Thunder and Roses: Book 1 in The Fallen Angel Series Page 3

  Her breath caught. If she accepted the earl's challenge, she would be living here and Williams would see her every day. Would the butler's eyes be knowing or contemptuous? Would he believe her if she explained, or despise her as a liar and whore?

  Feeling as if she were on the verge of shattering, she darted through an open door into a small, dusty drawing room. After closing the door, she sank onto a cloth-draped chair and covered her face with her hands. She scarcely knew Williams, yet she had been concerned about his opinion of her. It was a sharp, horrific demonstration of what she would experience if she persisted in this mad scheme. How much worse would it be when everyone in Penreith knew she was living with a notorious rake?

  Realizing the sheer deviltry of Nicholas's game stirred her temper again. He had known exactly what he was asking; in fact, he was counting on her fear of public censure to discourage her.

  The thought helped her regain her composure. As she straightened and began repinning her hair, she grimly recognized that anger and pride had goaded her to accept his absurd challenge. Not the most godly of emotions, but then, she was not the most godly of women, no matter how hard she tried.

  When her appearance was restored, she slipped from the drawing room and let herself out of the house, then made her way to the stables to collect her pony cart.

  There was still time to change her mind. She wouldn't even have to face the earl in person to admit her cowardice. All she need do was stay away tomorrow, and no one, save herself and Nicholas, would ever know what had transpired.

  But as she had said earlier, the real issue wasn't her and her pride, or even the earl and his stubborn selfishness. It was Penreith. That fact struck her forcibly as the road topped a small rise and the village came into view. She halted the cart and gazed down at the familiar slate roofs. It looked like a hundred other Welsh communities, with rows of stone cottages set into the lush greenness of the valley. Yet though there was nothing extraordinary about Penreith, it was her home, and she knew and loved every stone in it. The people were her people, among whom she had lived her whole life. If some of them were harder to love than others—well, she tried her best anyhow.

  A square tower marked the Anglican church, while the more modest Methodist chapel was concealed among the cottages. She could barely see the mine, which was farther down the valley. The mine was by far the largest employer in the area. It was also the greatest threat to the community, a hazard as volatile as the explosives sometimes used for blasting.

  The thought clarified her churning mind. She might have behaved badly today, succumbing to pride and anger, but the reasons for her mission were nonetheless valid. Fighting for the welfare of the village couldn't be wrong; the challenge would be for her to save her own soul from becoming a casualty of war.

  * * *

  The weekly class was the heart of Methodist fellowship, and Clare's group had its regular meeting that evening. That was convenient; she would be able to speak to her closest friends all at once. Still, as the group sang an opening hymn, her stomach twisted into a knot of anxiety.

  The class leader, Owen Morris, led a prayer. Then it was time for members of the small group to share the spiritual joys or challenges they had experienced during the previous seven days. It had been a quiet week; all too soon, it was Clare's turn to speak. She rose to her feet and looked in turn at each of the five men and six women.

  At their best, classes were a model of joyful Christian fellowship. When Clare's father had died, class members had supported her through the ordeal, as she had supported others in their troubles. The people gathered in this room were her spiritual family, the ones whose opinions she valued most.

  Praying that her faith in them would not prove to be misplaced, she said, "Friends... brothers and sisters... I am about to embark on an enterprise that I hope may benefit all of Penreith. It is unorthodox—even scandalous—and many will condemn me. I pray that you will not."

  Owen's wife Marged, who was Clare's closest friend, gave her an encouraging smile. "Tell us about it. I cannot believe that you would act in a way that would earn our censure."

  "I hope you're right." Clare looked down at her tightly linked hands. Her father had been beloved of all of the Methodists in southern Wales, and the awe and affection he had inspired had spilled over onto her. Because of that, the other members of the local society gave her more credit than she deserved. Lifting her head again, she said, "The Earl of Aberdare has returned to his estate. I went today to ask him to use his influence to help the village."

  Edith Wickes, who was never short of an opinion, looked horrified. "You spoke with that man! My dear, was that wise?"

