Destitute On His Doorstep by Helen Dickson Page B

in waves so that she could almost feel it. Why, she thought, Bilborough means a great deal to him. He loves this place just as I do. But he could never love it as much as she did.

Chapter Four
    W hile the house was quiet in those empty hours following the midday meal, Jane climbed to the upper floor of the house where Gwen had set up her stillroom. With windows on two sides, the room was filled with light.
    When she entered she took a deep breath, surprised that the air in Gwen’s sanctum was still thick with the familiar spicy odours of herbs and roots and fungi. Peering around, she half-expected to find her stepmother pounding away with her pestle as she prepared some concoction or other.
    Gwen had always kept the stillroom pristine. Now it was untidy and in need of a thorough clean, but otherwise little changed. Dozens of glass vials, bottles and jars in orderly ranks in the cupboards and on shelves gleamed in the light from the window, along with pestles and mortars, drying frames and stacks of bandages and dressings. On a writing desk in the corner were the black ledgers in which she had written down her recipes and notes for an assortment of symptoms and diseases. Evenher apron was still hanging at the back of the door, and the basket she had used to collect the plants was on a stool. It was as if Gwen had just slipped out and would be back any moment.
    Slowly she walked around the room, touching and caressing Gwen’s precious things. She could almost feel her presence. She breathed in and sighed deeply. Memories! At least she had them and could keep them in her heart, knowing that in the fullness of time, wherever she was, they would bring consolation. She stood and gazed out of the window, with no real sense of time. The scene was familiar, unchanged and pastoral. More than anywhere else in the house, it was here in the stillroom that she felt transported back in time. Despite the myriad of uncertainties of the future, despite the unpleasantness of her situation, for a moment she was content.
    The silence lasted no more than a few moments before she sensed that she was no longer alone. Turning her head, she saw Francis, with his shoulder propped negligently against the door frame, his arms folded loosely across his chest. He smiled and she found herself smiling, too, and she knew her face was alight with pleasure at seeing him. She knew she should hate him, but Francis Russell had charm as potent as any magic.
    â€˜I thought I heard a noise,’ he said. ‘It isn’t often anyone comes up here so I came to investigate. I hope I am not intruding.’
    â€˜Of course not. If Bilborough is indeed your home, then it is I who intrude.’
    â€˜You are my guest, Jane,’ he said quietly. ‘I sense that this room brings back many memories for you. Would you like me to leave?’
    She shook her head and again fixed her gaze out of the window. ‘No. That is not necessary. No matter how busy she was, Gwen would never turn anyone away who found their way to this room.’
    Frances smiled in the sudden knowledge that for the first time since coming to Bilborough, she wanted to share her solitude. Shrugging himself away from the door frame, he moved across the room to share the space at the window. The quiet of the room and the beauty of the spreading countryside invited silence. He looked down at his companion. There was an aura of peace about her. Her expression was relaxed and serene. He was unable to tear his fascinated gaze away. Her shining hair tumbled over her shoulders in a glorious black mass, framing a face of heartbreaking beauty. Her skin was creamy smooth, her dark brows delicately arched, her lashes thick and curly. Pride and courage showed in every feature of her face, from her high cheekbones and stubborn chin. And yet her mouth was vulnerable and soft, as soft as her breasts that swelled beneath the bodice of her plain gown.
    Aware of his scrutiny but not perturbed by it,