The Untamable Rogue

The Untamable Rogue

Cathy McAllister

English Edition 2012

copyright © 2012, Cathy McAllister

ALL RIGHTS RESERVED. The right of Cathy McAllister to be identified as author of this work has been asserted by her in accordance with section 77 & 78 of the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1988. All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in retrieval system, copied in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording or otherwise transmitted without the written permission from the author. You must not circulate this book in any format. This ebook is licensed for your personal enjoyment only and may not be resold or given away to other people. If you would like to share this book with another person, please purchase an additional copy for each recipient. For permission requests, write to the author at the following email-address: [email protected]

All characters and actions in the following work are fictional. Any resemblance to either living or deceased people is coincidental.

T
he sky was
heavy with grey clouds from which a constant drizzle rained upon me, soaking everything. It was one of those days on which everything simply looked grey, as if the rain had washed away all colour. The sad greyness matched the despondency in my heart perfectly. It had now rained continually for three days and the heavy ground had transformed into swampy mire that dragged ones’ shoes down as soon as one tried to take a step. In this muddy, brown swamp the open grave looked like a dark throat waiting to devour me. Not that I would have had anything against that. Part of me wanted to throw myself into this gullet, to be buried with
them
. In my heart I was already dead anyway, so why fight against it? Nothing seemed to be worth living for any more. I had lost everything: everything that I had loved and that had made me feel safe. How should I continue to exist in this dismal, grey world? Somehow it felt wrong that I was still here, as if I had been forgotten. This was no longer my world, or, more to the point,
I
was no longer part of this world. I was already just as dead as the two dear people who lay in their flower-bedecked coffins in the grave.

A lot of people had come to the funeral, but I was hardly aware of them. Now and again I felt their sympathetic glances on me. It was unbearable. I did not want any sympathy and I did not want to have to see or speak with anyone. They should simply leave me in peace. The longer I stood there in the rain, the more I withdrew inside myself to a place where the words of the fat, balding priest with the friendly, brown eyes could no longer reach me – and likewise the rain that made my black woollen cloak heavy and clammy, and made my fine, blond hair frizz despite the efforts of my maid.

I cannot say whether the cold that I felt was caused by the rain or came from within me – or both. The shock from the sudden loss had me firmly in its grasp and it was as if I were paralysed. No! As if frozen! Stiff! I had lost both parents at the same time and now I was completely alone.

My parents, William and Morgan Graham were attacked and killed by bandits when they were in a stage-coach on their way home from London, where our family owned several jewellery shops and a warehouse. I was an only child, and the only relative that I still had was James Atkins, my father’s brother-in-law, the widower of my Aunt Anne. I had last seen Uncle James when I was about seven years old, and I could hardly remember him. He would now act as my guardian as I had not yet come of age. On the following day he was due to arrive at Blue Hall, our family’s country estate. Blue Hall was a mansion with numerous bay windows and balconies. It was richly decorated and had ten bedrooms, a large and a small drawing room, my father’s study, five bathrooms, a kitchen and various working areas, as well as the servants’ rooms in the attic. It had always been more of a home to me than the town house in London. I loved the countryside – I loved riding for hours on end over meadows and fields with the wind blowing into my face.

Since Aunt Anne had died Uncle James had spent the last ten years in Paris and Amsterdam where he dealt in exquisite French wines and spirits. I had heard from my parents quite recently that my uncle’s business was not going well. He was apparently living the high life and frequently gambled and visited brothels. I had once heard my father talking to a friend about my uncle’s escapades. My father had never thought highly of his sister’s husband, which was why Uncle James was not a frequent visitor, and definitely not since Aunt Anne’s death.

The funeral passed me by like a bad dream. I was hardly even aware of the funeral meal afterwards. The servants dealt with all the necessary tasks without any instructions. They knew what they needed to do. I did not feel capable of tending to the hospitality of the numerous visitors. Indeed I was not even interested in whether everything went smoothly or not. I was, as I have already said, no longer part of this world.

