by Dorothy Mack
Lady Honoria shot her a suspicious look, then continued, “Besides, only a cloth-head like that perennial belle would imagine that she could promote a match between her son and her ward merely by disparaging the competition. But my lips are sealed,” she repeated, rising and shaking out her skirts with a bland smile for her niece before sweeping majestically out of the room.
Vicky, watching the impressive exit with rueful admiration, decided her wisest course was to ignore the episode completely. After all, Drucilla’s visit must eventually come to an end; therefore, her romance must be Vicky’s primary concern. There was no immediate urgency to act on Elaine’s behalf. She had enough on her plate at the moment. In fact, it would suit her book if some little time might be allowed to elapse without any intercourse between the two households.
Vicky’s wish was granted, for the family at the Oaks was not honoured by visitors from Meadowlands during the next few days. They pursued their own activities, individually or collectively, in perfect accord. Vicky’s gamekeeper took Lord Ellerby out with a gun one morning for birds, and the riding lessons continued apace. Music remained the chief communal activity indoors, though all were called upon at times to pander to Drucilla’s newborn passion for card games. Vicky rode daily with Lord Ellerby and managed to slip out to see Shadow most days.
She was riding him one afternoon, racing round and round the huge field, less for training purposes than because the participants in the joyful activity found the sensation of speed mutually gratifying. It was another in the series of unusually balmy days they had been experiencing this autumn, and Vicky was glad of the slight breeze to cool her heated cheeks as she and Shadow came to a reluctant halt at last. She was about to rub him down before allowing him to drink when a familiar voice said, “I’ll do that,” and the cloth was taken from her unresisting fingers.
“Must you always appear so unexpectedly, Mr. Massingham, popping up everywhere like a jack-in-the-box?” she asked crossly, annoyed with the sudden quickening of her heartbeat (from shock, of course) and fearful that he might attribute her heightened colour to some cause other than heat and exercise.
He grinned, unabashed. “Of a nervous temperament, are you, Miss Seymour? You surprise me. Or are you simply endeavouring to put the upstart in his place?”
Refusing to rise to the bait, she shifted her glance from the amused mockery in those bold black eyes and looked back toward the fence. “Where is your horse?”
“In the stables. We approached the front door today like polite afternoon callers.”
“We?” Vicky looked down at her breeched and booted person in some dismay before casting a startled glance around the field.
“Yes, Hugh and I. Relax, Miss Seymour, Hugh is inside reading the papers. You are safe from observation at the moment, although if you will persist in wearing that revolting costume, you’d be well served if I had Lady Lanscomb and Miss Fairchild with me.” He turned back to Shadow, who, impatient for his drink, was beginning to sidle away from the restraining hands. “Whoa, boy, all in good time,” his handler soothed, applying himself to the task with brisk efficiency.
Vicky bit her lip. She was not going to be put in the position of defending her actions to this aggravating creature, she resolved, and promptly broke her resolution. “You will allow, sir, that my ‘revolting costume,’ as you are pleased to call it, is the most practical outfit to the purpose. Raising horses is my business, you know.” At least she had succeeded in keeping her tone level.
“Yes, I know. Why?”
“Why? Why what?”
His glance this time was serious as he paused in the act of rubbing Shadow’s hind legs. “Why are you personally involved in the business of raising horses? There is no need, surely?”
“One must do something with one’s life,” she retorted impatiently. “Or are you one of those persons who believe all females should do nothing save sit in a corner and embroider altar cloths?”
“No, of course not. You could marry,” he suggested, voice and features expressionless. “Why else is Ellerby here except to persuade you to resume your engagement?”
“How did you…? Aunt Honoria!” Vicky’s face was flushed with annoyance as she bit off the words, but Mr. Massingham denied that Lady Honoria was the source of his knowledge.
“I read it in the Gazette before I left London,” he explained.
“But you didn’t know me, you … you couldn’t have known who I was,” she stammered, utterly confounded.
“I met your parents once when I was a schoolboy. Besides, I have an excellent memory.” This last was said with a modest pride that intensified Vicky’s chagrin. The man was insufferable, he was… She didn’t know what he was! In impotent fury, hands clenched at her sides, she watched him finish his grooming chore, then slap the colt on the flank as he released him to his watering trough near the tree.
