He felt even more compelled to speak, simply to end the tangle the situation seemed to have become. “I’ve decided that my affections lie elsewhere, something I hadn’t realized then. I must thank you for your suggestion, but I am no longer searching for a . . . convenient bride.”
Miss Fotherby blinked, then her gaze seemed to focus. She looked at James as if finally truly seeing him, then she glanced at Henrietta, and her lips quirked in a fleeting smile. She dipped her head. “Indeed. I must thank you for speaking so plainly, and while you might not believe me, I sincerely wish you well.”
But she was already turning away. “And now, if you’ll excuse me . . .” Without waiting for any reply, with a vague nod she continued on her way.
“Well!” Bemused, Henrietta watched Miss Fotherby stride off. “I must say that wasn’t at all what I expected.”
“Oh, I don’t know.” James had spotted Rafe Cunningham stalking along the opposite side of the croquet lawn. “I suspect Miss Fotherby is feeling somewhat besieged at the moment.”
Henrietta had followed his gaze. She humphed. “Goodness knows where that will end.”
“Well,” James said, turning to her with a smile, “that’s entirely in their hands now, and no longer a concern of ours. Which, I admit, feels like a weight off my shoulders.”
“Glossup—Miss Cynster!” From the starting peg, Channing beckoned. “You’re up.”
Saluting in reply, Henrietta lifted her mallet and walked with James down the side of the lawn. “We’re never going to get a moment to talk, not while we’re here, are we?”
James smiled. “I doubt it. But we have time enough to simply take these few days as they come, and just enjoy them.” He caught her eye. “We’re not in that much of a hurry.”
She arched her brows. “I suppose you’re right.” Looking ahead, she swung her mallet experimentally. “All right then—let’s see if we can defeat Dickie and Miss Hendricks.”
With a laugh, James waved her on.
As anyone might have predicted, the ringing of the luncheon bell resulted in the croquet competition being declared incomplete and unresolved, and the company retired to the dining room for a rowdy luncheon, during which all those involved relived their exploits and aired their opinions on who would eventually have won.
After luncheon, a half hour passed while the ladies retreated to their rooms to don bonnets, spencers, and shawls, then the party foregathered on the terrace and set out in good order, Violet and Channing in the lead, to walk to the ruins in the woods.
Such a country ramble was standard fare for any well-run house party. Even the older ladies and gentlemen joined in, although all of the older generation parted company with the rest when they reached the lake. Those younger continued on into the woods, while their elders took a much less strenuous stroll around the lake and so back to the house.
The path through the woods cut a wide, wending swath beneath the spreading branches of the old oak trees. The crumbling detritus of last autumn’s leaves lay thick on the ground; although sunshine slanted through the boughs and the air was a warm kiss, winter dampness still lingered in the heavier shade to right and left, the rich loamy smell of decaying drifts mingling with the crisp scent of new growth. Moss grew in a green carpet along the banks, cushioning the gray of the local stone that showed through here and there.
As Channing had said, the path was even, a very gentle downward slope leading them, somewhat deceptively, deeper and deeper into the old woods. The line of ramblers stretched out as they fell into groups, chatting as they walked. Topics were inconsequential; various guests stopped to point out a bird flitting through the branches, or to examine a fern, and gradually the group devolved into couples ambling companionably.
A full half hour had elapsed before Violet and Channing led them around a curve in the path, and the ruins rose all around them. Coming up behind their friends, Henrietta and James both stared, eyes widening as they raised their gazes to the tops of the high stone walls, mottled and pocked with mosses and lichens, and draped with encroaching creepers, then looked further, gazes sweeping over a wide expanse filled with the remnants of tumbled-down walls.
Henrietta slipped her hand onto James’s sleeve; the chill of the shadows—and doubtless all that looming rock—sent a shiver through her, and she shifted closer, nearer to James’s warmth.
He turned his head and smiled, closing his hand over hers on his sleeve, then he looked past her and drew her on, to the side, as others of the party rounded the curve and, as they had, stopped to stare.
