CHAPTER ONE
Anna Holcomb made her way downstairs to the kitchen area. It was still quite early; she had not even had her breakfast yet, but she wanted to make sure that Cook had remembered to bake something for her visits today. They were duty calls—one to one of the tenants whose wife had had a baby and the other her weekly call to the vicarage. She and her brother, Kit, were all that was left of the two major families that had lived in this area for centuries, so it was up to her to make sure that such niceties were taken care of. Anna had never been one to shrug off her duties. Indeed, there had been moments in her life when she had thought rather resentfully that her “duty” had consumed her entire life. However, those moments were few and far between; for the most part Anna accepted her life as it was without complaints. She had had, she knew, a most fortunate life, and it was both foolish and petty to bemoan the parts of it that had been hard.
As she strode along the main hallway toward the door into the kitchen, she saw the door at the end of the hallway open. It was a very short door and unevenly set, a quaint leftover from the medieval cloisters from which this part of the manor house had been built, and it was not frequently used. So it startled Anna a little to see it pushed open and a slender girl slip through it rather furtively.
The girl cast a quick glance down the hall and jumped when her eyes fell upon Anna. A guilty look crossed her face, and she glanced from Anna to the back stairs, only a few feet from her. Anna knew the girl; her name was Estelle, and she was one of the upstairs maids. For a moment Anna could not understand the girl’s furtive entry, but then she realized that Estelle must be just returning to the house, which would indicate that she had spent the night somewhere other than upstairs in her bed.
Anna started to speak to her, but just at that moment, the housekeeper’s voice came from the side hall. “Estelle!”
Both Anna and the maid jumped. The maid shot Anna a pleading look and sidled toward the back staircase.
“Drat it! Where is that girl?” the housekeeper said, treading heavily toward the intersection of the two corridors where Anna stood. From where Mrs. Michaels was, she could not see the maid at the back stairs. “Oh, Miss Anna, I did not realize you were here. I was just looking for that silly girl Estelle.”
Anna smiled at her and lied blandly, “I believe I saw her upstairs earlier, cleaning the bedrooms.”
Mrs. Michaels had been the Holcomb family’s housekeeper for as long as Anna could remember. She was a faithful and efficient employee, but also a woman of stern character. Anna would have hated to have the woman supervising her.
Estelle cast Anna a grateful look and scurried up the stairs. Anna continued talking to the housekeeper, saying, “I came to check on the pies that I am going to take to the vicarage and to Mrs. Simmons.”
“Oh, yes, miss,” Mrs. Michaels assured her. “I have already made sure of that. Baked first thing this morning, they were, and Cook just set them out to cool.”
“Thank you. Then if you would be so good as to send a message to the stables to have the trap brought around at ten, I will take the pies to the village.”
“Of course, miss.”
Anna went back down the hall to the smaller dining room where she and her brother, Kit, normally took all their meals. Kit, always an early riser, was already seated at the table, sipping a cup of coffee, a habit he had picked up on his tour of the Continent a few years ago.
“Hallo, Annie,” Kit said, rising to his feet and pulling out the chair on his left hand for her. “I trust you are well this morning.”
“Very. And you?” She poured herself a cup of tea.
Theirs was a rather informal household. Their mother had died when Anna was fourteen, and she had taken over the reins of the household for her father and younger brother. It had seemed foolish to her to run their cozy manor house, with only the three of them in it, with the formality that their mother, a de Winter by birth and used to a grander lifestyle, had kept at Holcomb Manor. It had taken some sharp exchanges with the housekeeper, who regarded tradition as sacrosanct, and even a few appeals to her father for support, but Anna, strong-willed despite her seemingly placid nature, had won out in the end. As a result, their footmen did not wear livery, their meals were served by no more than two servants, and breakfast was unattended, with the food set out in chafing dishes along the sideboard, and Anna and her brother serving themselves.
As they ate, Kit and Anna chatted with the ease of people who had spent almost their entire lives in each other’s company. The only two children of their parents’ marriage and just two years apart in age, they had, since they were young, been each other’s chief companions and confidants. They had perforce seen less of each other after Kit grew old enough to go off to school and, later, when he took the tour of the Continent that was customary among young men of their class. At their father’s death two years ago, he had returned and taken up his position as the heir to Sir Edmund’s title and estate, and he and Anna had fallen easily back into their old habits.
