by Wilma Counts
When they arrived at the ruins, riders dismounted and carriages quickly disgorged their passengers. Children, dogs, and the cat scattered in glee as the servants set about laying out blankets and covered dishes. Having tied up their horses, Quint and Chet stood next to the knee-high ruins of a wall looking out over the terrain.
“This is beautiful,” Chet said.
Quint surveyed it, trying to take in the scene through his friend’s eyes. “Yes. I think I’d forgot just how splendid this view is.” The abbey had been built on a rocky cliff overlooking a bend in the river. The opposite bank, considerably lower, displayed a panorama of farmland and woodland with here and there gray stone buildings jutting out of fields or a wisp of smoke floating up from among the trees. Overall, a plethora of shades of green land with the blue sky, feathery clouds, and silvery river added contrast to please the eye.
Harriet had come up beside them in time to hear their comments. She held the two-year-old Matilda astraddle one hip. “It truly does bring to life the work of a poet, does it not?” she asked.
“I assume you refer to the work of Mr. Wordsworth,” Quint said.
She glanced at him, one eyebrow raised. “Why, yes, I do.”
He grinned at her apparent surprise, but whatever reply he might have made was lost as his mother approached.
“Harriet, dear,” the dowager admonished, “there is really no need for you to cart that child about like some peasant woman. We do have servants for that sort of thing, you know.”
“Tilly and I are quite comfortable,” Harriet replied, brushing a curl off the little girl’s face. “She just woke up.”
The child snuggled her face against her aunt’s breast. Lucky Tilly, Quint thought. He turned to call to Phillip to help map a court for a game of pall-mall. There followed a good deal of cheerful squabbling as they decided upon teams for the game, finally settling on a team of “men” versus “women,” though certain of the “men” complained that they were outnumbered and that Elly and Tilly would need help hitting the colorful balls through the wickets. Eventually it was sorted out and the game proceeded—boisterous, noisy, and great fun for all.
Quint kept a sharp eye especially on Phillip and Maria throughout, for they were to leave late the following week for their respective schools. Both seemed content with that decision now, and today both seemed happy to engage in a purely family outing. Phillip, especially, was being amiable and cheerful, even kind and helpful to each of his siblings. Quint surmised that Phillip was recognizing the transition in his life for what it was, and his heart went out to the lad.
Soon enough, the raucous game came to an end, and they all repaired to the lunch laid out on the blankets in what had been the center of the cloister of the abbey chapel. In a corner where two walls met, a servant had built a fire to boil water for tea. They feasted on roasted chicken and beef, cheeses, bread, vegetable and fruit salads, and an assortment of condiments, as well as biscuits, tasty cakes, and tarts.
They still sat on or near the edges of the blankets when Quint observed, “Mrs. Hodges outdid herself.”
“That she did,” Harriet agreed. “Maria’s favorite lemon cake and Phillip’s favorite tart!”
“Not to mention lemonade for tender palates and wine for those not so tender.” Quint lifted the bottle to refill glasses as needed.
The meal reduced to bits and crumbs, the two youngest seemed about to succumb to the arms of Morpheus at the knee of Nurse Tavenner. The other children were engaged in an impromptu game of hide-and-go-seek loosely supervised by Phillip and Maria. Chet lay stretched out at the edge of one of the blankets. The dowager sat in a folding chair that had been brought especially for her and set so as to give her a commanding view of the scenery and of the party. Mrs. Hartley sat on the blanket at her feet. Quint noted that Miss Mayfield had chosen a place that allowed her mostly to avoid direct interaction with his mother. Not that he could blame her overmuch…
His mother’s snide comment about peasant women brought to mind other instances of seemingly chance comments from his mother alluding directly or indirectly to Miss Mayfield. He sighed inwardly. Sooner or later his mother would probably precipitate some sort of confrontation in that quarter. But not today, God willing. Not today.
He stood, and looking down into Harriet’s beguiling eyes, said, “Miss Mayfield, have you seen the view of the river from the remains of the bell tower?”
She looked up at him questioningly, but readily took his hand and rose. “I am not sure that I have.”
