had happened between them, the clear knowledge of what she had done, made her cringe. She leaned her forehead against the glass and closed her eyes, knowing that the hours that had since passed relieved nothing of the fury of emotion that pulsed through her. Shame and embarrassment, guilt and desire.
She had led him to kiss her, to touch her in ways Phoebe could never have imagined. And the most terrible thing of all was the wickedness of her own feelings. That she had wanted his kiss, that in some deep instinctive way she had needed it. Hunter had awakenedsomething within her that she had not even known existed, something she did not understand and that, standing here alone in the cold light of day, seemed very far away. She wondered how on earth she was going to be able to face him again, after what had passed between them, after what she had led him to believe. And yet if she was to hide the truth of what she had been doing in his bedchamber she knew she would have to do precisely that.
When she opened her eyes and looked out again the moor looked cold and bleak beneath the white-grey sky and the wind keened low through the panes of her window. And she seemed to hear again the echo of her father’s words,
There are dark whisperings about him, evil rumours …
Phoebe shivered and forced her thoughts away from Hunter. There was the whole of Blackloch to be searched, and she could not balk from it. She turned and moved to face the day.
Phoebe and Mrs Hunter worked side by side on the tapestry. Each day they filled in a little more of the still-life vase and flowers sketched upon the canvas, their needles flashing fast in the sunlight of the drawing room. Mrs Hunter brought the roses to life with threads of dusky pink while Phoebe stitched at the freesias with a violet thread. They worked together in comfortable silence.
Mrs Hunter tied off her thread and searched in their thread basket for a skein. ‘Oh, bother!’
‘What is wrong?’ Phoebe stopped stitching to glance round at Mrs Hunter.
‘I am about to start the leaves and have left the palegreen thread in my bedchamber. Would you be a dear and run and fetch it, Phoebe?’ ‘Of course.’
‘I think it is on my bedside table,’ she called as Phoebe exited the drawing door.
The green-coloured thread was not upon the bedside table. As Phoebe scanned around the room she realised the opportunity that had just presented itself. This was her chance to search the bedchamber, not for the thread, but for something else altogether.
It felt so wrong, so sordid, that she hated to do it, but one thought of her papa was enough to push such sensibilities aside. Phoebe began a systematic and speedy search. She started with Mrs Hunter’s jewellery box, moved on to her trinket box and the drawers of her dressing table, then the drawers of the bedside cabinet. The minutes passed too quickly. She found the thread, a cool pale green reminiscent of Hunter’s eyes, but nothing else that she was seeking, and knew that she could take no more time. Mrs Hunter was waiting. She gathered up the skein of thread and left.
‘There you are, Miss Allardyce, or perhaps, as we are alone, I may call you Phoebe.’ Hunter moved from his position leaning against the wall outside his mother’s bedchamber. ‘I thought you were never going to come back out of there. I believe my mother is in the drawing room if you are looking for her.’
Miss Allardyce gave a start and a tint of peaches coloured her cheeks. ‘Mrs Hunter sent me to fetch some thread.’ She handed him the skein as if offering her proof. ‘It was not where it was supposed to be. I had to search for it and, well, it took an age in the finding.’ Her voice was calm enough, but she was talking too much,revealing her nerves and, Hunter suspected, her guilt. ‘If you will excuse me, sir, I fear I have kept Mrs Hunter waiting long enough.’ He saw the calm determination slot back down over her ruffled poise.
He stayed her with
She had led him to kiss her, to touch her in ways Phoebe could never have imagined. And the most terrible thing of all was the wickedness of her own feelings. That she had wanted his kiss, that in some deep instinctive way she had needed it. Hunter had awakenedsomething within her that she had not even known existed, something she did not understand and that, standing here alone in the cold light of day, seemed very far away. She wondered how on earth she was going to be able to face him again, after what had passed between them, after what she had led him to believe. And yet if she was to hide the truth of what she had been doing in his bedchamber she knew she would have to do precisely that.
When she opened her eyes and looked out again the moor looked cold and bleak beneath the white-grey sky and the wind keened low through the panes of her window. And she seemed to hear again the echo of her father’s words,
There are dark whisperings about him, evil rumours …
Phoebe shivered and forced her thoughts away from Hunter. There was the whole of Blackloch to be searched, and she could not balk from it. She turned and moved to face the day.
Phoebe and Mrs Hunter worked side by side on the tapestry. Each day they filled in a little more of the still-life vase and flowers sketched upon the canvas, their needles flashing fast in the sunlight of the drawing room. Mrs Hunter brought the roses to life with threads of dusky pink while Phoebe stitched at the freesias with a violet thread. They worked together in comfortable silence.
Mrs Hunter tied off her thread and searched in their thread basket for a skein. ‘Oh, bother!’
‘What is wrong?’ Phoebe stopped stitching to glance round at Mrs Hunter.
‘I am about to start the leaves and have left the palegreen thread in my bedchamber. Would you be a dear and run and fetch it, Phoebe?’ ‘Of course.’
‘I think it is on my bedside table,’ she called as Phoebe exited the drawing door.
The green-coloured thread was not upon the bedside table. As Phoebe scanned around the room she realised the opportunity that had just presented itself. This was her chance to search the bedchamber, not for the thread, but for something else altogether.
It felt so wrong, so sordid, that she hated to do it, but one thought of her papa was enough to push such sensibilities aside. Phoebe began a systematic and speedy search. She started with Mrs Hunter’s jewellery box, moved on to her trinket box and the drawers of her dressing table, then the drawers of the bedside cabinet. The minutes passed too quickly. She found the thread, a cool pale green reminiscent of Hunter’s eyes, but nothing else that she was seeking, and knew that she could take no more time. Mrs Hunter was waiting. She gathered up the skein of thread and left.
‘There you are, Miss Allardyce, or perhaps, as we are alone, I may call you Phoebe.’ Hunter moved from his position leaning against the wall outside his mother’s bedchamber. ‘I thought you were never going to come back out of there. I believe my mother is in the drawing room if you are looking for her.’
Miss Allardyce gave a start and a tint of peaches coloured her cheeks. ‘Mrs Hunter sent me to fetch some thread.’ She handed him the skein as if offering her proof. ‘It was not where it was supposed to be. I had to search for it and, well, it took an age in the finding.’ Her voice was calm enough, but she was talking too much,revealing her nerves and, Hunter suspected, her guilt. ‘If you will excuse me, sir, I fear I have kept Mrs Hunter waiting long enough.’ He saw the calm determination slot back down over her ruffled poise.
He stayed her with
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