by Ella Edon
It was a remarkable feeling.
The sound of horse’s hooves rang out, catching Raymonde’s ear. She tensed, alert to the sound. They weren’t the sound of Lieutenant Wingate approaching, since he was riding behind her. Whoever this was, rode up from ahead, and there was more than one of them.
“A hunting party, out at this time?” Raymonde asked aloud. At this time of day, it seemed very odd.
She leaned back in the saddle, slowed her horse to a trot, and continued. At that moment, she caught sight of the group: maybe six horses, moving swiftly up the path towards her.
“Raymonde! Move!”
Before she could gather her thoughts, she felt somebody cannon into her from behind. A hand, outstretched, grabbed her bridle and hauled her horse to the right, sharply, off the path. Her horse neighed and reared and she screamed as she was thrown back.
The riding-party shot past, the six horses almost on top of her.
“Girl, no!” Raymonde screamed, as her horse reared again, throwing herself back in a buck that made her sick. If her horse decided to bolt, she might be thrown and killed. If she rolled, she’d be crushed.
Another horse neighed nearby as Raymonde’s mount came down from the spine-jarring buck.
Her horse reared, then shuddered and stood still. She dismounted, sliding down from the saddle. She stared up at her assailant. Tears of fright ran down her cheeks. Whoever had pulled her off the path like that, they could have killed her.
“Lieutenant?” she whispered, not believing who she faced. “What did you do that for?”
She stared up at Lieutenant Wingate.
He didn’t seem to be aware of her presence. He was leaning with his hands on the horn of the saddle, his eyes wide and vacant. He was white as paper, she noticed, and a fine tremor ran through his fingers.
“Lieutenant?” she said loudly. What was wrong with the man? She felt her stomach twist in alarm, his manner frightening her. Was he taking leave of his senses? His action was certainly that of somebody not in possession of his sense. “Lieutenant?”
His head snapped up. He looked around.
“Lady Raymonde?” His eyes focused on her face. She saw recognition dawn there, and his expression changed from shock to horror. He slid down off the saddle and came to stand beside her. He rested a hand on her shoulder which she shook it off.
“Lady Raymonde?” he said again. “Please. I’m sorry. When the riders came along, I thought… I… I don’t know what I thought. Forgive me,” he added softly. He hung his head.
“If my horse had bolted, you could have killed me,” Raymonde said. Her jaw was tight, and the words came out tonelessly. She felt beyond anger, beyond reproach. He – by dint of insanity, or wanton cruelty – had almost ended her life.
And to think I trusted him.
She felt her stomach clench and wanted, suddenly, to be sick. Holding her hand to her lips, she ran into the brush. Her stomach heaved, and she retched. She’d eaten nothing since luncheon, so there was very little to expel. She dabbed at her lips with her handkerchief, feeling exhausted. She heard a twig crack behind her as she stood up again.
“I’m so sorry,” Lieutenant Wingate whispered. “I am so, so sorry.”
Raymonde just looked at him. He, too, looked as if he might like to be sick. He was deathly-pale, his eyes wide. She looked at his hands to see if they shook, still, but he’d clasped the fingers together and was holding them rigidly still.
Wonderful, she thought with a wry smile. The only man I ever meet whom I can trust, and he turns out to be wandering in the wits.
She looked down. She had no idea what to say. She was beyond anger, even. All she wanted was to get back to the house.
“We should go back. It’s getting dark.” She tried to infuse her voice with a brisk tone, but it came out sounding flat and emotionless. She was too tired to think. All she wanted to do was get on her horse and ride back and never see anybody again.
“Yes,” he whispered. “You’re right. I’m so sorry, Lady Raymonde. I didn’t mean it. I don’t know what I was thinking!”
“No,” she said, with a touch of asperity in her voice as she took her horse’s reins in her hand and led her around to a tree-stump, so that she could mount up. “I don’t suppose you did. No harm done,” she added, turning to face him. She had one foot in the stirrups, her hand holding the reins. Her horse looked around at her warily, as if aware that she’d shocked her.
“It could have been so much worse,” he whispered. “Please. Let me help you,” he added, walking forward, reaching for the reins of her horse.
“I think you’ve done quite enough for one day, Lieutenant,” Raymonde said lightly, swinging her foot up and settling herself in the saddle. She had control of her voice now, and she tried to keep it neutral, though inside she was shaking with fury. “Let’s go back to the house.”
She turned away and carried on down the path, her back straight. Her horse’s mood was rather subdued, and she patted her neck gently, trying to encourage her. It wasn’t her fault, after all.
She heard Lieutenant Wingate mount up and start to ride down the path behind her, but she didn’t turn around.
“My Lady, I’m so sorry,” he murmured.
“That’s all very well,” she said lightly.
He could say sorry until the day ended, she thought sadly. It wasn’t going to undo what he’d done, or rebuild her trust in him.
