The Last Lady of Thornhill Manor

by Patricia Haverton

  As this was the royal highway, he would expect to see other travelers like himself. He watched them anyway, curious, as the common folk would be walking, and most nobles would ride in carriages. Affluent merchants might ride, yet they liked to display their wealth by choosing to travel in carriages. The thought of robbers crossed his mind, and he dismissed that notion quickly. Crime on the highways of the realm was rare.

  The hairs on his arms and the back of his neck stood up. These men were clad in decent enough clothes yet were clearly not of the nobility. Their mounts were not of high quality and owned shaggy coats with feathers on their pastures, informing Reggie that they had draft horses in their ancestry. He stood up and lifted his horse’s head from the grass.

  “Ho, there, My Lord,” called the man in the lead. “We appear to be lost. Are we on the road to Chichester?”

  “No, I fear you are not.”

  Reggie swung into his saddle the instant the man in the lead yanked a pistol from under his coat. He ducked and kicked his horse forward at the same time. The ball missed, but the other two also pulled weapons and pointed them at him. His heel in his gelding’s ribs forced the horse to lunge sideways, yet he was not quite fast enough.

  The ball struck him in the left shoulder and almost knocked him from the saddle. Fire burned through his arm shoulder and back, spreading in red hot agony. Wheeling his horse, Reggie kicked hard, forcing his beast into a headlong gallop across the fields. Though the men were now out of ammunition, that did not mean he was safe.

  He heard their yells of “Get him” and “We cannot let him escape” from behind and bent low over his mount’s withers. A low stone wall that divided one pasture from another loomed ahead, and he squeezed his legs. His horse soared over the wall as easily as he might leap a stick on the ground, racing on. A swift glance behind him showed Reggie his assailants had also navigated the wall safely and still pursued him.

  Needing to be back on the road and riding to help and safety, Reggie angled his mount to the left. Scattering a flock of sheep, he leaped yet another wall and risked another glance behind. They were still there, and he shut his teeth grimly. “You won many a race for me, old chap,” he told his horse. “I need you to win this one for me, too.”

  Striking the highway again, he urged his mount to a faster pace, bending low over the gelding’s blowing mane. The wind of his passing whipped tears into his eyes, and he quickly blinked them away. He realized he bled freely into his shirt, waistcoat and coat, and caught a glimpse of red sneaking from his left hand onto his leather reins.

  Another glance over his shoulder made him laugh. Their slower mounts were no match for the horse he himself had bred for speed. The thugs had reined in, watching him gallop down the road and far away from their murdering hands. Only when they had passed out of sight did Reggie slow his horse to a walk.

  I dare not blow him out. If they follow after, I need this lad as fresh as possible. Keeping a careful watch on his back trail, Reggie refused to stop and examine his own injury. Dropping his reins to the pommel, he lifted his coat away from his bleeding left shoulder even as his gelding continued to amble forward.

  Pulling his handkerchief from his pocket, Reggie pushed it over the wound under his shirt and waistcoat and pressed his right hand to it to slow the bleeding. Still keeping an eye on the road behind him, he picked up his reins in his left hand. Between his injury and the threat of the men behind him catching up, Reggie craved to push the horse once more into a gallop.

  “No,” he muttered. “I kill this horse, and then I am dead as well.”

  Maintaining a walk until the horse had cooled and his breathing even again, Reggie then nudged him into a trot. The gelding could maintain this pace for a few miles before needing to rest again, and despite the pain, he kept the horse going. Reggie knew there was a small village not far ahead. If he could get there, he might acquire the services of the local apothecary and receive the help he needed.

  No sooner had he sighted the village ahead of him than Reggie glanced over his shoulder to once again check his rear. The three riders galloped hard up the road toward him. “Damn it all,” he muttered and kicked his horse into another dead run.

  Now concerned that he might bring danger to the villagers, Reggie warred with himself. Outrun them again or seek shelter and hope they would not try to extricate him from the local inn. A vision of the men holding their weapons to the head of a peasant child while demanding his surrender made his blood run cold. “You will have no reason to harm anyone if I do not stop,” he muttered, then urged his horse to run at top speed.

