“Now it’s your turn.”
“Oh, but I …”
The rest of her words died. How had it come to this, that she no longer took a chance on things? Is that why people ignored her, talked over the top of her, underestimated her, because she was always such a nonentity they thought she would never have anything to say, never do anything slightly exciting, that she was scarcely worth their while?
At Verity’s look of exasperation, her turning Banshee farther down the path, determination welled within. Gritting her teeth, Cecy patted Marigold’s neck and murmured, “Come on, girl, we can do this.” It was not as if she had never jumped a fence before.
The sound of Marigold’s pounding gait drew Verity’s gaze, not that Cecy had much time to notice anything but the flash of surprise on her sister’s face before she was flying with Marigold over the fence to land heavily on the other side.
Satisfaction bloomed across her chest, her smile sure to be filling her face.
“I knew you could do it,” Verity said as they rode down the tree-lined path. “Have you ever thought how much easier it would be if we could ride astride?”
“Verity!”
“Oh, stop it. You sound like Mama and Caro when you speak in that high pitch. Just think, if we did not have to use side-saddles we could ride so much faster, and be more comfortable, too.”
“You haven’t ridden astride, have you?” Cecy asked, eyeing her sister doubtfully. “Truly, it would be most unladylike, and you could never recover your reputation if you were seen.”
Verity sighed. “I have not.”
Cecy bit her bottom lip, sensing a “not yet” hung in the air.
“Oh, look!”
Verity’s exclamation—whether from the desire to turn Cecy’s thoughts from her apparent longed-for escape from propriety or simply good timing—drew her attention to the view ahead. A house of golden stone lay at the end of the path. From this angle she could count six, no, seven windows stretch across its front, which included a charming bay window. Ivy curled up around the main doors, extending up to the flattish roof, where several chimney stacks hinted the house might be cozier than first appearance.
She was right. As they crossed the graveled drive the dimensions suggested there was space inside for but two rooms in depth. “How charming!”
Verity slid from her horse, sliding Cecy another of those impish smiles. “Shall we see inside?”
“Verity, no! No, we cannot. We will not,” she added more firmly.
“Oh, but surely I could knock on the door? Perhaps a housekeeper will be in.”
“If a housekeeper is in, then we will still not be so rude as to go inside. Would you care to have someone tramp through our house without so much as a by-your-leave? Of course not. No, Verity, I insist!”
“Oh, very well. But I’m still going to peek through the windows.”
Cecy exhaled, but her sister’s careful traipsing through the garden beds lining the front walls proved irresistible, and she soon found herself in a similar position, hands splayed beside her face peering through the glass, too.
She could see what appeared to be a drawing room, or perhaps a library, with large bookshelves lining either side of the fireplace. The room’s other furniture was draped with dustcovers, enough to suggest this room was rarely used.
“Perhaps he doesn’t have a housekeeper,” Verity murmured.
“He might get one of the Rovingham servants to attend to things as needed.”
“Let’s look through the bay window.”
Positioned as it was adjoining the gravel path, this at least did not require traipsing through more flower beds. Through that glass, she could see a beautiful light-filled room, perfect for use as a morning room, a parlor for the lady of the house.
She bit her lip, willed the emotion away. Oh, how she would like to be the lady …
“Cecy? Let’s go look around at the back—Oh!”
Verity’s cry swung Cecy to peer back over her shoulder. Her heart stuttered.
“Cecy, do you know who that person is over there?”
She shivered. It was the man—the gypsy, Mr. Drako!
He stood near their horses, wearing the colorful cloak she remembered from midsummer night, his battered hat pulled low across his eyes, his unshaven jaw, all was familiar.
“Who is he?” Verity said, her voice holding a note of fear.
“He … he is a gypsy.”
“Really?”
“I believe he is the man who was accused of hurting Ned.”
“But what is he doing here?”
