Inheritance: Somerville

By Chris Daniel

ENGLAND, 1790

 

At 18 years old, Rebecca Miller has lost everything: her family, her future, her freedom - even her name is changed.

 

All because a mysterious legacy is suddenly thrust upon her by force of circumstance, the bankrupt Somerville estate.

 

Penniless and low-born though she is, the name of Somerville is enough to ignite the courtship of the Earl of Marshwood, a wealthy rake three times her age, a man notorious for taking any woman he wishes - however unwilling. Why at this stage of his life is he so desperate to wed a girl way below his station with only a derelict estate to her name? And she is left in no doubt of the disdain in which he holds her, even as he arranges marriage.

 

From the freedom and lust for learning she has known through childhood, Rebecca's world closes in about her. Now she has no say in what may become of her, condemned to be the plaything of a decadent, cruel man whose power and influence know no bounds.

 

First she must survive. Then she must strive to seize her independence, and all this in a world where a woman – particularly a young one – is little more than a chattel, a toy to be enjoyed before being cast aside or abandoned to endless childbearing. Rebecca lacks resources and power; time is running out to avoid her imminent marriage. She must flee but has nowhere to go, every law and the expectations of the whole of society stand against her.

 

In the depths of her despair, unlikely allies appear: Sarah, her stalwart maid; Marie, the exotic and mysterious housekeeper of the Reverend Dean, the churchman who learns of the earl's obsessive search for the legendary Somerville treasure; and Adam Dean, his grandson.

 

In the end escape involves an undertaking of impossible danger and daring. A coded letter alerts her to the plight of Robert, a childhood friend who is being held by the revolutionary authorities in France. Rebecca sets out to rescue him but is caught in a trap.

 

Saved by an unlikely rescuer, she must return to England to face her fate, including marriage to a man she hates, fears and despises; a man who wants only this mythical treasure.

 

If the Somerville treasure even exists. And if it can be found...

• Language: English
• Publisher: CGC Daniel
• Release date: Sep 30, 2022
• ISBN: 9798215198315

Book preview

~ The Black Rider ~

A sharp jolt of the carriage threw my shoulder against that of my companion, Miss Steerforth, housekeeper to the Earl of Marshwood, who reacted with an abrupt wince away from such close contact. The carriage was finer than any I had ridden before in my eighteen years, but that was to be expected: my lord Marshwood had sent it to collect his winnings, and my lord Marshwood was extremely wealthy and believed wealth must be displayed.

My companions sat stiff, silent and scowling as they had for much of our journey once Mr Grindgrass, the attorney acting for the Earl of Marshwood in this matter, had ceased his tirade against Abolitionists, Chartists, Catholics, United Irishmen, American Revolutionaries and Frenchmen, and had sunk into staring blankly beyond the carriage window and sniffing intermittently into a large kerchief.

Mr Popham, my guardian, had delighted in arranging what he termed 'a marriage beyond belief' for me, and here despite my protestations I found myself being transported to a future in which I was to have neither opinion nor option, to be tied to an odious man many years my senior for reasons which were entirely beyond me. But it suited my guardian to be rid of me – I believe there was some financial gain on his part – and presumably it suited the Earl of Marshwood to take me to wife after all these years of notorious philandering. I had also been the subject of a wager, but quite how that might have come about with a man like Mr Popham, for whom any form of gambling would find reward solely in eternal damnation, puzzled me. My fingers toyed with the locket at my throat containing the miniature of my late mother and the entwined double 'R' sketch which Robert had left me before leaving. Not long ago my life would have turned out very different but for the hazards of circumstance.

The early onset of evening was merely serving to dampen my helpless mood further. Showery squalls struck at the carriage, and although I was not cold I shivered.

Have we much further to travel, Mr Grindgrass?

Mr Grindgrass limited himself to his customary abrupt reply when addressing me. Not so far as earlier, he sniffed.

I must tell you, Miss Somerville, that your penchant for silly questions is quite irritating. I should have thought that a properly raised young lady would have learnt to control such childish inquisitiveness. I believe my master may require that a number of your mannerisms be corrected -   I only wished to know if our journey is to last much longer, I snapped. Patience is not my virtue. I am famished and weary, it's close to evening and I would far rather I were home, not -

Again the carriage jolted savagely, and again I was thrown against Miss Steerforth; but this time she made no shrug as she herself had been thrown forward and must thrust out a hand to steady herself against the sudden halting of our carriage. Curses and whinnying accompanied the sudden stoppage, and then, above all noise, the three of us inside the padded carriage distinctly heard the cry.