Her head held high, Raymonde rode down the path towards the house through the darkening woods. It was time to get back to the house and put Lieutenant Wingate and whatever malaise or cruelty affected him, far out of her mind. She wasn’t about to meet another Osburne – not when she’d only just seen the departure of the first one.
Chapter Three
A Torment of Memories
The horror of that terrible scene from his childhood of his father’s body, stiff and so clearly dead, hovered in front of his eyes.
It was a scene repeated, over and over, on the battlefields in Spain. So many people had died, and some corner of his mind had always blamed himself, heaping guilt onto the guilt he felt about his father and Lady Edmore.
The memory of that day reared up in him again, almost making him sick. His father’s body so cold, so unresponsive. The cold way Mr. Hanford had told him the news from the doctor – that his father and Lady Edmore were dead. The despair he felt swamped him now, along with the crippling belief that it was his fault, that he could have done something to change it; some tiny thing.
“It’s not real,” Cutler whispered to himself. “You’re just remembering it.”
He hung onto the saddle and stopped his horse in the path. He shut his eyes and breathed deeply. Somewhere high overhead a bird flew, wings fluttering. A twig broke as his horse took a step backward. Theodosius snorted in mild impatience, then held still.
In Cutler’s mind, the drawing-room of his childhood, receded softly. The forest took its place again. He could feel the beating of his heart. His awareness slowly returned to the present moment, and he realized he’d stopped dead in the pathway in the woods at dusk.
He gently nudged his horse’s flank and they continued onward.
“That was a fine mess,” he told himself crossly.
It was the riders, that had done it, he thought with some annoyance. He had been perfectly alright! He hadn’t had any memories, and he’d been enjoying a particularly nice afternoon, riding with a very interesting and renewed acquaintance. Then, as the riders came down the path, he’d ceased being in Yorkshire, riding on Lord Westmore’s estate, and he was suddenly in Spain, near Salamanca, facing the charge.
And Lady Raymonde had been in the firing line.
He felt sick, suddenly. Memories flooded through him of his own actions. Grabbing Lady Raymonde and roughly pulling her out of the way. Waiting, terrified, while her horse reared and bucked and almost threw her off. Then, finally, he remembered how she had looked at him when she’d managed to calm her horse down and di
smount again.
Her eyes had been stones and her mouth was set in a thin line of rage.
She hates me. And rightly so. I could have killed her.
Cutler wanted to ride after her and stop her, to tell her that he was mortified by his actions. He hated what he’d done and he regretted it sorely. He glanced up ahead.
The forest was darkening fast, black shadows stretching out over ground rendered blueish by the dusk-light. Raymonde was a proud shadow, riding eighteen feet ahead. He wasn’t going to have much luck catching up, and even if he were to do so, he knew that she wasn’t going to listen to him. He had lost every chance he had of making her like him.
“Damn it,” he swore.
Theodosius snorted, and Cutler patted his neck. Of everybody in the world, Theodosius knew just how bad his pain could be and with it, how his vocabulary descended into the most vulgar soldierly curses.
“It’s alright, there. We’re nearly home,” he told his horse.
Theodosius snorted again, as if in sympathy, and walked valiantly on.
Cutler jumped down from his horse as he rode in to the stables at Westmore House. He ran in, calling for the groom.
“Mr. Whitshore? Where are you? Is Lady Raymonde already…?”
“The Lady just arrived, sir,” Mr. Whitshore said, walking slowly up the aisle between the horse-stalls. “She went up to the house. As should you, sir. Party’s just started. Let me take your horse, sir?” he added, reaching up for Theodosius’ bridle.
“Fine,” Cutler said with sorrow. “Thank you,” he added, walking slowly up the path toward the house.
Lady Raymonde must have raced back. He bit his lip, pausing at the door to drag off his riding-boots. Her cloak, he noticed, was hanging by the door. He breathed in, hoping to catch the scent of her, and was rewarded by a trace of some exotic perfume.
“Damn it! I’m a fool,” he muttered under his breath. He put his indoor shoes on and stalked up the stairs.
“What’s that you said, Lieutenant?” Luke’s voice, happy and warm, met him from the hallway. “If you’re lost, the party’s in the ballroom. Emilia’s had refreshments laid out in the drawing-room for anyone who’s hungry… It’s still a while until dinner.”
“Thank you,” Cutler said woodenly. “I’ll go upstairs, and then join the party.”
“That’s the spirit.” Luke grinned as he walked through the hallway and out another door.
Cutler felt more than a little uncomfortable with his lighthearted comments. Luke was a good friend, but his seeming inability to take anything seriously for long rankled somewhat. Especially now.
“I don’t ever want to smile again,” he muttered under his breath. Then he shook his head, feeling irritated with himself.
He knew he was reacting a little too strongly. It was an accident, though he had behaved strangely, and he’d likely lost the friendship of the only person at the house party for whom he felt intensely. But was that so bad?
“Cutler, there are lots of young ladies out there,” he said to himself. It was what his man, Arthur, would have said to him, after all. He was being a real fool.
