Secrets in the Regency Ballroom: The Wayward Governess / His Counterfeit Condesa. Joanna Fulford

he became more aware of his surroundings the first thing that struck him was the eerie silence, a hush broken only by the wind and the stream. The sky was a lighter shade and the stars fading so dawn could not be far off. Experimentally he tried to rise; pain savaged him and he bit back a cry. With an effort of will he dragged himself to a nearby boulder and used it to support his back while he forced himself to a sitting position. The effort brought beads of cold sweat to his forehead and it was some minutes before he could catch his breath. Then he looked around. In the predawn half light he could make out the dark silent shapes that were the bodies of the slain. Grim-faced, he counted half a dozen. Where were the rest? The wreckers were long gone, but surely some of the wagon escort had lived. He could see no sign of the wagon or the horses. Had the surviving members just abandoned their fellows to their fate and saved their own skins?

      Anger forced Eden to his knees and thence to his feet, using the rock to steady himself. Agony seared through the injured shoulder. His legs trembled like reeds. Gritting his teeth against the pain, he drew in a few deep breaths. As he did so he glanced over the edge of the hillside. Among the rocks that lined the stream he saw the smashed remains of the power loom and with it the wagon. At the sight his fists clenched, but he understood now why he had been left behind in this place. The survivors had taken the horses for themselves and the injured. He had been mistaken for one of the dead. The thought occurred that if he didn’t find help soon he might well be among their number. The nearest town was Helmshaw: Harlston’s Mill was located on its edge. It was perhaps two miles distant. Mentally girding himself for the effort and the coming pain, Eden stumbled away down the track.

      His progress was pitifully slow because every few minutes he was forced to rest. The sky was much lighter now and the track clear enough, but pain clouded his mind until he could think of nothing else. Moreover, the darkened patch of dried blood on his coat was overlain with a new scarlet wetness that spread past the edges of the original stain. He had tried to stanch the bleeding with a wadded handkerchief, but that too was sodden red. His strength was ebbing fast and only sheer will forced him to put one foot in front of the other. He had gone perhaps half a mile when the level track began to rise at the start of a long steady climb up the next hill. Eden managed another fifty yards before pain and exhaustion overcame his will and he collapsed on the path in a dead faint.

      Claire was woken just after dawn by heavy pounding on the front door. Her heart thumped painfully hard and for one dreadful moment she wondered if her uncle had discovered her whereabouts and was come to drag her away. Forcing herself to take a deep breath, she slipped from the bed and threw a shawl about her shoulders. Then she crept to the bedroom door and opened it a crack, listening intently. The pounding on the door increased and was followed by Eliza’s indignant tones as she went to answer it. Then a man’s voice was heard demanding the doctor. Claire breathed a sigh of relief. Not her uncle, then.

      ‘What’s so urgent that the doctor must be dragged from his bed at this hour?’ demanded Eliza.

      ‘There’s half a dozen injured men at Harlston’s Mill,’ the man replied. ‘Some bad hurt.’

      ‘Good gracious! Not another accident?’

      ‘No accident. They were escorting a consignment of new machinery for t’mill. Seems they were attacked on their way over t’moor. There’s been some killed an’ all.’

      ‘Heaven preserve us from such wickedness! Wait here! I’ll fetch the doctor.’

      Within a quarter of an hour Dr Greystoke had left the house. Claire heard the sound of horses’ hooves as the men rode away, and in some anxiety digested what she had heard. Her limited knowledge of the machine-breakers’ activities had been gleaned from newspaper accounts: here evidently it was far more than just a story of distant industrial unrest. Here the violence was all too real. Could it be true that men had lost their lives? The thought was chilling. What could make men so desperate that they were prepared to kill?

      It was a question she put to Ellen when they met in the breakfast parlour some time later.

      ‘When the war with France cut off foreign trade it caused a lot of hardship hereabouts,’ her friend replied. ‘Even now that Napoleon is exiled the situation is slow to change. The advent of the power looms is seen as yet another threat to men’s livelihoods.’

      ‘Then why do mill owners like Harlston antagonise the workforce in that way?’

      ‘They see it as progress and in a way I suppose it is. The new machines are faster and more efficient by far than the old looms. All the same, it is hard to reconcile that knowledge with the sight of children starving.’

      Claire pondered the words, for they suggested a world she had no experience of. In spite of recent events her life had been sheltered and comfortable for the most part and although she had lost her parents she had still been clothed and fed and there had always been a roof over her head. Other children were not as fortunate. For so many orphans the only choice was the workhouse. If they survived that, it usually led to a life of drudgery after. For a young and unprotected girl the world was hazardous indeed. Recalling the scene in Gartside, she shuddered.

      ‘Are you all right, Claire? You look awfully pale.’ ‘Yes, a slight headache is all.’

      ‘No wonder with all you’ve been through.’

      Claire managed a wan smile. She hadn’t told Ellen about the incident with Stone and his cronies. She had felt too ashamed; the memory of it made her feel dirty somehow and she wanted nothing more than to forget about it. Yet now it returned with force and with it the recollection of the man who had saved her.

      ‘Why don’t you go for a walk this morning?’ Ellen continued. ‘I’m sure the fresh air would do you good.’

      ‘Yes, perhaps you are right.’

      ‘There is a gate in the garden wall that leads out onto the moor. It is quite a climb, but the views from the top are worth the effort.’

      ‘I could take my sketchbook.’

      Ellen smiled. ‘You have kept up your drawing, then?’

      ‘Oh, yes. It is one of my greatest pleasures.’

      ‘You were always so gifted that way. I shall look forward to seeing your work later.’

      ‘Will you not come with me?’

      ‘I wish I could, but this morning I have an engagement in town. Never fear, though, we shall take many walks together in future. The countryside hereabouts is very fine.’

      Looking out across the sunlit moor an hour later Claire could only agree with her friend’s assessment. From her vantage point she could see the town below, and the mill, and then the wide expanse of rolling heath and the hills beyond. Far above her a skylark poured out its soul in song. Listening to it, Claire felt her spirits lift for the first time and suddenly the future seemed less threatening. Smiling, she walked on, revelling in the fresh air and exercise.

      She had followed the track for another mile or so when she saw the figure lying on the path. It was a man and he was lying very still. Claire frowned. What on earth was he doing there? How had he got there? She approached with caution but he did not move. Her gaze took in boots, breeches and coat and the dark stain on the shoulder. It was unmistakably blood. Swallowing hard, she drew nearer and then gasped.

      ‘Mr Eden!’

      In a moment she was beside him, her fingers seeking his wrist for a pulse. For a moment she couldn’t find one and her heart sank. Her fingers moved to his neck and in trembling relief she found it at last, a slow and feeble beat. His face was very pale, the skin waxy where it showed above the stubble of his beard. When she spoke to him again there was no response. Claire gently lifted the edge of his coat and her eyes widened.

      ‘Dear God,’ she murmured.

      Shirt and waistcoat were soaked, as was the wadded handkerchief thrust between. He had been shot. Shocked to the core, she stared a second or two at the scarlet stain. Who could have done such a thing? Unbidden, the memory of their first meeting returned and she heard Stone’s voice: ‘You’ll