Stand and deliver!

Overhead, commotion followed. The carriage, ornate and gilded with the Marshwood crest, was no target for any common footpad who valued his life, and to my horror I heard the click above of a musket being cocked for firing.

The shot however came not from there; the shrill scream did, and now the commotion above was joined by loud cursing and calling as the coachman hauled harder on the reins to quieten the startled beasts, yelling at our assailant as he did so: Peace, man, hold your fire!

Throw down your weapons! You! Get down from there and take the horses' heads. I would not see you and your cargo killed because your horses stampede!

I knew there were three men riding above: the coachman and his assistant on the box at the front, a footman at the rear. The Earl of Marshwood had not been cheap when sending his carriage to collect his prize.

The coachman was no coward. You, sir, he roared, will pay dearly for this presumption. Do you not see whose carriage you delay? Take yourself off now, and -

Another shot silenced the coachman.

I thank 'ee, Coachman, for your concern. Especially when it is your own health which is being threatened. And I thank 'ee for not letting forth the girlish scream your companion loosed on hearing the discharge of my pistol. Oh, and to be clear, I am well-armed – very well-armed – and am an excellent and practised shot. Which is why your man is unharmed, despite believing himself hit. And in addition I am well-acquainted with your master, my dear friend, the Earl of Marshwood.

The rascal seemed to be chuckling from what I could hear; we three were crouching inside, trying not to let ourselves be seen through the windows, though by now the dull evening was coming along, and shadows were deepening. Surely, I thought, the rogue must know as he claimed the earl's acquaintance just how foul was his reputation for vengeance, from which there could surely be no escape?

Miss Steerforth peered cautiously beyond a corner of curtain; Mr Grindgrass sat with his kerchief to his face, as though he were the bandit seeking to hide his true features. I stared out of the window on my side at gorse bushes lining the side of the road with thick woodland behind; even the yellow of the gorse seemed dull and colourless in the fading gloaming.

We sat in silence, ears stretched for outside sounds to give us clues as to what proceeded. My heart was pounding rhythmically, and I wondered just how much worse my life was about to get.

Springs creaked and the coach rocked as the man above obeyed his orders. No further word had been exchanged, and the commotion had ceased once the coachman had calmed his steeds. The three of us held our breath, wondering I'm sure if our last moments were upon us at the hands of this murderous brigand. In these days of King George they claimed the roads were much safer, but to me at that moment it was not safe.

I sensed a quick movement and the door at my side swung open. A pistol clutched in a gloved hand poked in at us, and a mocking voice addressed us.

Well, good evening, good companions. And what do we have here?

Grindgrass, a stout gentleman of flamboyant moustaches and a bald pate, shrank into his corner and hid deeper in his kerchief. Fearing that Miss Steerforth's bubbling indignation might trigger an outbreak of retaliatory ire in our attacker, I managed to find voice.

You are a vagabond, sir. You should be ashamed, assaulting a young woman of good character in such a manner! Perhaps it had been wiser if I had held my counsel!

With a chuckle, a head followed the hand and pistol into the doorway of the coach. A black tricorn rested on the head, all of which was swathed in black, eye-holes shrouded with a light mesh which allowed him to see but gave us no view of his eyes. I found myself staring: he was so close I could perceive the shadow of long eyelashes. The head pulled back out of my view so I could no longer see.

Well said, my lady. Spirit, I like – although your coachman here would have been wiser to not wave his gun about. Come, out! Now.

The pistol waggled an invitation to step outside.

Being closest, I clambered out first. Before I could stop myself I had placed my hand unthinkingly in the black-gloved one held forward for me, and stepped delicately as I was able on to the road; and, suddenly realising, jerked my hand away from the highwayman's firm grip, much to his amusement. By the horses' heads stood the coachman's assistant, hands loosely holding reins and a bemused and frightened look on his face. The coachman himself was stretched full-length on the turf by the side of the road next to the footman, their elegant finery glistening with damp.

Quickly! Quickly! I do not have all night! Mr Grindgrass must be encouraged with a pistol stab into his soft, ample anatomy.

Behind our carriage and tethered loosely now to a back wheel stood the highwayman's own steed, a black-skinned beast of such magnificence that I, but a moderate horsewoman myself, could only gaze in awe. Beside me Miss Steerforth, ready to argue, received a pistol poke in her turn, which turned her rebuke into a winded gasp. Out on the road, Mr Grindgrass sought to regain some stature.

