The Heir's Proposal Read online

  “Why leave this to live in that flat?” Fran rose on the seat to get a better view. “It’s magnificent. And the gardens are wonderful.”

  But Addie thought it had a neglected air, the weedy gardens, the unclipped hedges. There were cobwebs in the corners of some of the windows. She took a deep breath. How shallow to worry about such things when the world was at war and men were dying in droves at the front? “The house belongs to Bryce now. And here we are.”

  “I’ll help you with the bags, Lady Adelaide.” Jim pulled up his horse. He’d taken to ferrying people around since they’d sold most of the horses, and a shortage of fuel made it impossible to run motorcars. Addie thought briefly of Monty’s shiny green car. Shut away somewhere? And where was Monty? Was it possible that he and Bryce were together? She was being fanciful. But somehow, she hoped they were and could watch each other’s backs.

  “Thanks, Jim.” Addie climbed down and pressed money into his big hand. He left the bags in the hall, doffed his cap and returned to the trap.

  Fran joined her and stood staring up toward the roof.

  “Come on, let’s go inside.” Addie picked up her bags and walked to the porch.

  “It is so good to have you back, Lady Adelaide,” the housekeeper said at the front door.

  “Thank you, Mrs. Ruston. This is Fran Brightmore.”

  “How do you do?” Fran gave a slight bob, as if Mrs. Ruston was royalty.

  “We’ll be down in a moment or two. Where have you put Fran?”

  “I’ve had the blue bedroom made up for Miss Brightmore. It faces south and is not too chilly. We don’t have the staff to keep too many wood fires going. Your bedroom is well aired, Lady Adelaide. I’ll have the maid bring your bags up.”

  “Don’t bother, Mrs. Ruston. Fran and I will manage.” Addie picked up her suitcases.

  “You’ll both be peckish after your journey,” the housekeeper said. “I’ll have afternoon tea served in the south parlor. Mrs. Miller has been busy preparing a feast, well, not exactly like the old days. The army takes most of the eggs, but I’m sure it will be tasty and filling.”

  After tea and the discussion of housekeeping matters with the housekeeper, Addie roamed the house. Many rooms were under dust covers. She left Fran to unpack and went up to the schoolroom. It was unchanged from her time here and perhaps even her father before her. She roamed about touching things, the blackboard, a reading Primus, multiplication tables, her less than inspiring botanical sketches, exercise books filled with pages of her youthful writing, lead pencils, and wax crayons, an old slate. The world map hanging on the wall had her yearning for distant shores in search of adventure.

  Addie struggled to recognize her young self as she perched on the window seat. She no longer had the desire to climb out the window onto the roof. A flock of sheep kept the grass down where their garden parties were once held, the old tennis court knee high with weeds. Army trucks appeared on the road and soldiers, most out of uniform, could be seen moving about the camp.

  What could she do for the war effort? Bryce had suggested she work with the ladies from the local community, but somehow that didn’t seem enough. She had promised him she would stay here. And she would. Another month. Two? If she didn’t hear from him after two months, she would go back to London to seek work. She couldn’t bear to stay here waiting for word when all hope appeared lost.

  Addie left the room and went downstairs to see how Fran was settling in.

  Fran sat on a floral chintz chair patterned in blue and cream. “I’ve never seen the like,” she said her eyes wide. “I wish my mum could see it.”

  Addie sat on the half-tester bed and curled her fingers around the carved wooden post. “Do you mind if I ask what happened to your parents? A fire, I heard.”

  Fran nodded. “A burning log rolled onto the rug down in the parlor. Set the entire house on fire. I climbed out my window and down the trellis, but my parents…they couldn’t.”

  “I’m so sorry, Fran.” a surge of sympathy washed over her. Now Fran had lost Diana, the one person she could rely on. Well, she had Addie now. “Let’s go for a walk down to the river.”

  They left the house through the French doors leading onto the terrace. The garden paths led through weedy, neglected beds. All the gardening centered on the growing of produce. She sighed. The Langley gardens had once been a showplace. But it hardly mattered anymore. People were more important than gardens.

  Giving the army tents a wide berth, they entered the woodland and walked along the bridle trail. When they emerged on the bank of the river they stopped to watch the water rushing past. Addie breathed in the familiar dank smells of reeds, mold and water.

  “It’s so peaceful here.” Fran stooped to pick a mottled brown and cream owl’s feather from the ground. “Hard to believe there’s a war on.”

  “It used to be idyllic,” Addie said with a rush of remembering.

  A piercing whistle sounded from the hill beyond the river.

  Two men from the army camp strode down toward them.

  Fran blushed. “Goodness, they’re fresh.”

  “They’re out of line,” Addie murmured as the two men reached the opposite bank and appraised them from over the water.

  “I’m surprised to find girls here,” said the shorter one with ginger-hair and a freckled face.

  The dark-haired older soldier smirked. “Our luck is definitely in. I’m Sam and this is Will. We’re privates. Good to meet you, girls. They’re putting on a dance for the army at the church hall tonight. I hope you’re going?”

