ANNE ASHLEY - The Viscount's Scandalous Return

Of his lordship himself, however, Isabel saw and heard nothing; until, that is, the arrival of Mr Goodbody’s December letter, wherein he apprised her of the fact that the seventh Viscount Blackwood had finally been cleared of all charges against him, and was now at liberty to take up his rightful place at the ancestral home.

Isabel received this news with decidedly mixed feelings. On the one hand she knew it would greatly benefit many in the local community to have the Manor inhabited again; on the other, she would miss the children, most especially Josh. She was honest enough to admit, too, that she would miss the generous payments she had received over the past months for taking care of the orphans.

The New Year arrived with still no sign of the Viscount. Nevertheless, it was common knowledge that an army of local tradesmen had been hired to work in the Manor. So it stood to reason that Lord Blackwood was planning to take up residence at some point in the near future.

An unusually dry January gave way to a damp and dismal February, and brought with it no further news of his lordship. Then, in the middle of the month, an unexpected cold spell struck the county, making travel virtually impossible, even the shortest journeys, for several days. The vast majority of people, of course, were glad when at last the thaw set in, and they could go about their daily business unhindered; but not so Josh and Alice, who returned to the farmhouse with their governess, looking most disgruntled.

‘My snowman’s dying,’ Alice lamented, close to tears.

Both Isabel and Bessie, who were busily preparing the luncheon, tried to appear suitably sympathetic, unlike Alice’s brother, who was far more matter-of-fact about it all.

‘He’s not dying, you goose!’ Josh admonished. ‘He’s just melting. Snowmen aren’t alive, are they, Miss Isabel?’

She was spared the need to respond by Beau’s timely intervention. He had risen immediately the children had entered the kitchen, and was now receiving his customary pats and strokes.

It never ceased to amaze Isabel how differently the hound behaved towards the children nowadays. When they had first arrived at the farmhouse, it had to be said that he hadn’t been at all enthusiastic and had growled at them both whenever they had attempted to venture too close.

Quite understandable in the circumstances when one considered his life had very nearly been terminated by a group of village urchins, she mused. It hadn’t taken Beau very long, though, she reminded herself, while continuing to watch the by-play, to realise that children divided into two distinct factions—those who would cruelly tie a brick round his neck and hurl him in a pond; and those who offered tasty treats, and threw sticks in lively games.

Beau, now, was quite happy to accompany Josh and Alice whenever they went out to get some exercise under the watchful eye of their governess. More often than not, though, he would return in search of the mistress of the house, if she failed to put in an appearance after a short time.

‘Come, children, let’s go back upstairs to the schoolroom,’ Clara announced in her usual gentle way, making it sound more like a request than a command. ‘We’ve time enough, before luncheon is ready, to finish reading the story we began earlier.’

Both children obediently rose to their feet, and were about to accompany their governess, when there was an imperious rat-tat-tat on the kitchen door.

It wasn’t unusual for callers to use the rear entrance. More often than not it was the young lad whom Isabel employed to help her about the place seeking instructions on what work needed to be done. Toby Marsh had quickly become a firm favourite with Josh, who rushed across the kitchen to answer the summons, only to discover a forbidding-looking female standing there, dressed from head to toe in sombre black, accompanied by an equally unprepossessing gentleman, standing directly behind her.

Confronted by two such daunting strangers, Josh quite naturally fell back a pace or two, as did his governess, who also let out a tiny whimper, which not only captured Isabel’s attention, but also that of the unexpected female caller.

‘So there you are, you wicked, ungrateful gel!’ the visitor exclaimed, striding, quite uninvited, into the kitchen, with much rustling of wide bombazine skirts.

Although Isabel had never seen the middle-aged matron in her life before, her cousin’s suddenly ashen complexion and wide terrified eyes, as she fell back against the wall, gave her a fairly shrewd notion of who the harridan must surely be. Unless she was much mistaken, this was Clara’s stepmama, the woman her cousin’s loving father had married in the hope of replacing his beloved first wife. Well, it might have been beneficial for the late James Pentecost to remarry, but from things Clara had revealed during recent months her lot had not been improved by her late father’s second marriage, and the arrival in the family home of a selfish stepsister.

After calmly wiping her floured hands on her apron, Isabel placed herself squarely between her cowering cousin and the woman who was causing her young relative such distress. Evidently her resentment at having her home invaded by two complete strangers had conveyed itself to her faithful hound. Beau’s hackles rose as he let out a low, threatening growl, which had the effect of bringing the fleshy-faced man to a stop, as he made to follow into the kitchen, and even induced his equally unwelcome companion to retreat a pace or two.

‘My name is Isabel Mortimer, Clara’s cousin and mistress of this house,’ she said, managing to convey a calmness she was far from feeling.

Although she detected the sound of the front doorknocker being applied, Isabel considered she had more than enough to cope with at the present time without becoming sidetracked by a further caller, and so ignored the summons, as she turned to her cousin.

‘Would I be correct in assuming this female, who has dared to invade my home without the common courtesy of at least introducing herself first, is none other than your stepmama?’

‘Yes, I am Euphemia Pentecost,’ the woman responded, when all her stepdaughter did was to nod dumbly, and stare at her strong-willed cousin in awestruck silence for daring to remind such a formidable matron of basic good manners.

If Mrs Pentecost had been slightly taken aback, her discomfiture was not long lasting. ‘If I seem rude, miss, then I apologise!’ she snapped, sounding anything but chastened. ‘But let me tell you I have been sorely tried these past months in attempting to trace this wicked, ungrateful gel, who left her loving home without so much as a word to anyone!’

She gestured towards her companion who, keeping a wary eye on Beau, had been attempting to edge ever closer to her. ‘And poor Mr Sloane, here, has been almost out of his mind with worry over his fiancée’s well-being.’

‘Really?’ Isabel raised her finely arching brows in mock surprise as she studied the fleshy-faced gentleman closely for the first time, noticing in particular the lack of neck and wide, thick-lipped mouth. ‘Now, that is most interesting, because I have been led to believe that my cousin flatly refused to marry Mr Sloane, and that she was obliged to flee the family home because of the pressure being brought to bear upon her by you to form the union, ma’am,’ Isabel countered, the accusing note in her voice all too evident. ‘Which begs the question, does it not, of who is speaking the truth?’

Having seemingly appreciated already that she was having to deal with a young woman of character and determination, the antithesis of her stepdaughter, in fact, the widow adopted a different tack, becoming nauseatingly apologetic and ingratiating as she bemoaned her widowed state, and the extra burdens placed upon her since her husband’s demise.