fear your future wife – whoever that unfortunate lady might be – will never be able to do.” He met Sir Clive’s gaze levelly, “Do your worst, you evil bastard.”
With a strangled cry of fury, Sir Clive turned on his heel and stalked out. Mr Delacourt waited quietly until he heard the heavy door slam. Then, slumping forward in his chair, he pressed a shaking hand to his chest, drawing in a ragged breath as excruciating pain seared through him.
***
Rosie was curled up on the window seat, watching the sweeping drive with an almost painful expression of expectation. How strange that she had somehow missed the first signs of Spring this year! Suddenly, the gardens had come alive with a vibrant carpet of colour. There were reminders of new life and bustling activity everywhere. Although a few wintry clouds lingered stubbornly, the sunlight peeped between them so that their shadows dappled the hillsides like carelessly spilt paint. In the distance a horse trudged across a rolling field. It was pulling a heavy cart and a plume of bluish smoke from one of the labourer’s cottages hung still in the mid-day air.
She had always loved this time of year, delighting in the sounds and smells of the countryside around The Grange as winter faded. Now, the beauty of the scene twisted a sharpened knife into the constant ache of her sorrow. Today her father was being laid to rest – finally reunited with her mother – in the family crypt. In the three short months since she had found Jack at the roadside her life had changed beyond all recognition.
Harry came and joined her on the padded seat and she slid an arm about his waist, resting her head briefly against his shoulder. His young face was pale and drawn, the turbulence of his emotions reflected in his troubled eyes. They sat in silence until, at last, the sound of hooves on the gravel made them both sit up. Rosie was surprised to see two riders and her slender frame stiffened as she recognised Tom’s companion. Sir Clive Sheridan! She did not know what had transpired between him and Mr Delacourt on his last visit. Only that, following their conversation, her father had suffered a heart attack so violent it had killed him.
Harry, pale and strained, excused himself and Rosie envied him the luxury of escape. Sighing, she rose and – pale but dignified in a dove-grey gown edged with black ribbon - awaited her guest. He bustled into the room and bowed low over her hand, murmuring condolences. Rosie turned to Tom, who assured her that the service had been a fitting tribute and that most of her father’s tenants had been present to pay their respects to a much loved landlord.
Sir Clive cut across what Tom was saying, “I would have speech with you alone, Miss Delacourt,” he informed her imperiously and she regarded him with astonishment.
Tom turned, distaste written across every feature, and looked him up and down briefly. Clearly deciding he was not worthy of his attention, he addressed himself once more to Rosie.
“As I was saying, even old Arthur Scoggins was there, and he must be close to eighty. He talked fondly about how your father helped him and his wife when their youngest grandson was left lame after an accident. He asked me to pass on his regards.”
Rosie expressed her appreciation. Out of the corner of her eye, she could see Sir Clive almost hopping with impatience.
“I think, Tom, that I had best grant Sir Clive a few moments in private as he has requested,” she might as well get it over with.
Tom nodded grimly, “If you are sure?”
He asked pointedly, and Rosie assured him that she was. With a final look of contempt in Sir Clive’s direction, he left the room.
“Well, sir?” Rosie’s voice was haughty, and she pointedly did not invite him to be seated. “You will forgive me for wondering what could be so important that you must say it to me on the very day my father is laid to rest?”
“Don’t you dare look down your nose at me!” The
With a strangled cry of fury, Sir Clive turned on his heel and stalked out. Mr Delacourt waited quietly until he heard the heavy door slam. Then, slumping forward in his chair, he pressed a shaking hand to his chest, drawing in a ragged breath as excruciating pain seared through him.
***
Rosie was curled up on the window seat, watching the sweeping drive with an almost painful expression of expectation. How strange that she had somehow missed the first signs of Spring this year! Suddenly, the gardens had come alive with a vibrant carpet of colour. There were reminders of new life and bustling activity everywhere. Although a few wintry clouds lingered stubbornly, the sunlight peeped between them so that their shadows dappled the hillsides like carelessly spilt paint. In the distance a horse trudged across a rolling field. It was pulling a heavy cart and a plume of bluish smoke from one of the labourer’s cottages hung still in the mid-day air.
She had always loved this time of year, delighting in the sounds and smells of the countryside around The Grange as winter faded. Now, the beauty of the scene twisted a sharpened knife into the constant ache of her sorrow. Today her father was being laid to rest – finally reunited with her mother – in the family crypt. In the three short months since she had found Jack at the roadside her life had changed beyond all recognition.
Harry came and joined her on the padded seat and she slid an arm about his waist, resting her head briefly against his shoulder. His young face was pale and drawn, the turbulence of his emotions reflected in his troubled eyes. They sat in silence until, at last, the sound of hooves on the gravel made them both sit up. Rosie was surprised to see two riders and her slender frame stiffened as she recognised Tom’s companion. Sir Clive Sheridan! She did not know what had transpired between him and Mr Delacourt on his last visit. Only that, following their conversation, her father had suffered a heart attack so violent it had killed him.
Harry, pale and strained, excused himself and Rosie envied him the luxury of escape. Sighing, she rose and – pale but dignified in a dove-grey gown edged with black ribbon - awaited her guest. He bustled into the room and bowed low over her hand, murmuring condolences. Rosie turned to Tom, who assured her that the service had been a fitting tribute and that most of her father’s tenants had been present to pay their respects to a much loved landlord.
Sir Clive cut across what Tom was saying, “I would have speech with you alone, Miss Delacourt,” he informed her imperiously and she regarded him with astonishment.
Tom turned, distaste written across every feature, and looked him up and down briefly. Clearly deciding he was not worthy of his attention, he addressed himself once more to Rosie.
“As I was saying, even old Arthur Scoggins was there, and he must be close to eighty. He talked fondly about how your father helped him and his wife when their youngest grandson was left lame after an accident. He asked me to pass on his regards.”
Rosie expressed her appreciation. Out of the corner of her eye, she could see Sir Clive almost hopping with impatience.
“I think, Tom, that I had best grant Sir Clive a few moments in private as he has requested,” she might as well get it over with.
Tom nodded grimly, “If you are sure?”
He asked pointedly, and Rosie assured him that she was. With a final look of contempt in Sir Clive’s direction, he left the room.
“Well, sir?” Rosie’s voice was haughty, and she pointedly did not invite him to be seated. “You will forgive me for wondering what could be so important that you must say it to me on the very day my father is laid to rest?”
“Don’t you dare look down your nose at me!” The
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