The Unconventional Maiden. June Francis

and frustration, needing time to think about what he must do to get the girls back. Tabitha could still be his daughter, but even if she were not, he still loved her and wanted her home. As for Mary—he could be right in believing her wits had gone begging after the loss of their son.

      He placed the missive at the bottom of the chest at the foot of his bed and locked the chest. Then he left his bedchamber and went downstairs, but there was no one in the hall, yet he could hear voices and recognised that of Beth Llewellyn. He guessed that his aunt had taken her into the smaller, more comfortable parlour for refreshments. He decided he could not face them right now. As he crossed the hall and went outside, he remembered lifting Beth off her feet after the wrestling match and that moment when she had trapped her hand and he had caught a glimpse of her cleavage. It had been as revealing a moment as when her cap had slipped and her braids had tumbled free. She must have been mortified, yet she had kept her wits about her, called a warning to him and, making the most of her opportunity whilst he faced the Breton, made good her escape. He needed to keep his wits about him right now. He might desire her, but he needed to keep his hands off her.

      A wry smile twisted his lips and then he scowled. Beth’s shocking behaviour in dressing as a youth was far less damaging than Mary’s actions. How on earth was he going to bring matters to a satisfactory conclusion where the girls were concerned without creating a scandal? As if he didn’t have enough to do in the next few months: securing a safe future for Beth, finding a murderer and managing the Raventon estate, his forests on the Weald and the boat-building yard at Smallhythe. He swore beneath his breath and then squared his shoulders and went in search of his steward.

      Beth was feeling pleasantly sleepy when she was shown into a bedchamber that was furnished with all that was necessary for her comfort. She was happy to see that Jane was there unpacking her clothes; on a table over by the window her writing implements had been laid out.

      ‘It is a pleasant room,’ said Catherine, drawing back one of the bed hangings and fastening it securely to a hook on the wall.

      Beth smiled. ‘I certainly cannot find fault with it. Do you have many guests staying here?’

      ‘Not since the Christmas revels when my nephew had a couple of friends to stay with their wives and children. The mummers from the village came and entertained the guests. We sometimes took part and it was immensely exciting and amusing dressing up and wearing masks. Have you ever done so, Mistress Llewellyn?’ asked Catherine.

      ‘Indeed, I have done so in London. I deem that such moments are also spiced with danger because one cannot always guess the identity of the person behind the mask.’

      Catherine agreed. ‘You are so right. I have felt fearful more than once on such occasions. There are some people who exude an air of madness or menace so that you wonder if they are Old Nick himself.’ Her hand quivered as she smoothed down the blue-and-green woven counterpoint on the bed.

      ‘You are thinking of a specific person?’

      Catherine shook herself. ‘I will say no more. I do not want you to have bad dreams.’

      Beth’s curiosity was roused. ‘I deem you have a story to tell.’

      ‘Aye, but I’ll not be telling it,’ said Catherine firmly. ‘I will leave you now to do whatever you see fit. Do feel free to walk the grounds. At this time of year the rose garden in particular is lovely. When it is time for supper, I will send a servant to find you.’ She made for the door.

      ‘Please do not go yet,’ said Beth, stretching out a hand to her. ‘I would that you would tell me something more about Sir Gawain. I know so little about him. His parents—who were they?’

      Catherine hesitated. ‘I cannot linger long as I must go to the kitchen and see that the preparations for supper are advanced. His father, Sir Jerome, fought on the old king’s side during the wars and was rewarded for it, although he already owned Raventon and forest on the Weald, supplying oak for the shipyards.’

      ‘And what about his mother? How did she and his father meet?’

      Catherine’s homely features took on a grave expression. ‘Ah, my sister, Margaret, she was one of the old queen’s ladies-in-waiting. She had a lovely nature and was perhaps too good for this world. She died after she miscarried twins.’

      ‘That is sad,’ murmured Beth, wondering how old Gawain had been at the time. ‘Sir Gawain’s wife—’

      ‘Enough, child, I must go,’ said Catherine and hurried out before Beth could delay her further.

      Jane glanced at her mistress. ‘She sent shivers down my spine with her talk of Old Nick. Despite her welcome, Mistress Beth, I did wonder if she wants to be rid of us. It would be strange indeed if Sir Gawain had brought you here, thinking you’d be safe, when the place could be haunted by nasty demons.’

      ‘We have no reason to believe this house is haunted. You are putting words into her mouth,’ said Beth, sitting on a stool and removing her shoes. ‘You can leave me now, Jane. I would like to be alone for a while.’

      Jane smiled. ‘That’s right, Mistress Beth, you have a lie down. I’ll go to the kitchen and ask one of the maids where I can wash some of the garments you wore in France.’

      ‘You don’t have to worry about that now, Jane,’ said Beth, stretching out on the bed and closing her eyes. ‘We’ll be returning to London in a few days.’

      ‘I’d rather have some work to occupy my hands, Mistress Beth,’ said Jane.

      ‘Then do what you wish,’ murmured Beth, yawning.

      Jane tiptoed out of the bedchamber and the room fell silent.

      Beth tried to sleep, but the talk of Old Nick, demons, madness and menace had unsettled her. Briefly she had been able to put out of her mind what had happened in France, but now she wept for her father. Part of her regretted leaving France so swiftly and she could only pray that some kind Frenchwoman would tend his grave until she could return there one day. She gave up trying to sleep and rose and went over to the window. The glass was thick with a whirly pattern embedded in its surface in some of the tiny panes, but others were clear, enabling her to see through them. There was no way of opening the window, so she decided to go outside shortly and get a better view of the gardens. Right now she would use the time to write down her first impressions of this house and the gist of the conversations that had taken place since her arrival.

      She took a sheet of paper and picked up her writing implement, sharpening it before removing the top from her ink container. She wasted no time gazing into space, but began to write. When she had finished and read through what she had written, she felt a stir of excitement. Here she felt there could be a thrilling tale in the making; all she needed was a little more information and then she would allow her imagination to take flight. She thought of Sir Gawain. There were questions she needed to ask him, but whether he would provide her with the answers she wanted was a different matter entirely.

      Gawain had spoken to his steward before saddling up his horse and visiting the forest that could be seen in the near distance. After having a word with his forester and woodcutters, he returned to the stables and was making his way back to the house when he saw Beth strolling in the direction of the rose garden. He was tempted to call out to her. The garden would be a pleasant place to linger and would delay the moment when he would have to make certain decisions. Yet although drawn to her, he doubted he would ever trust a woman again. Had Beth wanted her father dead? As she had said herself, she had much to gain.