One Snowy Night by Amanda Grange Page A

it was tempered by fairness.
    Joshua, she
was learning, was a man she could respect.
    ‘Still, the
mill needs to be profitable,’ remarked Charles.
    ‘And I mean it
to be.’ Joshua took his eyes reluctantly away from Rebecca and gave his
attention to Charles. ‘But not at the expense of other people’s misery. There
is no reason why the mill can’t be run in a civilised manner and still show a
healthy profit.’
    ‘It’s a good
thing you two see eye to eye,’ said Charles, blissfully unaware of the fact
that on everything else they were at daggers drawn. ‘It doesn’t do for partners
to be always falling out. It’s bad for business. But it seems that my father
knew what he was doing when he left you each half of the mill.’
    ‘You don’t
mind him having left the mill to us?’ asked Joshua, looking at Charles.
    ‘Not a bit of
it,’ said Charles, holding out his hands to warm them in front of the fire. ‘In
fact, I’m glad he did. I’ve no head for business.’
    ‘Nonsense,
Charles,’ said Hetty loyally.
    Charles
smiled. ‘I’m good enough at managing the property my father left me, but I
wouldn’t have liked to learn about something new. And besides, the mill is so
far north it would have been impossible for me to keep an eye on it. An absent
owner is never a good idea. As you say, it provides an opportunity for a
corrupt manager to operate undetected. No, I didn’t want the mill. It would
have been a burden to me.’
    The door
opened and dinner was announced.
    Charles gave
Rebecca his arm, and Joshua offered his arm to Hetty.
    Rebecca
breathed a sigh of relief. Thank goodness! The custom that did not allow wives
and husbands to go in to dinner together had served her well tonight.
    They went
through into the dining-room, an elegant high-ceilinged apartment decorated in
duck-egg blue. White mouldings adorned the walls, and their brightness was
echoed by an Adam fireplace, which was decorated by a line of dancing nymphs. In
the grate burned a roaring fire.
    Hetty indicated
their places, and they took their seats at the long mahogany table. A group of
candles were lit in the centre, casting their sparkling light over the glass
and silverware. It was a most attractive sight.
    Hetty looked a
little anxious as the soup was brought in, but the first mouthful showed it to
be good and hot and Rebecca saw her relax.
    Good! thought Rebecca. At
least Hetty will be able to enjoy the evening!
    ‘Do you know,’
began Charles, once he had taken the edge off his appetite, ‘I think —’
    But whatever
Charles had been about to say was lost for ever as there was a sudden crash and
something came hurtling through the window, narrowly missing Joshua’s head. It
passed over his left shoulder and landed with a splash in his soup.
    ‘What . . . ?’
asked Rebecca, aghast.
    She looked at
Joshua, relieved to see he had not been hurt. If the stone - for a stone she
could now see it to be - had been an inch to the right it would have struck him
forcibly on the back of the head.
    Joshua,
throwing down his napkin, was already striding over to the window and looking
out onto the lamplit street.
    ‘Do you see
anything?’ asked Rebecca, joining him.
    But as she
looked out of the window she could see as well as he could that the street was
empty.
    ‘No. Nothing.’
Joshua’s voice was grim.
    ‘Oh! How
dreadful!’ said Hetty. ‘Lady Cranston was telling me only last night that her
own house had been burgled just before Christmas, and now our house has been
attacked. I don’t know what is happening to the world these days. It was never
like this when I was a girl.’
    Behind her,
Rebecca heard Charles calling for the footmen as he gathered a party together
and went outside in order to search for the miscreants.
    And then she
felt Joshua put his arm round her shoulder and steer her away from the window.
As he did so his arm grazed her skin where, above her long white evening gloves
and beneath the short, puffed sleeves