My parents had moved in the best of circles and a lot of respected people had come to the funeral and the meal. Although he was not of nobility my father had, through his business success, moved my family into the upper class. My father was a glutton for work and he was ambitious. He had created a small empire from the single jewellery shop owned by his father. My mother, always a little too quiet and uninteresting, had been so very different in nature to my father that I had never understood how they had come together. Certainly my mother had been very beautiful; like a priceless, fragile china doll with delicate limbs and big eyes. I had loved her but rarely embraced her. She always appeared to me too much like a creature from a fairy garden. We had unfortunately never really become close. I had loved my father, however, more than anything, despite his strictness. We shared a passion for horses and for hunting. He did spend a lot of time in London on business, but, just like me, he felt happiest in the country. How much I missed him. Would this horrible pain ever subside?

After all the guests had finally left Lucie, my old wet-nurse took me to my room in the south wing of the house. I had always felt happy in this room. The two large windows let in a lot of light and the yellow curtains created a sunny atmosphere. On one wall hung a big painting of me at age twelve on the back of my first mare; my favourite dog, George, was sitting next to the horse, his head cocked. I had cried for days when the dog was fatally wounded by a wild boar. I had been fourteen at the time. Now I hardly gave any of that a thought. Listlessly I allowed myself to be undressed by my maid, Marie; an unprepossessing girl of sixteen, but with a great skill in hairdressing.

“I’m not at all happy about you, child,” said my wet-nurse, as she made me sit down on the chair at my dressing table.

Whilst Marie brushed out my hair old Lucie prepared the bed, muttering something to herself. I let everything happen without moving and without saying a word. I wanted to cry, to scream, to simply expel my anguish, but my eyes remained dry, my mouth closed whilst inside I was being torn apart.

“Come to bed, love,” Lucie cajoled me after Marie had finished with my hair. I wanted to do as she said but I was incapable of standing up. My brain was not able to send commands to my body. Unshed tears were burning my eyes and I could not let them out. A sense of panic came over me and I felt as if I was not getting enough air. My chest hurt with the effort of pumping sufficient oxygen into my body.

‘Help me, Papa! I’m choking!’

My fists clenched and my nails dug deep into the palms of my hands, but I felt nothing – only the fear – this horrible fear.

Suddenly I felt a gentle warmth within me; like a tiny flame in my core. The flame grew bigger and the warmth spread to my fingertips, relaxing my hands. My chest rose and sank again without pain, as I inhaled and exhaled deeply.

“Are you OK?” asked Marie, concerned.

I did not answer, but I turned my head to look at her. No! I was not OK – but better.

Not until Marie took my arm did I get up and I was lead to the bed.

Lucie asked me to sit down and held a cup up to me. A strong smell rose to my nostrils; another herbal concoction from my cook who knew a lot about all sorts of herbal drinks and tinctures. Usually what she concocted helped, even if it did taste awful.

“Here, my child. Drink this. It will help you sleep well,” said Lucie.

Obediently I emptied the cup containing the slightly bitter concoction and then sank back onto the pillow. My nanny carefully covered me up, then left the room with the maid and I was alone. The tears came at last and once they had started to pour they would not stop until I finally fell asleep, exhausted.

The next morning I felt completely exhausted. I had slept very badly, shocked out of sleep several times by bizarre dreams. I guessed that my sleeping potion had contained laudanum.

Listlessly I let Marie dress me and do my hair, then I took a little breakfast in the drawing room. The fresh apple cake and the mince pies, that I usually loved, did not taste good to me today. I had to force down every single bite and suppress the need to choke. I only ate in order not to hurt my cook, Martha, who was a dear soul. I was no longer interested in this life, but that did not mean that I did not care if I hurt people who meant something to me. And my cook meant a lot to me. She had been in our household for as long as I could remember. Martha was small and round, with arms and hands like a blacksmith, but a heart of gold. She was the one who had dried my tears and put a little apple cake into my mouth when papa had scolded me or when I had hurt myself.

I was used to eating alone because my parents had travelled a lot, but there was a difference between them being on a trip and me knowing that they would never again sit at a table with me. I even missed mama’s reprimands. She had always found fault with me. She would say: “Sit up straight, Elizabeth!” or “Can’t you use you cutlery like any respectable person?”, and papa would hold his serviette to his mouth to hide his grin. Then he would clear his throat and raise his voice. “Listen to your mother, Elizabeth Sofia!” He always called me by both of my forenames when he scolded me. Otherwise he always called me, affectionately, Liz or Lizzie.

