Burning Bright

By Pearl Darling

Some star-crossed love is worth waiting for...
Miss Harriet Beauregard never wanted to be a teacher, but fate dictated otherwise. Despite trying to direct her pupils in Romeo and Juliet, she is very much aware that a) life is dull, and b) love as expounded by Shakespeare does not seem to exist. But then the man whom she has thought about every day for two years, her knight on his black charger, comes back to Brambridge.
Only the newly returned Lord James Stanton doesn’t treat Harriet like a princess. He has just one desire: to thumb his nose at his father’s ghost and paint the Brambridge Manor study mustard yellow. Instead he finds that as usual his father has had the last laugh. Someone or something is desperately trying to stop him inheriting the estate, whilst his anonymous superior at the War Office wants him to undertake one last mission to find out who is killing riding officers in Brambridge.
It’s almost laughable that James keeps getting distracted by Harriet, the village’s dramatic school mistress, for she was the last person seen near where the first riding officer was killed...

• Language: English
• Publisher: Pearl Darling
• Release date: Aug 6, 2016
• ISBN: 9781911536017

Pearl Darling

Pearl Darling is a lifelong Romance reader and caffeine addict. In between watching NCIS, avoiding gardening, and drinking lots of Earl Grey, she writes romantic suspense fiction and wonders when she will next go on holiday. She has published six books, all in the Brambridge Novels series. Her next book is a Brambridge Novella called ‘Wondrous Web’, and will be free when it is published to anyone that signs up her newsletter at www.pearldarling.com/free-book

Book preview

PROLOGUE

Brambridge, Devon

A small cloud crossed the full moon that shed light on the sheltered beach. James stood from his crouched position in the sand and stretched his arms above his back. Gazing upwards, he searched the night sky for the Plough constellation. Quickly, he traced along its handle and found Polaris, the North Star, burning brighter than the other stars around it. He stared back down at the sand and quickly calculated in his head, just as he had done every week since he had gained his age of majority.

When they had landed on the beach, the stars that made up the Plough had been in line with his shoulder and now it was almost above his head. Forty minutes had passed and they still hadn’t moved the barrels up from the beach and into the stone mine.

Soft sand crunched behind him. James whirled and crouched, his knife out of its sheath and into his hand in a breath, a move he had practiced many times in secret. A massive figure emerged from the shadows of the beach, hands outstretched. James grinned and, with relief, pushed his knife away as Bill Standish, village blacksmith and captain of the smuggling boat Rocket, grimaced in return and clouted his shoulder.

I do wish you wouldn’t do that. James rubbed at his arm.

Grow some more muscle then, Jamie lad.

Mmmm. Not everyone can be as large as you.

Bill stared at him. When I was your age I was already apprenticed to the Brambridge forge. A year later I was the master smith. Of course you could become as strong as I. Bill laughed and clouted James on the shoulder again. Although now I’ll take you as you are. He jerked his head towards the pile of contraband. "I’ve just been up on the cliff top. Tommy has the fire under control. As soon as we’ve moved the cargo he’ll douse the flames, and the Rocket will leave."

Good. Get the men to move the brandy barrels now. Make sure they fasten the straps tight. I’ll rub out the marks in the sand.

Bill nodded and quickly gave the orders to the waiting men. James glanced upwards again. Another ten minutes gone. They would only have another ten before they were at greater risk of being caught. As the last man disappeared into the undergrowth at the bottom of the cliffs, James took off his coat and ran, dragging it across the sand where the barrels had been stacked.

With a deep breath, he pressed his hands together and blew through them, making three low owl hoots. He waited, and sighed with relief as the call was answered by one low hoot from the headland. The Rocket was barely visible in Longman’s Cove, but a sharp-eyed observer might see the tall shape of her mast against the moon, or the occasional light as the crewmen moved across her decks. It was vital that she wasn’t discovered. The contraband that she brought in from France was the only thing keeping Brambridge village alive. James might have been young, but he cared.