He was surprised that the thought didn’t make him feel any better. In fact, it only made him feel more upset. He hadn’t found any young ladies who interested him for a long time. And now that he finally met one, he had to go and do something stupid!
“Damn it,” he swore, as he walked slowly up the steps.
The upper hallway was deserted. The grayish late-afternoon light shone in, making the fine silky carpet in the hallway shine softly. Cutler listened but could hear no chatter or sound of people walking about on the parquet of the drawing-room. He relaxed somewhat and walked softly up the carpeted floor to the doorway.
If there was nobody there, he decided, he’d just sneak in quietly, take a sandwich or two and go downstairs.
The room seemed empty, and he spied a plate of sandwiches, arranged neatly with a few other silver trays bearing edible things, on the trestle-table near the window. He tiptoed in and took one.
“And we need two more cake-forks, and…oh!” Lady Westmore’s voice said, startled. “You walk quietly, Lieutenant.”
“My apologies, Lady Westmore.” Cutler bowed low, feeling sick. Was it his job today to shock the daylights out of ladies? He looked her in the eye as bravely as he could. “I just thought I’d take a sandwich or two, then go down.”
“Of course.” Emilia smiled up at him, pale eyes sparkling genially. She had blonde hair, red lips and a small, neat face. “I was just checking that everybody will have what they need… There are plates here, and forks, should you want one,” she added, gesturing to a tidy pile by the corner of the table.
“Oh. Thank you,” Cutler bowed again, straightened up with a scarlet blush, and took a plate. Why was he being so damnably awkward today? He wondered if maybe he should just spend the evening in his chamber.
“I hope you’ll have time to join us this evening, Lieutenant Cutler?” Lady Westmore said kindly. “I decided we should start somewhat later, since Lady Raymonde was out riding, and she did intend to treat us all to a sonata or two.”
“I see,” Cutler said awkwardly. A chance to see Lady Raymonde again, and mayhap hear her play the piano… That seemed worth an evening of mild embarrassment.
“Yes. I think that she’d like the whole house-party to be there if they could.”
Cutler nodded, sensing that she meant for him to attend. He swallowed hard. His brain was screaming at him to ask something about Lady Raymonde. How was she? What brought her to Westmore House? But his tongue and heart refused to cooperate further.
I don’t want her to think I’m prying. What would Raymonde say? What would she assume about me?
He stood there, a sandwich on the plate in his right hand, feeling vaguely foolish. Everything about her ladyship intrigued him, but would he dare to ask her friend anything about her, and risk that she found out he had?
“Lieutenant Wingate? I trust you’re feeling well,” Lady Westmore said, sounding rather worried. “I had those sandwiches made this morning, so it would be strange if you found they gave you nausea…”
“It’s not the sandwiches, Lady Westmore,” Cutler said, swallowing hastily. “They’re excellent ones. I’m so sorry. I just wanted to ask… How do you know Lady Raymonde? Have you known her long?”
Emilia didn’t stare at him or seem shocked, and the relief of that on its own almost made Cutler’s knees go weak. He watched her nervously, waiting to hear what she would say next. She looked at him in a considering way.
“Not long, exactly,” Emilia said slowly. “I met her a year ago, in London. Luke might be better-acquainted with her that I am – she was part of Lord Canmure’s set, more than mine.” She gestured towards the ballroom, where the rest of the guests were assembled. “She seems a nice sort to me. Quiet, well-read, good company. Why do you ask?” she added, frowning at him.
“No reason,” Cutler said, putting his plate down a little too hastily. It clattered on the table and he righted it, feeling stupid. “Um, I mean… She just seemed a bit quiet, and I wondered if she knew the rest of the guests very well.”
He winced. What had possessed his mind today? Quiet? Distant from the other guests? If Lady Westmore passed that on, Lady Raymonde would never forgive him, and rightly so! He might as well have walked up to her and insulted her, telling her he thought she was strange to her face. It would have been faster.
To his surprise, Lady Westmore just smiled. “I suppose she is a bit quiet. But so clever! I talked to her about the pieces I chose for the recital yesterday, and I was amazed by how much she knows of music! She must play very well. I am excited to hear her.”
“I am, too, then,” Cutler said gallantly, setting aside his empty plate and walking toward the door with Lady Westmore. He couldn’t help liking her. Lady Westmore was never jealous but celebrated her friends’ accomplishments with real appreciation.
“Yes! You must join us. We’ve
set some chairs out in half the ballroom, around the grand piano. And then we’ll repair to the dining-room, where there should be a repast being set out for us. I just need to go and find Mr. Hall, to tell him…” she trailed off as the butler came up the stairs. He stopped in front of them and sketched a low bow.
“Lady Westmore. Lieutenant. A letter for you,” he said. He produced an envelope from his pocket, handing it to Cutler with some flourish.
“Strange,” Cutler frowned, feeling the slim parchment envelope. Who would have written to him here, at this address? His post was usually directed to the barracks in Norfolk, or to the small apartment he used while in London.
