LITMIR.BIZ

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miles around were suddenly alert to the possibilities. Hence the bigger than usual congregation at church the following day.

      Wondering what to wear, Roland had surveyed his wardrobe, which did not take long. Apart from his ordinary uniform and a dress uniform that he wore on formal occasions, he had a pair of overalls, a riding coat of Bath cloth which he had been wearing when he enlisted, a pair of calfskin breeches, half a dozen shirts, a change of underclothes, and a spare pair of boots. He had never needed more. He found some of his old clothes in a trunk, which his mother had brought to the dower house. There was among them a black frock coat and breeches, but when he tried them on, he found they were several sizes too small. The Roland who had gone away had been a stripling of twenty-one, slim as a reed; the Roland who had returned was broad of shoulder, deep-chested, with muscular legs and arms. He had perforce to ask Travers to spruce up his best uniform and tie a black mourning ribbon about his sleeve. Bennett had brought out the carriage, for which Roland had hired horses, and took immense pride in cleaning it so it gleamed as it once had, and he and his mother travelled in that.

      After the service, the Countess placed herself between Roland and the parson on the church path to greet everyone and introduce them to her son. Among them were Lord and Lady Gilford, who had a substantial mansion on the road between Amerleigh and Scofield, Mr and Mrs Edward Trent of Shrewsbury; Sir Gordon and Lady Brandon, who had a country house on the slopes above Scofield, and several others whom Roland did not know. They were all accompanied by offspring.

      That might have been the end of it, but the parson, conscious of his role as conciliator, addressed Lady Brandon. ‘My lady, I am sure the Earl needs no introduction, but I am persuaded you would wish to welcome him back in our midst.’ And to Roland. ‘My lord, you remember Sir Gordon and Lady Brandon, do you not?’

      Roland bowed. ‘Your servant, my lady. Sir Gordon.’

      Her ladyship acknowledged him with a slight inclination of the head. ‘My lord.’

      Sir Gordon shook his hand and then drew Martha forward. ‘May I present my daughter, Martha?’

      He bowed, remembering the schoolgirl he had seen about the village with her governess when he had been home in his youth. She had become an attractive young lady. ‘Miss Brandon.’

      She bobbed a curtsy and kept her eyes downcast. ‘My lord.’

      The parson had not done. ‘My lord, I believe you are acquainted with Miss Cartwright.’

      It was only then he realised that Charlotte stood behind them. Gone was the strange riding gear and in its place was a watered silk gown in a soft dove-grey, topped with a matching short pelisse. Her amber hair, which had been so windswept when he had come upon her riding, was now pinned up beneath a simple straw bonnet, but he could see that it was already straining to escape.

      He realised quite suddenly that plain was an inaccurate way to describe her. Not that she was a beauty; her features were too strong for that, but handsome might do. Her eyes were her most striking feature and they were looking at him in a way that made him feel uncomfortable. Disdainful, amused, irate, wary—he wasn’t sure how to describe that look. As far as he knew, she had not heard the hateful description of her he had flung at his father all those years ago, but remembering them now made him feel ashamed of words that never should have been uttered by anyone calling himself a gentleman, however irate he had felt. ‘Your servant, Miss Cartwright,’ he said, touching his hand to the peak of his shako.

      She had thought he was tall when mounted, but now she realised he must be over six foot in height, a giant of a man and not one to be easily intimidated. But neither was she. ‘My lord,’ she responded coolly. She had not been brought up to attend church regularly, but she had realised that not to go might make for gossip. As she did not want anyone to connect her with his disappearance six years before, she had come, telling herself that she would take herself off immediately after the service. She had not bargained for the parson’s interference. She turned from him to the Countess. ‘My lady, how do you do?’

      ‘I am well, thank you. And you?’ The Countess was, as ever, graciousness itself, and whatever Charlotte felt about the late Earl and his son, she liked her and felt sorry for her.

      ‘I am in fine fettle,’ she said, risking a glance at the Earl. He was looking at her intently, as if trying to read what was going on in her head. She hoped not, because her thoughts were confused. She had to admit she found his rugged good looks attractive, more so than the immature looks of the boy who had disdained her, and had to tell herself sternly that he could never be forgiven that.

      ‘Did you have a good voyage home?’ the Countess asked.

      She laughed. ‘The sea was somewhat rough, but I survived it.’

      ‘Miss Cartwright has recently returned from a visit to Jamaica,’ his mother explained to Roland. ‘She has a sugar plantation out there.’

      ‘Indeed?’ he said. So that accounted for the name of her house; Mandeville he knew to be a Jamaican town. ‘And slaves, too, no doubt?’

      ‘The trade slave has been outlawed, Lord Temple,’ she said, noticing the Countess’s look of shock that he should mention such a thing.

      ‘The trade, yes, but not the ownership.’

      ‘True, but there would be hue and cry if the law decreed they had to be freed,’ she said. ‘We should have no sugar, tobacco or cotton. It would be disastrous for the British economy.’ She wondered why she did not tell him that her slaves had been given their freedom instead of repeating parrot fashion the arguments her father had used when she had questioned him on the subject. Obstinacy, she supposed, and a mischievous wish to score a point over him.

      His mother touched his arm, warning him not to continue. ‘Point taken, Miss Cartwright,’ he said, smiling as if he knew perfectly well what she was about. It disconcerted her to think he could read her mind like that.

      ‘Have you ever visited the Indies, my lord?’

      ‘No, never.’

      ‘Perhaps you should.’

      ‘One day, perhaps. Did you not find the climate uncomfortably hot?’

      ‘I do not suppose it was any worse than the heat in Spain.’

      ‘Probably not,’ he agreed. ‘One becomes used to it. But it is good to be back in England’s softer climate, do you not agree?’

      ‘Oh, most decidedly, and especially in springtime.’

      The conversation ground to a halt. His mother plucked at his sleeve. ‘Good day, Miss Cartwright.’ He touched his hat again and, taking his mother’s arm, guided her to their carriage to return to the dower house.

      ‘Roland, how could you?’ his mother scolded him. ‘It is not like you to be discourteous.’

      ‘Perhaps I let my feelings on the subject carry me away,’ he replied unrepentantly.

      Charlotte walked to the churchyard gate with Lady Brandon. ‘Charlotte, why did you not tell him you had freed your slaves?’ her ladyship queried, watching his departing back.

      ‘Because I did not choose to. He has no right to criticise me.’

      ‘Do you think he is married?’

      ‘I am sure I do not know.’

      ‘I should not be at all surprised if he did not have a Spanish wife tucked away somewhere, and we shall be expected to receive her. And just look at him! Was that meant to be a uniform he was wearing?’

      ‘It is the uniform of the 95th Rifles,’ Charlotte murmured. ‘I believe they are considered some of our finest fighters and always in the vanguard of any attack.’

      ‘Is that so?’

      ‘So I have read. And it seems to me that a green uniform is much more practical than a red one. It is less easily seen by the enemy.’

      ‘That is as may be,’ her ladyship said.

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