A Traitor's Touch. Helen Dickson
back. He stared down at the lifeless form, at the woman’s face that was so white, but still beautiful in death.
The gardener looked up at the child. She stood like a small frozen statue, her eyes wide and filled with horror, and he could feel the agony coming off her, sense the torment twisting her soul like a weighted rope. Slowly she got down on her knees, staring into her mother’s bloodless face, her small hand smoothing her dark brown hair back from her forehead over and over again, whispering words the gardener could not hear.
The girl was remembering all the days spent with her mother, how they would sing and gossip. How nothing could touch them then. But now she was gone. The vivacious, spirited and delightful woman was gone. The girl told herself over and over again she would not see her mother again in life. But now she must not think of it, else she would lose her mind like her mother.
Eventually the gardener rose on stiff legs. ‘It would seem your mother has had an accident, Miss Henrietta,’ he said by way of explanation, while knowing otherwise. ‘I will carry her to the house,’ he said gently. The child did not look up, did not break the rhythm of her hand stroking her mother’s hair as she whispered tenderly, as though they two were the only people left on God’s earth. ‘I will be gentle with her, I promise, but I think we should take her home now.’
The gardener waited a while longer, watching a swan with three cygnets in her wake sail stately by. Then the child got to her feet. Her face glistened with tears and bewilderment filled her green eyes as though she was desperate to understand why her mother had left her.
‘Please don’t hurt her.’
Swallowing hard with a resolute nod, for one heartbreaking moment, the gardener looked down into the young face. ‘I won’t.’ And so, carefully, more carefully than he had ever done anything in his life, he bent and took the dead woman into his arms, trying not to look at her face as he carried her to the house.
* * *
The funeral coming so soon after her father’s interment was too much for the child. She drew in a breath of panic. She did not want to be there. She did not want to be afraid all the time—afraid of death. Her father’s brother, Uncle Matthew, came and took her in his arms.
Matthew shook his head in despair. Tears lit his eyes. He tried to explain. All this had happened because her father was a Jacobite. Matthew was of the opinion that men should be free to worship God as they chose, as long as they obeyed their king and did no harm by it. Tragically his brother had supported the wrong kind. The Jacobite cause had been his life. Even when he was condemned he saw his last journey to the scaffold as a veritable moment of glory, as though he were raised suddenly to celebrate for his good deeds, instead of hanged for his seditious acts against the Crown.
The girl could not get beyond the Jacobite word. This new knowledge of the circumstances surrounding her father’s execution, followed so quickly by her mother’s suicide, haunted her day and night. The anger and hate directed at the Jacobites entwined, swelling and blooming inside her, threatening to consume her body and soul. It was anger and hatred more acute and darker than anything she had ever known.
And then Uncle Matthew took her away—to London—putting as much distance between her and the event as was possible.
Chapter One
1745
Baron Charles Lucas and his wife Dorothy had embraced Henrietta in her hour of need and taken her into their lives and their home with the kind of easy, unconscious goodness that was born of good breeding and a happy life.
And now they were both dead. Along with their coachman, they had sustained fatal injuries in a carriage accident when they were travelling home from the theatre. Within the space of twenty-four hours, Henrietta was forced to grow up quickly and keep herself in control for the sake of the grieving servants. But beneath her calm exterior she endured a sickening and inevitable turmoil over the loss of the two people who had given her a sense of worth and for whom she had borne a real and unselfish love.
She closed her eyes as the enormity of their loss made her realise how alone she was and she knew she would have to consider wisely how to make the best of her circumstances and to think about her future. After considering the advantages his niece would reap in London, including learning everything a young lady should be cognizant of, Uncle Matthew had placed her in the hands of Baron Lucas and his wife Dorothy, her mother’s dearest friend. They had been delighted to become Henrietta’s legal guardians. She was the apple of their eye, the child they had never had.
Uncle Matthew was the only family Henrietta had. As a youth and being a scholar with much intelligence and curiosity, he had sought to quench his thirst for knowledge and had gone abroad to enrich his education. He had been gone some time. When he came home, expecting to be welcomed by his brother, he had found unexpected tragedy. Never having married and seeming to have a dislike for all society following the terrible circumstances of his adored brother’s brutal death, he’d acquired a crofter’s cottage close to Inverness and, surrounded by his precious books, become something of a recluse. Henrietta knew she could be sure of a warm welcome there.
But maybe she wouldn’t have to leave London. Dorothy had assured her that she would be well provided for. Henrietta remembered how the dear lady, who’d insisted she call her aunt, had smiled and said that Henrietta’s mother had been a good friend to her—as close as sisters they had been—and that she honoured her memory in the best way she knew by honouring and taking care of her daughter to the best of her ability.
Remembering this, Henrietta swallowed and set her jaw.
Hearing carriage wheels on the gravel drive, she glanced out of the window. Her heart sank. It was dark, but she could see by the carriage lamps that her guardians’ nephew, Jeremy Lucas, had arrived at Whitegates to claim his inheritance. Followed by his wife, Claudia, he breezed through the great entrance hall and into the salon where Henrietta was sifting through some correspondence, mainly letters of condolence from friends of the elderly couple.
The moment Jeremy entered the room with his wife flouncing after him the atmosphere thickened with tension. Tall and lanky and fashionably attired without prudence, he walked with a swagger as if he owned the world. He was a popular, much sought-after figure about town and could be charming when the occasion demanded it, but Henrietta had seen the cold, cunning heart behind the charm. He was inclined to call at the house unannounced. The last time had been the day after the accident. He hadn’t seen fit to turn up for the funeral which had been a mere twenty-four hours ago.
Henrietta rose, smoothing down her black skirts as she turned to face him. Jeremy felt a deep resentment towards her and had never made any attempt to disguise the fact.
‘Jeremy! You were not expected. However, you are welcome.’
While his mind noted the young woman’s perfunctory courtesy to him, his mind catalogued the valuables in the room. ‘I should damned well think so since it’s my house.’ His eyes gleamed overbright as he strutted like a well-preened rooster on the oriental carpet, eyeing and fingering precious heirlooms he had coveted for years.
Henrietta’s face tightened with the effort of holding back a sarcastic rejoinder. She braced herself for what was to come, for after her dealings with this man in the past she knew it was not going to be pleasant. She glanced at Rose hovering in the doorway, a pensive look creasing her round face.
‘Is everything all right, Miss Brody?’ she enquired, glancing nervously at the visitors.
‘Yes, thank you, Rose.’
Rose stepped back, but was not out of sight. Her faithfulness to her mistress remained as strong as the time when she had come to live with Baron Lucas and she had long ago proven her confidante in the most troubling times.
‘Bring us some refreshment, will you, Rose?’
The maid bobbed a curtsy and hurried away.
Henrietta and Jeremy Lucas were isolated enough that they could converse in private in the salon, yet the servants were still close enough that Henrietta