  "Probably not." Clare gave a terse description of the bargain she and Aberdare had struck. She did not mention how she felt, how the earl had behaved, or the fact that she must let him kiss her once a day. Nor could she bring herself to reveal the intemperance of her own reactions. Shorn of those details, the explanation didn't take long.

  By the time she was done, her friends were staring at her with varying degrees of shock and concern. Edith spoke first. "You can't possibly go ahead with this!" she declared. "It's indecent. You'll be ruined."

  "Perhaps." Clare lifted her hands in a gesture of supplication. "But you all know how matters are at the pit. If there is a chance that Lord Aberdare can change the situation, I have an obligation to try to secure his cooperation."

  "Not at the price of your reputation! A good name is a woman's greatest treasure."

  "Only in a worldly sense," Clare replied. "It is a prime tenet of our faith that each person must act according to his or her own conscience. We must not let ourselves be deterred by what the world might think."

  "Yes," Marged said dubiously, "but are you sure that you have a call to do this? You have prayed about it?"

  Trying to sound confident, Clare said, "I am sure."

  Edith frowned. "What if Aberdare ruins your reputation and then doesn't do as he promised? You have naught but his word, and for all his title, the man is no more than a lying Gypsy."

  "To him the fate of the village is a game—but he is a man who takes games very seriously," Clare said. "I think, in his way, he is honorable."

  Edith snorted. "He's not to be trusted. As a boy, he was wild as a hawk, and we all know what happened four years ago."

  Jamie Harkin, who had been a soldier until he lost his leg, said in his slow, calm fashion, "We don't really know what happened then. Plenty of rumors, but no charges were ever placed against him. I remember Nicholas when he was a boy, and he was a decent lad." He shook his head. "Still, I don't like the idea of our Clare staying at the big house. We know her too well to think she'd stray, but others will talk and condemn. It could go hard with you, lass."

  Marged looked at her husband, who worked in the mine as a hewer. He was fortunate to have work, but she never forgot that it was hard and dangerous. "It would be wonderful if Clare could convince Lord Aberdare to improve conditions at the pit."

  "That it would," said Hugh Lloyd, a young man who also worked in the mine. "The owner and the manager don't give a damn..."He colored. " 'Scuse me, sisters. What I meant is that they don't care what happens to us colliers. Cheaper to replace us than to install new equipment."

  "Too true," Owen said somberly. "In your heart, do you truly believe this is right, Clare? You're brave to be willing to risk your good name, but no one would expect a woman to do something so offensive to natural modesty."

  Once more, Clare's gaze went around the room, touching each member in turn. Knowing herself inadequate, she had refused to become a class leader, and she would never have dreamed of preaching. But she was a teacher, and she knew how to command the attention of a roomful of people. "In the days when members of our society were persecuted, my father risked his life to preach the Word. Twice he was almost killed by mobs, and he bore the scars of those assaults until the day he died. If he was willing to risk his life, how can I balk at risking something as trivial as worldly r
eputation?"

  By their expressions, her friends were touched by her words, but still doubtful. Needing to feel that they supported her, she said persuasively, "Lord Aberdare made no secret of the fact that his proposal was not a result of... of illicit lust, but simply a way to get rid of me. In effect, he made a wager about how I would react, and lost." She swallowed hard, then bent the truth until it was in danger of fracturing. "My guess is that when he has me under his roof, he will decide to put me to work as a housekeeper, or perhaps a secretary."

  Relief showed on the concerned faces around her. A housekeeper—that was innocent enough. Only Edith muttered, "Being a housekeeper won't save you if his lordship gets ideas. It's not for nothing they call him the Demon Earl."

  Suppressing a twinge of guilt over the fact that she had offered her friends a guess that might prove completely wrong, Clare said, "Why should he have ideas about me? Surely he has his choice of immoral society women and"—she searched for a term—"what do they call them—bits of muslin?"

  "Clare!" Edith exclaimed, scandalized.

  Jamie Harkin chuckled. "We all know such women exist. Some of them have even found the Lord and become good Methodists. Why be mealy-mouthed talking about 'em?"

