by Mary Balogh
It was very brave of the Earl and Countess of Redfield and of Lord and Lady Ravensberg to have organized a picnic on such a grand scale just the day before the anniversary celebrations, Claudia thought as the afternoon progressed. For of course, parents had come as well as children. There were probably at least as many people milling about the lawn west of the house as there would be in the ballroom tomorrow evening. It would have been very easy to avoid the Marquess of Attingsborough amid all the crowds if they had not both been keeping a careful eye upon Lizzie. It was unnecessary to be overvigilant. Lizzie, shadowed by Horace but not needing him as a guide, was having the time of her life. Lady Redfield, the Duchess of Anburey, Mrs. Thompson, and a few of the other older ladies, who were sitting together on chairs that had been placed beneath the shade of a group of trees, would gladly have taken her under their wing and indeed did draw her down to sit with them for a few minutes. But she was not forgotten by everyone else. Soon Molly and a few other girls drew her away to introduce her to David Jewell, who had been openly delighted to meet some of his old school friends again and tell them all about his life in Wales. They took her with them to sit by the lake for a while. A few of the gentlemen organized a cricket game after tea for any children who were interested, and a number of Claudia’s girls joined in as well as David. Molly would not play and Lizzie could not, but they stood for a while, Molly watching and explaining to Lizzie what was happening. And then there was an extraordinary moment when Lady Hallmere—the sole lady involved in the game—went in to bat. She made a great show of settling herself in before the wickets and blocked two of the balls bowled at her by Lord Aidan Bedwyn while her team cheered and his jeered. But before he could bowl to her again, she straightened up and looked consideringly at the two girls. “Wait,” she declared. “I need help. Lizzie, come and bat with me and bring me better fortune.” And she strode over to Lizzie, took her by the hand, and led her back to stand before the wickets while Claudia caught Horace by the collar and held him back. Lady Hallmere leaned down to explain something to the girl. “Yes!” Agnes Ryde cried as she awaited her turn. “Lizzie is going to bat. Come on, Lizzie!” For the moment there was a suspiciously Cockney flavor to her accent. Claudia watched with a frown as Lady Hallmere nestled in behind Lizzie, settled all four of their hands about the bat handle, and looked up at Lord Aidan. “Right, Aidan,” she called, “bowl us your best. We are going to hit it for a six, are we not, Lizzie?” Lizzie’s face was bright with excitement. Claudia turned her head briefly to see that the Marquess of Attingsborough, who had been tossing a never-ending line of very young children up in the air one at a time and catching them, was watching intently. Lord Aidan came loping in halfway down the pitch before bowling the ball very gently at the bat. Lady Hallmere, her hands clasped over Lizzie’s, drew back the bat, missing the wickets behind it by a hair, and swung at the ball, hitting it with a satisfyingly loud crack. Lizzie shrieked and laughed. The ball soared into the air and straight into the outstretched hands of the Earl of Kilbourne, who inexplicably failed to catch it but fumbled it awkwardly and eventually allowed it to fall to the ground. But Lady Hallmere had not waited for what had seemed like an inevitable out. She had grabbed Lizzie about the waist and gone tearing down the pitch with her and back again to score two runs. She was laughing. So was Lizzie, loudly and helplessly. Their team cheered wildly. The marquess was laughing too and applauding and whistling. “Oh, well done, Miss Pickford,” he called. And then Lady Hallmere bent down to kiss Lizzie’s cheek, and the Duchess of Bewcastle came to take her by the hand and lead her off to participate in another game. Claudia, still standing there watching, caught Lady Hallmere’s eye, and for an uncomfortable moment their glances held. And then Lady Hallmere raised her eyebrows, looking haughty in the process, and turned her attention back to the cricket game. That had been a gesture of pure kindness, Claudia was forced to admit, however unwillingly. It was a somewhat disturbing realization. For most of her life, it seemed, she had hated and despised the former Lady Freyja Bedwyn. She did not even want to think now that perhaps the woman had changed, at least to a certain degree. You bear a long grudge, Miss Martin. The duchess was forming a number of the smallest children into a circle. She set Lizzie between two of them, joining their hands, and took her own place between two other children to play ring-around-the-rosy. “Ho,” the Marquess of Attingsborough called just before they began, running up with a small girl riding on one of his shoulders—he was hatless, and she was clinging to his hair, “let us in too.” And he swung the little girl to the ground and took a place between her and Lizzie, who set her hand in his and turned her face up to him, looking as if all the sunshine had poured into her being. He beamed back down at her with such tenderness that Claudia was amazed everyone did not instantly know. The group circled about, chanting and then all falling down on cue in shrieking delight before scrambling back to their feet, joining hands, and beginning the game all over again. Except that Lizzie and her father never did release hands. Instead they fell and laughed together while Lizzie positively glowed with excitement and happiness. Claudia, standing watching with Susanna while Anne, holding young Megan in her arms, stood with Sydnam, cheering for David, who was up to