Whisper Of Darkness

The voice was pitched low, but its message was unmistakable, and Joanna licked her lips and tried again.

‘I—if you’ll get out of my way, I promise I won’t mention having seen you,’ she said, in what she hoped was her best and most convincing tone. ‘Honestly, I’m not interested in what you’re doing. I just want to get on my way——’

‘—to Ravengarth,’ finished the boy gruffly. ‘Aye, I know all about that. But you can’t go to Ravengarth. You’re not welcome there. If I was you, I’d go back where I came from, before I point this gun in your direction.’

Joanna could hardly believe her ears. This simply could not be happening, she thought incredulously. Any minute now she would wake up to find Lottie by the bed with her breakfast tray, and Ravengarth and Jake Sheldon and his troublesome daughter would still be just an idea in Aunt Lydia’s neatly coiffured head. Nightmares like this were an occupational hazard, and in a day or two she would find someone who welcomed her services, who did not require certificates and diplomas to prove that she could teach good manners to their small offspring, or handle the kind of correspondence she had been receiving herself for years.

But it was no nightmare. Without thinking she took another involuntary step forward, and the woods rang again with the deafening roar of the shotgun. It dispelled for ever the thought that this might not be happening, and Joanna stepped back quickly, tripped over her case, and sat down heavily on a mouldy pile of leaves.

What happened then shocked her almost as much as the shotgun had done. The child, for it was obviously nothing more, started laughing, shrill peals of merriment filled the air that was still trembling after the explosion, and amidst her fear, and the dismay at the ruination of her coat, a surge of angry suspicion swelled inside her. She tried desperately to recall exactly what Aunt Lydia had told her about Antonia Sheldon, but all she could remember was her age—eleven years—and the fact that she had succeeded in ridding herself of three governesses in as many months.

However, before she could struggle to her feet and put her suspicions to the test, another figure strode out of the woods behind the child, a tall, equally threatening figure in the gloom cast by the trees, who grasped the barrel of the shotgun in a powerful hand, wrenching it out of the child’s grasp. At the same time, the man grabbed hold of the urchin before it could move, holding it securely by the scruff of the neck, as he transferred his attention to Joanna.

She, for her part, got to her feet with as much elegance as her shaking legs would permit her, brushing away the muddy leaves, and endeavouring to regain her composure. Aware of them watching her with varying degrees of hostility, she realised that until now she had not even speculated about the man who was to be her employer, but across the yards of track that separated them she was suddenly made aware that if this was he, he was not the prematurely-aged invalid she had imagined.

‘Miss Seton?’ The man was speaking now, ignoring the howling that had replaced the peals of laughter issuing from his prisoner’s mouth, and she nodded. ‘If you’re not hurt, perhaps you’ll follow me.’

Joanna gasped. That was it! No apology, no explanation; no offer to carry her suitcase that was as muddy now as her coat. He had simply turned away, propelling the screaming child ahead of him, the safely breached shotgun hooked over his free arm. Of course, he might have found some difficulty in handling the shotgun, the suitcase and the child, she acknowledged reasonably, but he didn’t even offer any regret at this deficiency in his capabilities.

Clamping her jaws together, Joanna hoisted her suitcase once more and set off in pursuit of her apparently unwilling rescuer. To add to her weariness, her legs were decidedly unsteady now, and resentment flared anew at this cavalier treatment. She was doing them the favour, goodness knows, she muttered peevishly. She didn’t have to come here. She didn’t have to stay. And if this was the kind of treatment the other governesses had had, no wonder they hadn’t stayed either!

They emerged from the trees above an incline, with a trout stream gurgling at its foot. Approximately halfway down the slope, the house she had glimpsed earlier clung tenaciously to the hillside, its grey walls mellowed by russet-coloured creeper. The track wound down to its stone gateposts, and set around the main building were stables and garages and the usual miscellany of outhouses. It was bigger that Joanna had expected, larger, but not so well-kept, and she wondered if they had the same problem with housekeepers as they had with governesses.

She had not yet seen the man’s face clearly. In the shadows of the wood it had been impossible to glimpse more than an impression of his features, and besides, she had been too shocked and disturbed to pay much attention to his appearance. He was tall and powerful, lean without being thin, with strong muscular thighs that swung him down the track without any apparent effort. Was this Jake Sheldon? she wondered, struggling after him. Could it be? She would know soon enough if he turned and let her see the scars which Aunt Lydia had said had driven him to take refuge in this remote and isolated part of the country.

The child was something else. She found it incredible to believe that the uncouth demon of the copse was in reality an eleven-year-old girl! What was her father thinking of, allowing her to run around in that state, and with a loaded shotgun in her hand? She could have killed herself. She could have killed Joanna! And after all, that was the greater of the two evils so far as Joanna was concerned.