“It’s a sight worth gawping over,” Henrietta murmured, looking again at the columns and the curves of arches that rose, skeletal memories of grandeur, here and there among the walls. After a moment, she said, “Come on. Let’s explore.”
They did, as did all the others. They paced around long-forgotten cloisters and strolled down stone-paved corridors now open to the sky. Navigating through what, from the arches distinguishing it, appeared to be the old priory church was an exercise in slipping between massive carved rectangular stones strewn like children’s blocks by some giant’s hand.
James and Giles met on what both agreed had to be the front porch of the church. Both stood and looked around while Henrietta, picking her way through the ruined nave, and Miss Findlayson, clambering up from below, joined them.
“I’d take my oath,” Giles said, pausing to give Miss Findlayson his hand up the last steep step, “that when they built this place, that hill”—releasing Miss Findlayson with a smile, he turned to survey the hill behind them, the one the ruins appeared to be built into the side of—“wasn’t there.”
Hands on his hips, James nodded. “I agree. That wall”—he pointed to a wall at the rear of the ruins, the top of which showed just above the hillside as if it were a retaining wall holding back the mass of the hill—“looks to be the central wall of the main priory building, the building that would have housed the dormitories and living quarters. See?” He pointed to the rim of the wall. “Those are capstones, so that was the top of the wall.” Lowering his arm, he looked around once more. “And Violet was right—this appears to be only half the priory. The rest, presumably, lies beyond the main building—beyond that wall and now buried under the hill.”
Giles was nodding. “So the hill couldn’t have been there, not back when this place was in use.”
Scanning the wall in question, Henrietta said, “I know it’s been centuries since the priory was inhabited, but I wonder how and why the hill came to form there?”
They speculated at length—given the age of the trees growing over the hill and in some places overhanging the top of the wall, some act of disrespect at the time of the Dissolution became their favored theory—then James and Henrietta parted from Giles and Miss Findlayson and plunged back into the maze of ruined walls, making their way to the rear of the ruins, to what James had hypothesized had been the central wall of the main building.
“If we look closely, there should be a pattern of rooms lying on this side of the wall.” He gave Henrietta his hand to help her over a fallen rock.
They enjoyed themselves, with a certain sense of triumph discovering the remains of long-ago rooms, tracing the outlines, comparing each room’s relationship to the main wall and the other rooms, and speculating as to what each room might have been used for. The sun’s rays were angling through the surrounding trees when the sudden sound of voices—not chatting but arguing violently—reached them.
A gentleman’s voice and a lady’s voice.
James looked at Henrietta; she’d heard them, too. Quietly, he walked a short distance along the corridor to where an archway allowed him a restricted view into the next section of the ruins.
He halted abruptly, then held still, looking out at the vignette framed by the ancient stone.
Silently, Henrietta glided up and stopped beside him; placing her hand on his arm, she looked out, too.
Rafe Cunningham had finally cornered Millicent Fotherb
y. He was arguing . . . or was it pleading? James and Henrietta could hear the voices, the tones, but not the words. Millicent was wringing her hands and shaking her head; her expression stated she wasn’t going to be moved, no matter the violence of Rafe’s feelings.
Abruptly, Rafe threw his hands to the sky, then looked down at Millicent.
And Millicent finally spoke. Whatever she said, it struck Rafe like a blow—James and Henrietta saw the jerk of his spine, the jolt of his head.
But then Rafe shook his head and growled—one word of utter denial.
And swept Millicent into his arms and kissed her.
James tensed—he couldn’t allow Rafe to assault Millicent—but Henrietta’s fingers curled in his sleeve. “Wait!” she whispered.
James wondered what he was supposed to wait for . . . but then Millicent’s arms, at first lax by her sides, slowly rose. And tentatively, so gently and warily it was difficult to watch, she raised her arms and her hands stole up to Rafe’s shoulders, then slowly slid to cup his nape.
And Millicent was kissing Rafe back.
