Anna Jacobs Read Free Page A

Jannvier’s death.
    * * * *
    Upstairs, Deborah hastily donned her mother’s riding habit, a garment which was very old-fashioned, but of good quality dark green cloth and showing little wear. The jacket and waistcoat, which were like men’s garments, fitted her perfectly, but would have hung on her mother’s thin frame nowadays. The full petticoat was a little short, because she was taller than her mother, but there was no help for that. Under it she put on a pair of the yellowed flannel trousers her mother had always worn when riding to protect her legs. On her head she wore the rather battered three-cornered hat that went with the outfit.
    Bessie stopped protesting and started to help pack. Shaking out Deborah’s best cloak she folded it carefully, saying, “It may grow cold later.” She then put a change or two of clothing into Mr Jannvier’s old saddlebags, muttering, “You’ll have to sleep in your shift, there isn’t room for much more.”
    There was a hammering on the front door, then it opened and that deep voice called out, “Are you ready yet, Miss Jannvier? I’ve got your horse waiting at the inn.”
    “The cheek of it!” huffed Bessie. “Opening a lady’s door and yelling at her like that! A gentleman would know better.”
    The listener below scowled as he heard the maid’s words echo down the stair well. Who would want to be a fine gentleman if the few he had known were examples of the species?
    “Never mind. I’m ready now!” Deborah stole a last glance in the small mirror, not displeased with her appearance.
    Bessie’s face crumpled and her eyes grew bright with tears, “You will be careful, won’t you, dearie? I shan’t rest easy till you’re safe home again, that I shan’t! Let me carry this down for you.”
    Downstairs, Isabel Jannvier had come out of the parlour and was asking Mr Pascoe about Ralph’s exact state of health.
    “A seizure,” he said, his face betraying sudden sadness. “Very unexpected. He had seemed hale and hearty for a man of his age until two days ago.”
    “He’s enjoyed a long life,” she said quietly.
    Mr Pascoe’s mouth twitched. “Enjoyed isn’t exactly the word I’d use for Ralph Jannvier. He’s a stern and determined man.”
    “’Tis a pity he never had a son.”
    Silence, then. “Aye. I suppose so. Ah, there you are!” With a nod to Mrs Jannvier, he moved towards the door, holding it open impatiently.
    * * * *
    Not until Deborah and Mr Pascoe had galloped off down the lane did Bessie realise they still didn’t know exactly where this Great-uncle lived. And all Mrs Isabel would say was, “Marymoor village lies somewhere to the north-east of Rochdale, I believe. On the edge of the moors. I just hope my brother won’t pursue her. You know how he likes to have a finger in every pie.”
    “He’ll be angry about this.”
    “Yes. But then he’s always angry about something.”
    “Hadn’t you better do some more work on his shirt?”
    “Not today. I shall enjoy myself outside while the weather is fine.”
    As her mistress drifted out to work in the garden again, always her refuge in times of trouble, Bessie tutted to herself and went back to the kitchen to deal with the strawberry conserve with much sighing and rattling of pans and jars. She had one of her feelings about all this. There was trouble brewing. As she worked, phrases like, “murdered in her bed” and “never heard of again” floated through her mind and she prayed fervently that Deborah would be all right. And that somehow, she would be able to take her mother away from this dreadfully unhappy life.
    * * * *
    Neither of the two older women was surprised to receive a visit from Walter Lawrence just after nightfall.
    “Is it true what Frank tells me?” he demanded, bursting into his sister’s cottage.
    “What does he tell you?” Isabel tried to quell her fear of him.
    “That my niece has ridden off with a stranger.”
    “She’s gone to visit her Great-uncle Ralph.