bat in cricket, felt very close to tears though she was not at all sure why. Or perhaps she was, but there was a confusing number of causes and she did not know which was uppermost. “Lizzie is a delightful child,” Susanna said. “She has become everyone’s pet, has she not? And is not Joseph a good sport? He has been playing with the younger children all afternoon so far. I am so sorry he is going to marry Miss Hunt. I thought perhaps you and he…But never mind. I still have high hopes of the Duke of McLeith even though you have refused him once.” “You are a hopeless and impractical romantic, Susanna,” Claudia said. But it was very hard to imagine the Marquess of Attingsborough and Miss Hunt being happy together. Although she had come to the picnic, Miss Hunt had kept herself aloof from all the children and their activities, sitting somewhat removed from everyone else with the Earl and Countess of Sutton and two guests from Alvesley whom Claudia did not know. And Claudia could not help remembering the marquess’s telling her at Vauxhall that Miss Hunt thought kisses foolish and unnecessary. He looked more handsome and charming than ever frolicking with the very young and beaming happily at his daughter. He deserved better than Miss Hunt. And then Charlie came strolling up to stand with her and Susanna. “I doubt I have ever seen so many children so blissfully happy all at one time,” he said. “Everything has been very well organized, has it not?” Indeed it had. In addition to the numerous games before tea and cricket and ring-around-the-rosy after, there was a game of statues in progress, organized by Eleanor and Lady Ravensberg. The Countess of Rosthorn was giving an archery lesson to a few of the nearly grown-up children. The Marquess of Hallmere and another gentleman were giving boat rides. A few children were playing their own private game on the bank of the lake, watched over by the older ladies. A few others were climbing trees. Some babies were being amused by parents or grandparents. No guests showed any sign yet of wishing to take their leave. “Claudia,” Charlie said, “shall we take a stroll along by the lake?” Her presence at the picnic site was unnecessary, Claudia thought, looking about. There was plenty of supervision for all her girls. Susanna was smirking her encouragement. And she needed to get away, if only for a few minutes. Indeed, she wished she had not come at all. It had been obvious to her for most of the afternoon that she might easily have stayed away altogether. “Thank you,” she said, “that would be pleasant.” And it was too. She enjoyed both the walk in sunshine and picturesque surroundings and the company. During the past few days she and Charlie had become friends again. As well as reminiscing about their childhood, he talked a great deal about his life as Duke of McLeith. She talked about her life at the school. They shared ideas and opinions. The old easy camaraderie had returned to their relationship. He had made no further reference to his marriage proposal at Lindsey Hall. He was, it seemed, content to settl
e for friendship. Children did not tire easily. When Claudia and Charlie returned from their walk after half an hour, there was still a vast crowd of them milling about the large lawn area, involved in some game or another while adults participated or supervised or sat watching and conversing with one another. It was a relief to Claudia to notice that the Marquess of Attingsborough was missing. And it was an annoyance to discover that he was the first person she looked for. The next person was Lizzie. Her eyes searched everywhere twice before she came to the conclusion that the child was simply not there. Her stomach performed an uncomfortable flip-flop. “Where is Lizzie?” she asked Anne, who was close by with Megan. “She is holding Harry,” Anne said, pointing toward Susanna—who was holding Harry herself while Peter squatted beside her chair, his hand resting on the baby’s head while he smiled up at his wife. “Oh, she was holding Harry.” “Where is Lizzie?” Claudia asked more urgently of no one in particular. “The blind girl?” Charlie asked, cupping her elbow with one hand. “Someone is always looking after her. Don’t worry.” “Where is Lizzie?” “Morgan is letting her hold the bow and arrows, Miss Martin,” Lady Redfield called. But Lady Rosthorn, Claudia could see, was shooting an arrow at a target while an admiring group of young people looked on—and Lizzie was not among them. She must have gone somewhere with her father. “Oh,” the Dowager Countess of Kilbourne said. “I believe she went for a walk with Miss Thompson and a group of other girls from your school, Miss Martin. May I commend you on the girls? They all have excellent manners.” “Thank you,” Claudia said, sagging with relief while Charlie squeezed her elbow solicitously. And indeed she could see now that Eleanor was missing from the crowd too as were a few of her girls. Lizzie had gone walking with them. Horace must have gone too. Charlie guided her to an empty chair, and even as she seated herself she could see the Marquess of Attingsborough making his way back to the picnic site with Miss Hunt on his arm. The Earl and Countess of Sutton and another couple were with them. Lizzie was not, of course. But just as Claudia was beginning to relax, chiding herself for becoming so frightened when Lizzie had a dozen or more chaperones to watch her, she could see Eleanor and her group returning from their walk to the east of the house. Eleanor, Molly, Doris, Miriam, Charlotte, Becky—Lord Aidan’s daughter—an unknown girl, another, David Jewell, Davy—Becky’s brother… Claudia got to her feet, searching the group more intently as it came closer. Lizzie was not among them. “Where is Lizzie?” No one answered. “Where is Lizzie?”