He strode to where Bill and the men had disappeared with the barrels at the back of the beach. Parting the undergrowth, he stepped onto a cleverly concealed path. Glancing quickly about him, he stilled, the dark shadows deeper than they should have been. Before he could move, hands descended and covered his eyes with a firm pressure. In a flurry of movement, he whirled, forcing them from his face and pushed the attacker back into the bushes. The small figure giggled and tapped lightly on his chest. James let out a groan. Not her again.

Harriet, this is not the time or the place. He stood and hauled her to her feet. "This is dangerous."

"I know, it’s terribly exciting. The moon is so large and the sea is getting up. It’s like a scene from Hamlet. Harriet stared at him, wide-eyed. She pushed her curly red hair away from her face and blinked. I thought I might help," she said in a low voice.

James sighed. I’d rather you didn’t. You need to stay here or go home to the cottage and your aunt. Does Miss Aggie know you are here?

Harriet shook her head. No, she’s alone at the cottage. I slipped out when she fell asleep over her correspondence.

James clenched his fists. Don’t follow me. He turned away and stepped back onto the upwards path.

James, I—

He cursed and turned back. Behind Harriet’s hunched shoulders the tide was beginning to turn, cutting off her route home. He touched her arm lightly.

Look, I’ll come back for you, Harry. I always do, don’t I? James took in a deep breath and rubbed at his eyes as Harriet’s shoulders slumped further. "I pulled you out of that pond when you were pretending to be a witch, I rescued you from the apple tree when you wondered what it was like to be a bird, and I rowed you back from the sandbank in the middle of the cove when you were calling to the gods of the sea. I always come back for you."

He waited until she nodded slightly.

Good. He patted her hand lightly and turned resolutely away. Striding with hurried steps, he followed the concealed path up the steep cliff side and into a hidden arch partway up the limestone face. A narrow tunnel led upwards into the cliff, branching out at different points. Trailing his hand along the wall, he took first the left tunnel, a sharp right and then a succession of left forks.

All was quiet in the mine. With a slight shiver, James took a last right turn. He pulled a tinderbox out of his pocket and lit a char, blowing it out as quickly again as he had ignited it. In the flash of light he had seen the men lined up against the wall, each with a tot of brandy in their hand. The barrels were stowed into a stone alcove and covered with a piece of white sailcloth that blended well with the white of the stone around it.

Go home, he whispered. We’ll move the barrels tomorrow night. Wait for Bill’s instructions. He did not see them nod but felt the brush of the men’s coats as they filed past him. The last man squeezed his shoulder strongly and a low laugh rumbled slightly as Bill left with the men.

James hurried in the opposite direction, out of the small chamber, into a larger one and then into another tunnel that moved upwards again. After fifty paces he came to an abrupt stop. He felt lightly at the wall to his right. Hooking his hands into the wall, he pulled out a small brass hook that was embedded in the stone. The hook moved seamlessly towards him and a chink of light appeared through the wall.

He held his breath but there was no sound. The light remained low as he pushed the door open and slid his chest and then his legs through, quickly closing the door again behind him. The door blended into the oak casement that lined the room and was impossible to distinguish from the other panels around it.

A woman gazed out at him from a painting hung over the wooden panel, a half-smile on her lips, her hands still upraised pointing to five stars that encircled her head. She had greeted his coming and going for the last year in the same fashion, the only woman surrounded by sneering male family portraits.

Lowering his head, James moved quickly from the room, and turned a sharp right into the sumptuous hall. Unwillingly his eyes flickered to the door to his father’s study opposite the gallery. The door was slightly ajar but no glow lit the room. Hunching his shoulders, James ran lightly up the grand staircase and stepped into his bedroom.

Damn. He’d forgotten about Harriet.

He took a step back towards the door, but faltered as a loud crash reverberated through the house. Loud shouts came from the hallway. Running to the bed that sat in the middle of the room, he jumped under the coverlet and pulled a pillow over his head. He breathed quiet shallow breaths into the soft cotton covering his face.

The bedroom door opened in a burst of sound. Light footsteps pattered across the carpet and the pillow was ripped away from his hands.

His sister shook his shoulders violently, jerking his head from side to side. Opening his eyes, he focused blearily.