You are a villain, sir, and will be found out. He was either very brave or very stupid, thought I, staring with surprise as he blustered. My lord will never forgive nor forget such impudence -

No doubt of that, Fatty. Now, empty your pockets. You two, remove what jewellery you carry.

I do not wear jewellery. Nor do I possess anything of value which might -

Let me see this, said the robber, breaking into Miss Steerforth's tirade by grasping the brooch at her breast. It appeals to me. Undo it now!

No, I cannot -

Undo the clasp! Now!

His voice was quite soft, lightly accented as if English were familiar but not native, and not rough nor deep. Yet it carried menace, and Miss Steerforth hastened to comply with his wishes. Grindgrass was flapping at his pockets, patting at them as if seeking something and showing great reluctance. So with his free hand, quite savagely and unexpectedly, the thief struck him backhanded across his cheek.

Now! And quickly! Or I shall use this pistol to put a hole in your foot rather than your pocket.

It was enough. Grindgrass carried a small jingling purse in a pocket, and this was snatched along with a large signet ring tugged from his chubby fingers.

Now, my young lady, what have you for me?

I had pulled away slightly, and stood trembling as I watched. Although our attacker was bigger than I was, he nonetheless had a delicacy and slightness about him that belied his rough trade. Such a rogue, in my eyes, should be rough and uncouth, not this soft-spoken, willowy creature with a gentleman's manners.

The soft-spoken, willowy creature was examining me carefully. Your hand, madam? Thank you. I shall have the ring -

Sir, it is a ring presented to me by my betrothed. Would you really - ?

Betrothed?

Yes. The Earl of Marshwood, sir, will have your head -

"You? You're his betrothed? Lordy, girl, I feel for you...but this ring I shall have, and the bracelet. What's this you have around your neck?"

No - ! But too late, he already had his hand on it. That's my late mother's, sir. The only trinket of hers I possess. See, there is her picture... Behind that picture was also Robert's, with the intertwined RR that he'd drawn for me.

I held my breath. My heart thumped in my chest. I felt the warmth of the highwayman's gloved hand so close to my skin, ready to rip the necklet away from me. The other jewellery could go; but not this, this necklet meant too much to me.

Please, I beg you... My voice was low and pleading.

The highwayman's face was completely masked so I could read no expression there; the eyes behind their mesh were studying the necklet, moving it to and fro to better make out the miniature, and I was struck again by the eyelashes, long and fine. And, now that he was so close to me, I could detect a hint of perfume, a subtle and exotic scent much out of place on this damp road.

The eyes in the mask examined me quickly. What's your name, girl?

I answered almost by reflex; perhaps I should not have done so. Rebecca Somerville. Though that was not the name I was born with.

Well...Rebecca...it's very pretty. Like you. And you shall keep it. He thrust his hand at me, and I took back my precious necklet with relief. It was not worth money, might fetch a shilling or two; but it meant much to me.

Stepping back, the robber touched his tricorn in salute and performed an elaborate bow.

Pass on to your master my thanks for his meagre gifts. I had hoped it was he riding in this fine carriage, but alas it is not so. Perhaps next time you would be so good as to have him oblige me!

With a chuckle he swung away to mount his horse, bringing the great beast up close to me and leaning from his saddle to whisper: Beware your betrothed, my lady. He is no man for you.

With that, he tugged the horse away and spurred it into a powerful gallop, disappearing rapidly into the gathering gloom.

We'll have you, my man! the coachman shouted.

His assistant and the footman appeared white with fright, Grindgrass exasperated and fulminating roundly at the modern degradation of the lower orders that they should be reduced to such unworthy activity, and Miss Steerforth glowing with a righteous indignation which so animated her stark and forbidding person that she appeared almost vibrant. This, it would seem from their loud declamations, was not the first time that persons connected to my Lord Marshwood had been waylaid.

But I could think only of long-lashed eyes, and an elusive scent; and of a strange warning delivered by a vagabond.

~ Marshwood Castle ~

My lord of Marshwood was notable for his failure to greet his future bride on her arrival at his door, I was relieved to see when at last the carriage clattered towards the ramparts of his castle.The dull, silent tedium which had accompanied my journey throughout much of the day – not unwelcome to me, for any conversation that I had attempted to provoke had triggered a total lack of any wit or warmth from my companions – had suddenly been shattered as both Miss Steerforth and Mr Grindgrass let loose their fury. Indeed, what Mr Grindgrass might have done with the rogue, who appeared to be known to them as the 'Black Rider', had his health and strength been what they were twenty years earlier left little to imagination. Though I must add that his bluster failed to remove the doubt in my mind as to how effectively he might have defended 'our' honour 'even as the rascal held his pistol on me'.

