The Elusive Miss Ellison

by Carolyn Miller

  “It seems we have enough to ensure the new houses have slate roofs.”

  “If I may say, sir, slate is quite expensive.”

  Nicholas met the keen-eyed face and said softly, “I want what is best for my tenants.”

  “Of course, my lord.”

  Was that a spark of approval in the other man’s eyes? He stifled a groan. Was he that desperate for praise he sought it from his employees?

  As his new steward exited the room, he stared out the window, the momentary lift of spirits sinking to something more somber. He shouldn’t feel this way. Remorse had dug new resolve, resulting in a flurry of activity these past weeks. Johnson’s swift disappearance had at least allowed the recovery of the missing rents from a small chest in the barn. Giles and Martins had discovered a second set of accounts under Johnson’s bed, detailing the length of time he had skimmed the estate’s rents—since just after Uncle Robert’s death. His fingers clenched. If only he had taken a closer interest in the estate, perhaps this could have been prevented.

  Miss Ellison had been right.

  He rubbed a hand over his face. His visits to the Ellisons had resulted in his seeing Lavinia only once, his renewal of his regret and promise of a new pup waved away. She had changed, shockingly so. She’d faded, having lost the roses in her cheeks. Instead of sparkly light, her eyes seemed empty, reminiscent of men he had fought alongside who had lost their minds. She’d always seemed slight, but now it appeared as if a veritable breeze could blow her away. She’d sat next to her aunt, unsmiling, abstracted, a second too slow to answer a question. Seated next to Miss West he could almost see the spinster she would become.

  And it was his fault.

  Regret twisted knots in his stomach. He rose and moved to the window, where the muted purple of the hills forecast further rain. If nothing else, at least he was learning to read the weather signs, like the yeomen who worked his estate. Spending time with his tenant farmers, grasping details of estate business, helped to fill his hours. But inside he still felt the sharp pangs of longing—for what he did not know.

  Or dare to admit.

  Lavinia wearily made her way out the church doorway. There were fewer people today, the Sunday school held a mere half-dozen children. Unseasonal bleak weather had too many in their beds, trying to fight the ravages of influenza. At least there’d been no sign of the dreaded smallpox.

  “Good day, Miss Ellison.”

  She stifled a sigh and turned to face Mr. Raymond. He had been far too assiduous in his attentions of late.

  “I missed you this morning. I had hoped to escort you to church today.”

  She mustered what she hoped passed for a pleasant expression. “That was kind, but I always get here earlier to prepare for the Sunday school.”

  “But surely—”

  “Mrs. Foster!” She smiled at the approach of the elderly woman. “Excuse me, sir.”

  He nodded, leaving her to listen to the white-haired woman’s familiar litany of aches and ailments. At least she’d avoided further conversation with the curate. Thank God he was only visiting for the day, and not staying like he had previously. Her head ached; she rubbed it absently. She was growing too tired to think of a polite way to let him know she was uninterested.

  “Mrs. Foster.”

  The deep voice intruded. She glanced up to see the earl regarding her seriously.

  “Miss Ellison.”

  “Lord Hawkesbury.” She dipped her head as Mrs. Foster fluttered her attentions, thanking the earl for his kindnesses in securing her new accommodations. Lavinia moved to speak with Mrs. Thatcher, who was attending her last service before her confinement.

  “Miss Ellison, a word.” The earl’s gloved hand stayed her, as if he knew his domineering tone would make her want to flee. “Your father is still unwell?”

  She eased her arm from his grasp. “Yes.”

  “I hope we will not be forced to listen to too many lectures from his replacement.”

  “Mr. Raymond is young and still learning.”

  “He is sanctimonious and a bore.”

  “You surprise me, my lord. I did not think you listened to the sermons.”

  He inclined his head. “Your father’s I concede to be a trifle more interesting than some.”

  “I’m sure he will be most gratified to know that.” She glanced past him at the distant hills, awash with lilac and gray. She sighed. More rain on its way. More would be sick. More visits to make. She turned back to where the earl continued to watch her closely. “If that is all?”

