The Outcast's Redemption

‘You appear singularly ill informed of how matters stand in England,’ observed Grace, clearly suspicious.

‘I have been living in the north country, they have little interest in what goes on nearer London. That is why I have come south, to take up my life again.’

She pounced on that.

‘Oh, are you a local man, then, Mr Peregrine? I do not recall any family with that name hereabouts.’

‘No, the Peregrines are not local,’ he replied truthfully.

The parson shifted uncomfortably.

‘My dear, it grows late and I am sure Mr Peregrine would like to join me in a glass of brandy. I do not often indulge the habit, sir, but since you are here...’

Grace rose immediately. ‘Of course, Papa.’

‘If you wish to retire, Grace, I am sure our guest will not mind if we do not send for the tea tray.’

Wolf knew he should agree with his host. They could bid Miss Duncombe goodnight now and he would be free of her questions and suspicions, but some inner demon made him demur.

‘If it is no trouble, a cup of tea before I retire would be a luxury I have not enjoyed for a very long time.’

Grace looked at him, eyes narrowed.

‘You seem to be inordinately fond of the drink, Mr Peregrine.’

‘I believe I am, Miss Duncombe.’ He met her gaze innocently enough and at length she inclined her head, every inch the gracious hostess.

‘Of course Mr Peregrine must have tea if he wishes it, Papa. I will await you in the drawing room.’

With that she swept out of the room.

* * *

As soon as the door was closed Mr Duncombe said, ‘Was that wise, sir? My daughter is no fool.’

‘I am aware of that, but I was not funning when I said I have missed life’s little luxuries.’ The old man’s brows rose and Wolf’s mouth twisted into a wry smile. ‘Not tea-drinking, I admit, unless it was in the company of a pretty woman.’ Wolf saw the other man draw back and he hurried on. ‘Pray, sir, do not think I have any thoughts of that nature towards your daughter, I would not repay your hospitality so cruelly. No, I have no interest in anything save clearing my name.’ He looked around to check again that they were alone. ‘On that subject, sir, what do you know of my own daughter?’

‘Alas, my son, I cannot help you. She lives with Lord and Lady Davenport, I believe. Doctor Oswald was dining here the night your wife died and a servant came to fetch him. When we met again Oswald said it was a miracle the baby survived. Your wife never regained consciousness.’ In the candlelight Mr Duncombe’s naturally cheerful face was very grave. ‘He told me, in confidence, that if it had not been for the missing diamonds the magistrate would have recorded your wife’s death as a tragic accident. Alas, both the doctor and the magistrate are now dead.’

‘So you have a new Justice of the Peace?’

‘Yes, Sir Loftus Braddenfield of Hindlesham Manor,’ the parson informed him. ‘And that is another reason you might wish to avoid being in Grace’s company, my son. She is betrothed to him.’

Chapter Three (#ulink_4b29e37e-7cd7-59f2-ba89-9ac6baa4a793)

Grace blew out her candle and curled up beneath the bedcovers. She really could not make out Mr Peregrine. She turned restlessly. In general Papa was a very good judge of character, but he seemed to have fallen quite under this stranger’s spell.

She had to admit that dinner had been very enjoyable, the man was well educated and there had been some lively discussions of philosophy, religion and the arts, but he lacked knowledge of what was happening in the country. Surely the north was not that backward. Fears of Bonaparte invading England were never far away, but she thought if the man was a spy he would be better informed. Had he been locked up somewhere, perhaps? She was more thankful than ever that he was in the groom’s accommodation and that she had reminded Truscott to check the outer doors were secure before he went to bed.

Perhaps he had been in the Marshalsea. Many men of good birth were incarcerated there for debt, or fraud. With a huff of exasperation she sat up and thumped her pillow.

Such conjecture is quite useless. You will only end up turning the man into a monster, when he is probably nothing more than penniless vagrant, for all his talk of having business in Arrandale.

But would he be in any hurry to leave, if they continued to treat him like an honoured guest? She settled down in her bed again. The man had clearly enjoyed his dinner and he had been eager to take tea with her after. A knot of fluttering excitement twisted her stomach as she remembered his glinting look across the dining table. It was almost as if he was flirting with her.