Cecy bit back her answer. She would not admit to her sister why Ned had arranged for him to stay; such things would be considered unlawful.
“Is he dangerous?” Verity whispered.
“He was accused, and then released. I think that tells us they could find no evidence against him.” Cecy laid a restraining hand on her sister’s arm. “Stay here.”
“But Cecy …”
Drawing up to her full height, she slowly approached the man. “Hello.”
She winced. She could be tried for talking to a gypsy! It was illegal, after all.
As she drew near, he made the same incomprehensible sounds she remembered from before. She held her hands up as a sign she held no animosity. “Do you remember me?”
A crunch of gravel behind her told that Verity had moved closer. “You know him?”
“Of course not.”
She swallowed. Was that a lie? It was not as if they had been introduced, like one could be at a ball. Hysteria bubbled up. She curbed it. No, it would not do to engage the man any further; she had been foolish enough as it was. Already she sensed that, after Verity’s initial trepidation, her interest had been piqued; and rather than flee as any proper young lady would, she would wish to engage the man in further interaction.
That thought was only confirmed when Verity said, in a voice filled with fascination, “I’ve never met a gypsy before.”
“And you’re not about to now.”
“Tosh! Do you really think I care for propriety?”
“If you speak with him you could be hung!”
“Who will know if I do?”
“No.” Cecy pushed her sister towards their horses, where they patiently nuzzled the longer tufts of grass in the as yet uncleared garden. “For once, Verity, could you please do as you’re asked?”
Verity pouted, an expression which made her seem far closer to her true age in years than the overly confident young lady who read newspapers and could argue politics.
But Cecy could not have her get in strife. She wished the gypsies well, and applauded Ned’s merciful offer of granting them accommodation, but still secretly wanted them away. Did such thoughts make her a hypocrite?
“We need to leave. We should not have come. Now get on your horse. Here, I’ll help boost you.”
“But—”
“Now, Verity!”
Her sister shot her a wide-eyed look, but nonetheless obeyed. Cecy drew Marigold to a low brick wall and placed her foot into the stirrup, then tried to heave her other leg over.
“Cecy!”
Cecy glanced around. The gypsy was approaching her, was drawing closer! Heart hammering, she tried to get up into the saddle once again. Again, she failed. Oh, what would she do?
A noise like gargling behind her made her freeze.
“Leave her!” came Verity’s voice.
Then she felt a touch, saw his cupped hands, realized his intention. The tension eased a fraction.
Placing a booted foot into his hands she was boosted into the saddle, and she swung her leg into position, arranged her skirts, then summoned a smile she hoped displayed no edge of fear. “Thank you.”
He grunted something, she smiled again, and nudged Marigold closer to Verity, who was watching openmouthed, as if seeing Cecy for the first time.
“Come, we should return home before anyone sees us.”
Verity nodded, and, after peeking over
her shoulder to discover the gypsy had disappeared, Cecy led the way back along the wooded path to the wooden gate. For the next few minutes nothing was said, the only sound the thudding of hooves and creak of trees. Cecy was glad, as her mind was filled with the clatter of a dozen different emotions, rabbit trails all. What would she say to Verity? How could she explain away this encounter? What should happen if anyone did see them? Would someone report them? Oh, how foolish and headstrong was her sister!
She prayed; a measure of calm eased the pointy edges of her panic.
“Cecy?”
She glanced across. Her sister held a look Cecy did not recognize; was it fear? “Verity.” She drew in a deep breath. “I think it best we do not speak about this to anyone.”
Verity nodded.
“Promise?”
“Of course,” she said in a subdued voice.
They reached the gate, but her actions before had drained her of any desire for further heroics, and she nudged Marigold closer, slipped down and heaved it wide enough to pass through.
A minute later, she was latching it closed, and her breath was coming easier. She used the gate’s crossed bars to help regain her seat atop Marigold’s back.
They were safe now. No one had seen them. No one knew. All would be well.
“Ahoy there!”