The loss of the trinkets – especially the ring – caused me no great distress. Relief that the robber had left me my mother's miniature on its silver chain eased my mind inordinately, so that I felt less burdened than for some time. Yet something about the robbery troubled me; there was something odd about the whole affair.

I had spent much of the remaining journey trying to lock out the shrill complaints of my companions and consider what had just passed. The highwayman had acted alone, which in itself was unusual. These days the King's highways were much better protected than in former years, and the threat of criminal mischief had been much reduced by effective policing and vicious deterrent, so any assault was generally carried out by several miscreants either too desperate or too stupid to realize the foolishness of their ways.

Our highwayman had been neither desperate nor stupid. On the contrary, he rode one of the finest horses I had ever seen, a beast that must be known for miles, and worth a large sum; secondly, he was calm and courteous throughout, giving off an air more of elegance and sophistication than of  delinquency; and he had used no more force than necessary to achieve his ends, the shots fired at the coachmen to frighten them, not harm them: a true vagabond would have aimed to hurt. He had targeted the coach of the Earl of Marshwood which no common footpad would have dared,

especially with regard to the vindictive earl's legendary reputation for vengeance and violence.

So it had been a deliberate provocation, then, by this Black Rider. Why? Had it been a member of the earl's intimate circle, seeking to gain revenge for some slight? Or a very clever thief after the best pickings, and prepared and cool-headed enough to run the risk? The fact that similar events had terrified a Mrs Ogilvie and a Lord and Lady Walton whilst either on their way to or from the earl's hospitality was made clear to me by the shrill descriptions of Miss Steerforth, but offered no insight as to the motive.

The castle loomed ahead in the dimness, on a promontory with the glisten of water beyond. Across a narrow stone bridge we rattled, through the forbidding blackness of a portcullis. I could see the servants lining the steps in the torchlight as we entered the central courtyard of the castle. Miss Steerforth was preparing to become hysterical and appeared anxious I should mirror her disturbed state, but I was beyond caring.

For some time my life had no longer been mine own and so I had set about learning to be an observer, coolly detailing the world around me and endeavouring to teach myself all I could of a host of matters – including, when I had been able to free myself from the strictures placed on me by my guardian, a variety of interests said to be those only a man might embrace. Indeed, I had enjoyed such pursuits – running, riding, shooting, fencing, fishing and the strange science my father had passed on to me, learned from a Chinee sailorman – in a younger, more carefree time before my world was ripped from me and I had been obliged to retire into the pretence of a pitiful orphaned grand young lady. Constant prohibitions and admonitions had eventually quietened the outer face I allowed the world to see.

I confess my heart was beating fast and my breathing coarse and irregular as the coachman hurried his horses the last few yards beneath the forbidding bastions of Marshwood Castle. Although I was in no way about to satisfy Miss Steerforth's view of a fine lady's deportment after so disagreeable an incident – that is, to swoon and moan helplessly – I must work hard to control my face and fight back the tears that bit at my eyes, and I gulped breath.

I could deny it no longer. I was afraid. No, I was more than afraid. I was terrified. Overwhelmed by the aching doom descending on me, I almost toppled on climbing from the carriage. Miss Steerforth hurried to my side, and servants from the house took hold of my arms and helped me inside.

Come, come... There's no need for a fuss. Let's get you out of this rain.

It was the first time Miss Steerforth had addressed any note of warmth in my direction. The rain, by now harder, offered a good excuse to the huddle of folk to hasten into shelter, Mr Grindgrass relating all the while with strong feeling, with Miss Steerforth's indignant interjections, the shocking events that had befallen us not an hour before.

This proved most beneficial to me, because it was assumed that it had been these events which had affected me; and as it became quite clear that my host and betrothed was nowhere in evidence, I confess to some relief, and my breathing eased a little as the tightening in my throat lessened.

Scowling representations of the Marshwood ancestral line stood sentry along the walls. I knew little of Marshwood Castle; only my guardian's terse commentary (over his scarcely concealed delight at having arranged a match so much to his advantage) and a romanticised sketch the earl himself had shown me.