  “Are you quite well, Miss Ellison?”

  His concern filled her eyes with unfamiliar tears. She turned aside, blinking them away, only to encounter the piercing stare of Lady Milton. She bit her lip and stepped back, bumping into Mr. Raymond.

  “Miss Ellison! Please do me the honor of an introduction.”

  Somehow, despite her head whirling with confusion, she managed to perform the introductions.

  Mr. Raymond puffed up like a bantam rooster before bowing and grasping her arm. “My lord, pray excuse us. I am charged with escorting Miss Ellison home.”

  The earl’s hazel eyes glittered and he inclined his head. “But of course.”

  Moments later, Lavinia sat on the front seat of Mr. Raymond’s antiquated gig, forcing a smile at the faces of the congregation as they waved and called their farewells.

  All except one.

  Lord Hawkesbury had his arms crossed, his brow lowered, as he studied her thoughtfully.

  SHE COUGHED, PLACED the basket of apples on the ground, and rubbed her eyes. She would not be sick. It was enough that Papa and Aunt Patience were unwell, but she refused to succumb.

  “Miss Livvie?” Albert’s broad face loomed above. “There be a small boy at the side door asking for yer.”

  “Thank you.” She dragged herself inside and summoned a smile. “Hello, Frederick.”

  “Mama says sorry to trouble ya, but could ya please come. She thinks the bub be ready.”

  She nodded and placed a dozen apples in a sack. “Tell your mother I’ll be there directly.” She smiled and handed the sack to him. “Take care you only eat one on the way.”

  “Yes, miss.”

  She waved him goodbye then sank against the closed kitchen door, avoiding Hettie’s concerned gaze as she summoned the energy necessary for caring for six youngsters.

  TWO DAYS LATER, she turned past the cherry trees, now devoid of leaves, and trudged down the road. A sharp wind cut through her cloak, hurrying her steps. She felt slightly better today, the bone weariness of the past two days slightly alleviated by resting in her own bed last night, instead of the hard wooden chair necessitated by caring for the newborn. She carefully sidestepped mud puddles as the breeze whistled in her ears.

  “Good day, Miss Ellison.”

  She glanced up, stifling the fear and loathing she felt every time she looked at that great, dark horse with wild eyes. “Good day, Lord Hawkesbury.”

  After a moment, he swung down and walked beside her, his arm no longer strapped awkwardly as it had been for the past four weeks. “May I carry your basket?”

  “With your arm? No, thank you. Besides, it is not too heavy.”

  Midnight nickered behind her. She couldn’t stop the tremor.

  “He is a good horse. He did not mean to hurt your dog.”

  She blinked away tears, forced a nod.

  “I gather you’re off to save the day again?”

  “If by that remark you mean am I to visit someone needy, then yes, I’m going to visit the Thatchers. Mrs. Thatcher gave birth two days ago, and several of her children are quite sickly.”

  “Don’t you ever wonder if all this earnestness frightens off eligible suitors?”

  “As I’m not plagued with suitors, eligible or otherwise, it is of no consequence to me.” She stepped around another puddle. “I must confess to surprise at how my affairs could possibly interest you.”

  “Let me assure you, Miss Elli
son, I have not the least concern about your affairs.”

  Her chest grew tight. She raised her basket higher and fought to maintain her composure. “I gather your objections to earnestness mean you prefer ladies to be insincere, who seek only for their personal comfort and amusement.” She peeked across.

  Shadows flickered across his face as his lips tightened.

  Remorse for her biting words filled her. “I am s—”

  “Enough.” He interrupted her apology and waved at the hawthorn. “Do you approve the hedge cutting?”

  She glanced at the wreck of gnarled and broken branches. “They are much improved.”

  “Have I finally done something that meets with your approval?”

  “I’m sure I don’t know why you require my approval, my lord.”

  “Ah, but the approval of Miss Ellison is so sparing, it becomes all the more worth winning.”

  Was he teasing? His words could be so cutting, but when uttered in that low tone, he sounded like he actually cared. Which only served to increase this aching confusion in her head.

