The Earl and the Hoyden. Mary Nichols

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СКАЧАТЬ him of it now. If he had forgotten her, so much the better. But they were sworn enemies and would remain so.

      She slowed to a walk, ruminating on what had happened six years before and all her anger bubbled up again. It had been her father’s wish to be accepted by society, and to that end he had entertained and had brought in teachers to show Charlotte the accomplishments a lady should have, including sewing, drawing and dancing, none of which she had particularly enjoyed. Besides, it was too late by then, her unconventional character had already been formed and she found it impossible to change, but to a certain extent he had achieved his aim simply because he was the richest man for miles around and could make or break any man he chose, and that included the Earl of Amerleigh. But not his cub.

      To be rejected by a stiff-necked, conceited sprig, in a voice loud enough to be heard by anyone standing within ten feet of him, had been the outside of enough. It was the first time her father’s money had not been able to buy whatever and whomever he liked. Hoyden, the sprig had called her. Well, she supposed that was not so far from the truth. And plain. Was she plain? Her father had assured her she was not, that she was every bit as beautiful as her lovely mother had been, and the silly young fop needed his eyes seeing to. But looking in the mirror on her return home from the ball which both fathers had confidently expected to end in the announcement of the engagement of their respective offspring, she had admitted that perhaps Roland Temple had the right of it. And coming to that conclusion had in no way lessened her sense of grievance; if anything, it had heightened it. Oh, how she wished her father had never made that bargain with the late Earl. But wishing did not mean she would undo what he had done. Never, never, never.

      She entered by the wrought-iron gates of Mandeville and was filled with the pride of possession. The red sandstone mansion ahead of her had been built by her father to tell the world how a mere nobody could, by dint of hard work and clever management, make a mint of money. It stood out from the surrounding countryside because the great trees that had been planted to make the park were still in their infancy, though there were several decorative trees and shrubs in the gardens near the house. Given a few more years, Mandeville would rival the best country seat in the area, if not the whole county. It already outshone Amerleigh Hall, which was crumbling into ruin.

      She rode round the house and dismounted at the stables, an extensive range of buildings which housed several riding horses, four carriage horses and a couple of ponies. In the adjacent coach house there was a well-sprung travelling coach, a phaeton and a curricle. Having given Bonny Boy to a groom to be looked after, she ordered one of the ponies to be harnessed to the curricle and went into the house by a side door which took her through the kitchens.

      She exchanged news with Mrs Cater, her cook, asked May, the scullion, about her chilblains for which she had provided an ointment, stroked the kitchen cat, which purred in delight, then went up to her room to change for the business of the day. She took not the slightest notice of the pictures that lined the walls nor the costly ornaments and furniture, all purchased by her father to impress. Her booted feet sank into the deep pile of the carpet, oblivious of the footprints she left behind. She was thinking of her encounter with the Earl and trying not to let it bother her.

      Once in her bedroom, she flung off her riding coat and skirt, peeled off the breeches and washed quickly in cold water from the jug on her toilet table. Then she dressed in a plain grey skirt, a white shirt and a black bombazine jacket tailored like a man’s and fastened with braided frogging. This was the outfit she had devised to go to business, not quite mannish because it fitted her neat figure perfectly, but near enough to tell everyone she meant business and would stand no nonsense. She pinned up her wayward hair and, disdaining a bonnet, topped it with a tall beaver hat with a sweeping feather. Her riding boots she changed for half-boots in fine black leather, and thus apparelled, returned downstairs where the curricle was waiting for her to drive herself down to the valley where the cotton mill stood beside a fast-flowing tributary of the Severn.

      She had been away a year and in that time the measures she had put in hand to improve the conditions of the mill hands had been allowed to go by default. She had come back to find the schoolroom unused and the children had returned to the long hours and unhealthy conditions that had been prevalent when her father first took over the business from his father-in-law many years before. ‘Mr Brock, there is a law about schooling the children we employ, which we have to obey, as you very well know,’ she had reminded him, though she had gone far beyond the minimal lessons she was required to provide. ‘We are no less bound by it than anyone else.’

      ‘We had large orders to fill,’ he told her. ‘We needed every hand to the looms or the ship would have sailed half-loaded. Your father would never have allowed that.’ Reminding her what her father would or would not have done seemed to be his way of objecting to her orders.

      She needed Brock for the day-to-day running of the mill and so they had compromised on the hours of work and the amount of schooling the children had. She intended, little by little, to wear him down and have her own way. In the meantime she trod carefully and diplomatically, only too aware that as a woman she was despised; as the richest mill owner in the district she was treated with deference larded with a certain amount of contempt. She straightened her back, put her chin up and pretended not to mind.

      Today, she inspected everything, watched the shuttles flying across the looms for several minutes, spoke to the mill manager about production schedules, dealt with her correspondence and gave a few orders, something she did almost every day of her life. Though she appeared to be her usual self, there was, beneath the cool exterior, a fluttering in the pit of her stomach, a feeling of unease, as if something was hanging over her, not quite a threat, but something that could upset her well-ordered routine. It did not take much puzzling on her part to put it down to the arrival of the new Earl of Amerleigh.

      Roland rode on, noting, as he neared his home, that everything was looking decidedly neglected. Hedges were growing wild, ditches were uncleared, the workers’ cottages in disrepair. He stopped and dismounted at the church and went inside to look at the family vault. His father’s name, newly carved, was the last of a long line. He supposed his own name would be added in due time. Pushing such morbid thoughts from him, he returned to the road where Travers waited patiently with the horses, and they rode on towards the big house whose great chimneys and crenellated walls could be seen through a gap in the trees.

      It had stood in its surrounding deer park since Elizabeth was queen and Harold Temple had become rich plundering the seas for his monarch and been made an earl on the strength of it. Succeeding members of the family had added to the house, furnished it lavishly and held sway over the village, from which it took its name, or perhaps the village grew up after the house—Roland had never been sure. Now it had a forlorn and dismal air. The lawns were uncut, the flower beds and gravel drive full of weeds. He noticed a broken window and peeling paintwork.

      Roland rode on past it, down a long path beside what had once been a thriving garden and out on to a lane that led to the dower house. It was a square, red-brick building, having only a sitting room, a dining room, a parlour and four bedrooms as well as the usual offices. When he had left home six years before, it had been occupied by his grandmother, but she had died while he had been away. He had been very fond of the old lady who had defied her son and left Roland an annuity, not grand, but enough to provide him with a measure of independence, for which he was very grateful. He dismounted and handed his reins to Travers, then strode up to the door.

      It was opened before he reached it and his mother flew out and into his arms. ‘Roland, oh, Roland, you are home at last. I have been praying for you to come and now you are here. Let me look at you.’ She stood back to appraise him. She saw not the slim, half-grown youth who had left home, but a mature, battle-hardened man, tall, broad shouldered, weatherbeaten. ‘You have changed.’

      ‘It has been six years,’ he said with a smile. It was not only physically he had changed; his character had matured too. The young man who had been haughty and proud, СКАЧАТЬ