The child’s cries had subsided to a muffled sobbing by the time they reached the gates of Ravengarth, but Joanna could not find it in her heart to feel sorry for her. She had to be crazy, brandishing a deadly weapon like that, and Joanna’s belief in her own capabilities suffered a distinct setback at the prospect of teaching such a child.

A pair of long-haired sheepdogs set up a noisy barking at their approach, bounding out to greet them with more excitement than aggression. They fawned around their master and his charge for a moment, and then came to inspect Joanna, apparently finding her equally acceptable. As watchdogs they were decidedly unprofessional, thought Joanna dryly, but as pets they were adorable.

The man let go of the child as they entered a gloomy entrance hall, unpleasantly scented with the smell of boiled cabbage, and administering a distinct slap to her small backside, bade her go and make herself respectable immediately. Then, as she scampered towards the stairs that curved round two walls of the hall, he turned sharply into a room on his left, asking Joanna to follow him.

Joanna did so, after setting down her suitcase with great relief. As she straightened, however, her eyes again encountered those of the child now leaning dangerously far over the banister rail, and the impudent contempt in that stare made her long to repeat the punishment her father had given, with interest. If she had to take this job, and in spite of her vain posturings she hadn’t much alternative, sooner or later Miss Sheldon would have to understand she was no longer dealing with some timid, self-effacing old lady.

The room into which her employer—she assumed he was her employer—led her was a library of sorts, although many of the shelves were empty of books, their places having been taken by folders of what appeared to be artwork. There were canvases everywhere, propped against the walls, and the bookcases, some even occupied the chairs where possible, and others were spread across the heavy mahogany desk that sat squarely beneath the long windows. The air was musky with the smell of oils, and faintly stale from the neglected shelves of books.

The man positioned himself beside the desk, deliberately, Joanna later decided. There was not much light from the overcast sky, but what there was fell fully on to his scarred and battered countenance, and she was left in no doubt that this was indeed Jake Sheldon.

‘Well?’ he said, as if challenging her with his appearance. ‘It’s not a pretty sight, is it? But then you knew that, didn’t you? Someone must have told you—have warned you.’

Joanna wondered if anyone had ever had a more peculiar introduction to a job. A child, who dressed and spoke and behaved like a boy—a particularly objectionable boy at that—and a man who had apparently been deprived of his manners in the same accident in which he had been deprived of his livelihood. They had said he was a brilliant mathematician, a skilled and accomplished engineer, a man with a computer for a brain. And what was he now? An indifferent farmer, a part-time painter, and the father of a child who was evidently free to do exactly as she liked.

And he was challenging her to dispute his appearance, to deny that it shocked her feminine sensitivities. His face was scarred, it was true, but it was by no means repugnant, and she wondered if he realised how time had mellowed old wounds and given his ravaged face a certain strength and character. Some women might even find his rugged features attractive, and Joanna realised that Aunt Lydia and her mother could have had no idea of how old he actually was. Aunt Lydia’s description had been vague at best, and because he had a nineteen-year-old son she had evidently assumed he was well into middle age. But Joanna, facing him in that revealing light, saw that he was probably on the right side of forty, and this was going to prove a most unsuitable arrangement if no other help was kept. If his expression had not been so grimly serious, she might have allowed a small smile to tilt the corners of her mouth, but the situation was still far too volatile to take such liberties.

‘Cat got your tongue?’ he enquired now, cynically, turning from the window to flick through the canvases on the desk, and she endeavoured to gather her thoughts.

‘My godmother told me you required someone to take care of your daughter,’ she ventured at last. ‘I assume that was your daughter who—greeted me on my arrival.’

His lower lip jutted as he surveyed her slightly dishevelled appearance. It was a full lower lip; it might even be called sensual. And Joanna was given the piercing appraisal of narrowed amber eyes.

‘I suppose I should apologise for Antonia, shouldn’t I?’ he remarked, as if considering the proposition, and the disarming amusement which had briefly dispelled her indignation vanished.

‘Perhaps she should apologise for herself?’ she retorted, controlling her resentment with difficulty. ‘And I would suggest she is forbidden to run wild with firearms in future.’

His shoulders stiffened. ‘Oh, you would, would you?’

‘Yes.’ Joanna drew herself up to her full height, but even then her five feet six inches fell far short of his superior measure. ‘I don’t think that’s an unreasonable request. She could have killed me in the woods. Obviously she doesn’t understand——’

‘She understands very well,’ he interrupted her harshly, the dark brows descending with ominous intent. ‘She’s known how to handle guns for the past two years—I taught her. You were in no danger.’ He paused, allowing his astonishing words to sink in. ‘You were, however, subjected to a certain amount of—intimidation.’