  “How is your father today? I trust he is feeling better?’

  “Unfortunately, he is not. Dr. Hanbury thinks it is pneumonia.”

  “Give him my regards.”

  “I’m sure he’d prefer a visit to your regards. He always seems to enjoy your company.”

  “Unlike his daughter.”

  Another thinly veiled barb. Ignoring him was the better part of prudence. She wiped her brow as she plodded on toward the village. Despite the gray clouds, today seemed unseasonably warm for early September. She was very thirsty, too.

  “You will not be of much help to your father if you become ill from these visits to the sick.”

  “Thank you for your consideration for my father. He, however, is in the blessed position of having faithful servants who take care of him and money for a doctor. Many others are not so blessed, so if I can alleviate some of their burden I believe it is my duty to do so.”

  His gaze narrowed. “Your Christian duty?”

  “It is what our Lord commanded his followers to do.” Her foot caught in a deep rut carved in the road. She stumbled.

  The earl reached out to steady her. “Careful.”

  She shook off his hand. If only she could so easily shake this lightheadedness that made the village’s small stone bridge swim before her. “I am quite well, thank you.” Her breath caught on a cough.

  “I believe you’re more stubborn than well, Miss Ellison. I do not think it wise to be visiting others when you are vulnerable to succumb to illness yourself.”

  “Would you rather we ignore the weak and frail? Who will look after them if we don’t?” Her chin lifted. “My father is of the same opinion. He urged me to visit the Thatchers.”

  “I did not think your father so foolish.”

  A scathing reply was restrained only by the greatest of efforts. “As you profess to holding no concern for my affairs, may I suggest you cease from acting like you do? Now, if you’ll excuse me, I have some visits to make.”

  She walked stiffly on toward the whitewashed house on the edge of the village, aware of his scrutiny, and his lack of faith, and a familiar feeling of disappointment in him.

  CHAPTER THIRTEEN

  “EXCUSE ME, SIR?”

  Nicholas glanced up from excessively dull parliamentary correspondence. “Yes, Giles?”

  “There is a servant from the parsonage wondering if anyone has seen Miss Ellison.”

  “How should I know where she is?”

  Giles looked apologetic. “Apparently no one has seen her since this morning, when she went to visit the Thatchers.”

  “The family with sick children?”

  “I believe so.”

  Nicholas rubbed a hand over his face. Had he not told her it was most imprudent to visit the poor and infirm? Did she ever listen?

  Giles murmured something, and a stout man he vaguely recognized appeared at the door.

  “Begging your pardon, m’lord, but the reverend is worried. She is normally back by now, and the weather be blowin’ in.”

  Nicholas looked out the study’s tall windows and frowned. The darkening clouds and a keen breeze rippling the tree branches foretold of likely rain showers.

  “The reverend and Miz West are both still laid up with nasty colds, so they asked if anyone had seen her. But if not, I’ll let ’em know, and then begin searching again.”

  Nicholas furrowed his brow. This morning Lavinia had seemed tired and out of sorts. He’d put it down to the effect his charming personality always seemed to have on her, but perhaps—despite her denials—caring for her own family had taken its toll on her health. The reverend must indeed be concerned if a search was to be made.

  “We will search for her, too.”

  With a grateful murmur, the man disappeared.

  “Giles!”

  The butler’s white head soon appeared. “Yes, m’lord?”

  “Miss Ellison has not visited today?”

  “No, sir.”

  “It seems she has disappeared. I’ll be heading out to assist with the search. Please inform the footmen their assistance is required.”

  “At once.”

  A quarter hour later, he stood issuing orders, dividing the men to search the estate. “I’ll ride into the village and see what news there is. Hopefully we’ll find her before night falls.”

  “Or the rain sets in.” McHendricks’s frown looked etched in stone.

  Moments later, Nicholas rode off, his thoughts as grim as the sky.

  Foolish girl. This was just how he had hoped to spend his evening, racing around the countryside in search of a mere slip of a girl. He pursed his lips, almost able to hear her exclaim, “I am not a green girl. I am three and twenty.”