Breath suspended. She glanced to the left. In the distance she could see a figure. Stephen Heathcote. She glanced at Verity. “Don’t say a word.”
“I won’t.” But the lift of dark head held little of her usual insouciance. Cecy could only hope Stephen would not note anything amiss.
He drew closer, his dark gelding all tossing mane and glossy coat. “What are you two doing?” He looked between them, brows aloft.
“One could ask you the same question,” Cecy answered. “This is Aynsley land, is it not?”
He grinned. “It is, and that”—he pointed behind him—“is Heathcote land, which is where I was when I saw you both. Coming from Franklin Park land, if I’m not mistaken.”
She glanced at Verity, who looked away. Her sister’s unusual silence could not be trusted. It would be best to promptly leave and thus avoid any awkward explanations.
“If you’ll please excuse us, Stephen, I fear we have been much longer than anticipated.”
“Why?” His smile faded. “Has Amherst returned? I did not know it.”
“No,” she said quickly. “He is still in London, I believe.”
“Then what—?” He looked between them. “Are you quite well, Miss Verity? You seem a little pale.”
“We are both well,” Cecy said, nudging Marigold to draw closer, to distract his attention from her sister, who in truth did seem a little wan. “Tell me, Stephen, how is your mother?”
“She is well. Now really, Miss Cecilia, what has happened?” He drew nearer, spoke in an undertone, “Your sister looks as if she’s seen a ghost.”
Cecy managed a laugh that sounded unconvincing to her own ears. “A ghost? I did not think you believed Gothic nonsense, sir.”
“I don’t.” His brow lowered. “But I do believe you are not telling me the whole truth, Miss Cecilia Hatherleigh.”
“I …” Oh, what could she say that would hold enough truth that he believed her, without exposing either Ned or the gypsy to the village outrage should they learn the truth? “Well, if you must know,” she said, in a conspiratorial tone. “Neither of us have ever been to this back section of the estate before, and when we realized Franklin Park was just beyond, we wondered if we might have a look. But there is nothing there, save a house, not unlike your own.”
His frown seemed to have eased a fraction.
She smiled wider, willing him to believe her. “But now we are feeling like the very trespassers that we are, and are hopeful that nobody will feel it necessary to report to Mr. Amherst of the naughty thing we have done.”
He glanced at Verity then back at Cecy. “Well, I certainly would not report you.”
“Thank you.” Her smile was genuine now. “You are very good.”
He nodded, accepting her approbation as due course, then peered back over to the gate. “You know, I have never been there, either, come to think of it.”
The panic struck again. “Oh, but sir—”
“A house like mine, you said?”
She shot Verity a look, begging for her assistance, but it seemed her quick-witted sister had lost all such wits.
What should she do? She had to prevent him from visiting, for if he saw the gypsy, then Ned was sure to be caught. And it was one thing for an earl’s son to excuse a gypsy from attacking him, but quite another for said earl’s son to harbor such a person on his grounds.
“Mr. Heathcote?” Lord, forgive her, but this was for Ned’s protection. “I wonder, would you have any interest in perhaps escorting us back to Aynsley Manor?” She nudged Marigold towards home, relieved when he acquiesced. “I was hoping we might perhaps discuss Sir Walter Scott’s work. Tell me, what did you think of The Heart of Midlothian?”
She kept up desperate patter for the remaining miles, sure he would see through her façade of gaiety, but it appeared he did not. And somehow, without help from her sister (whose dislike of Stephen was not exactly a secret), her frantic ramblings led her to invite him in for tea, and later, after she felt she had exhausted all conversation, invite him to return tomorrow, with his promise of a copy of the new release The Bride of Lammermoor.
Upon his eventual exit she exhaled, the tension from earlier finally released.
Mother frowned. “I am surprised to see you encouraging Heathcote in that way.”
“Oh.” She swallowed, glanced at Verity, but still her sister had nothing to say. “I … I think he is happy to have others to talk to.”
