Mary Brendan - Mr. Trelawney's Proposal

Strong arms closed around her as though it was the most natural thing in the world for him to offer her comfort now he had shattered her world. He could feel the thundering of her heart against his chest and smell the scent of lavender in her golden hair. His head dipped, and a lingering sigh escaped him as his mouth sought its perfumed softness and he knew with utter certainty, and quiet amazement, that he was going nowhere without her. He’d known her not yet a full day but nevertheless would take her with him.

Rebecca closed her hot eyes. They stung with unshed tears but she was determined not to cry any more. She would never cry in front of him. At home…at the Summer House, perhaps. She had no home…that was the whole point. She no longer had a home or a business premises. She had nothing other than the paltry few pounds Rupert Mayhew had paid her for Lucy’s board and tuition. And now she would have to return it…and Lucy. For she had nowhere to board her or teach her. She didn’t know whether to laugh or wail at the irony that she had been uncertain whether to send Lucy home. The decision had now been made for her and she was desolate.

‘I only came here to find John…to repair the roof before the rain comes,’ she mentioned in a low, flat tone as though merely talking to herself. ‘I no longer have a roof to repair…’

He pushed her back away from him to look at her. She met his gaze quite candidly, aquamarine eyes wide and sheeny. Small white teeth clenched on her unsteady bottom lip, making him aware how poignantly hard she strove for control.

‘Come back inside…I want to talk to you,’ he stated softly, yet in the tone of voice that brooked no refusal. She swallowed as though about to speak, then gazed past him.

‘Here’s Gregory,’ she announced quietly as the elderly man slowly rounded the corner of the manor on his bowing legs. ‘Gregory and his wife Martha have helped me at the Summer House for five years,’ she tremulously informed him, while persistently plucking his restraining hands from her arms. At her third attempt he slipped his hands deftly about so that they gripped hers rather than the reverse. But she pulled backwards, twisting her fingers to free them until he finally relinquished her.

Rebecca walked slowly towards Gregory and took the man’s arm, partly in affection and partly to aid his progress.

Luke leaned back against the warm mellow brickwork of the Manor and watched her slowly pass him without another glance. He didn’t move from the wall until the trap was screened from view by poplars at the end of his drive.

Driving rain streamed in endless rivulets down the wide window pane, capturing Luke’s mesmerised attention.

‘Brandy?’ he offered Victor Willoughby, holding his half-full glass of amber liquid out indicatively, although his dark eyes were still with the wet afternoon. He swivelled the leather chair about, his long fingers purposefully rifling through papers on the leather-topped desk, as he gave Robin Ramsden’s man of business a cursory glance.

‘Thank you…no,’ the fair-haired forty-year-old man declined, but licked his lips a little ruefully, as though reluctantly denying himself. ‘We should plough on, I’m afraid, my lord. There are several other matters yet, besides those we have covered.’

Luke nodded and decided not to mention yet again that he had no wish to be addressed so formally. He gave Willoughby his full attention as he replaced his crystal tumbler on the desk and then pushed it away. ‘Tea?’ he suggested, feeling inhospitable drinking alone.

‘Why, yes, thank you,’ Willoughby accepted with a smile.

Luke glanced over at his brother, ensconced close to the bookshelves in a comfortable brocade armchair with an open newspaper across him. ‘Ross, find Judith and arrange for some tea to be brought to the study. Three cups…’ he advised his brother meaningfully. Ross delivered a pained look at the prospect of light refreshment but got up good-naturedly and strolled from the room to find the housekeeper.

Luke knew he could have rung for service but a response was erratic. Not that the servants were hostile now; far from it. They were more likely to be beavering away in some odd corner of this Gothic pile.

In the three days since he had been in residence at Ramsden Manor, having found the household provisions sadly lacking, he had immediately replenished all stock cupboards. The lack of alcohol had been his and Ross’s first consideration. Old Edward Miles hadn’t been lying when he had denied any knowledge of brandy about the place. And the wine store Ross had found was down to its last dozen dusty bottles. So he had made good in buying in both alcohol and foodstuffs and taken care of various other shortcomings at the Manor. That, together with the promise that back wages and severance bonuses would be paid when the estate was sold, had combined to make him increasingly popular.

‘Due to the rather dilapidated state of the property, I wouldn’t like to estimate how long it might take to achieve a sale,’ Victor Willoughby mentioned, drawing Luke’s thoughts back to business, as he leafed through documents in front of him. ‘Perhaps if I were to arrange for minor work to be carried out…neaten the gardens, a little redecorating, for example…’

Luke cut in quietly. ‘I haven’t the time or inclination to tarry here. I would be willing to accept offers for the freehold which reflect its state of disrepair. Renovation is necessary, I agree. But the building is solid and free from any rot as far as I can detect.’

‘Indeed, my lord, I’m sure. I only meant…’

Luke interrupted him mildly. ‘I know what you meant and I thank you for your concern. The highest price possible isn’t my main consideration. Returning to Cornwall is, at the earliest opportunity.’ He gave the slightly disconcerted man a brief, conciliatory smile. ‘Shall I leave it to you to arrange for the sale of the freehold? And to deal with staff remuneration?’

‘Indeed, my lord,’ Victor Willoughby assured the preoccupied man who was again gazing through the rain-spattered glass into the drizzly-grey distance. ‘It may mean that several of my clerks will be working on your behalf, my lord.’ He coughed delicately. ‘Will payment for my firm’s services be taken from the proceeds of the estate sale, or will an earlier…?’

A small, cynical smile escaped Luke but he didn’t turn away from surveying the sodden landscape as he informed Willoughby levelly, ‘You will receive interim payments. I want the estate dealt with as a matter of urgency and will pay for that service accordingly. Your fees will not be dependent upon the actual sale. Should the matter be closed in record time, however, a bonus might…’ He allowed the enticement to hang between them for a moment. ‘I shall be travelling back to Cornwall next week and would like to leave in the sure knowledge that everything possible is being done to expedite matters. And that it is all in capable hands.’

‘Of course, my lord,’ Victor Willoughby assured him, but sensing that somehow he had just received a subtle reprimand.

A light tapping at the door heralded the arrival of Judith with a laden tea tray. She smiled at Luke, informing him pleasantly, ‘I’ve brought you some treacle biscuits, my lord. You remember, those you liked yesterday.’

‘Thank you, Judith,’ Luke said graciously, with a small smile for her. She blushed happily, pouring tea into wafer-thin china cups. Once this was accomplished and tea distributed she loitered, shifting uneasily from one foot to the other.

Luke raised querying brows at her, wordlessly inviting her to speak if something was troubling her.

‘It’s nothing really, my lord…’

‘Mr Trelawney, Judith…I thought we had agreed you would use that,’ he reminded mildly, hoping that Victor Willoughby was also taking due note.