James relaxed. “Ah.”
After a moment—long enough to confirm that Millicent wasn’t about to change her mind—he turned away. Catching Henrietta’s hand in his, he met her eyes and grinned. Then he lifted her hand, pressed a kiss to her fingers, and they headed back along the corridor. “Where were we?” he murmured.
Henrietta glanced around. “About here, wasn’t it?”
“Halloo!”
The call rang out from the front of the ruins.
It was Channing. He yelled, “Come on, you lot—time to start back.”
Calls came from various places, most a great deal closer to the path than James and Henrietta. James looked at Henrietta, then raised his voice. “Channing—you and the others start back. Miss Cynster and I will follow as quickly as we can.”
“Right-ho! Don’t dally, mind—we all have to get ready for dinner and the ball.”
“We’re on our way!” James yelled back. Smiling, he took Henrietta’s arm, twining it with his, and they started back, following the long corridor that ran along the old wall, their fastest route back to where the path entered the ruins.
That said, they saw no reason to hurry; they ambled along, pausing so Henrietta could study the tiny ferns sprouting from the fissures in the wall.
They’d been virtually on the other side of the ruins from the path; they’d traveled about half the distance back when a sharp crack sounded, emanating from behind them, from the general area in which Rafe and Millicent Fotherby had been. James halted and, releasing Henrietta, turned.
Henrietta halted, too. They both looked back, but saw nothing. She pressed his arm. “Go and look—just in case. We should make sure they’re returning as well—they didn’t reply to Channing.”
Which gave him an excuse if Rafe and Miss Fotherby spotted him. James nodded and retraced his steps.
He was almost back to the archway when Rafe stepped through it into the corridor, with Millicent on his arm.
“Ah, there you are.” James halted. “I heard a crack.”
Rafe nodded. “A rock fell.” He looked down the corridor toward Henrietta. “This seemed the fastest way back to the path.”
“We thought the same.” James turned back to Henrietta.
A grating sound dragged his gaze upward.
Dust, then fine stones rained down from the top of the wall above Henrietta.
A massive capstone, five feet long and at least two feet high and deep, shifted, tipped, then fell.
Henrietta had looked up, but dust had got in her eyes and she’d looked down again. She hadn’t seen the stone falling.
James opened his mouth, but panic locked his lungs.
Then he was running.
Boots striking the corridor’s floor, legs pumping hard, eyes tracking the falling capstone, he raced—and knew he wouldn’t be in time.
Desperate, he summoned every ounce of his strength—and flung himself forward.
He hit Henrietta, caught her—held her to him, protecting her as best he could as his flying tackle carried them several feet down the corridor and onto the ground.
They landed, skidding, in a tumble of clinging limbs.
The horrendous whump-thud of the stone smashing down physically jarred them.
Silence—shocking and absolute—fell over the scene.
Then, somewhere, a blackbird trilled.
Slowly assimilating that they were still alive, they cautiously raised their heads and looked back down the corridor. Henrietta clung to James and he to her. They stared, disbelieving, at the fate that had nearly been hers.
No, nearly theirs; the capstone lay embedded in the floor mere inches from James’s boots. The stone had cracked on impact, blocking the corridor and hiding them from the others.
Henrietta could barely breathe. Her heart was thudding so heavily that she wasn’t sure she could hear.
Turning her head, she met James’s eyes.
A smothered cry reached them, then Rafe scrambled onto the fallen stone.
The instant he saw them, he stopped, stared, then his shoulders sagged and he blew out a breath. “My God! I thought you were both done for.”
Millicent scrambled up beside him, looked, then clapped a hand to her chest. “Thank heaven you’re all right!” Then she seemed to collect herself. “You are all right, aren’t you?”
James slowly sat up, then helped Henrietta to sit up, too. He met her eyes, then replied, “Apparently.”
Rafe dropped over the stone, helped Millicent down, then, his expression grim, turned to James. “I saw it all—that stone didn’t just fall.” He held out his hand and, when James grasped it, pulled him to his feet.
