But there was no one to answer him.
Lewis Roxby dismounted heavily and patted his horse as it was led away to the stables. The air was bitterly cold, and mist hovered above the nearest hillside like smoke. He noticed that someone had been breaking the ice on the horse troughs, a sure sign of a hard winter. He saw his groom watching him, his breath steaming.
Roxby said, 'Nothing moving on the estate, Tom. Can't even get the men working repairing the walls. Slate's frozen solid.'
The groom nodded. 'One o' the cook's possets will set you up, sir.'
Roxby blew his nose noisily and heard the sound echo around the yard like a rebuke. 'Something a mite stronger for me, Tom!'
He thought of the two thieves he had sent to the gallows a few days back. Why did they never learn? England was at war-people had little enough of their own without some oaf stealing from them. One of the thieves had burst into tears, but when Roxby had ignored it he had poured curses on him until a dragoon had dragged him away to the cells. Ordinary folk had to be protected. Some said that hanging a man never stopped crime. But it certainly stopped the criminal in question.
'Hello, who's this then?'
Roxby came out of his thoughts and turned to look at the great gates as a lively pony and trap clattered across the cobbles.
It was Bryan Ferguson, Bolitho's steward. A rare visitor here indeed. Roxby felt vaguely irritated; the vision of that warming glass of brandy was already receding.
Ferguson swung himself down. Few people realised he had but one arm until he faced them.
'I beg your pardon, Squire, for coming like this unannounced.'
Roxby sensed something. 'Bad news? Not Sir Richard?'
'No, sir.' He glanced awkwardly at the groom. 'I got a bit worried, you see.'
The glance was not lost on Roxby. 'Well, you'd better come inside, man. No sense in freezing out here.'
Ferguson followed him into the great house, seeing the paintings that adorned the walls, the thick rugs, the flickering fires through every open door. A very grand house with property to match, he thought. Very fitting for the King of Cornwall.
He was very nervous again, and he tried to reassure himself that he was doing the right thing. The only thing. There was nobody else to turn to. Lady Catherine had ridden to the other side of the estate to visit an injured farm worker and his family; she must not know of this latest trouble. He glanced around at the elegant furniture, the immense painting of Roxby's father, the old squire, who in his day had fathered quite a few children around the county. At least Roxby stayed faithful to his wife, and was more interested in chasing game than women.
Roxby reached the fire and held out his hands. 'Private, is it?'
Ferguson said unhappily, 'I didn't know who else to see, sir. I couldn't even discuss it with Grace, my wife- she'd probably not believe me anyway. She thinks nothing but good of most people.'
Roxby nodded sagely. So it was serious. Ferguson had a lot of pride, in his work and in the family he served. It had cost him a lot to come here like this.
He said magnanimously, 'Glass of madeira, perhaps?'
Ferguson stared as the squire offered him a chair by the fire.
'With respect, sir, I'd relish a tot of rum.'
Roxby tugged a silk bell-cord and smiled. 'I'd all but forgotten you were a sailor too, at one time.'
Ferguson did not look at the footman who entered and went like a shadow. He stared into the flames. 'Twentyfive years ago, sir. I came back home after I lost a wing at the Saintes.'
Roxby handed him a large glass of rum. Even the smell made his head swim. 'Don't know how you can swallow that stuff!' He eyed him over his own goblet of brandy. The latest batch. It was sometimes better not to know where it came from, especially if you were a magistrate.
'Now tell me what this is about. If it's advice you want-' He felt rather flattered that Ferguson had come to confide in him.
'There's been talk, sir, gossip if you like. But it's dangerous, more so if it reaches the wrong ears. Someone has been spreading stories about Lady Catherine, and about Sir Richard's family. Filthy talk, damned lies!'
Roxby waited patiently. The rum was working.
Ferguson added, 'I heard it from a corn chandler. He saw an argument between Captain Adam and some farmer in Bodmin. Captain Adam called him out, but the other man backed down.'
Roxby had heard a few things about the youthful Adam Bolitho. He said, 'Sensible. I'd likely have done the same!'
'And then-' he hesitated, 'I heard someone saying things about her ladyship-entertaining men in the house, that kind of thing.'
Roxby eyed him bleakly. 'Is it true?'
Ferguson was on his feet without realising it. 'It's a bloody lie, sir.'
'Easy-I had to know. I admire her greatly. Her courage has been an example to us all, and the love she bears my brother-in-law, well-it speaks for itself.'
Like a fine English ballad, he had thought privately, but he was incapable of voicing such a sentiment, particularly to another man.
Ferguson had slumped down again, and was staring at his empty glass. He had failed. It was all going wrong. He had only made things worse by losing his self-control.
Roxby remarked, 'The point, really, is that you know who's behind all this. Am I right?'
Ferguson looked at him in despair. When I tell him, he will shut his ears to me. An outsider was different. One of the family, no matter how indirectly, was another matter.
Roxby said, 'I shall find out anyway, you know. I'd prefer to hear it from you. Now.'
Ferguson met his grim stare. 'It was Miles Vincent, sir. I swear it.' He was not certain how Roxby would react. Polite disbelief, or open anger in order to protect Vincent's mother, his wife's sister.
He was astonished when Roxby held his breath until his face reddened even more, and then exploded, 'Hell's teeth, I knew that little maggot was involved!'
Ferguson swallowed hard. 'You knew, sir?'
'Had to hear it from someone I could trust.' He was working himself into a rage. 'By God, after all the family has tried to do for that ungrateful baggage and her son!' He controlled himself with a real effort. 'Say nothing. It is our affair, and must go no further.'
'You have my word, sir.'
Roxby eyed him thoughtfully. 'Should Sir Richard ever decide to leave Falmouth, I will always have a good appointment for you in my service.'
Ferguson found he could smile, albeit shakily. 'I think it may be a long wait, sir.'
'Well spoken.' He gestured to the other door. 'M'wife's coming. I heard the carriage. Go now. I shall attend to this unseemly matter.'
As Ferguson reached the door he heard Roxby call after him, 'Never question it. You did the right thing by coming to me.'
A few moments later Nancy entered the room, muffled to her eyes, her skin glowing from the cold.
'Whose is that nice little pony and trap, Lewis?'
'Bryan Ferguson's, my dear. Estate business, nothing to trouble your pretty head about.' He pulled the bell- cord again and when the footman appeared he said calmly, 'Find Beere, and send him to me.' He was Roxby's head keeper, a dour, private man who lived alone in a small cottage on the edge of the estate.
As the door closed Nancy said, 'What do you want him for? Such an odious man. He makes my skin creep.'
'My thoughts entirely, m'dear.' He poured another measure of brandy and thought of Ferguson's quiet desperation. 'Still, he has his uses.'
It was pitch dark when Ferguson's smart little trap reached the Stag's Head at Fallowfield. After the coast road, and the knife-edged wind off the bay, the parlour offered a welcome so warm that he could barely wait to throw off his heavy coat.
The place was empty but for an old man dozing by the fire, with a tankard on a stool beside him. At his feet a black and white sheepdog lay quite motionless. Only the dog's eyes moved as they followed Ferguson across the