Lizzie had been feeling blissfully happy. She had come to Alvesley with eager anticipation, knowing that her papa was staying here. But she had not expected too much. For one thing, she did not want her new friends to stop liking her, and they might if they knew that she had a rich father who loved her. And so she was going to have to be careful not to give the game away. But she knew too that her papa would not want openly to acknowledge her. She knew that she was the bastard child of a nobleman and an opera dancer—her mother had made that very clear to her. She knew that she could never belong in her papa’s world, that she must never openly appear there. And she knew that he was about to marry a lady, someone from his own world—something her mother had always said would happen one day. She had not expected too much of the picnic, then. She had been happy just to have him lift her down from the carriage and to hear him cheer for her when she hit the cricket ball with Lady Hallmere’s help. Her cup had run over with joy when he had come to play ring-around-the-rosy with her, as he had done sometimes when she was a little girl at home. He had held her hand and laughed with her and fallen on the grass with her. And when the game was over, he had kept hold of her hand and told her that he would take her for a boat ride. Her heart had been fairly bursting with happiness. And then a lady had spoken to him in a voice Lizzie had not liked and told him that he was neglecting Miss Hunt and she was close to fainting from the heat and he must come up to the house with them immediately and sit in the cool for a while. And he had sighed and called the lady Wilma and told Lizzie that the boat ride must wait until later but that he would not forget. But he would forget, Lizzie decided after he had gone. Or if he did not, the lady called Wilma and Miss Hunt would make sure that he did not play with her anymore. She wanted Miss Martin, but when she asked Lady Whitleaf, who came to take her by the hand, she discovered that Miss Martin had gone for a walk but would be back soon. Lady Whitleaf let her hold Harry, something she had not done before, and she almost wept with happiness. But after a minute or two he grew cross and Lady Whitleaf said she had to go and feed him. Then Lady Rosthorn asked her if she would like to come and examine the bows and arrows and listen to the whistle they made when they were shot and the thumping sound they made as they sank into the target. Miss Thompson asked her almost at the same moment if she would like to go for a walk with a few of the other children, but Lizzie was feeling a little depressed and said no. But then a few minutes later, when Lady Rosthorn and some other people were shooting the arrows, she was sorry she had not gone. It would have passed the time until her papa came back from the house—if he came. And until Miss Martin came back from her walk. And then Lizzie had an idea. It was something that would make her very proud of herself—and it would surely make her papa and Miss Martin proud of her too. Miss Thompson’s group could not have gone very far yet. Lizzie tightened her hold on Horace’s leash and bent down to talk to him. He panted eagerly back into her face so that she wrinkled her nose and laughed. “Go find Miss Thompson and Molly, Horace,” she said. “Are you going somewhere, Lizzie?” Lady Rosthorn asked. She would insist upon coming with her, Lizzie thought, and that would spoil everything. “I am going to join my friends,” she said vaguely. At the same moment someone was asking Lady Rosthorn for help with holding a bow. “And you can find them on your own?” Lady Rosthorn asked. But she did not wait for an answer. “Good girl.” And Horace—with Lizzie in tow—was off. Lizzie knew there were lots of people at the picnic. She knew too that there were constant and constantly changing activities. She hoped no one would notice her go and catch up to her to escort her to join the walk. She could do it on her own. Horace was her guide. He could take her wherever she wished to go. She breathed more easily when the crowd was left behind and no one had hailed her or come dashing up behind her. She even smiled and laughed. “Go find them, Horace,” she said. After a while there was no longer grass beneath her feet but the hardness of a path or driveway. Horace led the way along it rather than across—the hard surface remained beneath her feet. It did not take long for the initial euphoria of the adventure to wear off. The walking group must have had far more of a head start than she had realized. There was no sound of them. Once she drew Horace to a halt and listened and called Miss Thompson’s name, but there was no sound and no answer. Horace drew her onward until she felt and heard hollowness beneath her feet and