“Yes, but to invite him to stay for tea, and then for tomorrow. Do you really think that wise?”
No. And neither did Verity think so, judging from the scowl affixed to her face. She smiled, willing herself to own the confidence her sisters were born with. “Mama, I assure you, I have no intentions regarding Stephen.” She opened her eyes wide. “But surely it would not hurt for me to practice talking to young gentlemen?”
Her mother eyed her thoughtfully before saying in a doubtful tone, “Well, I suppose when one puts it like that …”
She kept her smile affixed as her mother’s intent perusal continued. Apparently she would have to play a new role in convincing her mother she had finally determined to not be opposed to suitors, even if it stemmed from her desire to protect the one man she could not have.
Upon her mother’s exit, Verity finally unleashed her tongue. “What do you think you’re doing? How can you encourage him to visit here?”
Cecy’s heart sank. She could not very well admit the reason she wanted Stephen here was to ensure he did not visit Franklin Park again; the same reason held for Verity, too. For it would not do for either of them to indulge their curiosity and seek out the mysteries surrounding Ned’s estate. For what if the gypsy was discovered? What if Stephen—or Verity—talked about what they had seen? Surely such news would result in the poor man’s hanging—and dire consequences for Ned, also. No, it would be best to somehow ensure the gypsy was removed before anything untoward could occur. But what to do? What should she do?
“I know you do not like Stephen, so I can only guess at why you are encouraging his attentions.”
“I … I do not think it wise for him to visit Franklin Park,” she finally admitted.
“Because of the gypsy?”
“Shh! Don’t speak of this aloud. You know Father dislikes any talk of them.”
Verity stared at her in that disconcerting manner that made her seem so much older than her years.
“So, really, I’m not encouraging Stephen to think anything, I assure you. I’m only trying to prevent his return there.”
“Most magnanimous of you, sacrificing yourself for the greater good.”
“Isn’t it?” Cecy found a smile, which garne
red a small smile in response, before her sister’s expression grew wry again.
“I don’t think the gypsy will appreciate such kindness.”
Probably not.
“What was he doing there, anyway?”
“I … I could not say.”
“Hmm. I think you know more than you’re letting on. Why would you ask him if he remembered you?”
Cecy swallowed. Oh, why did she have to have the most determined little sister?
“Well?”
She glanced around, then hurried to shut the door before pulling Verity down onto the couch beside her. “I am going to tell you something in the strictest confidence.”
Her sister’s eyes lit. “I love it when people say such things. Go on, you can tell me. My lips will ever be sealed.”
Somehow Cecy knew this would prove true. For all her headstrong actions, Verity never had been one to tattle on her sisters. Unlike Caro.
She sighed. “He—the gypsy, I mean—was someone I encountered at the village midsummer night.”
“Really?”
She nodded, thinking carefully about how to say this next part without exposing Ned. “Mr. Amherst—”
“Oh, come on, Cecy, he’s Ned.”
“Ned,” she continued, “was there and helped me when it seemed the gypsy wanted to speak to me.”
Her sister’s dark eyes widened. “So that was the man who was accused of hurting him.”
“Yes.”
“He didn’t seem the sort. He seemed quite gentle, although I don’t mind admitting that at first he looked a little fierce.”
“You do understand though, Verity, that it is not the done thing to talk to a gypsy. It is illegal; we could be hanged!”
“Nobody is going to hang a viscount’s daughter,” Verity scoffed. “Truly, Cecy, you are acting most goose-ish.”
But she had heard the reports: a girl younger than Verity by three years had been hung—hung!—for breaking the law and talking to a traveler.
“But regardless of our safety, it is the gypsy”—and Ned’s reputation—“that most concerns me. Which is why I don’t want Stephen returning to learn the truth.”
“But what will we do?”
“What can we do?”
Underestimating Miss Cecilia Page 12
