Underestimating Miss Cecilia

by Carolyn Miller

  After a few minutes more, the trail split, which caused Lord Robert to call a halt. “Now, I feel it only best to let you know that here in this part of Hampshire we are famous for our ciders, and the best cold brew is that by Mrs. Allsopp. Now if any of you are interested, we could go visit the farmhouse and you could rest for a while and sample her latest batch.”

  This met with enthusiastic approval from the party, with the result that Lord Robert’s groom was dispatched to alert poor Mrs. Allsopp that she would soon play hostess to a group of thirsty riders. Not more than ten minutes later they had attained the farm, and were soon sitting in the large dining area being served farm-brewed drinks and enjoying chunks of ham, fresh baked bread, and local cheese.

  “Have you sufficient?” Lord Abbotsbury asked, gesturing to her plate, solicitous as ever.

  “Thank you, sir. I have.”

  The cheese really was delectable, although she found the cider a trifle tart for her taste, and had been happy to receive instead a warming cup of tea.

  “Did you know we have brewed cider here since the thirteenth century?” Lord Robert said with pride.

  “Since the thirteenth century? Poor Mrs. Allsopp must be exhausted,” Cecy murmured.

  The marquess laughed. “But she looks remarkably good for her age.”

  The conversation around her was merry, no doubt fueled by the copious amounts of alcohol being consumed, and the relief at sitting down. Or maybe that was just her, she thought, subtly stretching her legs and back. It had been too long since she had ridden, and really she would have been far better served easing into today’s ride rather than pretending she was well enough to ride so far today.

  But when she was asked if she would like to return to the house with some of the others, she hesitated. Ned was returning, and if she went back he would doubtless seek another interview, and she still did not think herself strong enough to exhibit the self-control she knew would prove necessary for such a thing. So, when pressed by her host if she would not prefer to rest a while longer, she smiled as blithely as she could and pushed to her feet, looping the train of her riding habit over her arm. “I am as fit as a fiddle, and would like nothing more than to continue our ride. Sorrel is such a sweet thing.”

  “But Miss Hatherleigh,” said Ned, hurrying over from where he was helping Miss Hastings mount for the journey back to the house, “surely you must be weary, especially as you are not used to rides of such duration.”

  “Thank you for your concern,” she said, fussing with her habit’s skirt as if inspecting a minute tear, “but I am quite capable of knowing what I can do.” She lifted her gaze, looking past him. “Ah. Lord Abbotsbury, I do hope you will continue our ride.”

  “Of course.” He glanced at his friend, who merely bowed, before returning to speak urgently to Miss Hastings.

  Just what he said could be surmised seconds later when the young lady drew near, saying, “Dear Miss Hatherleigh, I wonder if you would not feel more comfortable at home. Perhaps you might be so good as to teach me that sonata I heard you play a few days ago.”

  “The Beethoven?” At Miss Hastings’s nod, Cecy said, “I thought you told me you already knew that one.”

  Miss Hastings pinked, but said staunchly, “I do believe you play it so much more excellently than I ever could.”

  “Then what would be the point in my teaching you?” Cecy said, suddenly tired of Ned’s machinations to keep her from doing as she pleased. “Why don’t you ask Miss Fairley to teach you, as she is bound to have more patience than I do today.”

  She turned, but not before she saw a huff of annoyance cross Miss Hastings’s pretty features, something that made her look far more petulant than that lady would likely want Ned to know she appeared. Well, good luck to him, she thought, smiling sweetly at the marquess.

  “Lord Abbotsbury, would you be so good as to help me mount?”

  He obliged, and within minutes they were extending thanks to Mrs. Allsopp before waving to the other half of the party that was following Watson, Lord Robert’s groom, along another track to return to the house. She smiled tightly, glad to see Mr. Amherst accompany them. She wheeled Sorrel away, following the others through the woods.

  Stupid man. How could he prefer Miss simpering Hastings to her? Her eyes blurred; she blinked the tears angrily away.

