The Property of a Gentleman. Helen Dickson

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      The churchyard was a sad and sorrowful place and Eve moved along the paths in sympathy to nature’s silence, the huge, cold grey gravestones covered in lichen and casting looming, grotesque shadows in the gathering gloom. Coming to a halt, she stood looking down at the mound of newly dug earth and clay strewn with flowers, noticing how they were already beginning to wilt and to lose all their frail beauty. Tomorrow they too would be dead. She felt a terrible pain wrench her heart when she contemplated the lifeless forms of her parents lying side by side beneath the soil.

      Unlike their ancestors before them who had been interred inside the church, her parents had long since chosen to be buried side by side in the churchyard. Unable to contain the grief that had been accumulating in her heart since her father’s accident, tears started in her eyes and streamed down her face.

      She fell to her knees and bowed her head as she finally gave way under the long strain that possessed her. All her reserve was gone and she began to cry dementedly, her body shaking with an uncontrollable reservoir of grief, bewilderment and betrayal—unable to understand why her father, who had loved her, had treated her so harshly, unaware as she wept of the tall, silent figure that stood watching her from the gate.

      Having taken longer to depart from Burntwood Hall than he had intended, Marcus had come to the churchyard to pay his final respects to the man who had become more than a friend to him over the few years he had known him, a man to whom he owed so much. He paused at the gate on seeing the kneeling, sorrowing figure beside the grave, only just able to make out in the dusk the profile of Eve Somerville, her slender form racked with grief.

      His heart contracted with pain and pity, for never had he seen or heard so much desolation in anyone before. He took a step, intending to go to her, but checked himself, thinking it would be best to leave her, that it would do her good to cry, for he suspected there was no one in that great house to offer her comfort. He had to fight the urge to go to her, to take her in his arms and hold her, to caress the soft cloud of hair that had tumbled loose from its pins and fell in wanton disarray about her lovely face.

      Aware of his own inadequacy he cursed softly, knowing that Eve Somerville had made a deep and lasting impression on him, penetrating his tough exterior and finding a way into his heart as no other woman had done before. It took all his willpower to tear his eyes from her forlorn figure, to turn and walk away—but it was a picture he knew would never leave him.

       Chapter Three

       L ater, feeling drained of all emotion and extremely tired, Eve sought the sanctuary of her room, curling up in the large winged chair by the fire and closing her eyes, unable to cast Marcus Fitzalan from her mind. Falling into a fitful doze, she found her mind drifting back over the years to the time of Atwood Fair, when she had been seventeen years old, amazed that she should remember every detail and all the words he had said to her, which, because of the humiliation it never failed to evoke, she always refused to do.

      She remembered that it had all begun as a silly, girlish prank on the day of the fair—although it could be said that the nature of the prank was not the kind any respectable, well brought-up young lady would have indulged in.

      Knowing how much the townspeople looked forward to seeing them, normally her parents showed their faces for just a little while, allowing Eve to accompany them, but this time her mother was not feeling well so was unable to attend. However, knowing how much Eve loved the fair and not wishing to disappoint her, she allowed her to go in the company of Mrs Parkinson, a good friend and the wife of a reputable local squire, whose own daughter Emma was Eve’s closest friend. She was confident that she would be well chaperoned and that Mrs Parkinson would see that she did not get up to any mischief.

      Atwood Fair was a tremendous social event and the highlight of the year, when the close-knit families of Atwood and the surrounding countryside came together to enjoy and revel in the two days of festivities. It was also of economic importance, for livestock and farm produce were brought in from nearby farms and villages to be sold. Drovers also brought in flocks of sheep and cattle from considerable distances, and wandering gypsies came in gaily painted caravans, positioning them in fields adjacent to the fairground.

      There was always so much variety, with so many delightful attractions such as puppet shows, waxworks, shooting galleries and bowling, but also what Eve considered the less attractive events, such as bear baitings, cockfights and prize fights, which always attracted large crowds but which she never went near, finding such spectacles quite revolting.

      Traders and merchants had set up stalls to try to tempt visitors to part with their money, and children romped about while lovers strolled hand in hand among the many colourful booths. The appetising aroma of cooking food filled the air, and Eve’s father always donated an ox to be roasted on a spit above an open fire, the fat sizzling noisily as it dripped into the hot charcoal embers.

      It was mid-afternoon when Eve arrived with her friends Emma Parkinson and Angela Lambert. Eve and Emma were friends of long standing, but she had never got on really well with Angela, who rarely lost an opportunity to embarrass her. She was single minded and forever in pursuit of her own interests. Normally Eve would ignore her, although it did not occur to her that Angela might be jealous of her family’s wealth and superior standing in the district, and envious of her popularity with the local young men, selfishly wanting all their attention focused on herself.

      Angela and Emma were so very different. Emma was as slender as a wand and had nut-brown hair with eyes to match, and while she was of a gentle disposition with a placid indolence, Angela, with auburn hair and hazel eyes, was quite the opposite, being rather voluptuous, lively and full of energies she found hard to repress. There was also a jealous, malicious streak to her nature that often challenged Eve’s own.

      Sitting on the grass on the edge of the crowd beneath a warm July sun—where they were being watched over by a sharp-eyed Mrs Parkinson as she conversed with a group of ladies—they were discussing Eve’s imminent betrothal to Leslie Stephenson, the good-looking eldest son of a baronet who lived in the area, who had taken little persuading to come to the fair, although he had soon taken himself off to watch the wrestling and boxing matches in progress.

      Leslie seemed to find Eve quite enchanting and she couldn’t believe her good fortune that she had made such a conquest, although he did seem to be taking an awfully long time in applying to her father for her hand in marriage, which was secretly beginning to worry and vex her.

      Eve and Emma sat listening as Angela enthused at length about a young man from her home town of Little Bolton, which was situated halfway between Atwood and Netherley. She considered herself an authority on everything—especially men, positively thriving on their attentions; she was already an expert at knowing how to attract them.

      ‘There are more important things in life,’ Eve commented, bored by the fervour with which Angela insisted they know all about a young man they had not met.

      Angela scowled crossly. ‘You can say that when you’re almost betrothed to one of the most eligible men in the north, Eve,’ she said, reaching into a box of bonbons Leslie had brought them before disappearing.

      ‘And you will find as big a catch one day, Angela. Men flock round you in droves. You know how to flirt, how to say what pleases them. You’ll soon have yourself a husband—although if you carry on eating those bonbons like that you’ll become so plump you’ll put them off,’ she said as Angela popped another into her mouth. She watched as Angela’s soft pink lips closed around the sugary sweet, beginning to feel distinctly uneasy about the way Angela always attached herself to Leslie, who, to her anger and dismay, seemed flattered by it and not to mind in the slightest.

      ‘If he’s half as rich and good looking СКАЧАТЬ