Jo Leigh - Confessions Bundle

Unfortunately, Mercy had never liked Sir Donald, and if he told her what he intended to do, she would surely burst into tears or angry denunciations.

Grace expelled some air, put her hand on her aching back as she straightened, regarded the horse and then the stranger.

She could tell Sir Donald about the man, of course. He might be able to offer assistance. The stranger and his welfare would be out of her hands, and she and Mercy need not have any fear of being attacked by a runaway criminal, if he was a criminal.

Therein lay the problem, for Donald Franklin had never been known for his merciful qualities. He would be far more likely to have the stranger thrown in the village lockup, a small, damp building little better than the out-of-doors. He would probably never entertain any possibility that the wretched man might be a victim himself.

Grace could just see herself trying to convince Sir Donald of that notion. He would undoubtedly claim she was being a silly, sentimental young woman-and she could even envision him using his callous solution as an example of his fine leadership and concern for the safety of his tenants.

She was not about to have her efforts to help this man undone by the unsympathetic Donald Franklin.

Grace tugged the stranger into the farthest unused stall as quickly as she could, and piled some straw over him for warmth, as well as to hide him from Sir Donald, who would have to come to fetch his horse. Hopefully, the fellow would sleep quietly until Sir Donald was gone. Considering that he hadn’t awakened again, and the mode of movement had not been very gentle, she felt there was little danger of that.

She would come back as soon as she could to see if he was awake, with her father’s pistol tucked into her skirt for safety.

Giving the slumbering stranger a final glance, she went on her way, dashing through the farmyard and into the back door of their house, reflecting that it was a good thing the drawing room was at the front of the house and faced the main road.

When she entered the kitchen by the scullery, she called out a cheery “Mercy, I’ve come home!" as if she hadn’t seen Sir Donald’s horse. Under normal circumstances, she wouldn’t have, and she certainly had no desire for Sir Donald to suspect that anything abnormal had happened today, beyond his surprise visit.

She removed her boots and cloak, surveyed the wreckage of her dress, which looked as if it might never come clean, set her basket on a sideboard, then grabbed a linen towel used to dry the dishes and wiped her face and neck.

As she did so, a quick survey of the small kitchen showed that Mercy must be feeling better, for a kettle was on the hearth, and the smell of beef stew emanated from the small iron pot dangling over the fire. If Mercy was still feeling ill, she wouldn’t have bothered with a stew, for Grace had told her before going to the shops that morning that they could have cold meat for supper.

“I’m sorry I’m so late, Mercy,” she said, still feigning an ordinary day as she proceeded into the drawing room, pausing to put on her shawl, which was laid over one of the Windsor chairs. “I fell in the mud. My cloak is quite a disaster”

She halted on the threshold, taking in the scene before her quickly. Sir Donald was standing by the window, his face red, his chest puffed out like a pigeon, and his stance belligerent. As always, he was finely and extravagantly dressed, in the latest of fashion. The ensemble he wore would have looked rather odd on the most handsome of men, for even a sudden vision of the outfit on the stranger in the cow shed was not pleasing. On Sir Donald, the blue frock coat, green-and-yellow-striped vest and plaid, tight-fitting trousers looked utterly ridiculous.

Mercy sat beside her small work table, the fabric for her new green gown heaped negligently on the floor at her feet, her pretty face surrounded by its halo of blond curls pale and worried, and with her slender hands clasped together on her lap.

With dismay, Grace guessed that Sir Donald had told her about the rent. She hurried to her sister, taking her cold hand in her own, even colder one.

“What is it?” she demanded, although she knew very well what was the matter and she hated Donald Franklin even more. “What has happened?”

“Good afternoon, Miss Barton,” Sir Donald said loftily, and there was an angry expression in his gray eyes which Grace couldn’t help thinking was an improvement over that other, lustful look she had last seen there.

“Oh, Grace!" Mercy whispered. Then she pulled away from Grace’s grasp, put her face in her hands and started to weep. “He’s…he said…”

Grace cast an accusing look at Sir Donald before putting her arms around Mercy’s slender shoulders. “I think I know what this is about,” she said. “Don’t cry, dear. It doesn’t matter.”

“Yes, it does!" Mercy wailed. “We’ll be thrown out of our home! We’ll have to go to a workhouse!”

In her mind’s eye, Grace could see both of them lying on the side of the road the way the stranger had been-hurt, hungry and sick. Perhaps some kind unknown person would take pity on them, but perhaps others would assume that they were no more than tramps or, considering they were women, something worse.

Grace rose and looked steadily at Sir Donald. “You are raising our rent,” she said flatly.

“There is no need for this emotional display,” Sir Donald blustered, spreading his hands in a gesture of incomprehension. “It is a most unfortunate necessity”

“Necessity?” Grace declared as her sister continued to sob. “It’s greed!”

“Please, my dear Miss Barton!”

“I am not your ‘dear Miss Barton,’ ” Grace answered, fighting to regain control. She wouldn’t let this man upset her. He mustn’t be able to dismiss her as simply an emotional female. “By how much do you intend to raise it?”

“Fifty pounds per annum.”

“Oh, Grace!" Mercy whimpered.

“That’s more than twice what we pay now,” Grace replied, achieving a dispassionate tone with great effort. “You know we cannot afford that much.”

Sir Donald flushed, and then shrugged his beefy shoulders. “I have a position to maintain.”

Grace would have liked to ask exactly how he had come to be knighted-who he had bribed, or by what secret means he had managed to get it done.

“The increase will not come into effect for three months,” Sir Donald said placatingly. “In that time, you may pursue other opportunities--”

“Opportunities!” Grace interrupted angrily. “What opportunities? You will take away our home and cast us out to-what?”

“You have no family to whom you could appeal?”

“No, we do not, or at least none close enough that we would beg of them,” Grace retorted.

Sir Donald looked as if he were trying to appear sorry, but he couldn’t quite manage the subterfuge. “I understand how difficult this must seem to you, because of your family’s connection with the county, but I have been holding off raising your rent out of respect long enough." He smiled. She would have preferred an angry frown, for that, at least, would have looked natural. “I deeply regret the effect this must have upon you.”

Liar! Grace thought angrily.

“I think it would be wise of me to take my leave of you,” he said, glancing at Mercy.

“So do I,” Grace retorted. “Good day.”

She watched him turn on his heel and suddenly remembered that he must not find the stranger in the shed.

“No, wait!" she cried in a most undignified manner. “There is much more to be said!" She started to follow him to the door.

Mercy grabbed hold of her hand. “Oh, Grace,” she pleaded softly. “Let him go. He won’t change his mind. He’s so mean and hateful!”