They were much alike in temperament, both of them possessed of calm, easygoing personalities, quick to laugh and slow to flare into anger. Both loved their old home, parts of which dated from the Middle Ages, as well as the land surrounding it, and as young as they were, they had taken on uncomplainingly the responsibilities of maintaining the largest estate in this part of Gloucestershire.
In looks they were somewhat less alike. Anna had a tall, willowy build like her father, and the dark blue eyes and light brown hair, streaked with gold, of their mother, whereas Kit was built along sturdier lines, and his blond, green-eyed coloring was that of their father. Anna’s delicately heart-shaped face was unlike Kit’s square-jawed countenance, but there was no mistaking the similarity of their mouths, which tilted up slightly at either end, giving them a look as if they were secretly amused.
They talked about the day that lay ahead of them. While Anna made her calls in the village, Kit would be spending much of the day closeted with the manager of the estate. The Holcomb family, long overshadowed by the grander and showier lords and ladies de Winter, was nevertheless a family of some distinction and wealth, their family having lived here since the early Middle Ages, and since their mother and her brother had been the last of the de Winter line, Kit was necessarily involved in that much larger estate, as well.
“I don’t envy you the task,” Anna told him, smiling. “I think duty calls are infinitely preferable.”
Kit shrugged. “I don’t know. Not if they involve going to see the squire’s wife. Having to listen to her extol the virtues of her children is more than I can bear. Miles is all right, I suppose. A little moody—”
“Sensitive,” Anna stuck in, her eyes dancing with amusement. “His mother assures me that he is sensitive, even poetic.”
Kit gave a little snort of derision. “Well, at least he is usually quiet. His sister, on the other hand, is a blasted chatterbox. And she giggles. But to hear Mrs. Bennett tell it, you’d think she was the epitome of charm and grace.”
“That is because her mother cherishes fond hopes of your marrying Miss Bennett.”
Kit’s jaw dropped. “You can’t be serious.”
“Oh, but I am. Why else would she be forever hinting at what a fine wife Felicity will make?”
“But—I mean, put aside the fact that Felicity is spotty and graceless and never ceases her prattle, the girl is only seventeen years old! She isn’t even out yet.”
“Those are the veriest trifles in Mrs. Bennett’s mind, I can assure you. Fortunately, I am not visiting her today, or I would have to endure her trotting Felicity out. I think she hopes that we will become fast friends and that will recommend her to you.”
Kit let out a short bark of laughter. “Thirty minutes spent in her company would, I should think, ensure that you would never be friends.”
Anna smiled in agreement, and they finished their breakfast in a pleasant silence. Afterward, Anna spent some time on the household books, then donned her hat and gloves and went out front, where the pony and trap were waiting for her.
Two of the pot boys carefully carried out the pies and settled them in a nest of towels on the floor of the trap, and Anna climbed up into the vehicle, taking the reins from the groom. She glanced across the yard and saw their gamekeeper standing several yards down the driveway. She gave the reins a little slap, and the horse started forward. As she approached him, the gamekeeper doffed his hat in respectful greeting, and Anna reined in beside him.
“Rankin,” she said, nodding her head.
“Good day, Miss Anna.” He looked up at her. “I delivered that package.”
“Very good,” Anna responded. “And how was everything?”
The man shrugged. “As usual, miss, as usual.”
Anna nodded. “Do they need anything?”
“No’m, not so as Bradbury asked. I took ’em a pheasant, as well. He usually likes that.”
“Good. Thank you, Rankin.”
“Miss.” He gave her a final nod, then turned and walked away.
Anna gave the reins a brisk slap, and the horse started off smartly. She drove along the familiar curving driveway, finally emerging onto the road that led to the village. She always enjoyed the outdoors, and today, with the June sun spilling its gentle heat over her and the blooming rhododendrons, it was a pleasure simply to drive along, looking out over the countryside. She belonged here. The land was as familiar and beloved as her own house, and sometimes, when she was inclined to feel a little self-pity, thinking of things that might have been, she reminded herself how much she had here, of the beauty that lay just outside her doorstep and the people who were part of her life.
She drove first to the tenant’s house, where she handed over one of Cook’s pies and dutifully admired the squalling newborn. Then she drove on to the vicarage, which lay beside the brown stone church.
She saw as she drew up that the squire’s carriage was already there, which meant that Mrs. Bennett must be calling on the vicar’s wife, too, and for an instant Anna was tempted to turn around and leave. However, she knew that she could not. She might have been spotted by one of the women through the front windows of the house, and such a departure would, of course, be quite rude. So she got down from her trap, tying the horse to the low fence in front of the vicarage, and picked up the remaining pie, telling herself that she would simply plead some excuse to make the visit as short as was polite.