James, she cried. Oh, you fool. Get up. They’re coming for you.

Wha… who?

Lord Anglethorpe and Father. Cecilia stopped shaking him and pushed her hands through the long mahogany waves of her hair. It’s the new riding officer—Fairleigh, he’s been murdered.

I don’t understand. Why are they coming for me? James blinked. Bill had told him that Fairleigh was visiting his sweetheart in Ottery.

His sister’s face darkened as she gripped the bed linen. "You and that blasted Rocket, she said tautly. Fairleigh was pushed off the top of Longman’s Point. They say his head was cratered in as he hit the rocks at the bottom of the cliff."

James took a sharp intake of breath as an ice-like tentacle of fear encircled his throat. Shaking, he sat and lifted up the coverlet and swung his legs out of the bed. But he was too late.

Stop where you are.

He froze, one booted foot on the floor as his father barreled through the bedroom doorway.

I told your mother that you were bad luck and look what you’ve done. Killed an innocent man. You can’t deny it. His father, Lord Stanton, shook his head and fury filled his face. That will teach her for letting you lead your own way and—

Enough, Stanton! A broad-shouldered gentleman appeared in the doorway. Don’t be a fool. The lad looks quiet enough and we are not sure yet that he even did it.

Of course he did, Anglethorpe. You’ve only been in the district for a day, despite your history here. You won’t know his reputation. Can’t you see the scratches on his hands and knees? Got them climbing to the top of the cliff to push Farleigh off, I’ll wager. He’s no son of mine.

But Father… James tried to twitch the coverlet back into place. I was in bed.

His father shook his head. Nonsense, James. You were seen creeping down the hallway by Edgar here at two o’clock of the morning, fully clothed.

James gulped and looked at his lone booted foot resting on the floor supporting his weight. Edgar. He might have guessed it was his cousin Edgar. He looked up at the doorway, and there Edgar was, stood behind his father and Lord Anglethorpe, craning his head over their shoulders. He bobbed up and down, a strange smirk pulling at his cheeks that froze when he caught James’ glare.

The bastard.

James looked away. I was stargazing, he said quietly. He pointed to the leather bound tube that lay on the table next to the bed. I was told a comet might pass over tonight.

Lord Stanton snorted. Even Lord Anglethorpe looked disconcerted.

"A likely tale. No son of mine stargazes. It’s something we tell the ladies to get them into bed. Lord Stanton walked further into the room, stopping suddenly as Lord Anglethorpe clapped a hand on his shoulder. Take your hands off me—"

I’ll come with you quietly. James swung his other foot from the bed. There was no point in protesting when his father was in this kind of mood. He directed his words to Lord Anglethorpe, though it was clear that his father was listening. I’m innocent though, I haven’t done anything wrong. I was stargazing. Just let me change my clothes. Please? The last word stuck in his throat. To his father that word would have been better than a scream.

Lord Stanton opened his mouth to speak again but Lord Anglethorpe stopped him. Enough, Stanton. It’s a bit of a walk to the lockup, and there is no way out of the room apart from the door and window. Lord Anglethorpe walked across the room and peered through a murky glass window. It’s too high for him to escape by the window and I’ll put a guard on the door as well.

Lord Stanton glared balefully at his son, as if wishing he could pick up James and carry him to the prison himself, but James looked away. His father’s hateful stare, so like those in the family pictures, was a typical Stanton sneer.

Lord Anglethorpe shouldered Lord Stanton from the room. Come on. The quicker we leave, the faster he’ll be ready. It’s not as if he’s going to escape to France.

Lord Stanton pulled away and brushed at Lord Anglethorpe’s hand. He cast one last red-eyed glare at James and left, shoving a grinning Edgar out of the way. As Lord Anglethorpe pulled the door shut behind him, he stopped and stared at James. With a barely imperceptible flicker of his eyelid he winked and closed the door with a click.

CHAPTER 1

Some years later…

Miss Harriet Hope scraped the last letter on the chalkboard, wincing as she caught the black slate with her nails. With a sigh, she turned back to face her class. Three sallow young children stared back at her. The remaining fifteen looked down at their books or fiddled with their slates.

