Destitute On His Doorstep by Helen Dickson Page A

Avery.’
    â€˜Yes, I do remembered the family, although I am not acquainted with them. I recall Samuel Merton’s name cropping up in conversations between my parents from time to time. He was an old man then, a man who, over the years, had not only become a wealthy miller but also a well-respected patriarch among the citizens of Avery. Elizabeth Merton and her younger sister must be his granddaughters.
    He nodded and smiled. ‘That’s right. You have a good memory. Tomorrow night I would be honoured if you would dine with us—if you are feeling well enough. The physician tells me you are past the infectious stage now. You will like Elizabeth, I promise you. She is a warm, kindly soul and devoted to Richard. So, Jane, what do you say? Will you dine with us?’
    â€˜I—I’m not sure,’ she answered hesitantly, taken by surprise by his invitation.
    â€˜Elizabeth’s sister Alice is to accompany them,’ he added, seeking to ease the qualms she was apparently suffering, and thinking that another female for company might help her to decide. ‘She still lives at home with her parents. Elizabeth thought that while she is at Bilborough with Richard, it would be nice to spend some time with her sister.’
    Still Jane hesitated. ‘Given the circumstances, I—really don’t think that would be appropriate.’
    The softness vanished from Francis’s expression. ‘I don’t see why not,’ he said. ‘Unless it is beneath you to share a table with a horse breeder. The war is over, Jane.’
    The silence that fell between them was as heavy as the executioner’s axe. Francis had not blinked an eyelid and did not speak. He just looked at her, his mouth compressed into a stern arrogant line, and there was more intensity in his eyes than a thousand others.
    She got to her feet quickly, drawing her cloak around her in a protective manner, despite the warmth of the evening. ‘I’m sorry, it’s just that I’m finding it difficult coming to terms with not being able to call Bilborough my home any more.’
    Francis stood up, brushing off the bits of grass that clung to his breeches. ‘Jane, had I not taken Bilborough someone else would have done, and if I were to walk away right now, someone else—another Roundhead, who would be less tolerant towards you than I—would take my place.’ His expression softened. ‘So, Jane, what do you say? Will you eat supper with us tomorrow evening?’
    They faced one another, the Royalist’s young daughter and the Parliamentarian, and although neither abated one ounce of their dignity, or their unspoken opposition, the attraction between them was almost palpable. Jane was shaken to the core by the bewildering sensations racing through her body. She tried to turn her head away, but his extraordinary eyes drew her back. After a moment of deliberation, she decided that she would dine with him and his family.
    â€˜Yes,’ she agreed quietly, ‘very well—although—I have nothing suitable to wear.’
    â€˜That can be overcome. There are trunks in the attic bursting with clothes. They belong to you. Take a look. I’m sure you’ll find something.’
    Together they rode back to the house, the mellow stone walls glinting golden as the sun went down on the horizon. Francis approached it with a deep affection for its elegance and grandeur, and he could well understand Jane’s reluctance to let it go. But he hadn’t been thinking of her when he had learned that the house had been sequestered and was looking for a new owner.
    Glancing sideways at her companion, Jane could almost detect what he felt as he gazed at Bilborough. There were little lines of tiredness around his eyes, but they were bright, not from the dying sun, but from something else that lit them from within. There was also a tight, leashed excitement she sensed in him. It flowed from him