  Edith gave the old soldier a scowling glance. They had clashed before; though the class members were bound by shared beliefs and mutual affection, they came from different ranks of society and didn't always agree about worldly matters. "What are you going to do about the school, Clare? You won't have time for teaching. Even if you did, most people in the village would be scandalized if you teach while staying at Aberdare under such irregular circumstances."

  "I hope that Marged can take the regular classes." Clare looked at her friend. "Would you be willing to do that?"

  Marged's eyes widened. "Do you think I could? Except for Sunday school, I've done no teaching, and I haven't anything like your learning."

  "You can do it," Clare assured her. "The teaching itself is much like Sunday school—reading, writing, spelling, numbers, housekeeping skills. The main differences are that there is less study of scripture, and the older students are more advanced. Of course, during the time you are teaching, you would also draw the schoolmistress's salary."

  As she had guessed, the prospect of wages tipped the balance, for Marged was ambitious for her three growing children. "Very well, Clare, I'll do my best."

  "Wonderful! I've outlined the lessons and written notes on what different children are doing. If you come home with me after class, I'll give you everything you need." Then Clare turned to Edith. "Marged is going to be very busy for the next three months. It's a great imposition, but would you be able to take my Sunday school classes?"

  The older woman looked first startled, then pleased. "Why, yes, my dear, if that would help you out."

  Another member, Bill Jones, said, "Since I live just up the road, I'll keep an eye on your cottage."

  His wife, Glenda, said robustly, "And anyone who speaks ill of you will get the rough edge of my tongue!"

  Clare bit her lip, unexpectedly moved. "Thank you all so much. I am blessed in my friends."

  Inwardly she vowed that she would never betray their trust.

  * * *

  "And here's the summary of what each student is studying." Clare gave Marged the last of the papers that she had written out after returning from Aberdare.

  Marged scanned the sheets, asking an occasional question. When she was done, she said worriedly, "Three of them know almost as much as I do. After all, it hasn't been that long since I was a student in your adult class."

  "The advanced pupils are the easiest of all. Not only do they largely teach themselves, but they help with the little ones. You'll manage very well," Clare assured her. "Remember, if you have questions or problems, I'm only two miles away."

  Marged's smile was a little tremulous. "As usual, you have everything wonderfully well-organized. I'm frightened, but—oh, Clare, it's so exciting that you believe I can do this! Five years ago, I couldn't even read. Who would have believed I'd ever be a teacher myself?"

  "My biggest worry is that the school will turn out not to need me when I come back." Though Clare said the words lightly, she felt a pang at their truth. With experience, Marged would be a fine teacher, in some ways better than Clare. Though Marged was not as learned, she had more patience.

  Business finished, Marged leaned back in her chair and sipped at the tea Clare had made. "What's he like?"

  Caught unaware, Clare said, "Who?"

  "Lord Tregar, or rather, Lord Aberdare as he is now." Marged slanted an impish glance at her. "Our Nicholas. It wasn't often that he was able to escape his keepers and come down to the village to play, but he's not a lad one would ever forget. You were younger, of course, so you wouldn't remember him as well. Mischievous and a little wild, but there was no harm in him, nor snobbery, either. He spoke Welsh as well as any of us. Not like the old earl."

  "I didn't realize that he knew Welsh." Since the upper classes of Wales were usually very English in both language and customs, Clare was reluctantly forced to raise her opinion of Nicholas. "I spoke English when I visited him."

  "I remember when he came down from Oxford with those three friends of his," Marged said dreamily. "Someone said that in London they were called the Fallen Angels. Nicholas, as dark and handsome as the devil. Lucien, blond and beautiful like Lucifer. Rafael, who's a duke now, and that Lord Michael, before he became the bane of Penreith. Maybe they were a little wild, but they were also the best-looking lads I've ever seen." She grinned. "Except for Owen, of course. A good thing he was courting me, or I might have been tempted to become a fallen woman."

  "Surely you exaggerate."