An elderly man in a frock coat bowed towards me as I stopped at the foot of an immense carved wooden staircase which glistened from the labour of many a hand, and squirmed grotesquely beneath its carvings towards the shadowy floors above.

The master extends his hopes that your journey was not too wearing, Miss Somerville, and bids you dine without his company as he is unfortunately delayed by other matters. He offers his regrets that he cannot be here to greet you personally to your new home.

My glance inadvertently flitted across the dark corners where the lamplight flickered forlornly, and I shivered. The man did not introduce himself, nor add anything further. A pair of young footmen were busying themselves with my meagre luggage, and my eyes followed as they carried it on up that stairway into the dimness beyond.

Very well. I sounded curt, distant.

Miss Steerforth, noticing the absence of a welcoming party, had decided that a spell of hysteria would be wasted on this occasion, and bustled by me with an impatient Come along! past a maid who curtsied briefly.

Now without my cloak and hat I found myself led into a vast hallway with a ceiling of huge timbers lost in gloom far above, a minstrels' gallery jutting from the wall opposite and a curtained gallery above and behind me. A stone-flagged floor stretched before me to an immense fireplace, where lost in a grate at its centre a crackling fire offered more light than warmth. An oak table which might have seated forty occupied the space in front of the fire, below a mantel holding the head of a multi-antlered stag. At one end of the table were two place settings, one at the head and the other to its side.

Being hungry I decided not to demand to be shown my quarters, much as I wanted to get away from these people. But the food brought me was tepid and ill-cooked, as if prepared some hours earlier and reheated quickly, so my appetite relied more on the bread than the meat to be sated. My companion through dinner, inevitably I suppose, proved to be Miss Steerforth, who was evidently to be my chaperone. For once – though I would have welcomed it – she did not maintain the icy silence she'd sat in all day.

As you see, Marshwood Castle is a grand and ancient seat. And as such it requires the firm hand of a strong mistress to run it, she informed me between noisy sips at her soup. (I discovered noisy sips were necessary in this exalted society – a) to cool the soup; and b) to show appreciation – but I only came upon that truth later). Any lady of refinement and breeding would relish the challenge of leaving her mark on this august house, while simultaneously fulfilling her wifely duty towards his lordship's needs. She sniffed, much as Mr Grindgrass had been wont to do, and I wondered where he might have gone.

Does Mr Grindgrass not dine with us?

Heavens, no! And I dine here with you merely because I have been so instructed by her ladyship, to offer companionship, and also advice, as I see that it is much needed. She sniffed again, longer and louder this time; but I had felt the frown on my brow at the mention of 'her ladyship': who could that be? I'm afraid, my dear girl, that you have a great deal to learn in the matter of ladylike deportment, a very great deal. Obviously your background and upbringing have quite failed to prepare you for a role such as that which you now must play. Your dress is that of a yeoman farmer's wife, not that of the wife-to-be of his lordship; your demeanour that of a simple peasant girl, not that of a high-born lady such as may stand firm behind my lord. What my lord can see -

She fell silent, indignation pausing her soup spoon, unspoken words hovering.

I helped her. ...can see in you, I finished for her. I had been wondering the same thing ever since this marriage idea had reared its monstrous head – such a course had been nowhere in my mind. Madam, none of this is of my doing, nor my wish. I had no desire to betroth myself to his lordship, nor do I aspire to be Queen of his Castle. I long for nothing more than to return to the simple joys of Stony Brook with my aunt -

Your aunt has passed away, child. Some time ago, as I understand. To continue to attempt to live in that time indicates this want of maturity which has caused your guardian such heartache. And I understand you have shown little gratitude to that pious gentleman for all his efforts to educate you in the ways of a righteous woman.

I held my tongue. In truth, my mind was grappling with the puzzle of how a man with no heart might experience heartache. He and Mr Grindgrass, the lawyer sent by the Earl of Marshwood to finalize the legal aspects of the union, had made a fine pair: aged, dry, desiccated, on the one hand; plump and ready for the fire on the other.

I could not stifle the snigger that escaped me, much to Miss Steerforth's irritation. But the thought of a fire had taken me back to Robert and my cousin Matthew in the woods, and their long futile attempts rubbing sticks to set a spark, much to my and my cousin Sophie's merriment, as we had decided to cook on an open fire the pheasant we (well, Washington the dog, actually) had caught. Sophie and I were ten years old, the boys a couple of years older.

"You strike me as a most unruly and ungrateful girl. His lordship will be mightily displeased with your coquettishness and your evident disregard for the demeanour required of