The Daughters Of Red Hill Hall (18 page)

She pursed her lips together to return the kiss in a chaste kind of way, as if he’d meant to kiss her cheek and somehow had missed. She put her hands on his upper arms, gave him a short squeeze and then pushed him away. ‘Yes, thanks once again. So, right, see you in the museum tomorrow. I’ll get that proposal written.’ Yes, that was the technique, pretend he’d meant a friendly goodbye hug and peck on the cheek, and remind him they were work colleagues. Anyone would take the hint their advances weren’t welcome after that.

Anyone that is, except Roger. He kept hold of her shoulders. ‘Gemma, I know it’s not long since Ben left you but a lovely girl like you – you shouldn’t be on your own. You need a man, and, well, I’d like to be that man. What do you think? We get on so well, we’ve had a lovely evening…’

Oh shit. She shook her head, trying desperately to keep her expression regretful but firm. ‘Roger, you’re so sweet, and I like you a lot, but…’ Again, any other man would have been able to fill in the rest of the sentence after the ‘but’. Roger, however, still looked hopeful so she had to continue, after heaving a huge sigh. ‘But I can’t consider you in that way. It’s far too soon since Ben left me. I’m not ready to date again, and in any case, I’m so sorry, I just don’t think you and I would be right together. We work together. We should keep our relationship on a professional level only.’

‘Oh. Right. Well, if you change your mind…’

She smiled. ‘Then I’ll know where to find you. No hard feelings, eh?’

‘None at all. Thanks anyway for this evening.’ He held out his hand to shake hers. An odd, but typically Roger-ish gesture.

‘We should do it again sometime. I mean, to discuss work, new exhibitions and all that. Thank you for the drinks. Goodnight.’ Her instinct was to lean in and give him a peck on the cheek but she stopped herself in time, in case it muddled the message too much.

Inside, she flung her bag and jacket down and flopped onto the sofa. Well, that had been a surprising evening! Who’d have thought it?

She reached for her phone and dialled Nat’s number even before she realised what she was doing. She needed to share the evening’s experiences with someone, and as always, there was no one better than Nat.

Nat answered immediately. Gemma related the events of the evening, exaggerating the awkwardness of the situation at poor Roger’s expense. She felt a pang of guilt – he was such a lovely bloke, but she knew she needed the catharsis of laughing about it all. At the other end of the phone Nat was in stitches, gasping for breath as Gemma went on.

‘Oh, Gem! But he’s so sweet, how
could
you turn him down? Just because he’s got hands that feel like dead fish, the dress sense of your dad and the social skills of a duck-billed platypus, doesn’t mean you couldn’t be deliriously happy with him! Ha ha ha! I can’t believe he tried to kiss you! Was it tongues and everything?’

‘More like teeth and blubbery lips!’ Gemma giggled.

‘Ew! Like kissing an Australian blobfish! Remember when you were at uni, and I came to visit, and your flabby flatmate tried to pull me? We called him Mr Blobfish for years after, didn’t we?’ Nat dissolved once again into peals of laughter. It was infectious, and Gemma couldn’t help but join in.

By the time she ended the call, her ribs ached and her spirit soared. The evening hadn’t been unpleasant, the awkwardness was brief and she’d brushed Roger off politely and sensitively. And she’d had a darn good giggle with Nat, reminiscing about the worst dates they’d ever had. It had done her good.

The one thing that was totally confirmed in her mind, after her brief experience of being courted by someone else, was that she wasn’t ready to give Ben up completely yet. She was going to try to get him back.

Chapter 16

August 1838

Since Charles’s body had been found Rebecca had barely slept. Each night she lay tossing and turning and fretting. Her mother had fallen down the stairs and broken her neck, while Sarah stood at the top with that expression Rebecca could still remember so vividly. That expression of triumph, quickly rearranged into shock and grief. Her father died of a heart attack but not before he’d amended his will and left the estate to Sarah. Charles, calling off the engagement and then, when he apparently wouldn’t transfer his affections to Sarah, being found drowned in a well. Rebecca had lost her fiancé and her inheritance, all to Sarah – the girl she had loved as a sister throughout her childhood. But now – now she no longer loved her. She hated her. Sarah had taken everything from her. Everything! And now Sarah was threatening to force her to leave Red Hill Hall. Leave the house where she had been born, where she had always lived, and which she should have inherited, to go – where? She was as good as penniless. Rebecca’s future was in tatters. There was no hope for her.