“Anything else?” the maid pulled me from my day dreams.

I shook my head cheerlessly. The mince pie lay heavily in my stomach and I felt wretched. I could not imagine being able to live for even one more day like this. I missed them so much. The pain made me ache inside. I could not imagine being able to laugh ever again.

“No, Molly. Thank you – I will go for a short ride.”

“Your uncle will arrive shortly. Do you not wish to greet him?” asked Molly with concern.

“I won’t stay out long – just a short gallop. I need… fresh air,” I croaked, then jumped up from my chair and left the room hastily.

In front of the stable I reined in my father’s favourite stallion, a black Friesian horse from the Netherlands with a long, flowing mane and a noble head with intelligent eyes. I had my own saddle-horse, a chestnut coloured mare with a balanced and friendly nature, but I got more enjoyment from the vivacity of the black stallion. Moreover the animal had belonged to my father and I felt closer to him by riding his stallion. Father had been an excellent rider and he had taught me to ride himself. He had been a strict teacher but I was an eager pupil, always wishing to make him proud.

The fast ride did me good. I felt invigorated as my long, blond hair was being swept by the wind. My hair had come undone because of the high speed and I had lost my hat, but it did not bother me – I already felt much better – more alive. That was how it had always been when I was troubled: a hard gallop cleared my mind and made me feel good. It was not that my sorrow had gone – the gaping wound in my heart was still there, but the ride had taken the edge off the pain and given me back some zest for life.

I jumped out of the saddle and patted the mighty neck of the noble horse before handing him over to the stable boy who had rushed up to me.

“Your uncle has already arrived, my lady,” the young lad reported, upset.  He seemed quite flustered.

“When?” I asked, my heartbeat racing; the thought of having to meet my guardian now tightened my throat. Now my life was taking yet another turn and I feared the worst. I felt the urge to jump back onto my horse and flee; to simply keep on riding until the world ended.

“About half an hour ago,” answered the boy.

I sighed and forced myself not to give into the wish to flee. The wonderful thrill of the fast ride had left me immediately. Instead I feared that I might collapse at any moment. My legs felt as if the supporting bones had softened and were now no longer able to carry the weight of my body.

“My lady? Are you OK!” The boy’s voice pulled me from my thoughts. He was looking at me with concern out of his big, round eyes.

I shook my head, slightly confused.

“Thank you, Timo. Give this good fellow here an extra handful of oats – he has really earned it.

“Of course, my lady. I will also brush him nicely until he shines again,” said the lad eagerly.

“Yes, do that,” I said, a little distracted. My thoughts had returned to the impending meeting with my uncle. How would he be? Hopefully we would get on to some degree. Whatever, he would live here at Blue Hall for the next six months and make decisions about my life. I gave myself a nudge and went, with concern in my heart, to the manor house.

My feelings were mixed as I entered the building. Of course I had no idea what awaited me there. I cursed the unalterable fact that I had been born a woman. Men had freedom in all matters and were taken far more seriously even at my age. It was an outrageous injustice!

In the entrance hall it was cool and I shivered. Molly rushed straight up to me. Her cheeks were reddened with agitation and she seemed frantic.

“Your uncle is here. God preserve us, such a …” she began and then put her hand up to her mouth as if she had wanted to say something impertinent.

Her hands were shaking as she took my cloak. Dear Molly did tend to react hysterically, but her obvious panic made me feel sick to the core; first the stable boy and now the maid. What sort of person must my uncle be to have already caused such turmoil on his arrival.

“Such a
what
? – What did you want to say Molly?” I probed.

“Oh, nothing, my lady,” Molly quickly dismissed the matter. “He’s waiting for you in your blessed father’s study. You should hurry. He’s a bit – impatient. – Oh, but your hair! Whatever have you done with that beautiful hairstyle? Quick, I’ll sort it out in a flash!”

At first I was going to decline, but decided against it. Her strange conduct really worried me. It really did not sound as if my uncle was the sort of person that one could get on well with. I calmed myself with the thought that I would fortunately be independent in just six months’ time. Till then I had to grin and bear it. Molly tidied my hair again and I set off to my uncle so that he was not kept waiting any longer. I felt as if I were marching to my own execution.