He returned his attention to the silent, rigid girl and advised kindly, “Don’t work yourself into a pelter. You probably know more about me than I like also.”
A lambent look from the corner of her eye was her only reaction as she turned and strode purposefully in the direction of the house. Mr. Massingham fell into step beside her, and they crossed the first field in silence.
“Do you disapprove of the married state, Miss Seymour?” he inquired conversationally when it began to seem as if the entire trek to the house would be accomplished in hostile silence on the lady’s part.
“Of course I don’t disapprove of marriage — for some,” she snapped, keeping her eyes directed straight ahead.
“But not for yourself?”
“I didn’t say that!”
“Ah? Then you do intend to resume your engagement?”
Her head finally swung around in his direction, and he was treated to a brief exposition of flashing golden-brown eyes. “That, Mr. Massingham, is none of your concern!” she flared, abandoning any pretence of civility and resuming her brisk pace.
“Of course it isn’t,” he agreed, suiting his step to hers. “Do you?”
Almost betrayed into an untimely giggle by his effrontery, she was so incensed at her weakness that she flung the truth at him. “No, I do not!”
“That’s good. You wouldn’t suit at all.”
She stopped dead and faced him with her chin at a challenging angle and her eyes narrowed. “Considering that you are scarcely acquainted with me and have only twice clapped eyes on Lord Ellerby —”
“Three times,” he corrected.
“Three times, then,” she conceded through gritted teeth. “It hardly signifies. Under the circumstances, I find your remarks highly impertinent.”
“If the circumstances were as you describe them, I would allow you to be correct, but you mistake, Miss Seymour. I am very well acquainted with you indeed, and, having observed Lord Ellerby’s behaviour toward you on three occasions, it is quite clear to me that you two shouldn’t suit. He’s disposed to worship you, the poor fool. You can wind him around your finger, and that, you know, would be fatal to a marriage.”
Vicky took a deep breath and counted to ten before answering repressively, “This discussion, if such it can be designated, is at an end, Mr. Massingham.”
“Very well,” he replied equably. After another silence he observed chattily, “Cavanaugh informed Hugh and me that though none of the family was in at present, all were expected shortly, so we remained, hoping for an invitation to tea.”
Silence greeted this remark.
“Shall we be invited for tea?” he persisted.
“Yes, of course,” she responded mechanically, then, lest he suppose that she was in any way discomposed by what he had said earlier, achieved a normal tone with effort. “My aunt and Miss Hedgeley have gone out driving this afternoon, and I believe Lord Ellerby had formed the intention of trying his luck at fishing.”
“Ah, we are back to Miss Seymour, the perfect hostess.”
Vicky ignored this provocation, being fiercely determined that nothing
he might say should be permitted to inspire further retaliation on her part. She suspected that for some obscure reason Mr. Massingham delighted in brangling with her, and was resolved not to contribute further to his perverse enjoyment.
“Who is that over there?”
She followed his glance to where a farm vehicle was emerging from the woods onto the carriage drive.
“Probably one of the tenant farmers. They have permission to do some cutting in the home wood for a fuel supply for the winter. Yes,” she added indifferently as the cart lumbered across the distant road, “that is Jeb Laycock, I believe. They look like his horses.”
“He has that wagon dangerously loaded. I trust he doesn’t intend to drive it across those uneven fields. Those logs could shift.”
It seemed that driving across the fields was exactly what the farmer did intend, for he had alighted and opened the first gate almost by the time Mr. Massingham spoke.
“You there, Laycock!” shouted the latter, beginning to run toward the drive. “Don’t drive into that field!”
The ex-soldier was fifty feet away before Vicky realised what was in his mind. She stood rooted in uncertainty for a second or two before heading in Mr. Massingham’s wake at a brisk pace that quickened as she saw the unevenly loaded wagon lurching across the meadow. Jeb hadn’t heard the warning over the noise of the cart. She hadn’t gone more than a few steps farther when she began to run, realising from the jerky motion of the cart how very unsafe it was. It seemed no more than an instant later that the event Mr. Massingham had foreseen came to pass. The cart started to cant to the right, straightened itself momentarily, then overturned before Vicky could release the breath of fear caught in her throat.
Mr. Massingham was already at the scene by the time Vicky climbed the fence.
“Go for help!” he called before disappearing under logs and wagon.
