by Mia Marlowe
Tomorrow, we embark for the fair at Patterlane Green. If that gypsy wagon is there again, I shall not seek the old wise woman out. Last year, she predicted I would lead someone I love to destroy himself. Who pays a penny for that sort of fortune? Yet if she’d foretold a future of nosegays and bliss for me, I’d have known she was selling a bag of moonshine.
Which is why I fear she told me the truth.
~from the secret journal of Lady Nora Claremont
Chapter Fifteen
The last place Pierce wanted to be was at the Patterlane Green fair. The sleepy little village probably would have been fine on a normal day. All the minds would have been focused on workaday things, uncomplicated things—how much meal to buy for supper, whether the cow needed to be freshened to sweeten her milk, or if the goat had broken down the garden fence and was into the leeks and potato plants again.
Pierce could let those kinds of thoughts wash over him like rainwater off an eave and into a barrel.
Today the problems were thornier. The villagers were worried about spending their hard-earned coin on shoes for the child who was growing so fast his feet were already bigger than his older brother’s or trying to decide if partnering with a neighbor to invest in an iron plowshare would be worth the added expense.
Incomes for the entire year might be decided by a few deals made on this green. Everything felt more important, more critical, despite the outwardly gay atmosphere of a fair.
Pierce kept his mental shield up, but a bit of desperation, emanating from Nora, slipped around its edges. While she laughed and talked and hung on his arm as they moved from one booth to the next, her gaze darted furtively through the crowd.
“Who are you looking for?” he finally asked.
She cocked her head at him accusingly.
“No, I’m not listening to your thoughts,” he assured her, though he was sorely tempted. It would be the best way to get a straight answer from her. She’d been evasive and distant since the Duke of Camden’s party had settled into Albion Abbey. He hadn’t had a moment’s private speech with her after they had parted at that stream. When she condescended to allow him to squire her around the fair this morning, he expected to be able to pick up at least the conversational threads from their interrupted tryst. However, she seemed determined to keep the banter between them light and suitable for anyone’s ears.
“What makes you think I’m looking for someone?” Her gaze flitted past him toward the puppeteer’s booth and then jerked guiltily back to meet his eyes.
“It’s Emilia, isn’t it?” he guessed.
Her mouth drew into a tight line. “You promised.”
“And I kept my word.” He raised his hands in mock surrender. “It doesn’t take a mind reader to know you’re seeking a child when you scrutinize every sweetmeat seller and can’t take your eyes off the Punchinello show.”
She sighed. “All right. If you must know, Emilia is fostered by a couple who live near this village. Mr. and Mrs. Hobarth.”
“And you’ve seen her here at the fair before?”
She made no pretense of trying to hide her search now, craning her neck to peer around him. “Last year and the one before that.”
“You don’t visit her between times?”
Her eyes flew wide. “No. How could I? What would I say? As far as Emilia knows, she is the natural daughter of the Hobarths.” When a dark-haired girl the right age skittered past them, Nora started after her, but she stopped herself in mid-step. “That’s not her.”
“How can you be sure? Children change a good deal from year to year.”
“Emilia has a strawberry mark above her right eyebrow. But truthfully, I usually recognize Mrs. Hobarth first. She’s a slender little woman with a nose like a stork. But she has kind eyes.”
“Do the Hobarths know you on sight?”
“No, they have no idea who I am. Everything was arranged by Mr. Trotter, my man of business. They receive their quarterly stipend through him.”
He took her hand and tucked it possessively in the crook of his elbow. Her fingers trembled with nervousness. “How did you choose the Hobarths?”
“Before Emilia was born, Mr. Trotter arranged interviews with a number of potential guardians.”
“And you trusted him to make this decision?”
She shook her head. “I listened to every conversation with prospective couples from behind a screen. I’m the one who chose Mr. and Mrs. Hobarth. She is barren, you see, and they desperately wanted a child. They have a tidy little farmstead. They’re hardworking and honest, and they’ve been frugal with the moneys paid to them. Mr. Trotter says everything is used for my daughter’s benefit. I’ve never regretted my decision.”