  How stupidly she was behaving! She had to forget him, not let his actions affect her. How could she let him have power over her still? Lord, forgive me. Help me forget him.

  But it seemed such a prayer was not to be swiftly answered, as the thunder of hooves soon announced their party had another member.

  “Why, Amherst!” She stiffened at the marquess’s surprised voice. “You did not go with the others.”

  “As you can see.”

  Her grip grew tight on the reins. How dare he change his mind and spoil her chance to seek solace in the woods! She needed to be away from him, not near him. How could she ever hope to forget him when he was always near?

  “Miss Hatherleigh?”

  She pasted on composure and turned to the ever-solicitous Lord Abbotsbury. “Do you not think the canopy overhead perfectly lovely? The trees and leaves look like Brussels lace.”

  His head dipped, amusement tweaking his features. “I confess to not being any type of expert when it comes to lace, so I shall have to take your word for it.”

  “How refreshing to have a gentleman say such things.” She smiled. “Most gentlemen I have encountered seem to think it their duty to point out precisely where a young lady’s thinking might be considered inferior to his own, and are not backward in pointing out exactly what a young lady should do to remedy such matters.”

  He laughed. “Clearly you have been keeping company with quite the wrong sorts of gentlemen.”

  “Clearly I have.”

  She caught a glimpse of Ned just beyond, an expression of something like hurt on his face. She hardened her heart, averted her face. “I cannot like being treated as though my thoughts and feelings are insignificant, and that I am not capable of making a good decision, simply because I am a female.”

  “No one who truly knows you would dare to think such a thing,” Lord Abbotsbury responded gallantly.

  “You truly believe so?” She caught another glimpse of Ned’s downcast aspect. Her conscience reproached her. Why was she saying such things? But even now it seemed her tongue refused to be leashed, the hurt of years bubbling to the fore. “I have found this to be only too true, being accused of not knowing my own mind, not knowing my own—” Her fingers gripped the reins more tightly. She had almost said heart.

  Her eyes burned with sudden tears, and to escape the sympathy and curiosity she could see lining the nearby faces she nudged Sorrel to a faster pace.

  “Be careful, Miss Hatherleigh,” called Lord Robert, who rode next to Miss Fairley. “Watson warned there are many fallen trees and branches since the storm two days ago. I would not have you hurt.”

  She tossed a wry look over her shoulder at the marquess, before saying to her host, “Thank you, sir, for your understanding, but I believe I am quite capable of staying in the saddle.”

  “But you should be careful—”

  “As should we all.”

  “But you do not know—”

  The rest of his words were lost in the wind as the sound of a creaking branch rushed Sorrel on ahead. Her momentary unease soon dissipated as she reveled in her escape, in the sense of freedom, futile as it might seem. No, he did not know what it was like to be forced to pretend, to hide the unbearable weight of disappointment behind a smiling façade. Besides, she did not need to worry; Sorrel knew her way around the woods and would easily find her way home when necessary. A low fallen branch was quickly jumped, something she hoped the others might observe. See? she wanted to say to them. I have not lost all ability—

  Crack!

  A falling branch startled her horse into rearing. Shouts came behind her but her weary muscles managed—by God�
�s good grace!—to somehow hold on. Then Sorrel sped to a gallop, and they were rushing past trees, past bushes, bounding over fallen trunks that bade Cecy to desperately cling and pray and breathe, as her hat fell off, and her hair released from the tight hold of pins, and fear refused a scream.

  “Cecy!”

  It was as though Sorrel thought all the legions of hell were riding after them, so careless was she, veering down trails more suitable for rabbits than horses, crashing past bushes that tore at Cecy’s skirts, rushing at low-limbed trees that forced Cecy to duck as twigs clawed at her hair, leaping over fallen trunks and branches, frantic, panicked, out of control.

  “God, help me!” she cried, heart drumming with fear.

  “Cecy!”