  "Only a little." Marged drained the last of her tea. "So now Nicholas is an earl, and home again after years of traveling in heathen places. Is he as handsome as he used to be?"

  "Yes," Clare said repressively.

  Marged waited hopefully for more details. When none were forthcoming, she said, "Were there any odd beasts running around the estate? They say that he sent some strange creatures back from his travels. It's been all I could do to keep the children from going up to investigate."

  "I didn't see anything more exotic than the peacocks, and they've always been there." Clare squared the stack of papers and handed them to her friend.

  Taking the hint that it was time to go, Marged got to her feet. "You'll come to class meetings, won't you?"

  "Of course." Clare hesitated. "At least, I will when I can. Lord Aberdare said something about taking me to London."

  Her friend's brows shot up. "Really? He wouldn't take a housekeeper there."

  "But he might if I were acting as his secretary," Clare said, uncomfortably aware that her answer was less than honest. "It remains to be seen what I'll be doing."

  Becoming serious, Marged said, "You be careful of Old Nick, Clare. He could be dangerous."

  "I doubt it. Lord Aberdare has too much arrogance to force a woman who isn't willing."

  "That's not what worries me," Marged said darkly. "The danger is that you'll be willing." On that ominous note, she left, to Clare's relief.

  It didn't take long for Clare to pack the few possessions she would take to Aberdare, and there were no other chores to be done. Too restless to sleep, she drifted through the four rooms of the cottage, occasionally touching familiar objects. She had been born under this roof, had never lived anywhere else. The smallest chamber at Aberdare was grander, but she would miss her whitewashed walls and plain, sturdy furniture.

  Lightly she skimmed her fingertips over the age-blackened lid of the carved oak chest. Clare thought it was a pity she would probably have no daughter to pass the chest to, for it had been handed down through the women of her family for generations. Inside the lid, "Angharad 1579" was chiseled. Sometimes Clare wondered about the life of that distant ancestress of hers. Probably Angharad had been the daughter and wife of smallholders who wrested a living from the land, but wh
at had her husband been like? How many children had she borne? Had she been happy?

  The overflowing bookcase at one end of the sitting room was the only note of luxury in the cottage. Thomas Morgan had been a son of the Welsh gentry who had been educated at Oxford and ordained as an Anglican vicar. After experiencing a profound spiritual conversion when hearing John Wesley preach, he had become a Methodist preacher himself. Though his rigidly traditional family had disowned him, he had never regretted his choice. Instead he had married the pious daughter of a smallholder and settled in Penreith, preaching and teaching the truth that had illuminated his own life.

  Thomas had never lost his love of learning, and he had passed it on to his only daughter. Whenever he went on a preaching circuit, he had tried to find an inexpensive used book, and there had been many such circuits. Clare had read every volume in the cottage, many of them more than once.

  Clare's mother had died twelve years earlier, quietly, the same way she had lived. Reverend Morgan had suggested that his fourteen-year-old daughter stay with other Methodist families when he went on a preaching circuit. Clare had flatly refused to leave the cottage, the only time she had ever defied her father. Eventually the reverend had acceded to her wishes, with the proviso that members of the society keep an eye on her when he was away.

  Clare had started her first small, informal class when she was only sixteen, teaching adult women to read and write. Four years later, Emily, the young second Countess of Aberdare, had set up an endowment to establish a charity school. Dozens of villagers had worked together to fix up an abandoned tithe barn. Though teachers were usually male, Clare's experience had made her the logical choice for the new school, and she had taught there ever since. Over the years, half the people in Penreith had been her students at one time or another. The twenty pounds a year she earned would never make her rich, but it sufficed.

  It had taken Nicholas Davies to pry Clare away from her home and her well-ordered life. As she looked into her small back garden, not yet planted for the year, she shivered, unable to suppress the feeling that she was seeing everything for the last time. Not literally, perhaps, but in her bones she was sure that one phase of her life was ending. Whatever happened at Aberdare would change her forever. Though she doubted that the changes would be for the better, she was committed to this course and would not turn back from it.