The maid took the pie from Anna with a curtsey and ushered her into the parlor, where she found not only Mrs. Bennett and Mrs. Burroughs, the vicar’s wife, but also the village doctor, as well. Dr. Felton rose to his feet with such a bright smile on his face when Anna entered that she could only assume that he had the same reaction to Mrs. Bennett’s conversation as Anna did.
“Miss Holcomb, what a fortunate surprise,” he said, crossing the room to bow over her hand. Unmarried and in his late thirties, Martin Felton was part of the small social circle in which Anna and her brother moved. She saw him frequently at parties and assemblies, and while he was not exactly someone she would classify as her friend, he was a good acquaintance.
“Oh, yes, Miss Holcomb, it’s so delightful to see you.” Mrs. Burroughs, a small, fluttery woman, jumped up and rushed forward to take Anna’s hands. “How kind of you to come. And bringing one of your cook’s delicious pies, as well. So considerate of you.” She admired the pie in the maid’s hands and fussed over Anna, taking her arm and leading her to the sofa, sitting down beside her.
Mrs. Bennett, who was as plump as her friend was thin, joined her in an effusive greeting. “Anna, so nice to see you. How is your brother, my dear? Such a fine young man, I always say. Wasn’t I just saying to you the other day, Rachel, that Sir Christopher was the very model of a gentleman?”
“Oh, yes, of course, I’m sure. Such a gentleman,” Mrs. Burroughs agreed.
“You must scold him for not coming with you today. We do so enjoy seeing him.”
“I fear he is rather busy today with the estate manager.”
“Oh, yes, such a responsible young man he is. I could only wish my Miles showed the same sort of interest in our estate, but, of course, he is not inclined toward matters of business. He is more of a scholar, I fear, forever locking himself in his room with his books.”
Anna, having conversed with the young man on a few occasions, would scarcely have termed him scholarly, but she made no comment. Indeed, when Mrs. Bennett was talking, there was rarely any room to make a comment, even if one should be so inclined.
“Of course, I fear that Miles is feeling a trifle under the weather,” Mrs. Bennett sailed on. “I hope he hasn’t caught a chill. He got caught in the rain the other day. I told him to take an umbrella before he went out for his walk, but you know the young….” She let out a titter and covered her mouth. “Oh, he would be furious if he heard me say that. He said to me only yesterday, ‘Mother, I am scarcely young. I am all of twenty and one!’ And, of course, he is, but still, it seems so young to me. Probably not to you, of course, as you are barely more than a child yourself.”
“Hardly that, I am afraid, ma’am,” Anna demurred.
Somewhat to Anna’s surprise, the woman did not pursue the subject of her son’s ill health any further than that. Nor did she even remark upon her daughter. Such a departure from Mrs. Bennett’s normal behavior would have made Anna wonder what was the matter with the woman, but there was an air of suppressed excitement in her manner, a bright gleam in her eye, that to Anna, judging from past experiences, meant that the squire’s wife was bursting with some prime bit of gossip.
Anna glanced over at her hostess and saw that Mrs. Burroughs’ cheeks were also faintly flushed, her eyes bright. What on earth was going on?
As if she could hold it in no longer, Mrs. Bennett said in a rush, “Have you heard the news, Miss Holcomb? So very exciting…”
“No, I am afraid that I have heard nothing exciting.” Anna looked at the doctor, and he shrugged imperceptibly, as though he had no idea what was going on, either.
“Well, the squire told me—and I am certain that he heard it directly from Mr. Norton, who is, of course, his solicitor—Reed Moreland is returning to Winterset!”
Mrs. Bennett paused, looking at Anna expectantly. Anna could do nothing but stare blankly at the woman. Reed Moreland! She felt as if her insides had suddenly fallen down to her knees.
“Isn’t it wonderful?” the vicar’s wife gushed.
“Yes,” Anna managed to say through bloodless lips. “Yes, of course.”
“Such a gentleman of refinement,” Mrs. Burroughs went on happily. “So knowledgeable, so well bred. Everything one would expect from the son of a duke.”
“But not at all proud,” Mrs. Bennett stuck in.
“Oh, no, indeed, you are absolutely right,” her friend agreed. “Not proud at all, but not overly friendly, either.”