  But she could not turn, she could not move, as a tree with a branch much lower than the others loomed before her. Breath stopped. How could she get past? Dear God, she frantically prayed, help—

  The thud seemed to enter the very marrow of his bones. “Cecy!” Ned screamed again, kneeing his horse to continue the chase. Branches tore at his skin, forcing him to crouch in his stance, then he jerked his horse to a stop, slid from the saddle, and raced to where she slumped in the saddle of the still agitated horse.

  “Shh.” He placed one hand on the frightened animal, stroking her, and slid the other under Cecilia’s hair, released from its prim chignon and strewn across her face. She was still, the only movement caused by the jerking of the horse, the wind whipping the curls about her cheeks. Dear God, please let her be alive …

  “Cecy!” He gently shifted her face to his view. Nearly vomited. Blood seeped from the enormous dark gash in her forehead. The force of the impact must have left a depression on her skull.

  Emotion choked. He was vaguely aware of shouts, of movement behind him, but he would not let her go. “Cecy, Cecy darling, please wake up.”

  He smoothed the hair from her eyes, the curly strands so soft, their color as alive and vibrant as their owner sat silent and still. “Dear God,” he groaned, eyes burning. “Please …” He pressed two fingers under her nostrils. “Please, God!”

  His heart clenched as he felt the waft of breath. “Thank You.”

  “Amherst! Oh my—oh dear God!” Simon gave a strangled cry. “Tell me she’s still breathing.”

  “She is.”

  Sounds behind them revealed Lord Robert and Miss Fairley had entered the horror of the scene. Their host’s oath was followed by Miss Fairley’s scream, forcing Ned to mutter, “Get her away.”

  After a wild-eyed look, Simon turned and begged for Robert to take Miss Fairley away.

  “Send him to get a doctor,” Ned urged, voice breaking. “She needs a doctor.”

  Simon relayed these instructions and the thud of hooves immediately thereafter proved their haste. He could only hope they would pass on the information so Lady Aynsley would not be cast into hysterics.

  “What will we do?”

  “We should get her down. But I can’t hold her and keep the horse steady.”

  “Here.” Simon moved to the horse’s head, soothing her with quiet words, before reaching as if to hold Cecilia.

  But there was no way he would release her to him. Ned shook his head, carefully propping her in one arm before sliding a hand along the pommel, under her skirt to gently disengage her right leg. A few movements later and she was sliding into his arms, he was holding her, they were sinking to the ground.

  “Oh, my dearest,” he murmured, willing her to wake. “Please, God, heal her.”

  His fingers slid down her cheek, along her chin, her throat, to find her pulse, thready and too weak. The enormous gash caused the nausea to rise again. He looked to his friend. “We need to cover the wound.”

  “Here.” Simon tugged to release his neckcloth, folded it, and gently laid it on her brow. The white cloth soon bloomed with blood.

  “She might be more comfortable lying down,” Simon suggested. Ned held her—one arm crooked around her shoulders, one hand cradling her face, his posture that of a supplicant on his knees begging God for a miracle.

  Simon shrugged from his coat, folding it to provide a pillow onto which Ned could gently lay her head. With his arms now freed, he quickly released his own neckcloth, eased it around her head, cautiously secured it over Simon’s. His hand reached to clasp hers. “Darling Cecy.” He squeezed her gloved fingers gently. No response. “Cecy, dearest, please wake up.”

  A cleared throat made him look up. Simon held a disconcerted look in his eyes, a wry twist to his mouth. “I don’t think she can hear you.”

  “No.”

  Oh, dear God, how he ached that she might waken. How he longed for the chance to say—

  “You love her, don’t you?”

  Ned knew he could hide his feelings no more. “I suspect I always have.”

  Simon shook his head. “Why didn’t you say something?”

  “I …” He shrugged, his gaze returning to her face, unable to offer an explanation, unable to meet the hurt in his friend’s eyes.

  “If I had known I never would have pursued her, I would never have …”

  Fallen in love with her. Guilt gnawed within. Oh, how wretched was he? Would he never learn that withholding the truth held consequences far beyond the ramifications of his own personal life?