Rushing to help Henrietta up, Millicent glanced sharply at Rafe. “Nonsense! How can you suggest such a thing? It had to have been an accident. The stone must have been loose and something nudged it the last little way.”
Rafe snorted. “Something like what? A clan of badgers acting in concert wouldn’t have been able to dislodge that stone.”
James knew that was true, but he held up a hand to stay further argument. “Regardless of how it happened, let’s get moving.” Meeting Rafe’s eyes, he flicked his own upward. There are more stones up there.
Rafe shut his lips and nodded. “Right. Let’s get on.”
Henrietta and Millicent brushed and straightened Henrietta’s walking dress while James vaguely dusted off his coat and breeches, then, with Millicent walking beside Henrietta and Rafe and James hovering close, glancing up and around frequently, they walked on.
Millicent, Henrietta noted, was wringing her hands again and was understandably wide-eyed, nervy and ready to jump at the least little noise. Henrietta suspected she should feel the same, but . . . she decided she must be in shock. She was simply too glad to be alive, glad to be able to breathe, to be able to glance along her shoulder and see James walking close beside her.
After being nearly squashed to death, being alive felt too good. She would worry about what had happened later, now that she was sure she would have a later.
They found the path and started along it, but a few yards on, James halted. When the others stopped, too, and faced him, he briefly studied Henrietta’s eyes, then looked at Millicent. “Why don’t you two ladies sit on the bank here and catch your breaths? I want to take a quick look at the spot from where the stone fell, just in case the hillside there is crumbling and we need to warn the Ellsmeres.”
Rafe nodded. “Sound idea. I’ll come with you.”
Henrietta might not have wanted to think too hard about how she had nearly died, but she wasn’t having that. “No.” She glanced at Millicent and saw her own resolution reflected in Millicent’s brown eyes. Looking back at James, she stated, “We’re coming, too.”
James hesitated, but, truth be told, he’d rather have Henrietta with him. “Very well.” He reached for her hand, turned, helped her clamber up the bank, then led her stead
ily on, onto the hill overlooking the ruins.
Rafe and Millicent climbed up behind them.
They found the wall and followed it along—to the gap where the lighter hue of the stone on either side identified the original position of the recently fallen capstone.
Halting in a semicircle around the spot, they stared silently down at the evidence imprinted in the soft moss growing in the lee of the top of the wall. It wasn’t hard to guess what had caused the capstone to fall.
Crouching, Rafe examined the smeared tracks left by a man’s large boots. After a moment, he grunted. “He slipped too much to be able to guess the size.”
“But,” James said, forcing his voice to remain calm and even, “it wasn’t a work boot.” He glanced at his own feet, then at Rafe’s. “Something more like riding boots.”
Rising, Rafe nodded, his face grim. He met James’s gaze, then waved down the hill. “We’d better get on, or we’ll be late for dinner.”
Subdued, each a prey to disquieting thoughts, they made their way back to the path and set off to return to the house.
Chapter Eight
After watching Henrietta and Millicent ascend the stairs on the way to their rooms to change for dinner, James and Rafe exchanged a glance, then went hunting for Lord Ellsmere.
They found him in his library, already dressed for the evening and enjoying a quiet brandy; Lord Ellsmere took one look at their grim faces and promptly offered them both a glass. After only the minutest of hesitations, both accepted.
Sinking into the chair his host waved him to, James took a revivifying sip of the fiery liquid, then, as Lord Ellsmere sat again, caught his lordship’s eye. “We were out with the others at the ruins. We were the last to head back and . . . there was an accident.”
“Accident? Good God—what?” Lord Ellsmere sat up. “Here—no one’s dead, are they?”
“No,” Rafe said, his deep voice rough, “but it was a very near-run thing.” He tipped his glass at James. “If it hadn’t been for Glossup there, and a frankly amazing tackle, Henrietta Cynster would be dead as a doornail, crushed under a fallen stone.”
And Then She Fell Page 13