  He thundered past the village and risked a glance behind. The trio did not stop either, which made him breathe easier, yet did not halt his fears. His mount was fast, yes, but theirs had the stamina, and the fact that they still chased him made that quite clear to him. “Maybe I can hide somewhere, wait until they give up and go back to whatever hole they crawled from.”

  Out of their sight for the time being, Reggie searched for anything that might conceal him from them. As the country was open and sprawling with pastures and tilled fields, there was nothing larger than a thicket that might conceal a horse and rider. Pondering the notion that he should leave the road and ride across the country, Reggie thought that might be exactly what he should do. London lay to the northeast of his location, but if he left the royal highway and rode east for a time, he could then strike to the north and still hit London.

  Reining to his right, Reggie cantered his horse across the pastures, leaping stone walls, and quickly put a line of low-lying hills between himself and his pursuers. Halting his lathered and exhausted mount, Reggie dismounted to tie the gelding to a thicket and climbed the nearest hill. Lying on his belly to not show himself against the skyline, he watched the distant road.

  Sure enough, within a short period of time, three riders cantered along it. They did not push their horses to their limits, and continued on, unaware that he had left the road. He watched them out of sight, then slithered back down the hill. Untying his horse, he walked, leading the beast along a very narrow lane between a field of oats and a pasture full of sheep.

  With the urgency of the chase leaving him, Reggie felt the pain of his wound grow in earnest. Though the day was scarcely hot, he sweated profusely and often tripped over nothing. He avoided a full-body fall by the narrowest of margins and took care where he put his feet. Despite his care, dizziness swamped him, making him think he had lost more blood than he thought.

  Growing weaker, he gazed around himself, hoping to see a farmhouse, a village—something that might hold people and the assistance he badly needed. Yet, he saw nothing. The sun, high overhead, burned down on him relentlessly until he saw three of everything all swimming together in a very strange dance.

  Then he tripped over his own feet and went down hard. Rolling onto his back, he stared into the innocent blue sky until the dizziness overwhelmed him and drew him down into nothingness.

  Chapter 15

  Amalia stared at the door Patrick vanished through. “Of all the—” she began, then choked her words off. Her father did not need to hear her vent her fears and frustrations. Gazing back at her father, she found his eyes closed. “Father?”

  “I am just thinking, daughter,” he replied without opening them. “I never thought my own nephew could stoop so low as to trick me like that.”

  “And why, Father? Why go to such lengths to get a marriage contract for his friend?”

  “I do not know.” He drew a deep sigh. “Perhaps we will never know. Eastcairn is gone from this house. All will be well now.”

  “I hope so.” Amalia glanced to Lord Bainbridge’s physician. “I apologize, sir. Here you come to assist us and must witness a family fracas.”

  Mr. Williams bowed with a smile. “No apologies needed, My Lady. I had started to explain that the very day I was to come here, Lord Bainbridge himself took ill. I could not, in good conscience, leave him.”

  “Quite understandable
,” the Duke said. “I sincerely appreciate whatever you might be able to do. Is Lord Bainbridge well?”

  “Indeed, yes, Your Grace, he has recovered fully. It was a simple malady brought on by too much imbibing in the wine bottles.”

  The Duke chuckled. “I wish my problem was so easy to solve. What is your opinion, sir?”

  “I must examine you fully, ask you questions and consult with Mr. Hill before I can offer that, Your Grace. Though I thoroughly enjoy gazing at a beautiful woman such as your daughter, I think it best I not do so until she has left the rooms.”

  Amalia laughed, her anger over Patrick subsiding. She stood and inclined her head. “Then my maid and I will depart, Mr. Williams. When might I return to visit my father?”

  “Please give me a few hours to complete my examination, My Lady.”

  “Thank you so much for coming, Mr. Williams. We will return later. And, if there is anything you need, please do not hesitate to ask.”

  “You are most gracious, My Lady. Right now, all I require is some privacy for my patient.”

