The Westmere Legacy. Mary Nichols

to talk about what they would do next, leaving Bella facing Edward and Robert. She looked from one to the other in despair.

      ‘I am so sorry,’ she said. ‘This is none of my doing. I cannot think what has got into Grandfather…’

      ‘Touched in the attic,’ Robert said. ‘Must be. Not fair on you, not fair at all. Edward thinks so, too, don’t you, Teddy?’

      Thus appealed to, his brother agreed wholeheartedly. ‘If he is thinking of your future, as he says he is, then he could easily secure that with an annuity or a good dowry.’

      ‘But don’t you see?’ she cried. ‘My dowry is to be Westmere.’

      ‘I am not sure he can legally do it,’ Edward said.

      ‘Oh, how I wish Papa were still alive,’ she said. ‘There would be no argument and none of this would be happening.’

      ‘If it is any comfort, you have our support,’ Robert said. ‘I promise you neither of us will offer for you.’

      It was all too much and she fled to her room, where she flung herself across the bed and sobbed. How could her grandfather be so cruel? How could Robert think it would give her comfort to know that he would not offer for her? He still saw her as the young cousin he had sometimes condescended to amuse as a child, the little girl he had taught to ride and fish when he had visited Westmere on his summer vacation from Cambridge. But as her grandfather had pointed out, she had gown up and was now at a marriageable age. Oh, how she wished Miss Battersby would come home. She needed her.

      Ellen Battersby was a little dotty, given to romantic notions and great sighings over the novels she read, and would insist on using their characters as examples of how to behave or not to behave. Bella humoured her, which was more than the Earl did. He was often so outspoken as to be rude to her and consequently the poor woman avoided his presence as much as possible. Perhaps that was why she had stayed away so long. But Bella needed her.

      If Miss Battersby could not come home, then she would go to her and seek her out. It was only a short ride to Downham Market, and if no other remedy for her troubles presented itself, then she would stay away, find a way to earn her own living. She rose and changed into her riding habit. She did not want to meet any others of the household for they would surely want to know where she was going, so she carried her boots in her hand and crept along the upper gallery towards the back stairs.

      It was gloomy and smelled damp in this unused part of the house, and she shivered a little, as if the ghosts of previous Huntleys were following her progress. She was glad when she found the small door at the back of the oldest part of the building and slipped out into the fresh air.

      Bella stopped to put on her boots, gathered up her skirts in her hand and sped to the stables. The stable boys were all busy elsewhere and the head groom was, no doubt, sleeping off his dinner in the room above. She spoke quietly to Misty to stop her snickering while she saddled her, then she led the mare out and, mounting from the block by the stable door, rode down the drive and out onto the road, where she turned towards Downham Market.

      Absorbed by her own problems she had not given a thought to the riots or whether she might be riding into danger, but it became apparent the minute she entered the small hamlet of Eastmere, which was on the road to Downham Market. A crowd of angry men and women were marching down the street, carrying pitchforks and clubs. Two of them held a banner. ‘Bread or blood,’ it said in crude black letters.

      She reined in and pulled Misty to one side to allow them to pass, but there were so many and they were so angry. They pushed and shoved and frightened the mare so much she snorted and pranced and was in danger of injuring those nearest to her. Her rider hauled hard on the reins but the horse, objecting to this unaccustomed harsh treatment, reared up so violently that Bella was thrown down among the trampling feet.

      The first person she saw when she opened her eyes was Robert. He was kneeling beside her and she had her head in his lap. ‘Thank the good Lord,’ he said. ‘I thought you were done for…’

      ‘Misty threw me…’

      ‘I know, it was lucky I saw it happen, though I could hardly believe my eyes. After what happened this morning, how could you be such a ninny as to ride out alone?’

      ‘I am not a ninny.’ Her hat had fallen off and her hair had come down. She was acutely conscious of the picture she must present and struggled to sit up but, overcome by dizziness, she collapsed back into his arms.

      He looked down at her, torn between scolding her and comforting her. ‘Are you hurt? Any bones broken?’

      It was strange how warm and comforting his arms were and how safe she felt, even though the tumult still raged about them and they were in grave danger of being trampled underfoot. ‘No, I do not think so. My head aches.’

      Robert put his hand gently behind her head. ‘I am not surprised. There is a bump the size of an egg here and it’s bleeding.’ He looked about him, wondering how to get her safely away. The furious fenmen were out of control and he did not think it would serve to appeal to their better nature, especially if they recognised him. The encounter he had had with them earlier that day had been enough to convince him they meant business.

      There was an inn across the road which had only minutes before been swarming with rioters but, having drunk it dry, they had now moved on. It was hardly the place to take a delicately nurtured young lady, but there was no help for it. He scrambled to his feet and retrieved her hat, which he put it into her hands, before stooping and picking her up in his arms as easily as if she were a child. Kicking the door of the inn open, he carried her inside and sat her on a settle, seating himself beside her. ‘Better rest here until the furore has died down.’

      It was a dingy, low-ceilinged room, its paintwork blackened by smoke and with an all-pervading smell of stale beer, which caught in her nostrils and made her choke. No one came to serve them, which was not at all surprising, but a young lad of eleven or twelve stood in the doorway of the back room, staring at them with curiosity. ‘Sixpence if you catch the grey horse and bring it here,’ Robert said. ‘And another for bringing the black stallion you will find tethered in the yard of The King’s Head.’ The boy disappeared with alacrity.

      ‘He might bring the rioters back with him,’ Bella murmured.

      ‘No, they are too intent on what they are doing.’ He left her and returned with a glass of water. Sitting beside her, he helped her drink it. Then he took the glass away and fetched a bowl of water. ‘I couldn’t find a clean cloth,’ he said, taking a linen handkerchief from his coat pocket and dipping it in the bowl. ‘Let me see how bad that injury is.’

      Robert’s fingers were very gentle as he washed the blood from her hair and the back of her head. ‘It’s not as severe as I first thought,’ he said, moving his hand from the back of her head and stroking her cheek with his forefinger. ‘My poor Bella, you are as pale as a ghost.’

      She tried not to think of what his gentle touch was doing to her, making her go hot and cold all over. Or was it the shock of being thrown from her horse? How fortunate it was that he had been on hand or she would have been trampled to death. ‘I am only a little shaken,’ she said. ‘I shall be right as ninepence by and by, thank you.’

      ‘My pleasure.’ He was smiling, which made the purple swelling below his eye more pronounced. She wondered if it hurt him as much as her head hurt her. She supposed it did, though he gave no indication of it.

      ‘Robert, what are you doing here?’

      ‘Looking after you.’

      ‘No, I do not mean that. I meant in Eastmere.’

      ‘I came to see if I could be of any use to James. They were talking about him in The King’s Head where I had my dinner. It seems they think he is the most likely to hand over money without putting up too much resistance on account of his children.’

      ‘Do you think he is in danger?’

      ‘Hard to tell, but he would be well advised to give them