  “I’m sorry,” he muttered. “But it makes no difference. You have seen her, seen her mother. You know neither would wish me to pursue her. I will never be good enough, never be acceptable, never be worthy …” He traced her skin, soft, petal-like, her lashes splayed across the smudges underlining her eyes. Was that silvery trail the line of a tear? He traced that, too, pressing his fingers against the tiny cuts marking her cheeks, doing what little he could to stem the bleeding. “Dear Lord, heal her …”

  “Amen.”

  “She will require many prayers, I fear.” Ned glanced up again at his solemn-faced friend. “But I will not hinder you.”

  Again, Simon’s lips twisted wryly. “I didn’t think you could.”

  Ned winced at his presumption. “I meant—”

  “I know what you meant.”

  The awkward strain between them was fortunately interrupted by the thud of hooves. A few seconds later Robert’s form drew into sight. “What? He hasn’t brought a cart?”

  “I rather doubt a cart could get in here, don’t you?”

  Ned shot his sardonic-voiced friend a look but held his peace. “I suppose this means she will need to be carried out.”

  “I suppose it does.”

  Robert rushed towards them, gasping. “The doctor has been sent for … Lady Aynsley is”—he drew in a loud breath—“having fits … can’t get the cart in … carry Miss Hatherleigh out.”

  “Would you like to—?” Ned gestured to Simon.

  Simon cleared his throat. “Thank you, but I would hesitate to appear overly familiar with one I have but so newly come to know. I think it would be far better understood if a family friend of long-standing carried her.”

  Relief filling him, Ned didn’t hesitate, mounted his horse as Simon and Robert carefully lifted her into his arms. He placed her on the front of his saddle, careful not to jerk her, angling his body so her head rested against his shoulder. With one hand on his reins and the other securing his lady he followed Robert’s trail, leaving Cecy’s horse to the attentions of Simon.

  Along the way he murmured endearments, whispering to her of his heart, his hopes, his love. He murmured prayers, pressed his lips against her hair, as the slow caravan continued. His mount seemed to know a slow pace was needed, his steps extra sure, as they made their slow progress to the path.

  There a cart awaited, and in moments he was divested of his sweet broken burden, the sharp wind seemingly emphasizing his loss. His prayers did not stop, as he watched the cart rumble, every shudder and jerk causing him to wince at the pain she must feel.

  Soon other shouts drew attention that they were close, other figures ran into view, startled questions, gas
ps of horror, shrieks from the young ladies. He was conscious of a great, great weariness, but could not pause, sliding from the saddle as they reached the gravel drive and hurrying to the cart.

  “Let me.” He pushed Mr. Bettingsley aside, offering a vague, “I am blood-stained already,” by way of apology. But no one else should be allowed to hold her, no one else could care the same.

  He was led up the stairs, up more stairs, to her bedchamber, where his appearance was met by Lady Aynsley, not with shrieks, as suggested by Robert, but by a steely-eyed determination he had not seen before.

  “Put my daughter there,” she instructed, pointing to the bed.

  He obeyed, gently lowering Cecy to the pristine sheets. Around her, maids bobbed in confused order, under the housekeeper’s instruction, with cans of boiling water, strips of linen, soap being brought into the room.

  “What is this?” Lady Aynsley gently peeled off the sodden neck-cloths. “Oh!”

  When she appeared to buckle he moved to support her, but she waved off his arm. “No. No, she is my daughter. I must be strong. Tell me, what happened?”

  “Her horse was startled and panicked and threw her into a tree.”

  Lady Aynsley’s cheeks had paled. “And you were there?”

  “I was first to reach her, yes.”

  She glanced at him then, as if observing his bloodstained clothes. “You helped my Cecy.”

  “Of course.”

  “My poor dear sweet little—” Her voice broke, her face crumpled, and his supporting arm was this time not refused as she slumped against his chest, and the doctor rushed into the room.

  Within minutes Ned’s recollections of the event were repeated at the doctor’s barked request. Under his command, the room attained a sense of order, though the doctor’s mutters of “internal damage” sent Lady Aynsley into fresh convulsions. “Take her from the room!”