  With Edwina beside her, Amalia left her father’s bedchamber and nodded to his valet, who bowed as she passed. In the hallway, the door shut behind them, Amalia stopped and gazed at Edwina. “What was that all about?”

  “Were I to say what I think, My Lady, I would blister your ears with my language.”

  “I am beginning to suspect Patrick has a stake in my marriage to Eastcairn.”

  “While I agree with you, my first question is how and why.”

  “That would be two questions, and those are mine as well. And neither of them make sense.” Amalia began to walk down the corridor. “Yes, I can see he would want me married to his friend. But to risk my father’s enmity to do it? That makes no sense at all.”

  “No, it does not. Could his friend be using your cousin? Perhaps blackmailing him?”

  Amalia stopped cold, staring at Edwina. “Lord, have mercy,” she whispered. “That makes so much sense it frightens me.”

  “It frightens me, too. If Patrick has done something terrible, and Eastcairn is holding it over him, then you, your father, and your cousin are in grave danger.”

  “Eastcairn must have learned somehow that Father is ill,” Amalia surmised, walking again, Edwina at her side. “He is friends with Patrick and knows he had done—something. Get me your cousin’s hand in marriage or I will inform the authorities. Are you following me?”

  “Like a hound on a scent.”

  “Now Patrick brings his friend into the household, where I am pressured to marry the Earl, even to the point where Patrick tries deception on my father. Once and when Father gets well, if there is a contract or I am married, well, Father will die eventually.”

  “And once that happens, Eastcairn is then the Duke of Thornhill.”

  “How could I have not seen it earlier?”

  “You did not have me beside you to assist.”

  Amalia withered Edwina with a look. Edwina grinned. “Very well, I helped once your cousin revealed his very shaky hand.”

  “But now that Eastcairn is out of the house, perhaps the pressure on Patrick will cease.”

  Edwina hummed. “You best not count on that, My Lady. Eastcairn can still pressure your cousin even without being here. Without becoming disrespectful of your family, Patrick is still vulnerable, and may still try something sneaky.”

  Amalia eyed her sidelong. “Should I confront Patrick? Offer to help him?”

  “And if what he is involved in can harm your family name and reputation? Perhaps that is not the best idea you have had.”

  “He is my cousin, Ed. My blood. How can I not help him?”

  “He got himself into this mess without your help; I am certain he can get himself out of it the same way.”

  Amalia wanted to curse. “Not with Evil Eastcairn holding it over his head. If I find out what it is, then perhaps I can help.”

  “And if he committed a heinous crime?” Edwina eyed her sidelong. “Do you want your family involved in that?”

  “It may already be involved. He is the Duke of Thornhill’s nephew. If he did something that terrible, my family name might already be dragged through the mud.”

  “Here is my suggestion, My Lady,” Edwina said, “ask him what is going on, and what Evil Eastcairn is holding over him. Go from there. But do not, do not, blindly offer assistance you might regret later.”

  “Ed, how did you become so cynical.”

  “It is the nature of a London orphan, My Lady. We are born that way.”

  Amalia soon discovered, however, that Patrick was nowhere to be found. He did not appear in the dining room for luncheon, nor was he in the small office next to the Duke’s steward. She knocked on the steward’s door and was immediately invited to enter. Mr. Bannock rose at her entrance, as did his son, Stephen. Amalia hid her small smile at the lightning looks of mutual affection that passed between Edwina and Stephen.

  Both men bowed. “What a wonderful surprise to see you, My Lady,” Mr. Bannock said. “How is His Grace?”

  “On the mend, Mr. Bannock,” Amalia answered, “thank God.”

  “Most excellent news.”

  A short, stocky man of her father’s age, Mr. Bannock’s father had worked for her grandfather, the old Duke, and had learned his trade at his father’s side. Amalia suspected that Stephen would have continued the tradition and become Marshall’s steward had he lived to become the next Duke of Thornhill. She wondered if whomever she married would accept Stephen’s service when his father passed on or retired.

