‘And did he have a name, your new friend?’
‘He—yes. Grandmother, he was the late Squire’s own son.’
Every trace of mirth died from the old woman’s face. ‘Selina! Say you didn’t tell him we were camped on his land?’ Her voice was earnest, and her eyes fixed on Selina’s own. ‘I had not thought he would come so soon. If he learns we’re here we’ll have to move. With winter coming, and the babies so ill, we can’t—’
‘I would never endanger our people,’ Selina breathed. ‘I gave no clue where I had come from. He has no reason to suspect we’re on his land.’
Zillah gazed at her a moment longer, before exhaling slowly. ‘Good.’
It would be disastrous to move the camp now, and both women knew it. Winter was approaching fast—the hardest time of year for those living on the road, whose lives were a trial at the best of times.
All their menfolk, with the exception of just two elderly grandfathers, were away working on the Oxford Canal, undertaking the backbreaking labour of widening it. Even their adolescent boys had gone, taking up shovels and picks and toiling alongside the grown men. The work was hard, and the hours long, but they were able to make a few coppers to take back to the waiting women on their short visits home that would allow them to buy provisions for the entire winter—including costly coal to feed the stoves that kept their caravans warm.
Such opportunities didn’t arise every day, and Selina’s father had jumped at the chance. Even the prospect of returning to the Blackwell estate, with all its nightmarish memories, would be worthwhile if it meant securing the survival of the camp. If the Roma moved on now the men would have to give up this precious source of reliable income.
It isn’t just the men’s jobs at stake, though, is it?
Selina bit her lip as she thought of the women who’d had the misfortune to bear autumn babies: three of them, all born within a few days of each other, struggling to breathe in the raw mornings and coughing their hearts out at the first suggestion of a frost. They would never survive the jolting journey along pitted roads if the camp had to move. The chill would get into their tiny lungs and one of the women would be sewing a miniature shroud before they knew what had happened.
No. There was no way they could leave now.
‘I mean it, Grandmother.’
With a supreme effort Selina once again attempted to banish Edward from her mind. He had no place in her world; their chance encounter could so easily have ended in disaster.
‘You know nothing in this world is more important to me than the safety of our people.’
Zillah seemed about to reply when the silent night was shattered by a terrible scream.
* * *
Edward couldn’t sleep.
That damned letter from Father certainly hadn’t helped, he reflected drily. How unfortunate that even now the Squire’s missives brought so little happiness to their recipients.
Edward’s mouth set in a grim line as he recalled the weight that had settled in his stomach when he’d heard the news of his father’s passing. Their relationship had been strained in life. Each had been as stubborn as the other, and Ambrose’s unsuccessful attempts to control his son had damaged their already shaky bond.
Edward remembered the many times his father had pushed him to the limits of his patience with his demands. His move to London, ostensibly to take care of their business in the capital, had allowed Edward to put a distance between them, and that was the only reason their relationship had managed to survive at all. They had disagreed on so many things, and their heated arguments had been the cause of more than one servant running for cover.
But Ambrose was the only father Edward would ever have, and in his own way he had begun to mourn the man who had caused him so much frustration; or at least he had, until anger had seeped in to mingle with his complicated grief.
He threw back the red coverlet and left his bed. The cold night air raised goosebumps on his skin and he shrugged his way into his best brocade dressing gown. The fire in the grate had burned down to ash, and he toyed momentarily with the idea of calling for a maid to bring it back to life before dismissing the thought in irritation. When had he become the kind of man to consider dragging a girl from her warm bed in the middle of the freezing night solely to pander to his own needs?
He’d been in London too long; it was as well he’d returned to Warwickshire when he had. The capital, with all its diversions and frivolous pursuits, had threatened to turn him into a ‘perfect’ gentleman—selfish, hedonistic and mainly decorative. Now he was back where he belonged he could feel the countryside and its ways seeping back into his bones, gently erasing the hardness city living had threatened to instil in him.
Edward struck a match and lit the candle standing on his desk. The light illuminated the Squire’s final letter, lying on the green leather top, and Edward picked it up. He’d read it a dozen times already, and it did not improve with further scrutiny.
His father’s solicitor had seemed almost apologetic when he’d handed it over, having taken it from his ancient safe at the reading of Ambrose’s will. It was written in a bold and flowing hand, and Edward ran his eye over the last communication he would ever receive from the man to whom he had been so deeply vexing.
As my only son and heir, you have repeatedly disappointed me in your duty to continue the line of our great and noble family. Nothing in your life could be more important, and your persistent failure to marry has provoked me to act.
I have instructed Mr Lucas to amend the terms of my will and add a condition on your inheritance. If you have not taken a wife within two months of my death the entirety of your inheritance will revert to my brother, your Uncle Charles, in his position as next in line.
He dropped the letter back onto the desk and extinguished the candle. He’d half expected it. His reluctance to marry had been like a red rag to a bull for Ambrose, for whom the continuation of the family name had been almost an obsession. Pretty heiress after pretty heiress had been paraded under Edward’s nose, but of course the damage had been done long before then.
His mother had been the first to crush his faith in gentry women, but the Right Honourable Letitia James had driven the lesson home with brutal clarity. With her blonde ringlets and china-blue eyes Letitia had the face of an angel but not the morals to match, and her thoughtless betrayal of Edward with a richer suitor had opened the wounds he had hoped she would help him to heal. She was the only woman he had ever entertained marrying, and her actions had only proved to Edward his reticence had been justified.
Edward felt a hot pulse of anger course through him as he wrenched his mind away from past pains and recalled the full contents of the letter. Unable to dictate terms while alive, Ambrose had in death finally managed to find a way to bend Edward to his will, and recognition of the fact that he had no choice but to obey caused Edward’s hands to curl into fists. He wasn’t a simpleton; he knew he would have to wed eventually. It was the notion of being ordered, instructed like a child, that turned Edward’s blood to fire.
In fairness, I suppose my bride might not be entirely like Mother or Letitia, he mused grimly as he dropped into his favourite armchair by the cold hearth. You never know. Her pretty ringlets might be dark instead of blonde, for instance.
The thought of dark hair stirred something in the back of his mind.
The girl from the woods. Selina. Now, that’s the sort of woman a man might be persuaded to marry, were such a feat ever to be managed.
What had she meant, he owed her twice? The words had puzzled him ever since their chance meeting. Surely they had never met before. Edward knew he would never have forgotten one such as her. It must have been simple mischief on her part, doubtless for her own amusement, and he had resolved to put her from his mind.