The Steward of Blackwood Hall

Chapter twenty-three - A cooler head prevails

Parkes placed the brandy on the bedside cabinet, before he helped to remove Fielding's coat, folding it over his arm with his usual calm efficiency. "Will you require anything else, sir?"

He picked up the decanter and poured a generous measure into one of the glasses. "No, not tonight. You may go."

Once Fielding was alone he unbuttoned his waistcoat and sunk onto the bed. As he unwound the constricting cloth from around his neck the knots in his chest likewise began to unravel, leaving him able to breathe a little easier. He eased off his boots before collapsing across the counterpane, staring up at the pleated canopy above his head.

Time passed, marked by the slow but steady reduction of the decanter's volume, while the darkened room, lit by one solitary candle and the glowing embers in the fireplace, allowed his mind to wander unimpeded.

The revelations of the evening tumbled over themselves, like boulders inexorably rolling down a mountainside, and causing an equal amount of desolation.

As Sally had foretold, the silence and solitude brought with them a clearer lens through which to view the events at Woodside, while the warmth of the brandy thawed the wall of ice that had grown around his heart. As ire gave way to frustration he experienced a deep sense of unease at the abrupt way he had retreated to Blackwood.

With the benefit of hindsight, Anabelle's father now bore the brunt of his temper. Gentleman he may be, but his consideration for his family left much to be desired. Mr. Latimer had known his circumstances and yet had not troubled himself to share that information with his daughter or wife; a decision that had ultimately led to Fielding's own humiliation.

The idea that any man would willingly cast his beloved daughter to the tempestuous winds of public opinion made Fielding angry, but had that not been the desired intent?

Mr. Latimer was an intelligent man. By offering his daughter as a sacrifice, he had relied on Fielding's admiration for Anabelle to defuse his anger. Although Fielding abhorred his method, he could not deny that the older man had achieved his objective.

There was, at least, one point upon which Mr. Latimer had spoken truly. Anabelle had not had the pleasure of meeting the man Mountford had jokingly referred to as the Master of Meltham.

Never once did he consider her presence dull or boring, nor felt as though she was flattering or fawning over him. At no time during their acquaintance had he needed to depress her pretensions with a look or a curt word.

It had not been the Master of Meltham riding across the landscape hoping for a glimpse of her, but Anthony Fielding; a man who, for the first time in his life, had found someone who offered no undue deference, only pleasant, unaffected company and intelligent conversation.

The primary memory of his evening at Woodside was of Anabelle; her shadowed eyes looking back at him from a face made pale by despair and hopelessness. This picture, lovingly drawn in intricate detail, soon turned his frustration towards a new target: himself. By raising his pride for his family and position above all else, he had unjustly laid the blame upon the last person he ever wanted to hurt.

Anabelle's white, nervous countenance floated before him like an insubstantial ghost as he recalled her description of their first meeting. Although his emotions at the time had run too high to concede the truth of her explanation, he now understood how, in a mistaken light, she had identified him as Blackwood's steward.

It was true that he had never specifically mentioned his estate or fortune. He had been far too interested to learn more about her. They had spoken in general terms of Yorkshire, but a description of his home had never passed his lips while in Anabelle's presence. How was she to know him, or what manner of property he owned, if he had made no effort to tell her?