“Oh, surely you must have done so,” Lady Margaret interposed.
“A spectacular bit of scenery. It quite reminds me of a walking tour I once took with my first husband,” Mrs. Hartley began.
The dowager cut her off. “Yes, Sylvia. Would you mind handing me another of those ginger biscuits?”
Chet raised the arm he had slung over his forehead, winked at Quint, and gave him a lazy grin.
There had once been two large buildings between the cloister and the bell tower. Harriet walked beside him and, when they were out of earshot of the others, asked, “Have you something on your mind, oh lord and master of all that is Sedwick Hall and beyond?”
“Perhaps consigning saucy women to a dungeon? But—alas—in years of searching, Win and I never found a dungeon here.” She stumbled over a large stone; he gripped her upper arm to steady her, catching a trace of her perfume, an airy blend of spring flowers. Reluctantly, he released his hold, and his voice was more serious, “However, I am wondering if I am imagining things—or perhaps seeing them as I want to see them. Has our Phillip now fully accepted the idea of going to Eton next week?”
She stopped, facing him. “I noticed it too—the change, I mean. I do not know. He certainly seems more positive, more optimistic. One can hope.…”
They had reached the ruins of the bell tower and stood on what was left of part of the wall. The tower itself had once been a circular structure some twenty-five feet in diameter, situated so that it seemed to hang over the river and provided a clear view in both directions of the waterway.
“It probably had a wooden base at the top for the bells,” Quint explained, “and from its position, it must surely have served as a major defense position, for it affords such a clear view of possible approaching enemies.”
Harriet smiled. “Ever the soldier, eh?”
He shrugged. “I suppose we should be getting back. I just wanted to affirm that you and I are on the same page regarding our mutual nephew.”
“We seem to be.”
He did not like the hesitancy he sensed, but he would not make an issue of it now. He stepped down from the wall and turned to offer a hand. As she reached for his hand, her foot caught on a protruding brick and, with a small yelp, she fell against him, tumbling both of them to the ground. Instinctively, he grabbed her to him and managed it so that she landed more or less on top of him, her face close to his. Out of breath, they stared intently at each other.
“Are you all right?” he asked.
“I-I think so.” She pushed against his shoulder to rise.
He put a hand behind her head to bring her lips to his—gently at first, but in an instant, she was clearly, urgently sharing the enthusiasm of the kiss, welcoming his eagerness to probe deeper. Then, they parted and she rolled to the side.
Looking at him rather sheepishly she whispered, “Oh, my.”
They scrambled to their feet and she began brushing at her skirt.
“I—uh—do I owe you an apology, Miss Mayfield?”
She looked up at him, her eyes quite blue, and full of laughter—as was her voice. “Oh, I hardly think I could cry blame for that—do you? And considering the circumstances, do you not think it should be ‘Quint’ and ‘Harriet’ now?”
He grinned at her. “As you please.”
“However, I hardly think this was wise of either
of us,” she said primly. “And you are right. We really should be getting back.”
He grinned again. “If you insist.”
Chapter 13
During the rest of the afternoon Harriet managed to maintain an outward demeanor that belied the inner turmoil wrought by that kiss. She teased and cuddled the youngest and played games with the older children and adults. Yet always in forefront of thought and emotion was the sensation of Quint’s lips against hers. Whenever their eyes chanced to meet, there was a glint of knowledge, a twinkle of warmth that told her he also remembered.
She admonished herself repeatedly for such foolishness. After all, she was no green girl fresh from the schoolroom. She had had her share of kisses and caresses. But, Lord, none like this. Nor had her response ever, ever been so immediate and so intense.…
The sun was beginning to set by the time the picnic was truly over. Back in the stable yard when both carriages had been emptied of passengers, Harriet pulled Phillip aside for a quiet word, whereupon the boy quickly gathered Maria, Sarah, and the twins, and approached their uncle and grandmother.
“Uncle Quint, Grandmother, we should like to thank you for a most enjoyable day,” he said with a very correct bow.
“How sweet,” the dowager said.