  Reggie knows Stephen well and no doubt would. Then she chased that thought from her mind, as she still felt confusion over the words he used in his letter.

  “How may I be of service,” Mr. Bannock asked, smiling.

  “I was wondering if you had seen Patrick in the last several hours.”

  Mr. Bannock glanced at Stephen. “No, My Lady. In fact, he missed an appointment with me, and I am rather put out with him. Might I inquire why you are searching for him?”

  After hesitating a moment, Amalia decided to inform him of her suspicions. “Patrick tried to coerce my father into signing a marriage contract, my hand being given to the Earl of Eastcairn.”

  The steward’s light blue eyes widened in incredulity. “No.”

  “Yes. Of course, we are wondering if perhaps Eastcairn is blackmailing Patrick somehow into procuring my hand for him, and I wished to ask him about it.”

  “Though I honestly cannot see what Patrick might have done to enable himself to be blackmailed,” Mr. Bannock commented with a frown, “such is not impossible.”

  “He did not appear at luncheon, and Perkins has not seen him anywhere about the house.”

  “Could he be in hiding from Eastcairn?” Stephen offered, glancing between Amalia and his father. “Perhaps the Earl is threatening him.”

  “My father ordered Eastcairn from the house,” Amalia replied. “Patrick would be safe enough here.”

  “Even so, My Lady,” Mr. Bannock reminded her, “an Earl such as Eastcairn could continue his scheme of blackmail outside this house. Though I seriously doubt Patrick would be in danger of physical harm.”

  “Why do you think that, Mr. Bannock?”

  He shrugged. “With Patrick dead, for instance, Eastcairn has no leverage against him to gain the marriage contract. If indeed this is what is happening.”

  “That is why I wanted to talk to him,” Amalia replied with a nod, biting her lower lip. “Thank you for your time, Mr. Bannock, and if you speak with Patrick, please tell him I wish to talk to him.”

  “I will, My Lady.”

  With Edwina beside her, Amalia crossed the house to the stairs. “Could Patrick be running out of fear of Eastcairn?” she asked as they climbed up.

  “It makes little sense, My Lady,” Edwina answered. “Your cousin should have sense enough to recognize that your father’s power could protect him.”

  “Unless Eastcairn already harmed him.”<
br />
  “Here in this house? Not with hundreds of servants as potential witnesses as well as yourself.”

  “But if Patrick left with Eastcairn, it is possible.”

  “I will concede that point.”

  The Duke’s manservant bowed them through to her father’s bedchamber, where Amalia found her father once again unconscious, and both physicians were frantically working to assess what was wrong with him. Fear crawled down her spine as she sat in her chair beside his bed. His flesh appeared drawn, his cheeks sunken, and his flesh held a deathly grey pallor.

  “What happened?” Amalia asked, touching his bony hand as it lay atop the bedsheets.

  “We are entirely baffled, My Lady,” Mr. Hill answered, peeling back the Duke’s eyelids to examine his eyes while Mr. Williams sat at a table perusing what Amalia thought might be a medical journal.

  “I am not finding anything that matches his symptoms,” Mr. Williams stated, clearly frustrated. “I fear we must bleed him yet again.”

  “He is too weak for that,” Mr. Hill protested. “I am giving him treatments and food that should contain no contaminates, and yet he fell back into his illness as though he had been given a new dose of bad food or water.”

  Tears burning her eyes, Amalia swallowed the thickness in her throat. “Please keep trying, gentlemen. I already lost my brother; I cannot lose my father, as well.”

  Chapter 16

  Waking through burning pain cascading from his shoulder, and voices murmuring nearby, Reggie blinked. His mouth as dry as though he had swallowed sand, he glanced around in an attempt to ascertain where he was. He remembered walking down a narrow path between fields, leading his horse, and that was all.

  He lay on a narrow bed in a room with walls built of stone; solid oak beams crossed the ceiling to hold up the roof. The furniture, a table, chair, armoire, looked simply constructed yet attractive. Sheepskins lay across the floor, and he suspected from the softness that he lay upon others.