  “No, thanks. I am Fran, and this is Lady Adelaide Sherringham. It’s Sherringham land you’re standing on.”

  Addie tried not to laugh when their grins faded.

  Sam whipped off his hat as he backed away. “My lady. We’d better get back.” He and Will turned tail and jogged back up the hill.

  Addie laughed. “Well done, Fran.”

  Fran giggled. “Did you see their faces? What a hoot!”

  “They shouldn’t be wandering around, they’re out of bounds,” Addie said. “Come on, I want to introduce you to some dear friends of mine. They have a cottage nearby and are caring for Goldie, my father’s dog.”

  “Oh, good. I love dogs.”

  “You’ll like Grace and her husband. Lionel Stirling is the head gardener here.”

  They entered through a gate in the picket fence. Pink roses climbed the trellis on the wall of the two-story cottage, the cream shutters at the windows freshly painted. More vegetables than flowers filled the garden beds now.

  “What a pretty cottage,” Fran said. “How fortunate to live here.” As she spoke the door opened and Goldie ran out barking to jump up first at Addie and then Fran, who squatted down to pat her silky coat.

  “It’s so good to see you,” Grace said kissing Addie’s cheek. “My poor girl,” she murmured. “Such terrible news. Poor Diana! And this must be Fran.”

  Fran was under Diana’s wing when…” Addie suddenly couldn’t get the words out. She swallowed. “Fran, this is Mrs. Lionel Stuart.”

  “How do you do,” Fran said in her shy formal manner.

  “Good to meet you, Fran. Please call me Grace,” Grace said. “Come in, do. Lionel is at home. He is looking forward to seeing you, Addie.”

  “He is well?” Addie asked as they walked down the narrow hallway.

  Grace shook her head. “He isn’t Addie. But please don’t mention how ill he looks. He doesn’t like to admit he’s unwell.”

  ~ ~ ~ ~

  The rowboat deposited Bryce and Monty onto the rocky shore. Hefting their knapsacks, they went over the side, just as the moon made another brief appearance.

  After fighting for balance on the slippery moss-covered rocks, their feet found soft sand and they made their way along the dark and forbidding shore. Behind them, with a splash of oars, the rowboat vanished into the night. On reaching solid ground they headed for the trees, a purple mass outlined against the indigo sky.

/>   The road, which ran down to the tip of the island, looked to be little more than a goat track. Before they put a foot on it, wavering torchlight came toward them from the south, sending them back into the shadows. Voices reached them.

  Peering through their scant cover, Bryce saw two German soldiers, a torch lighting their way back to the cluster of buildings in the northwest.

  They squatted down behind bushes, vulnerable if the German’s light swung their way. Their raised voices carried on the still air. An argument. They stopped and faced each other, speaking in rapid German. Bryce tensed, while beside him Monty drew out his knife.

  Valuable minutes ticked by. If they waited too long, they would miss their connection. The fishing boat wouldn’t wait long. With no means to escape the island, they’d soon be captured and shot. And if these German’s should remember their orders to check the area, he and Monty would become sitting ducks.

  Bryce put his hand on Monty’s arm. A knife fight would be messy and dangerous and only alert the Germans to their presence.

  If it went on too long, they would have to risk it.

  The Germans finally agreed and continued their way north, laughing and chatting.

  Bryce waited while the minutes ticked by. The men’s voices grew faint, then disappeared.

  Would the fishing boat still be there? “Have to run for it,” Bryce said over his shoulder, breaking into a sprint.

  He and Monty ran down the dark road, unable to use their torches in case more Germans were around. They relied on the intermittent moonlight to guide them, as the clouds played cat and mouse with the moon.

  The dense scrub fell away to reveal a rocky inlet.

  His chest heaving, Monty grabbed Bryce’s arm to slow him down. “Torchlight, fifty yards to the left. Must be them.”

  “Let’s hope so,” Bryce murmured. It was a boat right enough; he could hear the creak of the rigging and the slap of waves against the hull. “We’ll creep up on them, real slow.”

  A light flashed on and off again, fast.

  Morse.

  “That’s them all right,” Monty said behind him.

  They anchored the fishing boat out in the small cove. A rowing boat drawn up on the beach.

  Bryce and Monty jumped down onto the sand.

  A man emerged from the shadows.

  “Good catch today?’ Bryce asked in Dutch.

  “No, the fish aren’t biting. You’re late. I was about to shove off,” he said. “Get in, be quick.”

  “We got held up,” Bryce explained as he and Monty helped to drag the boat back into the water.

  “We saw the Germans.” He took up the oars. “There’s a German patrol boat sniffing around out on the water. A few minutes more and we’d be gone. Left you here.” He chuckled. “I bet you’re glad we didn’t, eh?”

  “We are most grateful,” Bryce said struggling with the language.