Yet he barely spoke two words to her in the drawing room. Once the tea tray appeared he lost no time in emptying his cup and saying goodnight. She tried to be charitable and think that he was fatigued. Sleep crept up on Grace. No doubt matters would look much less mysterious in the daylight.

* * *

‘Good morning, Mrs Truscott.’ Grace looked about the kitchen. ‘Is our visitor still abed?’

‘Nay, Miss Grace, he went out an hour ago.’

‘Goodness, what can he be up to?’

Mrs Truscott smiled. ‘Well, you know what your father always says, miss. Only those who rise early will ever do any good.’

Grace laughed.

‘It is quite clear you approve of Mr Peregrine! But never mind that. I have come down to fetch tea for Papa. We are taking breakfast together and then I am going to visit Mrs Owlet. Perhaps you would pack a basket for me to take to her.’

‘I will, Miss Grace, but it goes against the grain to be helping those that won’t help themselves.’

‘Mrs Truscott! The poor woman has broken her leg.’

‘That’s as may be, but if she hadn’t been drinking strong beer she wouldn’t have tumbled off the road and down the bank, now would she? And that feckless son of hers is no better. I doubt he’s done an honest day’s work in his life, not since the hall closed and he lost his job there.’ The older woman scowled. ‘It’s said there’s always rabbit in the pot at the Owlets’ place, courtesy of Arrandale woods.’

‘I am sure young Tom isn’t the only one to go poaching in the woods and there is more than enough game to go round, since the woods are so neglected.’

‘That’s not the point, Miss Grace. It’s breaking the law.’

‘Well, if the law says a man cannot feed his family when there is such an abundance of rabbits on hand, then it is a bad law.’

‘Tsk, and you betrothed to a magistrate, too!’ Mrs Truscott waved a large spoon in her direction. ‘Don’t you go letting your man hear you saying such things, Miss Grace.’

‘Sir Loftus knows my sentiments on these things and I know he has some sympathy with the poorer villagers, although it would never do for him to say so, of course, and I suppose I should not have said as much to you.’

‘Don’t you worry about me, Miss Grace, there’s many a secret I’ve kept over the years. Now, let’s say no more about it, for the kettle’s boiling and the master will be waiting for his tea.’

* * *

Later, when she had seen her father comfortably ensconced in his study, Grace set off with her basket. Mrs Owlet lived at the furthest extremity of the village, at the end of a small lane backing on to Arrandale Park. Grace stayed for some time, trying to make conversation, although she found the widow’s embittered manner and caustic tongue very trying. The sun was at its height when Grace eventually emerged from the ill-kept cottage and she stood for a moment, breathing in the fresh air. Having spent the past hour sympathising with Mrs Owlet, Grace was not inclined to walk back through the village and listen to anyone else’s woes. Instead she carried on up the lane into the park. There was a good path through the woods that bounded the park itself, and from there she could walk past the hall and on to the vicarage. It was a well-worn path that cut off the long curve of the High Street.

It was a fine spring morning and the woods were full of birdsong. Grace’s sunny nature revived and she began to feel more charitable towards Mrs Owlet. She had fallen on hard times when Arrandale House had been closed up. Now she lived a frugal existence with her son in what was little more than a hovel. It was no wonder that she was bitter, but Grace could not help thinking that less indulgence in strong beer and more effort with a broom would have improved her condition. Seeing her now, with her grubby linen and dirty clothes, it was difficult to think that she had once been laundress in a great house.

Grace recalled Mrs Truscott’s dark mutterings about young Tom Owlet poaching in these very woods and she looked around her. Not that anyone could mistake her tall form in its blue pelisse for a rabbit, but she strode on briskly and soon reached what had once been the deer park. Arrandale Hall was ahead of her, but her path veered away from the formal gardens and joined an impressive avenue of elms that lined the main approach to the house and would bring her out very close to the vicarage.

She had walked this way many times and always thought it regrettable that such a fine old house should stand empty. It was looking very grand today in the sunshine, but there was something different about the building that made her stop. She frowned at the little chapel beside the main house: the wide oak door was open.