realized that she must be on a bridge. She groped her way sideways until she felt a stone balustrade. She could hear water rushing below. When they had been coming from Lindsey Hall in the carriage earlier, she had heard the wheels rumbling over a bridge—and Miss Martin had confirmed her observation. Was it likely the walkers had crossed this bridge? Was Horace leading her to them? Or had they gone somewhere else? Was she lost? For a moment she felt panic well inside her. But that would be silly. She knew from stories her papa had read to her that heroines did not panic but were very brave. And all they had to do was turn around and go back the way they had come. Horace would know the way back. And once they were close, she would hear the sound of voices. She bent down to talk to Horace, but at the same time she got her foot caught in the leash and tipped over until she was sprawled on the ground. She did not hurt herself. Horace came close to make bleating noises and to lick her face and she put her arms about his neck and hugged him. “You silly dog,” she said. “You have come the wrong way. You are going to have to lead me back again. I hope nobody will have noticed that we were gone. I shall feel very foolish.” But the trouble was that by the time she got to her feet and brushed her h
ands over her best dress to make sure no grit clung to it and repossessed herself of the dog’s leash, she was not sure which direction she was facing. She let Horace decide. She pulled a little on his leash. “Take us back,” she commanded. It did not take her long to realize that they had gone the wrong way. She could feel the coolness of shade on her face and arms and sensed that it was not just that the sun had gone behind clouds but that there were trees overhead—she could smell them. There had been no trees the other side of the bridge. And then Horace must have seen or heard something off to one side of the driveway and went darting off over rough ground and among the trees—that was soon obvious to Lizzie—dragging her with him. He barked excitedly. And then he was moving too fast for her and she let go of the leash. She found the trunk of a tree and clung to it. She realized, as her hair came cascading down about her face, that she had lost her hair ribbon. It was without doubt the most frightening moment of her life. “Miss Thompson!” she yelled. “Molly!” But she had known some time ago that this was not the way Miss Thompson and the girls had come. “Papa!” she shrieked. “Papa!” But Papa had gone to the house with Miss Hunt. “Miss Martin!” And then Horace was pushing at her elbow with his cold nose and whining at her. She could feel his leash swinging against one of her legs. “Horace!” She was sobbing, she realized as she caught hold of the leash. “Take me back to the driveway.” If she could just get back there, she would stay on it. Even if she chose the wrong way to walk, she would surely get somewhere eventually, or someone would find her. It was not far away. But which way? Horace led her onward, much more carefully than before. He seemed intent upon making sure that she did not collide with any of the trees or trip over any of their roots. But after what must have been several minutes, they had not arrived back at the driveway. They must be going deeper into the woods. Lizzie thought about her story, the first one Miss Martin had written down for her. Panic was hard to hold back. She was sobbing out loud. And then Horace stopped, panting as if in triumph and Lizzie, feeling with her free hand, felt a stone wall. At first she thought that by some miracle they had arrived at the house, but she knew it was impossible. She felt along the wall until she encountered first a door frame and then a wooden door and then the doorknob. She turned it, and the door opened. “Hello,” she called, her voice teary and shaking. She was thinking of witches and wizards. “Hello. Is anyone there?” No one was. There was no answer, and she could hear no breathing except her own and Horace’s. She stepped inside and felt about. It was just a small hut, she discovered. But it had some furniture in it. Did someone live here? If so, perhaps they would come home soon and tell her which way to go. Perhaps they would not be evil people but would be kind. There were not really evil people or witches, were there? She was still sobbing aloud. She was still consumed by terror. She was still trying to be sensible. “Please come home,” she sobbed to the unknown owners of the little hut. “Please come home. Please!” She could feel a bed covered with blankets. She lay down on top of them and curled up into a ball, one fist stuffed against her mouth. “Papa,” she wailed. “Papa. Miss Martin. Papa.” Horace jumped up beside her and whined and licked her face. “Papa.” Eventually she slept. 18