She felt threatened by Sarah, she realised. Her future, her fortune and indeed her life felt as though they were in Sarah’s hands. She was but a plaything, and Sarah would not care if she were to be broken. A memory flashed into her mind – Sarah, aged ten, tugging a bird’s nest containing fledglings out of the hedge, and flinging it down in disgust when it fell apart in her hands. Sarah had no respect for living things. If they ceased to entertain her or be of use to her, or, worse, got in her way, then she would do whatever was needed to be rid of them. Had she shoved Mama down the stairs? Pushed Charles into the well? The more Rebecca thought on it, the more she considered Sarah capable of all these actions.

Now Rebecca herself was presumably superfluous to Sarah’s needs. Although the estate was Sarah’s, there were still mutterings amongst the staff, reported to her by the loyal Tilly, that Rebecca should have inherited. Possibly they would never accept Sarah as mistress all the while Rebecca was still there. Even if Rebecca went away would they ever fully accept Sarah? Perhaps they would only see her as the true owner and mistress of Red Hill Hall if Rebecca was removed from the estate, in such a way that she could not come back – in other words, if she was dead.

Rebecca shivered. Could she really be in danger of her life, from Sarah, her childhood friend, her adopted sister? It seemed incredible, unbelievable, but yet, she
did
feel threatened. She should take steps to defend herself. To be ready, should Sarah try to harm her in any way.

It was with this dark thought in mind that she went to the hallway, to the display cabinet that housed the duelling pistols her dear Papa had bought. She checked no one was looking, and unlocked the cabinet. The pistols were not there. A couple of old, patterned plates stood on the shelf where the pistol case had been. It was odd. They’d been displayed there since Papa had bought them, several years before. Sarah was making changes everywhere in the house. To where might she have moved the pistols? Rebecca checked the library and drawing room but found no sign of them. Perhaps they were in Sarah’s bedchamber, or hidden away somewhere? On a sudden instinct she considered the cellar. It was worth checking.

The steps to the cellar were at the far end of the servants’ passage. She made sure Spencer was not watching from the butler’s pantry, and made her way down, taking an oil lamp from the passage to light her way. There were several rooms in the cellar, storing wine, coal and sacks of potatoes and flour. One held some built-in cupboards and old, unwanted furniture – mostly broken chairs from the servants’ hall. If the pistols were down here, that was where they would be stored.

She was right. The mahogany box was in an unlocked cupboard in the first cellar. She tutted when she found it. Something as valuable as this ought to be kept locked away. She would have a word with Spencer later. With a jolt she realised it wasn’t her place to do that any more. The pistols, like almost everything else in the house, belonged to Sarah now, and if Sarah was happy to keep them in such an insecure place then that was up to her.

Well, at least it made it easier for her to do this. She hung the oil lamp from a hook in the ceiling. As she opened the lid of the box she wondered once again how things had come to this: that she was considering arming herself against her childhood friend. She eased open the lid, and gasped. Only one pistol lay within. The other was missing.

Her first thought was that it had been stolen – anyone could have come down here and taken it. Any of the servants, or even outsiders, for there was a second set of steps at the far end of the cellars, leading up to a door that opened into the kitchen garden. That door was often left unlocked, as it was well hidden behind high hedges.

But her second thought was far more chilling. Perhaps Sarah had removed the second pistol. Perhaps Sarah planned to use it against her. With shaking fingers Rebecca checked the other items in the box. Had the other gun been loaded when it was removed? All the other components of the box were in place, but it did look as though they’d been taken out and perhaps rather hurriedly replaced. The ramrod was not quite in its slot. And the flask of gunpowder was half empty. If Sarah had taken the pistol and loaded it – well, then Rebecca must defend herself and do the same. There was no further question in her mind as to what she should do. Her hands trembled as she took out the remaining gun. It needed to be loaded, or it would be useless. She racked her brains to remember what Spencer had shown them, all those years ago. She opened the pot of gunpowder, and poured some down the muzzle, stuffing a cartridge in after it, then pushed it all down with the ramrod. She tipped a little more powder into the flash pan, and closed the frizzen. There. Now it was primed and loaded.