How long would it be before the church bell rang the hour?

Turn your books to page two hundred and fifty-four please. She paused and narrowed her eyes. Joseph Carter, give Thomas back his book and put your bottom back on your seat. She waited as the small boy meekly handed back the slim pamphlet to his classmate. Thank you. Any more of that and you will no longer be included in the midsummer play.

Good grief. Harriet shook her head. Edmund Kean, the renowned London actor, didn’t have to deal with any of this.

The little boy sat up straight, his ears turning a bright red. There was a visible stirring in the classroom as all the boys and girls aged from six to thirteen sat a little straighter and lowered their eyes to their books. They had had their first rehearsal of Romeo and Juliet that morning. There had been a very enthusiastic response. However, the flow of the tragedy had been quite disturbed when the eight-year-old playing the menacing Mercutio had tried to embed a pencil in his nose.

Harriet sighed. Not to mention the thirteen-year-old who had the role of the count and who still could not get over the fact that Romeo and Juliet fell in love in a day.

Did he have no romance in his soul?

She smoothed her tightly-bound hair and looked out of the window.

Ring, bell, ring. Her gaze followed the vale high up to the ridge which led to Honiton. Joseph, start reading at paragraph three please, she said without turning from the window.

Once upon a time there was a… a… a—

Knight, she corrected absently.

Knight, Joseph carried on, who lived in a large c… c… c…

Castle.

Castle, and had a large white horse.

Harriet blinked. Up on the ridge there was a shadowy figure mounted on a horse. Harriet turned to look back at the class. Joseph was still valiantly battling on with the tale.

The knight rescued the princess from the palace and…

Harriet returned to the window. The figure had disappeared. She rubbed her tired eyes and glanced again through the glass, but the ridge was empty. Good grief. She had definitely been reading too late into the night again.

Joseph had fallen silent. Bringing her hands away from her eyes, Harriet edged round her desk and sat down in a large slatted chair that lay behind it. Carry on, Joseph, she said, shuffling the papers on her desk.

I’m not sure I understand the story, Miss Harriet. The little boy’s mouth was set in a straight line. Why do knights always rescue the princess? Why don’t they just leave them alone and go off and do interesting things like playing jumping jacks?

It seemed today was a day for questions. Because that’s what knights do, Joseph. Harriet infused as much enthusiasm into her voice as possible. After all, who else would rescue the princess?

Of course, Joseph had a point. Harriet looked down at the papers on her desk. Spelling quizzes, writing comprehension, mathematical exercises. She looked back at her class, who chatted quietly among themselves. They were good children, every one of them. But despite her efforts to give them an education, she knew that they would end up like their parents before them, trapped in their cottages making lace, out on the fishing boats or worse—

A bang resounded through the small room as the school door shot back on its hinges and slammed against the wall. Harriet jumped and then stood as a small boy fell in through the door, gasping.

It’s Jack, Joseph cried. He pushed the small desk away and kneeled by the little boy. It looks like he has run all the way from home.

Harriet moved quickly to the boy’s side. Jack panted rapidly. Putting a hand on his back, she patted him gently until his breathing slowed.

It’s Da, he said, gulping at the air. We need your help. He’s hurt.

Tommy’s had an accident?

Jack nodded slowly, his breathing almost back to normal.

Harriet looked back at the chalkboard. The lesson was nearly over anyway. Where is he?

At your cottage with Miss Agatha.

Alright, Jack. I’m coming. Harriet picked her duffel bag from the floor and quickly packed the papers in the bag. As the children chatted excitedly, she raised her voice. Rehearsals start again next week. You may all go early today.

The children pushed back the desks with alacrity. Taking Jack by the hand, Harriet stepped into the blazing sunlight. We’ll take Isabelle and the cart. We’ll get there more quickly.

Jack gave her a watery smile. The children loved the old pony that Harriet left every day to crop grass behind the schoolhouse. It only took a moment to hitch Isabelle to the cart and set her off down the hill into Brambridge.