Pierce knew that was a lie. Regret was etched in tiny lines around her eyes and in the firm set of her lips, but he let Nora’s fib go unchallenged.
“More than that, they adore her,” she went on. “If Emilia knows what it is to be loved, I’m satisfied.”
“She just doesn’t know your love.”
“But I know it. She doesn’t have to be aware of my love for it to be. Oh, there are the Hobarths now.” A frown creased her brow.
Pierce followed the direction of her gaze and discovered a frantic-looking couple. He dropped his shield and over the hurdy-gurdy noise of the fair-goers’ thoughts, he heard the Hobarths’ minds churning furiously.
“They’ve lost her in the crowd,” he said. “They don’t know where she is.”
Nora’s hand went reflexively to her chest, and he was inundated by her panic.
“Steady on. This seems like a good little town. Emilia likely knows most of the people here. She’s probably slipped away from her parents’ side to play with her friends.”
“They are not her parents. They are her guardians,” Nora said fiercely. “I’m her parent. Her mother. Oh God. Where could she be?”
Pierce didn’t know, but he knew someone who would. “We have to find Miss Anthony. She’ll locate your girl.”
Pierce strode across the green looking for Meg. One woman looked very like another to him, except for Honora, of course.
There were a pair of ladies paused before the Punchinello show. One was a well-dressed matron in a pale blue pelisse and gown with a matching parasol to protect her fair complexion. The other lady was younger, judging from the slenderness of her waist. Her ensemble was just as fashionable, but her posture was slightly stooped, not nearly as confident as her older companion. A shovel-shaped bonnet obscured her features. Pierce wished he’d thought to mark the color of the ladies’ ensembles before they’d parted ways earlier, but he was fairly sure they were Lady Easton and Meg. Then before he could reach them, a forceful thought broke through his shield.
I’ll be damned. If it isn’t Meg Jackson and in the flesh.
Pierce stopped near the puppet booth and heard frantic whispers from behind the curtain of the slapstick show.
“Did you see her?”
“See who?”
“Your cousin Meg, that’s who. Look there through the slit in the curtain.”
“Are you sure it’s her?”
“Sure as there’s a boil on my buttocks.”
“It is her!”
“Too bloody right it is. Looks like she landed on her feet and no mistake.”
“Do you suppose she’s a companion or some such like for that other lady?”
“Could be. We need to find out who her ladyship is.”
It sounded like the family Meg had run away from had finally caught up with her. If her uncle and cousin discovered Lady Easton’s identity, they’d have a good idea where Meg was hiding from them. But Pierce couldn’t worry about that now. Not with Lady Nora’s Emilia missing.
He ran the rest of the way.
…
“Oh, dear, I don’t think this is at all wise,” Lady Easton said. “The duke specifically forbade you to use your gift until we discover a way for you to exercise it more safely.”
“I know, but
surely His Grace wouldn’t mind if I just popped up and had a quick look round for a lost little girl,” Meg said. “I’ll Find her in a blink and be back before you can breathe twice.”
“I doubt it’ll be that fast,” Pierce said. “You’ve never Found anything or anyone that easily.”
You asked me to do it, ninny. You’re supposed to be on my side.
Meg rolled her eyes at him as her thoughts rolled over him. So long as Emilia was missing, Pierce had lowered his shield completely in case he might overhear something of her whereabouts. So far, the voices of the fair clamored over one another, each more shrill than the last. Only those with whom he made eye contact tossed thoughts his way that could be discerned from the general commotion swirling around him.
He’d convinced Nora to remain at the glassblower’s booth while he and the other two women had slipped into the makeshift lane behind the row of tradesmen. He’d explained to Nora that Miss Anthony could find Emilia, but he couldn’t share Meg’s method of doing so. Revealing the special ability of another Extraordinaire would violate the first rule in the Order of the M.U.S.E. and probably earn him expulsion from the duke’s circle.
