He snagged his greatcoat from a hook by the back door and shrugged into it as he strode along the path to the barns. The dogs heard him coming and milled around him, leaping, tails wagging frantically, panting in excitement.
‘Steady on, lads,’ he muttered, his agitation settling as he smoothed the head of first one, then another. His favourite, Brack—a black-and-tan hound of indeterminate breeding—shouldered his way through the pack to butt at Nathaniel’s hand, demanding attention. He paused, taking Brack’s head between his hands and kneading his mismatched ears—one pendulous and shaggy, the other a mere stump following a bite when he was a pup—watching as the dog half-closed his eyes in ecstasy. Dogs were so simple. They offered unconditional love. He carried on walking, entering the barn. Ned, his groom, emerged from the feed store at the far end.
‘Be riding, milord?’ Ned was a simple man of few words who lived alone in a loft above the carriage house.
‘Not now, Ned. How’s the mare?’
‘She’ll do.’ One of the native ponies they kept for working the sheep that grazed on the fells had a swollen fetlock.
Nathaniel entered the stall where she was tethered, smoothing a hand down her sleek shoulder and on down her foreleg.
‘Steady, lass. Steady, Peg,’ he murmured. There was still a hint of heat in the fetlock, but it was nowhere near as fiery as it had been the previous day. He straightened. ‘That feels better,’ he said. ‘Keep on with the good work. I’m off up to the mews.’
‘Right you are, milord.’
The dogs, calmer now, trotted by his side as he walked past the barn and turned on to the track that led up to the mews where he kept his birds, cared for by Tam. There was no sign of Tam, who lived in a cottage a few hundred yards further along the track with his wife, Annie. The enclosures that housed his falcons—three peregrine falcons, a buzzard, and a kestrel—came into view and Nathaniel cast a critical eye over the occupants as he approached. They looked, without exception, bright-eyed, their feathers glossy, as they sat on their perches. He had flown two of them earlier and now they were fed up and settled.
Loath to disturb the birds, he did not linger, but rounded the enclosures to enter the old barn against which they were built, shutting the door behind him to keep the dogs out. Light filtered in through gaps in the walls and the two small, unglazed windows, penetrating the gloomy interior. A flap and a shuffle sounded from the large enclosure built in one corner, where a golden eagle—a young female, they thought, owing to her size—perched on a thick branch.
The eagle had been found with a broken wing by Tam’s cousin, who had sent her down from Scotland, knowing of Nathaniel’s expertise with birds of prey. Between them, he and Tam had nursed the bird back to health and were now teaching her to fly again. Nathaniel had named her Amber, even though he knew he must eventually release her back into the wild. His other birds had been raised in captivity and would have no chance of survival on their own. Amber, however, was different and, much as Nathaniel longed to keep her, he knew it would be unfair to cage her when she should be soaring free over the mountains and glens of her homeland.
Nathaniel selected a chunk of meat from a plate of fresh rabbit on Tam’s bench, then crossed to the cage, unbolted the door, and reached inside. His soft call alerted the bird, who swivelled her head and fixed her piercing, golden eyes on Nathaniel’s hand. With a deft flick of his wrist, Nathaniel lobbed the meat to the eagle, who snatched it out of the air and gulped it down.
Nathaniel withdrew his arm and bolted the door, but did not move away. He should return to the house. He had business to deal with: correspondence to read and to write, bills to pay, decisions to make over the countless issues that arose concerning his estates. He rested his forehead against the upright wooden slats of Amber’s cage. The bird contemplated him, unblinking. At least she wasn’t as petrified as she had been in the first few days following her journey from Scotland.
‘I know how you feel,’ he whispered to the eagle. ‘Life changes in an instant and we must adjust as best we can.’
The turning point in his life had been the fire that destroyed the original Ravenwell Manor. It had been rebuilt, of course. It was easy to restore a building—not so easy to repair a life changed beyond measure. He touched his damaged cheek, the scarred skin tight and bumpy beneath his fingertips. And it was impossible to restore a lost life. The familiar mix of guilt and desolation washed over him at the memory of his father.
And now another turning point in his life had been reached with Hannah’s death.
As hard as he strove to keep the world at bay, it seemed the Fates deemed otherwise. His hands clenched, but he controlled his urge to slam his fists against the bars of the cage—being around animals and birds had instilled in him the need to control his emotions. He pushed away from the bars and headed for the door, turning his anger upon himself. Why was he skulking out here, when there was work to be done? He would shut himself in his book room and try to ignore this latest intrusion into his life.
* * *
Grace winced as the door banged shut behind the Marquess. She tried not to resent that he had left her here alone to deal with Mrs Sharp, who looked as disapproving as Madame Dubois at her most severe, with the same silver-streaked dark hair, scraped back into a bun. Grace tried to mask her nervousness as the housekeeper’s piercing grey eyes continued to rake her. Clara, meanwhile, had toddled forward and was attempting to clamber up on a chair by the table. Grace moved without conscious thought to help her. Clara didn’t appear to be intimidated by the housekeeper, so neither would she.
‘Well? Your shoes, Miss Bertram?’
‘His lordship requested that I remove them when I came inside,’ Grace said. ‘They were muddy.’ She looked at the bowl of apples. They would discolour if not used shortly. ‘May I help you finish peeling those before you show me where my room is? I should not like them to spoil.’
Wordlessly, Mrs Sharp passed her a knife and an unpeeled apple. They worked in silence for several minutes, then Mrs Sharp disappeared through a door off the kitchen and re-emerged, carrying a ball of uncooked pastry in one hand and a pie dish in the other. As she set these on the table, she reached into a pocket of her apron and withdrew a biscuit, which she handed to Clara, who had been sitting quietly—too quietly, in Grace’s opinion—on her chair. Clara took the biscuit and raised it to her mouth. Grace reached across and stayed her hand.
‘What do you say to Mrs Sharp, Clara?’
Huge green eyes contemplated her. Grace crouched down beside Clara’s chair. ‘You must say thank you when someone gives you something, Clara. Come, now, let me hear you say Thank you.’
Clara’s gaze travelled slowly to Mrs Sharp, who had paused in the act of sprinkling flour on to the table and her rolling pin.
‘Did his lordship not say? She has barely said a word since she came here.’
‘Yes. He told me, but I shall start as I mean to go on. Clara must be encouraged to find her voice again,’ Grace said. ‘Come on, sweetie, can you say, Thank you?’
Clara shook her head, her curls bouncing around her ears. Then, as Grace still prevented her eating the biscuit, her mouth opened. The sound that emerged was nowhere near a word, it was more of a sigh, but Grace immediately released Clara’s hand, saying, ‘Clever girl, Clara. That was nice of you to thank Mrs Sharp. You may now eat your biscuit.’
She glanced at Mrs Sharp, but the housekeeper’s head was bent as she concentrated on rolling out the pastry and