The door to the small whitewashed cottage that she shared with her aunt stood partially open. A hubbub of voices emanated from within. Leaving Isabelle hitched to the cart, Harriet swung Jack to the ground and hurried up the small garden path to the open door. The door opened further as she stepped under the thatch.

Thank goodness you came quickly. Her aunt, Agatha, stood back to let her in. Janey won’t allow anybody else to touch Tommy. And I can’t get Peggy to stop crying.

Harriet stepped further into the room that served as their kitchen, parlor, dining room and morning room. Tommy lay by the fire that had been stoked into roaring flames. His jerkin and short fishermen’s trousers were wet through. Peggy, his wife, sat in a low chair by the fire, sniffing. Janey, Harriet’s friend, and Peggy and Tommy’s daughter, knelt at her father’s side holding a piece of cloth to his shoulder.

What happened? Harriet said in her best calm schoolteacher voice above the sniffing as she fixed her gaze on Tommy. Bright red drops of blood dripped from his shoulder onto the floor.

Sword gash. Bill Standish, the village blacksmith, stopped peering through the low window at the kitchen sink and turned his massive form to face her. Glancing back at the window, he reached up and twitched the lace curtains close together.

There aren’t many people with swords in Brambridge, Agatha said calmly, looking at Tommy crumpled in a heap on the floor.

No.

Still weeping, Peggy caught hold of Harriet’s hand. "He was on the Rocket. He says they took boarders. He says he was in a fight."

Harriet blinked. Janey hadn’t mentioned that the Rocket was sailing again. Harriet had thought it all had stopped when James disappeared.

I always come back for you. No, he didn’t, he hadn’t.

Why did you come here? She pulled back her hand and stared at Bill.

Because Rebecca Denys, the only woman who can treat him, is too far away. Bill pointed a thumb at Janey. And she said you would know what to do.

Janey nodded. You were telling me the other day about su… su—

Suppurating wounds. Harriet shook her head, resisting the urge to wring her hands. I’ve only read about them in the old circulars from the vicarage, she protested.

Bill carried on as if he hadn’t heard. I need him sewn up. I need it to look as good as new so that he won’t soak through his shirt. He rolled his massive shoulders as he stared at her.

I can’t do that! Harriet stepped back towards the door. He’s not a piece of cloth. Didn’t they know she was terrible at sewing?

If you don’t do it, he’ll be taken away.

What? Why?

"Because someone told old Lord Stanton before he died that the Rocket was operating again and he set the new customs man onto our tail."

Agatha’s face paled. You mean that a riding officer may come here?

Bill shrugged and looked out of the window again as his jaw hardened. I don’t know who saw us come up the hill from the beach. Half the village probably. He pointed his thumb at Tommy. He’s the worst hurt. He clenched a large fist. "Someone in the village must have told the riding officer about the Rocket’s trip last night. Our boarders were customs men, every last one of them, despite their ragged clothes."

Harriet gulped. Reaching over the low chair by the fire, she opened the household sewing box. Inside, a range of needles and threads were jumbled onto a pin cushion, flanked by a roll of hessian. She lifted the hessian out and unrolled it, letting a long piece of embroidery drop out. A shiny needle, scissors and a silver knife pushed into woven parts of the hessian remained. She pulled the needle out, and with trembling hands, unthreaded the white thread that hung from its tip, and dropped the needle into the ashes of the fire. Have you any brandy? She stared at Bill.

He raised an eyebrow. Barrels of the stuff.

Please get us some now.

He was back within minutes with a small glass bottle that held an amber liquid that he waved between Agatha and Harriet. Cask strength. The Frenchies have added caramel to give it color.

Agatha made no move to take it. Are you sure you want to do this, Harriet? she asked instead, worry filling her voice. Harriet stepped to the sink and washed her hands slowly in a bowl of fresh water. Do I want to do this? No. Of course not. But—

Bill swung the bottle back to Harriet as she turned and dried her hands. Come on, I did a good deal for it, the Frogs will do anything for British wares at the moment.

Harriet paused. What would you do if you were me? she asked Agatha.

