he find it productive, he’ll be offered the job of managing the estate. I intend to get my hands dirty and learn the ways of farming first-hand. I will need to look over the books, too.’
‘Sir Oswald Slessor has them. The farmlands of Cheverton Estate are fertile. But for a while the estate was badly mismanaged, so the books will average very little income over the past two years. You will have to look at previous years to get a true picture of its potential. However, the labourers are back in the fields. Next year the estate should produce its normal profit.’
‘I will take that into account.’
‘Your man has only to ride to Croxley Farm to see how fertile the soil is. I have Rudd Ponsonby, the tenant farmer, acting as steward at the moment. In return, I have promised that his rent can be retained by him for three years. It is an agreement of trust, and I expect it to be honoured should you decide to buy.’
He nodded, stopping to contemplate the portrait of Edward Forbes on the way down. ‘There are tied cottages, I believe.’
‘The village of Cheverton Chase is a little dilapidated. The trustees of my son’s estate wouldn’t let me improve the cottages to any great extent. I’ve done the necessary repairs with the money available to me, though I was forced to sell some of the silver from the house to pay for it. Those sales have been recorded on the inventory and all items bore the Forbes family crest.’
‘Which someone outside the family will not need. You use common sense, and know a great deal about farming.’
‘I grew up on the land. The estate is debt free, at least, but it needs a man to run it and I have my family to raise. I have my house in Poole and investments which provide me with an allowance. The trustees could not touch those, thank goodness, but I’m paying estate wages out of it at the moment, as well as maintaining my family.’
‘Thank you for being honest, Mrs Matheson.’
‘You won’t find a better estate,’ she said fiercely. ‘My first husband, Edward Forbes, knew and loved this land. It was his life’s work.’
He turned to face her. ‘Rest assured, I have every intention of making it my own life’s work if I purchase it, and so far, the house suits me.’ They moved on. ‘Shall we haggle much about the price?’
‘I’d not like to haggle with you, Marcus, you’re much too astute. Your agent can negotiate with Oswald Slessor instead. Be warned, I’ve already turned down several offers.’
He chuckled. ‘I’ll make you a fair offer, I promise.’
As they left the house Siana felt as though she was being watched. She gazed back at the manor. The light from a pale winter sun reflected on the windows, presenting her with blank eyes, like those of a blind man.
Then the sun went behind a cloud. Standing at the attic window was the figure of a woman. Her heart lunged and she gasped.
‘What is it?’ Marcus said, taking her arm.
‘Nothing,’ she replied, and gave a shaking laugh, for she’d just realized. The figure was the portrait of Edward Forbes’s first wife, Patricia. It had been moved again, the servants must have been up there.
They visited the stables and were strolling through the copse to the barn when he suddenly stopped. ‘Was it here, where it happened?’
She didn’t pretend not to understand. ‘Yes, over to the right.’
‘They will pay for the deed, those men.’
His voice was curiously flat and her mouth dried up. ‘Will they? Would you . . . seek retribution?’
She couldn’t free herself from the shadowy darkness of his eyes. ‘Do you think I’m capable of killing them?’
‘Yes . . . no . . . I don’t know, Marcus. There is something of the hunter in you.’
His grin had a rawness to it. ‘I don’t know whether to be flattered or not. Given the circumstances, would you kill them for their crime?’
She thought for a moment, but couldn’t reach an answer. She shrugged. ‘I don’t know.’
He slanted her a glance, slightly speculative. ‘You have more wisdom than I’ll ever have.’
‘I know.’ She smiled at him, diverting his attention from the darkness of his thoughts. ‘You’re all passion, Marcus, though you conceal it well. Shall we go up on the hill?’
There was a strong wind blowing in from the sea and Siana could smell the salt in the air. Her black gown flattened against her legs, her cape fluttered and her bonnet pulled against its ribbons, as if it wanted to leap from her head and fly away. Birds tumbled and wheeled against clouds as white and as billowing as the sails of a ship.