All she would need to do to fire it would be to cock it and pull the trigger. Not that she ever intended firing it. But it would be as well to have everything to hand, so that if Sarah did threaten her, she would be ready. Ready to defend herself, or at least look as though she could, should the need arise. She tucked the pistol into a pocket of her skirt, closed the pistol case lid and cupboard, and began to make her way out of the cellars.

Someone was coming down the steps that led into the cellars from the kitchen garden. Rebecca turned to see who it was, holding her lamp high. She gasped when she realised it was Sarah. Thank goodness Sarah hadn’t come a few moments ago, while she was still loading and priming the pistol. Lord knows how she would have explained herself. She remembered with a shudder that she had the
second
pistol, and that it was perfectly possible that Sarah had the first.

‘What are you doing down here?’ Sarah demanded. Her eyes flashed in the lamplight as she approached.

‘Erm, I was looking for something,’ Rebecca replied. Why did she even have to answer the question? The house by rights should have been hers, and she could wander around her own home as she pleased without having to explain to anyone.

‘It’s my cellar,’ said Sarah, as though she’d heard Rebecca’s thoughts. ‘And I want you out of it. In fact, I want you out of the house. You have had long enough since Papa’s death to sort out your affairs and find somewhere else to go.’

Rebecca stared at Sarah. ‘It’s too soon. I have nowhere to go, and no money.’

Sarah laughed harshly. ‘Get a job. Live on the streets. Sell your body. What do I care? I just want you gone from here.’

How could she be so unfeeling, so uncaring, after all they had shared in the past? Rebecca appealed to Sarah’s better nature. ‘But why, Sarah? What has gone wrong between us? We were so close, such good friends, as good as sisters, while we were growing up. Before Papa died, we were the best of friends, were we not?’

‘It seemed so, when we were little. But as I grew older I realised that we were never equals. You had everything. Status, family, money, inheritance, fiancé. Everything. And I had nothing. The daughter of the housekeeper, kept on after my mother died as an act of charity. Permitted to attend lessons with you only to keep you company. Expected to stay as your paid companion for the rest of my life. Pah! Not allowed to find a husband and home of my own! How do you think I felt, knowing that was the future I had to look forward to? And you never once let me forget I was your social inferior. Never once!’ Sarah’s spittle as she shouted the last few words shone in the lamplight.

‘I would not have forced you to stay as a companion if you had wanted to go. If I’d married Charles I would not have needed a companion in any case. But you stopped that, didn’t you? You wanted him for yourself, and did what you could to turn him away from me.’ Sarah was not the only one with grievances. Rebecca had a sudden realisation that this conversation, or rather, argument, was going to be their big showdown. She felt strangely glad of the comforting weight of the pistol in her skirts.

‘He had only agreed to marry you out of a sense of duty. He did not want you.’ Sarah took a step forward, and her face, lit by the lamp, was distorted and twisted. ‘And because he then broke things off, you prevented me from having him, by sending him to his death!’

‘I? I had nothing to do with his death!’

‘You hounded him. Made him feel guilty for breaking off the engagement. In the end he could not bear what society thought of him for doing that, and threw himself into the well. You’re as guilty of his death as if you’d pushed him in yourself.’

‘I did not hound him! What a ridiculous notion. I loved him, but when he broke things off I let him go with dignity. I did not even see him again afterwards, except at Papa’s funeral.’ Rebecca was furious. How dare Sarah accuse her of playing any part in Charles’s death? ‘And it is not only Charles you took from me, Sarah. You stole my inheritance. The estate should have been left to me, as the only child of Papa. Not you. You are right in that you were never my equal. You are indeed only the daughter of a housekeeper, with an unknown father. This house, these grounds – it should all be mine. Then I would be throwing
you
out, and see how you like that!’

‘But Papa left it to me, didn’t he?’ Sarah said smugly. ‘And my father may be unknown to you, but
I
know who he was.’

Rebecca longed to wipe that smug expression from Sarah’s face. ‘I know who he was as well. Actually, it’s common knowledge. Poor Spencer, having a daughter like you.’