Agatha glanced at a letter sitting on the kitchen table. I would continue, she said quietly.

Conscious of the time, Harriet let go of her towel and reached out and gripped the brandy bottle by its neck. Bill waited, his expression impassive. She took a deep breath. Her arms felt like jelly and every time she tried to focus on the needle in the fire, she could barely pick it out. How could she do this if she couldn’t see or sew straight?

Have confidence, Harriet, Agatha murmured.

A core of panic boiled in Harriet’s stomach. The only time she felt completely confident was when she was acting. Then she could be anyone she wanted to be. What would Kean, her hero, do? She shook her head. It wasn’t a case of what the famous London actor would do. It was about what the character would do. Her eyes focused on the needle as a strength surged into her fingers. She gently pushed Peggy out of the way and pulled Agatha in.

You take his head, Aunt. She pointed to Bill. And you, foul blacksmith, take you his arm. A crash of thunder resounded outside. A small smile crossed her lips—a spring storm, even the elements were conspiring to help her. Bill stared at her and didn’t move. Harriet sighed. Some people just didn’t appreciate theater. Bill, grab his arm please.

She knelt on the floor and eyed the bottle of brandy. Without pausing to think, she dashed half onto Tommy’s shoulder. The injured man writhed and woke with a loud scream.

Agatha tightened her grip as Bill stopped Tommy’s head from thrashing from side to side.

What are you doing to him? Peggy began a fresh bout of weeping.

It prevents infection. Harriet gingerly removed the needle from the fire, wincing as the hot steel burned her hand. She pulled a wind of black thread from the sewing box and rethreaded the quickly cooling needle.

Harriet stripped back the ragged shirt around Tommy’s shoulders. Brandy dripped from the wound that gaped with sliced edges. The sabre must have been sharp. As the full extent of the gash was revealed, Peggy’s weeping intensified and Tommy struggled awake.

What’s the matter with her? Why is she crying? he asked.

Shhh. Bringing the bottle of brandy to his lips, she poured a generous slug into Tommy’s mouth before she handed it to Peggy.

Please, Peggy, she said with some force. She stopped herself and softened her tones. Look, if you don’t stop crying, I’m going to have to ask you to step outside. Harriet stretched her fingers. The strength lent by the theatrical spirit was ebbing away from her. Peggy lifted her apron to her face and stifled her cries. With a sympathetic look, Janey patted her mother on the shoulder and shushed her gently.

Thank you. Biting her tongue between her teeth, Harriet assessed the wound again. She would start at the collarbone and work towards the armpit where the gash gaped the most. Risking a quick look at Agatha and Bill, who both stared steadfastly at Tommy, she took a deep breath and, pinching together the skin, readied her needle.

It was like stitching a sail cloth, a spongy sail cloth. There was resistance at first until the needle entered the skin, then a short free slide, until resistance again as the needle came back out through the skin on the other side. Twenty times her needle entered and then came out, creating ten small uneven black cross shapes that marched like spiders across Tommy’s shoulder. Harriet shuddered briefly. Spiders. Another thing she wasn’t good at dealing with. She bit her lip and concentrated again, redrawing the needle through the wound. On the last stitch, she fumbled at the hessian material that lay on the floor beside her with her free hand and withdrew the small silver knife.

Peggy looked up and gave a small scream. What are you going to do to him now?

Harriet grimaced. I’m just going to cut the cotton, and then that will be the last stitch.

Clenching her teeth, Harriet doubled over the cotton and pulled the blade through the strands. It only took one cut, the knife cut through like butter. With a wince, she rose slowly. She had knelt on the cold floor for so long her feet had gone to sleep.

Thanks, lass. Tommy rolled his head to one side and gazed blearily at her. Peggy clucked around him as they pulled the wounded man to his feet. He touched his shoulder in wonderment. You should bring her with you, Bill, he said weakly. We could do with someone like her when we sail.

Over my dead body. Agatha got to her feet. She picked up the small bottle of brandy that still contained a few drops of amber liquid and pushed it into Bill’s hand. Now go, before anyone catches you.

"What can we