Convincing Meg to disregard a direct edict from Camden would likely lead to the same result, but he had to help Honora. Even though he wasn’t with her, her panic washed over him in ever higher waves. Nora would be swamped in short order, reduced to piteous blubbering and not even able to tell anyone why.
“This is all highly irregular,” Lady Easton said with a frustrated shake of her head. “Miss Anthony is usually seated comfortably when she enters her trance. Do you intend that she should slump on the grass?”
“No. I’ll hold her.” He suited his actions to his words, wrapping his arms around Meg and cradling her head against his chest so it wouldn’t fall back once her spirit left her body.
“That’ll do,” Meg said. “If anyone happens by, they’ll think we were having a lovers’ tryst and have been caught at it by my chaperone. Emilia Hobarth, you say.” He nodded confirmation of the missing child’s name. Legally, the girl’s name should have been Emilia Claremont, but Meg’s Finding was tied to the name her subject was known by, which might not be their real name. Then before Lady Easton could raise any further objections, Meg said, “Wish me luck.”
Her body went limp and boneless as a cat. A fairly heavy cat. Pierce was unprepared for the sudden dead weight in his arms. He held his own breath, counting off the seconds while Meg’s essence flew free. Then as his lungs began to burn, she gasped and straightened back on her own two feet.
“She’s playing by the river,” Meg said.
“Is anyone with her?”
Meg shook her head. “Last I saw, she was peeling off her shoes and stockings. Hurry.”
…
As soon as Pierce told her where her daughter was, Nora lifted her hem, the better to run from the level green of the fair to the slope where the river wound around the village’s edge. Rivers were dicey things. One moment they were placid and friendly, the next they’d tug unsuspecting waders down and carry them away. Emilia was only five and petite for her age, at that. She’d be nothing for the water to swallow in one gulp.
Pierce ran on ahead of her, leaving her to flail after him. He didn’t stop for the thick woods and crashed through the tangled underbrush, barreling toward the water.
During the rare times when Nora allowed herself to think about Emilia, she always pictured her happy and sheltered. A perfect child in a perfect setting. The Emilia in her mind wore a perpetual angelic smile. She never dirtied the hem of her pristine gowns and always took her tea with her little pinky properly out. Nothing threatened her placid life in an idyllic home. Now Nora realized how false, how deceptive, that image was.
Emilia was a flesh-and-blood child. Fragile. Breakable.
Nora had lost her when she gave her care over to the Hobarths, but having the phantom Emilia had helped to deaden the pain. She could take her perfect imagined daughter and visualize the march of happy years ahead for her. Perhaps in the future, when she was grown, Nora might find a way to make her acquaintance and get to know her, in truth.
But Nora had nothing of her now. And now was all anyone ever had. If they didn’t reach her in time, Emilia might not have much more now.
Nora would lose her afresh. A sob tore from her throat.
She couldn’t see Pierce any longer, but she could hear him fighting his way through the heavy growth. The snapping and crackling of timber stopped and the air was rent by a high, thin wail. Then the scream ceased abruptly, like a thread snipped off by a pair of shears.
Women seem to be born into this world with a well-developed sense of what they want. Whatever their age, a man thwarts their designs at his peril.
~From the secret journal of Pierce Langdon, Viscount Westfall
Chapter Sixteen
“Hold still,” Pierce ordered the squirming child in his dripping arms. If she didn’t settle, he was likely to drop her back into the brown water. Granted, she was already doused from head to toe, so it wasn’t as if he could save her muslin gown. But the river was so thick with sediment, if she slipped under the surface again, he might not find her a second time.
“I want to see ducks!” Emilia protested.
“You can see ducks from the bank,” he said as he slogged toward the shore. After his cruel treatments while he was in Bedlam, Pierce had a healthy respect for water and its power. But he hadn’t paused at the river’s edge when he first saw the little girl tumble into it. He had followed her into the spate without question. His footing shifted on the slippery rocks beneath him. The current tugged at his thighs, and he tensed with each step.