“Indeed, just perfect.”
“A paragon, it would seem,” Dr. Felton put in, a faint note of amusement in his voice.
“You are absolutely right.” Mrs. Bennett, incapable of irony, nodded her head. “Did you meet him when he was here before, Dr. Felton?”
“I was introduced to him at a party, I believe. He seemed a pleasant-enough gentleman.”
Anna felt as if she might be sick, right there in front of everyone. Why was Reed coming back here after all this time? And how was she to bear it? She thought of seeing him again, of going to a party and finding him there. It would be impossible.
“I am sure you must be quite excited to hear of it,” Mrs. Bennett said, with a playful smirk. “As I remember, the man danced attendance upon you quite a bit.”
“I wouldn’t say that,” Anna protested faintly. “He was a very pleasant man, but I am sure he had no partiality for me.”
The other two women exchanged knowing glances.
“Very prettily said, my dear,” Mrs. Burroughs said approvingly. “Your maidenly reserve becomes you. But there is nothing wrong with attracting a worthy man’s attention.”
“And since you did not have a Season—” Mrs. Bennett rattled on.
“Of course it was very proper, very good of you to remain here and run the household for your father and brother—” the vicar’s wife inserted piously.
“—no one is more deserving than you of catching such a man’s eye,” Mrs. Bennett finished triumphantly.
“You are very kind to say so,” Anna said, putting all the firmness into her voice that she was capable of. “However, I assure you that there was nothing between Lord Moreland and myself but a very brief acquaintance. I imagine he scarcely remembers me.”
That statement, Anna knew, was extremely doubtful. Reed Moreland might not recall her with any kindness, but the son of a duke was unlikely to forget the affront of a woman turning down his offer of marriage.
“One wonders why Lord Moreland is returning after so long,” Dr. Felton commented, and Anna shot him a grateful glance for turning the conversation away from her relationship with Reed.
“He wrote to Mr. Norton that he intended to sell Winterset,” Mrs. Bennett explained. “And he wanted to see what needed to be done to the place to put it in good condition. He instructed Mr. Norton to hire servants and have the house cleaned and made ready for his arrival.”
“Do you…know when he is arriving?” Anna asked.
“Very soon, I would think, my dear,” Mrs. Bennett replied. “The squire said Mr. Norton seemed to think that Lord Moreland was most eager to come here.” She shot a meaningful little glance at Anna.
“It would doubtless be a good thing if he can sell it,” the doctor mused. “It would be much better to have someone living there. Winterset is far too fine a house to stand empty so long.”
“Oh, yes, it is beautiful,” Mrs. Burroughs hastened to agree, adding somewhat hesitantly, “Although it is a trifle odd, don’t you think?” She looked toward Anna apologetically. “I do not mean any offense, my dear. I know it is your ancestors’ house….”
Anna gave her a reassuring smile. “Please. Do not fear it will offend me. Everyone knows that the Lord de Winter who built it was, well, a trifle whimsical.”
“Exactly.” The vicar’s wife nodded, pleased at Anna’s understanding.
“It would be wonderful if someone would live in it,” Mrs. Bennett agreed, her eyes shining at the prospect. “Think of the parties…the balls…. Do you remember that ball Lord Moreland gave when he lived here before? Such a grand turnout.”
“Oh, yes, indeed,” Mrs. Burroughs agreed.
Anna said nothing, letting the conversational tide move on without her. She remembered the ball very well. Too well. The memories of it had haunted her for years.
She had looked her best. She had been aware of that. Her hair had been piled on top of her head in one of the intricate styles that her maid Penny was always trying to persuade her to wear, and she had worn a vivid deep blue gown that turned her eyes midnight blue. Her eyes had sparkled; her cheeks had been flushed with excitement. And she had glowed as if lit from within, her emotions turning her attractiveness into beauty.
The Winterset ballroom had positively glittered with lights, and the scent of gardenias had perfumed the air. Anna, knowing that she had told Reed once that gardenias were her favorite flowers, was aware, with a happiness so great she felt as if she were about to burst, that Reed had ordered them as a gift to her. His eyes as he smiled down at her had confirmed that knowledge.
It had been the most wonderful night of her life. She had danced only twice with Reed, the limit that propriety would allow, but those moments in his arms had been heavenly. She would never forget his face as he smiled down at her, his gray eyes warm and tender, the slash of dark eyebrows above them, the planes and hollows of his face as familiar and dear to her as if she had known him always, rather than only one month. The music, the other people, even the words they spoke, had been immaterial; the only important thing had been the way it felt to have his arm around her, her hand in his.