She closed her eyes, thinking of Francis, apart from her, but part of her. Life and love should be celebrated, not mourned. The love she felt for her husband overflowed into a dangerous exhilaration. Pulling the bonnet from her head she tossed it high into the wind and smiled at Marcus.
He chased the hat as it bowled over the land, his dignity lost in the exertion of the boyish scramble and chase. He brought it back to her dented and dusty and was still laughing when they turned to go back to the manor, his eyes berry bright. ‘I could easily love you, Mrs Matheson.’
She remembered Grandmother Lewis telling her that the act of loving could be enjoyed for itself alone. And Marcus would be wild and tumultuous and leave no room for thought. They would scorch each other. Once tasted, he’d be a fever in her blood for ever. It would be easy, too easy to encourage such closeness, for her connection with Marcus was strong and she missed the physical contact she’d enjoyed in marriage. But he could never capture her heart, for it belonged to Francis, and she could never love anyone else as much.
‘But I love Maryse, and I love her father even more.’ He offered her his arm, his manner more formal than it needed to be. ‘My apologies, Mrs Matheson. I was carried away by the mood of the moment.’
Her answer brought the laughter back into his eyes. ‘Yes, I know, Marcus. So was I . . . almost.’
Maryse was in her room when the carriages arrived. As they came closer she sensed something familiar about the man in the two-seater. Then he glanced up.
Her heart gave an uncomfortable lurch. It was Marcus Ibsen! Colour raced into her cheeks then drained away, leaving her feeling giddy.
Opening her jewellery box, she removed the finely carved wooden spoon he’d made for her, with its hearts and profusion of ribbons. Her fingertips knew every curve and delve as she traced over their initials carved into the hearts. He’d made it especially for her.
Marcus had declared his love for her in the Gwin Dwr, the cave of the wine water. She remembered standing wet and almost naked before him. How natural that had seemed at the time. Her cheeks began to burn and she placed her hands over them. She hadn’t asked him to love her, hadn’t done anything to encourage his attention.
When one of the maids came up with a message to say there was a visitor, she panicked. She couldn’t face this man who’d looked into her soul and knew how soiled and worthless she was. Indeed, she had never thought to see him again.
‘Tell my stepmother I’m unable to come down, for I’m feeling unwell.’ As soon as the maid left Maryse began to cry, allowing the tears to flow unheeded down her face.
Siana came up in a little while and, taking her in her arms, rocked her back and forth like a baby. ‘You must not think so badly of yourself, my dearest.’
‘How can I face him?’
‘You must learn to, for Marcus has decided to buy Cheverton Manor and is looking forward to entertaining us.’
And although part of Maryse rejected him, another part rejoiced that he would be close by.
‘Dry your tears and come down to take refreshment with us. Pansy, Daisy and Goldie are there, so you’ll not be alone.’
‘But I’ll look a fright.’
‘Wash your face with cold water, then. We shall tell him you have a slight cold. I’ll wait for you.’
They went into the drawing room together. Marcus rose to his feet. Maryse could hardly meet his eyes as she curtsied. ‘Mr Ibsen. It’s so nice to meet you again.’
‘Thank you, Miss Matheson,’ he said, his voice silky, the gleam of amusement in his eyes undisguised. ‘I’m honoured you were able to overcome your indisposition on my behalf.’
He’d seen right through her. She wavered between outrage and feigned ignorance; chose neither. She would not allow him to goad her into a reaction.
‘The honour is mine, sir.’ Taking a seat in the corner of the room, she picked up her embroidery and concentrated on her stitching, aware of his eyes on her from time to time.
‘Cheverton Manor is a lovely house. When will you be moving in?’ she asked, when she was used to his presence again.
‘Not until July. I thought I’d spend some time in London. But I’ll be down from time to time to inspect the refurbishment.’
‘Perhaps we’ll run into each other whilst you are there.’
‘I will make it a priority.’
Maryse inclined her head. She had caught a glimpse of herself trapped in the dark mirror of his eyes and the scales had dropped from hers. She’d seen a woman, not a girl, and had realized with a mixture of dismay and excitement that she’d left her childhood completely behind.