‘Intimidation! Is that what you call it?’ Joanna could feel the colour sweeping up her normally pale cheeks. ‘How was I to know who she was or what she was doing? She was filthy. She was wearing boy’s clothes. She could have been a thief—a poacher, disturbed at his work!’

‘I see you have a vivid imagination, Miss Seton. That’s—unfortunate. I would have preferred someone a little more—unimaginative.’

His hesitation before using that particular adjective was deliberate, Joanna felt, pinpointing as it did his evident opinion of her. She had never encountered such indifference from a man before, or experienced such a feeling of blind frustration. She didn’t know exactly what she had anticipated, but certainly nothing like this, and his defence of the child was in complete opposition to his expected reaction. She felt like flinging his job back in his face, and only the thought of her mother’s disappointment if she returned to London without giving it a chance kept her silent.

‘So,’ he said, indicating an upright chair opposite. ‘Won’t you sit down, and we can discuss the situation more—amicably. I understand from my sister that you haven’t had any actual experience of teaching a child before, and that you have in fact been finding it hard to gain employment.’ Joanna sat down on the chair he indicated with a bump. He was certainly frank, she thought indignantly, or perhaps insolent was a better description of his vaguely mocking turn of phrase. In the space of a few sentences he had dismissed her claims of being physically threatened, and reduced her qualifications to nil.

‘I never expected to have to get a job, Mr Sheldon,’ she declared now, holding up her head in icy disdain. ‘Until my father’s death——’

‘Yes, I know,’ he interrupted unpleasantly, tumbling a pile of canvases on to the floor and taking the seat behind the desk. ‘You were a lady of leisure—I had heard. However, I’m not interested in how you came to be looking for a job, rather the accomplishments you have which make you think you are capable of teaching an eleven-year-old.’ Joanna gazed at him, not quite able to hide her astonishment. Did he really think he could speak to her like that, employee or otherwise? How dared he sit here in this rundown house, making excuses for a child who was little more than a barbarian, so far as Joanna could see, and expect her to be grateful for his indulgence in even listening to her? However dismayed her mother might be, surely she would not expect her daughter to be subjected to such treatment.

Grasping the strap of her handbag, Joanna rose to her feet. ‘I don’t think the accomplishments I possess fit me for this position at all, Mr Sheldon,’ she declared coldly. ‘We have obviously both been under some misapprehension about the other. I expected to have to teach a—a little girl, not an uncontrollable adolescent, and if I was prepared to make allowances for the child, I’m certainly not prepared to make allowances for its father!’

If she expected her remarks to arouse some answering retort from him, she was very much mistaken. And while remorse at the recklessness of such a declaration, influenced as it was by the lateness of the hour and a reluctant awareness of her own unfamiliarity with either the area or its transport services, caused her no small anxiety, Jake Sheldon sat there, gazing up at her, a look of sardonic amusement twisting his hard features.

‘You think I’m an ignorant savage, don’t you?’ he asked at last. ‘You’d like very much to tell me what I can do with my job. But from what I hear, you don’t have a great deal of choice.’

Joanna gulped. ‘I can get another job, Mr Sheldon.’

‘Can you?’

He pushed back his own chair now and stood up, dark and intimidating in the rapidly fading light. It was obviously later than she had thought, and the prospect of making her way back to the road and possibly having to thumb a lift back to Penrith was a daunting one. But she would not stay here to be insulted, not by a man who in his rough shirt and waistcoat and mud-splattered corded pants looked more like a gipsy than anything else.

‘I suggest, Miss Seton, that you reconsider,’ he said now. ‘Perhaps I was—hard on you, but you have to understand, it’s over two years since I had any—polite conversation. As to your abilities to teach Anya, that’s something we have both to consider. However, I’m prepared to give you the benefit of the doubt, provided you are prepared to do the same.’

It was scarcely an apology. On the contrary, it was more in the nature of a concession, as if he was overlooking her insolence.

‘I really don’t think I can stay here, Mr Sheldon,’ she insisted, glancing round at the shabby chairs, the equally shabby carpet. ‘I—well, I was misinformed. Your sister told my godmother that your daughter needed eighteen months’ preparation for boarding school. Having seen the child for myself, I suggest her estimate was vastly underrated.’

‘The challenge is too much for you, then?’ he remarked scornfully. ‘I had heard you had spirit, the only evident point in your favour. Apparently that was overrated.’

Joanna’s lips compressed, tom by the conflicting desire to prove to this man that he was wrong, and the conviction that she should leave now before any further humiliation was heaped upon her.

As she hesitated, groping for words, there was a tap on the half-open door behind her, and a slovenly-looking woman appeared in the aperture. Jake Sheldon seemed resigned, but not impatient, at the interruption, and arched black brows above those startling tawny eyes.

‘Yes, Mrs Harris?’