  He pushed on across the stone bridge, achieving the village as fingers of fog rose from the river. He shivered. A minute later, he rapped on the Thatchers’ door with his riding crop.

  The wooden door jerked open with a loud creak. A wizened old woman’s eyes grew large. “Your Lordship? Oh, sir, you shouldn’t be here!”

  “Miss Ellison. Is she still with you?”

  “No, m’lord. She left hours ago. Awful good she was, giving me some time to spend wi’ my Peter before coming back here to nurse the missus and the wee ones. Said it was no trouble.”

  He inclined his head. “Thank you.”

  Where could she be? He rapped on the doors of her more particular friends, but Eliza and Mrs. Foster—both smothered in heavy scarves—denied seeing her that day.

  He hurried Midnight on, scanning the laneways through the misty rain, puzzling the answer. He couldn’t see her hiking all the way to the Miltons. She wouldn’t have accepted a ride from a stranger. And even if she had, the parsonage wasn’t so far from the village that the trip should take too long, unless—

  No. She wouldn’t have been abducted!

  His heart twisted as he wished for the hundredth time that her dog’s life had been spared. The creature’s relentless barking surely would have revealed her whereabouts by now. He shoved regret to one side as he continued his search. Nothing. It was as if she’d vanished into thin air. Only the air wasn’t thin now, but heavy, with a foreboding gloom.

  He shook his head. Nonsensical. The twilight was playing tricks with his imagination.

  Rain beaded on his brow. He swiped a hand to displace it and tapped Midnight. “Come, boy. We must find her.”

  The darkness grew thicker. He secured his cloak around his neck more closely. If she was not in the village, where was she? He followed the lane over the stream, up the hill.

  Midnight’s ears pricked as the road curved at the big tree. He glanced back. A few lights glowed from the village below. She wasn’t there, he felt certain. He turned, remembering something McHendricks had once implied. He wheeled Midnight to the right, up to the shorn hedge. Standing on his stirrups he peered across the twisted branches.

  “Miss Ellison!�
�� He listened carefully. Nothing but the rustle of branches and swoosh of grass met his ears.

  “Lavinia!” Rain spat into his mouth and eyes. He coughed.

  Midnight nickered.

  “Steady, boy.”

  He strained through the darkness. Rubbed his eyes. Was that a faint smudge of color?

  Sliding from his horse, he tied Midnight loosely. “Stay.”

  He pushed through the hedge, almost tripping over a familiar basket. His heart hammered. “Lavinia?”

  The rain was heavier now, icy pellets driven hard by the wind. Twigs pushed through the air, scratching his skin. A branch from the tall oak creaked ominously. He stumbled over a slight depression in the ground. Leaves, slick with moisture, slapped his face. He wiped them away and trudged on. What had he seen? Where?

  He tripped.

  The darkness had all but obscured her as she lay huddled on the ground. “Lavinia!”

  She was shivering, her dark cloak heavy with water. He pushed back the hood that half hid her face. Through the gloomy dimness, he could see her eyes were closed but her mouth was moving, her usually rosy lips now a pasty white. He leaned closer. “Not … spirit of fear … Timothy …”

  He frowned. Who was Timothy? “Lavinia, it’s Nicholas Stamford. Can you open your eyes?”

  “Nick …” The word was a mere breath before the wind whisked it away.

  He shoved a hand through his sopping hair as the rain continued to beat down mercilessly. This corner of land was surely closer to the Hall than the parsonage. If he sent Midnight …

  He knelt in the mud beside her. “I need to get help.”

  “Don’t … leave me.”

  He touched her cheek. “I promise to return.”

  He raced through the field and pushed through the hedge to the road. Midnight snorted, stamping his hoof as the rain sliced almost horizontally.

  “Steady, boy.” He untied him, attached the basket to his saddle, and slapped his rump. “Head home!”

  He watched until Midnight headed the right direction and then shoved through the hedge once more, grimacing as twigs scratched his neck. Water dripped down his collar as he stumbled over the uneven grass to where she lay.