ANNE ASHLEY - The Viscount's Scandalous Return

‘That ‘ee wouldn’t,’ Toby confirmed. ‘Ma were expecting ‘im back that night. She reckons ‘ee must ‘ave been set on by footpads, or such like. But I don’t reckon that be right. ‘Cepting for that watch you give ‘im all them years back, m’lord, ‘ee couldn’t ‘ave ‘ad more than an odd penny in his pocket.’

‘I’m sure you’re right, Toby,’ Isabel agreed. ‘But it is strange, is it not, that no one has seen or heard anything of him since. Don’t you agree, sir?’

His lordship, however, continued to stare silently at some distant spot, his mind locked in the past.

It was only to be expected that the children’s removal to the Manor would result in a return to normality at the farmhouse. Isabel was obliged to admit that it was much quieter for a start. A little too quiet sometimes, she increasingly began to feel as the days passed.

She couldn’t deny that their departure had resulted in a much lighter workload for both Bessie and herself. They were no longer obliged to slave over a hot range for hours a day in order to satisfy the appetite of a rapidly growing boy, not to mention his healthy younger sister. There was far less laundry to deal with each week as well. Yet, for all that the children had been hard work, Isabel missed not having them about the place.

Of course she looked forward to her cousin’s return to the house each evening. Over supper, Clara would regale them with all the latest gossip from up at the Manor, and keep them abreast of the improvements to the house that were, apparently, daily taking place.

None the less, even her cousin’s continued presence at the farmhouse couldn’t suppress the ever-increasing discontent Isabel was for some obscure reason experiencing.

As February gave way to March, even seeing evidence that spring was not too far away quite failed to lift her spirits. She was reminded of how she had felt during those first weeks after her dear father had passed away. Then, of course, there had been a good reason for the malcontent that had gripped her. What excuse was there now for her feeling totally dissatisfied with her lot? There was none, of course. Yet, try as she might, Isabel simply couldn’t shake off the mood of despondency.

A week of heavy rain did little to improve her spirits. Nor, it had to be said, did waking up one morning to discover her vegetable patch under a considerable amount of water.

Her prized garden had produced sufficient quantities of root and green vegetables to feed the household throughout the previous year, not to mention sufficient soft fruits during the summer months to preserve for leaner times. She doubted very much that this would be the case for the present year, for she very much feared that her attempt to produce early crops had been completely washed away by the deluge.

‘That is it!’ she declared, reaching for her cloak and stout, serviceable boots. ‘I’m not prepared to put up with this any longer! I’m mindful of the fact that his lordship has been most generous to this household already, especially where Clara is concerned. But that doesn’t give him the right to neglect his duties as a landowner. So don’t you dare try to stop me, Bessie!’

The thought never crossed the housekeeper’s mind for an instant. She knew well enough that, when her mistress had reached the limits of her patience, only a forceful airing of views would restore calm, and return her to her normally sensible and controlled state. None the less, Bessie sensed that more lay behind this present show of fiery tension in her young mistress than the washing away of a few vegetable seedlings. All the same, she was at a loss to know quite what it might be.

From the kitchen window she followed her irate young employer’s progress up the drove to the meadow. Then she watched her clamber, in a most unladylike fashion, over the boundary fence that divided his lordship’s deer park from her own property, her faithful Beau padding along at her heels. Bessie smiled to herself as she recalled a story she’d heard many years before about an ancient warrior queen, fearless and determined, setting forth to do battle with her enemies. Which was exactly how Miss Isabel looked right now! And there wouldn’t be too many souls brave enough to stand in her way, she mused.

Although Mr Tredwell, the new butler up at the Manor, did not view the rather ill-groomed young woman, demanding to see the aristocratic master of the house at once, in quite the same reverential way as did her own devoted servant, her overall demeanour, quite frankly, did puzzle him. Had he been in town he maybe wouldn’t have thought twice about denying admittance. But this was not London. And unless his adroitness at assessing a person’s station in life had deserted him entirely, this was no country bumpkin either. Nor, he felt sure, was she a female of a certain disreputable calling.

None the less, having been in his lordship’s employ a few short weeks only, Tredwell had no intention of jeopardising his superior position in the household by not fulfilling his role as major-domo. He had a duty to deny admittance to all those who might importune his lordship. And this young woman, he strongly suspected, was more than capable of doing precisely that!

Consequently, he was on the point of demanding to know the caller’s name and business, when a high-pitched squeal from behind captured his attention, and he turned to see his master’s elder ward bounding down the main staircase.

The boy knew well enough that he was only ever supposed to use the back stairs, unless instructed to do otherwise, and Tredwell was on the point of reminding him of this fact, when he was almost thrust rudely aside by Josh in his enthusiasm to reach the caller.

‘Miss Isabel! Miss Isabel!’ he cried joyfully, almost launching himself into her outstretched arms. ‘You’ve come to see us at last! Why has it taken you so long? Have you come to take me fishing?’

Josh’s enthusiastic greeting and subsequent barrage of questions had contrasting effects on the two adults: a look of enlightenment immediately flickered over the high-ranking servant’s long, thin face, for he was very well aware that the children’s surrogate guardian during past months had been none other than a Miss Isabel Mortimer; whereas the lady herself, after a brief glowing smile down at Josh, cast a look of comical dismay above the boy’s head in the general direction of the butler.

‘The truth of the matter is, Josh, I’m here to see his lordship. There’s something I need to discuss with him urgently. But I haven’t forgotten my promise,’ she assured him. ‘I will take you fishing. But we’ll need to seek his lordship’s permission first, and wait for warmer weather, of course.’

Out of consideration for the servants, Isabel first removed her boots, which not surprisingly had become caked with mud after her brisk hike across the sodden park land, before accepting the butler’s invitation to step inside the hall, and leaving her trusty hound to await her return in the shelter of the roomy, stone-built entrance-porch.

‘Why are you not at your lessons, Josh?’ she asked him, thinking it most strange that he should be wandering about the house by himself at this time of day.

‘Oh, I just happened to leave my book in the kitchen,’ he answered, raising wide, innocent eyes, which didn’t fool Isabel for a second. ‘I often do, you know.’

‘Yes, I can imagine,’ she responded, favouring him with a quizzical look. ‘And what prompts these lapses in memory—plum cake or apple tart?’

He chuckled impishly. ‘Plum cake. But it isn’t as good as yours.’

‘Artful little demon!’ she admonished lovingly. ‘You’d best run along then, and have your mid-morning treat, before Miss Pentecost wonders what’s become of you … although I expect she’s a pretty shrewd notion already of why you’re so forgetful.’