“You are most welcome,” Quint said with a meaningful glance at Harriet. “I’m sure I enjoyed this day quite as much as any in recent memory.”
She smothered a full-blown smile in response, but did not turn away from his gaze.
Later she did smile fondly to see that even the usually exuberant twins had been so “played out” this day that they did not object to the early supper and only one chapter of the current story being shared at bedtime. Having seen the children tucked into their respective beds, Harriet gathered up a bit of needlework and, joining the other adults in the drawing room below, waved Quint and Chet back to their seats at a chess table, and took a chair nearby.
“So—” The dowager was obviously continuing an interrupted line of discussion. “I was right: a picnic will be a perfect form of entertainment for my houseguests. We shall have it early on, though, while the weather is most likely to hold. My goodness! It is less than three weeks away! Are you sure we are prepared, Quinton dear?”
“Yes, Mother.” He sounded more resigned than enthusiastic, Harriet thought. “The guns have been cleaned and the gamekeeper assures me there are sufficient grouse in the woods.”
The dowager, occupying her favorite gold plush upholstered chair, clasped her hands in approval. “And next week all the guest rooms will be aired and the ballroom will be dusted and shined to a fare-thee-well—such as Sedwick has not seen in years! Oh, how I do love a house party.”
“Yours were always such a delight, Lady Margaret,” Sylvia Hartley said, as if on cue. “You gave one attended by the Prince Regent himself, did you not?”
“Why, yes, I did,” Lady Margaret replied, “though he was not yet the Regent in those days.”
“Nevertheless, he managed to put a serious dent in Grandfather’s supply of port,” Quint offered in an aside to Chet.
“Quinton Burnes.” The dowager addressed her son in the mock tone of a mother admonishing a child. “You will not speak so of a member of the royal family.”
“Just repeating what was said, ma’am.”
“Even so—”
“The prince is said to have a taste for fine wine,” Mrs. Hartley said.
“Well, you may rest easy, Quinton dear,” his mother said, “Prince George is not on my guest list this year.”
“Good.” He stood and went to the sideboard, where he replenished his own and Chet’s brandy drinks and poured one for Harriet after lifting the decanter with a silent question in her direction. The older ladies were drinking tea. “We shall drink to George’s absence. And,” he added with a quick wink at Harriet, “to the especially fine day we’ve just had.”
She nearly choked on the first sip of brandy, covered nicely, and rolled her eyes at him—which brought forth a grin.
“Did I miss something?” Chet asked.
“Nothing important,” Harriet said. Quint raised an eyebrow.
Feeling that she had interrupted the men at their game and the ladies at their conversation, Harriet finished her drink and excused herself with the plea that she was working on the final copy of an article and wished to get it to her editor in the next mail. She slept fitfully that night and later than usual the next morning.
She stood near the long work table in the middle of the kitchen stuffing the pockets of her riding habit with carrots for Miss Priss when a young groom from the stable came rushing in through the outer door.
“Beggin’ pardon, Miss Mayfield, Mrs. Hodges,” he said excitedly. “Dolan sent me for his lordship—for the colonel. He’s needed—real quick like.”
“Why? Is something wrong?” Harriet asked, alarmed.
“It’s the young lord. Lord Sedwick.” The young man’s voice rose an octave in a stage of panic.
At that moment Quint, with Chet right behind him, entered the kitchen, apparently on the same mission that had originally drawn Harriet here.
“Sedwick?” Quint’s alarm reflected Harriet’s. “What is going on with Sedwick?”
The young groom turned wide eyes on Quint. “D-Dolan sent me for you, sir! Lord Phillip—he come out and ordered mounts for you an’ him an’ Mr. Gibbons, jus’ like usual. We brung ’em out an’ got ’em ready, an’—an’ afore we could stop ’im, the young lord, he—he jumped onto your horse—right onto Lucifer’s saddle and kicked him into a furious run. Man! Can that horse go! Caught us all by surprise, sir. We jus’ didn’t know what to do for a minute or so. Then Dolan yelled at me to come get you and he jumped on Etna and went after Lucifer an’ his lordship. Others is gettin’ more mounts ready.”
“Let’s go,” Quint said.