Emilia balled her fist and pounded his chest. “You are a mean, mean man.”
“If it’s mean not to allow you to drown, then I wholeheartedly concur. I am the meanest man alive.”
The little girl started blubbering, which was much worse than having her call him names and pummel him. Tears streamed down her ruddy cheeks, and she shook in his arms.
How does one deal with children?
He opened his mind to hers and discovered that despite her bluster, she was not angry. Emilia was terrified. Pierce held her more tightly.
“You’re all right. I’ve got you. We’ll find your parents, and everything will be fine.”
“No, it won’t,” she said with a sniff and a fresh round of tears. “Mamma will be mad because I soiled my new frock.”
“She may well be,” he said agreeably, which earned him a fresh pounding. “Women put a great deal of store in fripperies and such, but she’d be much more upset if you’d been swept away. A frock can be replaced. You cannot.”
Emilia stopped knocking on his chest and swiped her eyes with the back of her little hand. “You think so?”
“I know so,” Pierce assured her. Honora burst through the undergrowth and stood wringing her hands as they advanced toward the shore. Her relief crashed over him in palpable waves. “Your mamma loves you very much.”
“Papa, too?”
“How could he not?”
Nora’s face was etched with longing as she stumbled down to the muddy edge of the river, her arms outstretched to receive the child from him.
But before he could reach Nora, another couple came scuffling through the woods, breaking off saplings in their haste and calling Emilia’s name. The man and woman burst through the thick greenery.
“Mamma!” the child sang out. “Papa, I’m here.”
The woman scrambled down the embankment and pushed in front of Nora to snatch Emilia from Pierce’s arms. Nora stepped back several paces, her expression stricken. Mrs. Hobarth hugged the little girl as if she’d never let her go.
Pierce watched Nora, amazed that the Hobarths didn’t seem to notice her intensity. Her longing to hold her daughter was so sharp, it was a wonder she didn’t prick herself on it and bleed all over the shoreline.
“Oh, Emilia, you wicked child, we were that worried,
weren’t we, Mr. H.?” But Mrs. Hobarth’s tone belied her stern words. The woman fought back tears as she gave the girl a slight shake. “You mustn’t wander off. Promise you’ll never do that to your father and me again.”
Mr. Hobarth pumped Pierce’s hand, spouting his thanks in a flurry of grateful, sometimes incoherent, appreciation. When the couple took their leave, Emilia was between them, her hands firmly held by both adults.
“Well, they’ve had quite a scare,” Pierce said as he sat on a driftwood log and tugged off his wet boots. “I doubt she’ll slip away from them so easily again.”
Mutely, Nora sank down beside him, her gaze glued to the opposite bank of the river. She knotted her fingers together so tightly, her knuckles went white. Once Pierce emptied the water from his boots and set them aside, he took her hands. They were icy, despite the warmth of the day.
A single tear glided down her cheek.
“I didn’t get to hold her. You were coming toward me with her and I thought I’d…just once…only for a little while…” She turned her face away from him, as if that could hide her pain. “It wasn’t too much to ask, was it?”
He shook his head. “No, it wasn’t.”
“I didn’t hold her when she was born, you know. The midwife said it would be best not to. She was probably right. I couldn’t have let her go otherwise.” Nora covered her face with her hands and sobbed. “But who would it hurt if I held her now?”
“You,” he said softly. “Because you’d still have to let her go.”
He put his arm around her waist, and she turned back to him to lean her head on his shoulder. She shook with grief, but she made no sound. All her sorrow was bottled inside.
More than anything he wanted to fix this for her. That was what it meant to be a man, wasn’t it? He was supposed to solve problems and make the world a good place, a safe place for those he loved. His questionable sanity hadn’t made him someone anyone could depend upon for that sort of protection. Until now.