Later, after the midnight supper, he had taken her hand and slipped out onto the terrace with her, evading the countless prying eyes inside. They had strolled down the steps to the garden. The evening had been cool, but the chill had felt pleasant after the heat of the ballroom. As they walked, his hand had clasped hers, and Anna’s pulse had begun to hammer in her throat. He had stopped and turned to face her, and she had looked up at him, knowing what was coming next, wanting it with every fiber of her being.
Then he had bent and kissed her, and she had felt as if something exploded within her. Longing, hunger, a dancing, gibbering joy such as she had never experienced, all surged inside her, tangling and tumbling and racing through every inch of her. She had clung to him, lost to everything but Reed and the pleasure of his lips. And she had known at that moment that she had found the only man in the world for her, the love that would last her lifetime.
Even now, just thinking about it sent a shaft of pain through her chest so swift and hard that she almost gasped. Anna closed her eyes briefly, willing down the anguish that welled up in her all over again. Giving up Reed Moreland had been the hardest thing that she had ever done in her life. It had taken her three long years to reach the point of—well, not happiness, exactly, but at least contentment with her life.
It seemed the cruelest of jokes that Reed should decide to reappear in her life now. She dreaded the thought of what would happen if she saw him again. Would the mere sight of him send all her hard-won peace of mind crashing to the ground?
Anna could feel herself starting to shake inside, and she clenched her fists tightly to control it. She had to get away from here, had to be by herself, where she could reflect without having to worry about what everyone around her would think. Hoping she had stayed long enough to be polite, she inserted herself into the first conversational pause, saying that she must return home to give Kit the latest news.
She set the horse on the road back to Holcomb Manor, but before she reached it, she took the lane to the left that led to Winterset. She drove the trap along the driveway, edged on both sides with limes. Her hands grew looser on the reins, and the horse slowed its pace more and more. There were breaks in the trees where one or more had died and been cut down over the years, and there were shrubs that had grown up closer to the road. But it was still familiar enough to make Anna’s heart ache within her chest. Winterset was their nearest neighbor, but she had not ridden along this drive for three years.
The rows of trees ended, opening onto a broad expanse of lawn leading up to the great house itself. Winterset lay on a slight rise in the land, like a jewel in its setting. The drive curved in a circle in front of it, ending just before the low stone wall, topped by an iron railing, that stood some yards in front of the house.
The wall was centered by two stone pillars standing higher than the iron railings, and atop each pillar lay a staghound au couchant, its ears pricked alertly. The fierce dogs were, it was said, modeled after the hunting hounds of Lord Jasper de Winter, who had built the house in the seventeenth century.
Between the iron fencing and the house lay a small inner courtyard, with a wide stone pathway leading from the drive to the front door of the house. The house itself was elegant and symmetrical, with a long central section flanked on either end by two shorter gabled wings. It had been constructed of yellowish stone, almost honey-colored when it was built, but now darkened in patches by age, and much of it spotted by lichen. As a result, when the sun shone on it, as it did this summer day, the stone was a mellow golden; on dreary days, it had a dark and gloomy cast.
Much of its graceful elegance came from its large windows and the stone balustrade that ran across the top of the house. Stone chimneys dotted the roof. The chimneys at the front gables were carved so that they appeared to twist upward in spirals. At various corners of the roof, statues of fierce griffins and eagles jutted up into the air.
Anna looked up at the building. She had always loved Winterset, even when she was a child, seeing the statues of the fantastical griffins and the twisting chimneys as delightful whimsy. But now, looking at the house, she understood the superstitious unease with which many people regarded it. The statues and twisted chimneys did give the place an odd air, even—especially on a gloomy day—an atmosphere of foreboding. The uncannily accurate renditions of the staghounds on the gate piers only added to the faint menace. Despite the ravages of time, the faces of the large dogs were eerily realistic, so that one felt almost as if the animals were watching one carefully. It was the sculptor’s skill at creating the hounds, Anna thought, that had contributed to the local legend that on the nights of the full moon, the staghounds rose from their positions and, at the piercing whistle of their long-dead master, Lord Jasper de Winter, ran with him on a ghostly hunt through the night, eyes gleaming like red-hot coals.
There was a rustling in the bushes beside Anna’s trap, and she whipped her head around. A man stood just beyond, scarcely visible, watching her.