“I am coming too,” Harriet said.
“That won’t be necessary,” Quint said.
She ignored him and rushed out the door behind him and Chet. By the time she reached the stable, the men were already off on the mounts that had been previously saddled. By the time hers was prepared, and she and a groom were on their way in pursuit, she was considerably behind—and very worried. What in the world would have possessed Phillip to take out that devil-driven horse of his father’s?
She could see the men a dismaying distance in front of her, and that they were frighteningly close to the cliff over the river! She just hoped they knew what they were about. This was a favorite riding trail, but was one leading directly to the cliffs. And that is exactly where they were when she saw Quint and Chet jump from their mounts to join the groom Dolan bent over an inert form on the ground. The black stallion, its reins hanging loose, stamped around quietly at the edge of the scene.
“No. No. No-o-o,” she cried, urging her mare to an even faster pace. Cursing at the awkwardness of unhooking her leg from the tree of the side-saddle, she hastily slid to the ground and rushed over to peer down at the still form of her nephew. She knelt beside him, her gaze immediately locking with Quint’s. “Is he—?”
“He’s alive. Unconscious, but alive.” Quint squatted at the boy’s waist on the same side of the prone figure as she; he pointed at Phillip’s left leg, which lay at an odd angle. “It looks as though he may have broken that leg.”
“His head is bleeding!” she cried in alarm, and began fishing for her handkerchief to press against the wound.
“Dolan thinks he hit that stone when he fell.” Quint jerked his head toward a boulder about the size of a small keg. He reached to raise Phillip’s head gently to allow her more efficient access to the wound, then handed her his own larger handkerchief.
“Hold this, please,” she said, covering her own panic at seeing so much of Phillip’s blood soak into the white cloth. She took Phillip’s own neckcloth to tie the pad in place
.
“Well done, Madam Doctor Mayfield. I sent Hankins—he came out here with Dolan—back for a wagon and to go for the doctor.”
“Shouldn’t we move Phillip to that grassy plot? H-he looks so vulnerable just lying there.” Her voice caught.
Quint shifted in his crouching position to slip an arm around her waist. “Shh. Try not to think the worst.” She felt his lips moving against her temple, but it was his baritone voice more than the reassuring words that brought her comfort. “Chet has been looking him over head to toe. Chet was as good as any of McGrigor’s men at spotting how badly a man might be wounded. What say you, Mr. Gibbons?”
Chet, who had been kneeling at Phillip’s feet on his other side, stood and came to stand near Quint and Harriet, his blue eyes full of worry and sympathy.
“The lad’s suffered a broken leg, as you can clearly see. Probably a concussion from that blow to the head. Best see if we can bring him ’round. Head wounds can be tricky.”
“Oh, poor Phillip.” Harriet felt her shoulders slump, but she appreciated the unspoken support of these two men. Three. For Dolan, who had dutifully seen to the immediate care of the animals, was also deeply concerned about the fate of this man-child on whose fate all of the Sedwick earldom ultimately depended.
“Far as I can see,” Chet announced, “that blow to his head and the broken leg are the worst of it, though he winced some when I touched that right ankle. It might be sprained.”
“Dear God. Both legs injured,” Harriet said.
“It might not be so very bad,” Quint said. “But what in the world possessed him to take out Lucifer? Dolan? What happened?”
Dolan shook a head of reddish-brown hair in confusion and gave Quint a bleak look. “I really don’t know, sir. The young earl—he come out earlier than usual, said you and Mr. Gibbons was comin’ right soon, an’ we should saddle the usual mounts—which we did. The horses to be rode was all tied at the rail proper like an’ Tucker an’ me stepped into the tack room. ’Twasn’t more ’n a few seconds, I swear. The lad knows them horses well enough! The next thing we know Lord Sedwick, he jumped onto Lucifer’s saddle and jus’ took off! Shouting and kicking to make him go faster—as though Lucifer ever needed much encouragement to go faster. The other horses were straining at their tethers and bellering their objections. It were right chaotic here. I sent Tommy up to the Hall to notify you an’ Tucker an’ me went after these two.”