  They boarded the fishing boat, the captain, a big, heavy-set man stood at the wheel, barking orders to his men. They took Bryce and Monty below, where a sailor removed a panel in the timbered wall of the cabin to reveal a cavity against the hull. The cramped area was barely big enough for one, let alone two sizeable men. They struggled to enter the confined space. Urging them to stay put with a gesture, he closed the panel after them.

  Blackness descended. The small space reeked of fish. Bryce moved his legs, trying to make himself comfortable. Impossible with his knees almost under his chin and Monty jammed hard up against him. “When did you last shower?” Bryce asked him.

  “The same time you did. It’s the fish,” Monty said. “I’d kill for a swig of rum. I have a flask in my knapsack, but they’ve taken it.”

  “No room in here for the bags,” Bryce said.

  “I hope that was the reason.” There was an edge to Monty’s voice. “What were the two German’s arguing about?”

  “The best way to make Borsch.”

  “What did they settle on?

  “Beets, carrots, pork, cream and white cabbage.”

  “All right! That’s enough.” Monty groaned. “A decent meal if we ever get one is probably days away.”

  The boat had sailed out of the inlet. Mountainous waves slapped against the hull a few feet from where they lay.

  “It will be a pleasant trip,” Bryce said through his teeth.

  “Always fancied a sea voyage.” Monty moved a foot and kicked Bryce in the shoulder. “Sorry.”

  Chapter Eleven

  “Here she is,” Grace said brightly as she led Addie and Fran into the parlor. Lionel sat in a chair smoking his pipe, the air tinted with the smell of tobacco. He was so gaunt that Addie fought not to show her dismay.

  “Lady Adelaide has brought a friend,” Grace said. “This is Miss Brightmore.”

  “Fran, please.” Fran walked across to shake Lionel’s hand. “You have a lovely home.”

  He laughed. “Hardly compares to the big house, but it’s comfortable.”

  “I find it cozy,” Fran said with a smile.

  “It is that.”

  “Have you had tea?” Grace asked.

  “We have. But I never say no to another cup. I should have brought some milk,” Addie said.

  “We have some. Sit down. I’ll make it.”

  “You sit, Fran. I’ll help Grace,” Addie said.

  In the kitchen, they spoke in whispers. The news from the doctor was not good.

  It was on the tip of Addie’s tongue to say Grace was always welcome to live at Langley. But it was no longer her home to offer. It proved unnecessary, however, for as Grace prepared the tea, she said, “I am content here. And here I shall stay as long as I’m able.”

  “I know Bryce will be perfectly happy with that arrangement,” Addie said.

  “But he’s gone, hasn’t he?” Grace glanced at her with a worried frown. And should the house fall into another’s hands…” she shrugged. “Who knows?”

  There was nothing Addie could say to that.

  Grace had the kettle on the hob and was arranging biscuits on a plate. “A new recipe,” she said, her back to Addie. “Not terribly successful, I’m afraid, with the shortage of flour and sugar, but Lionel likes them.”

  Grace turned and leaned against the table, a hand resting on each side of her. “I have been anxious to see you,” she said. “There is nothing we can do for poor Diana but keep her in our hearts. She has gone. But you are alive, Addie, and it sounds cold-blooded to say it, I know, but you must not waste your life looking back.”

  Addie sighed. “You’re right. You were always so sensible.”

  “We must make the best of things,” Grace said. “Will you continue with the publishing business?”

  “No, that’s finished. It was Diana’s dream, not mine.”

  Grace nodded and turned back to make the tea. “That poor forlorn young girl in there is very lucky to have you,” she said in an undertone.

  “Diana was the one who helped her. Fran is keen to find work, but I prefer her to stay with me, for purely selfish reasons. I enjoy her company, and with Bryce away…”

  “Is it too early for his letter?”

  Her chest tightened. “Yes. I’m not even sure I’ll get one.”

  The kettle boiled. Grace poured the water into the teapot and placed it on the tray. “He will if he can. We shall just have to be patient and wait. Come and sit down. Tea is a good panacea for all ills.”

  As they drank their tea, Lionel came in again from tending their chickens and went upstairs to wash.

  Lionel was a tall, rangy man with a raw-boned face. But now so thin, his high-bridged nose looked more prominent, his cheeks sunken.

  Grace saw her expression and nodded, her eyes darkening.

  ~ ~ ~ ~

  The timbers creaked as a squall hit. The seas grew rough, the wind howling around the boat, tossing it about. Waves thundered against the hull while rivulets ran down the timbers. Bryce and Monty rolled about in their confined space. Shouting penetrated the partition,
the words impossible to decipher above the engine noise and the roar of the sea. Bryce put his faith in the captain’s knowledge as he guided the boat through the shoals. He took a measure of comfort from the fact that it was something these fishermen did every day of their lives, and in all weathers.

  The boat rolled violently, throwing them hard against the timber struts of the hull, and into each other. Monty cursed.

  After an hour, the wind dropped, and the seas calmed. Bryce allowed himself to hope the worst of the storm had passed.