She scarcely heard him, her mind being taken up with absorbing the details of the accident. She had seen Jeb hurtle through the air. Perhaps he had fallen clear of wagon and debris. As she came closer, the position of Mr. Massingham told her Jeb had not been so fortunate. The cart had gone over on its side; Mr. Massingham was braced against its midsection, trying to keep the weight off the fallen driver while the fear-maddened animals pulled against their traces. The first priority was to stop them from pulling the wagon all the way over and dumping the remaining logs on the two men.
“I’ll free the horses,” she called, averting her head from the scene as she ran past.
“No! Keep away! They’ll kick you! Go get help!”
She was beginning to soothe the horses with hands and voice even as she answered, “There’s no time! He could be crushed to death!”
She went at the buckles like a madwoman, closing her ears against Jeb’s groans and the oaths issuing from Mr. Massingham. Her fingers were stiff; it seemed to take forever, but at least the horses were calmer. There, that was one freed at last! She could feel the cart behind her shifting position, and sheer panic threatened to overwhelm her. If it tipped farther, he could be killed! Don’t think about that! Concentrate on her task. Why wouldn’t her fingers work faster? After an eternity she succeeded in getting the second horse unharnessed, and she steeled herself to turn around.
She transferred her gaze to the man on the ground after one swift look at Mr. Massingham’s livid face. She couldn’t worry about that expression of black rage now. Jeb was lying prone, buried up to his hips in logs. The side panel of the wagon seemed to be across his legs also, and it was this that Mr. Massingham was bracing as he moved as many of the logs as he could reach off the farmer.
“Now will you go for help!” Sweat was pouring off Mr. Massingham’s face from the strain of bearing the great weight.
“No! It would take too long. His legs might be crushed in the meantime. He has five children.”
Even as she babbled, Vicky started to dislodge some of the smaller logs, stepping gingerly in and around the shifting mass, incongruously aware of a rush of gratitude for her breeches.
“Get the ones still in the cart. Be careful, Angel. Try not to upset the balance.”
Easier said than done, as Vicky discovered shortly. Some of the logs were too heavy for her to lift, but by methodically moving the smaller ones she succeeded in lightening the load so that their combined strength was enough to right the cart. They had worked in grim silence for the most part, although Vicky whispered directions and cautions to herself from time to time, and once Mr. Massingham had said encouragingly, “Not many more to go. I can almost move it now. Can you manage, Angel?”
She had redoubled her efforts, and a few seconds later had the enormous satisfaction of seeing the wagon lifted off the farmer’s legs. For an instant, the panting rescuers stared at each other in wordless communion that surpassed in intimacy anything Vicky had ever experienced with another human being. A strange excitement raced along her blood, and her heart sang. Then reality in the form of the injured man intruded. He groaned, and both rescuers sprang toward him.
“How is he?” Vicky was nearly breathless as they knelt over the prone figure.
“I haven’t been able to tell,” replied Mr. Massingham grimly as he started flinging the remaining logs off the victim’s body. “It will be miraculous indeed if his legs aren’t crushed,” he muttered in lowered tones as Vicky was murmuring soothing words to the semiconscious man, whose hand she was holding tightly.
But it seemed miracles were in season after all. When the last of the debris had been cleared off Jeb Laycock’s legs in fear-filled silence, Mr. Massingham looked up from his careful examination and said wonderingly, “The left leg is definitely broken, but it feels like a straightforward fracture. As far as I can tell with his clothing on, the right leg is not injured at all. The logs must have fallen in such a way as to form a … a temporary structure is the only way I can describe it, that actually prevented his legs from being crushed.”
Tears of reaction and thankfulness were pouring silently down Vicky’s cheeks. Her slim form in the torn and soiled white shirt sagged visibly in relief.
“Don’t faint on me now!” cried Mr. Massingham in mock alarm.
This elicited a tremulous smile and a determined straightening of his fellow rescuer’s shoulders.
“Your cruel aspersions wound me deeply, sir,” she retorted with a brave attempt at insouciance as she struggled, more stiffly than she liked to have witnessed, to her feet. “Now I shall go for help, which is what you have desired me to do all along.”
Mr. Massingham eyed his gallant companion with unusual solicitude. “You are exhausted!” he exclaimed. “I’ll go for assistance if you will stay with Mr. Laycock.”
“Perhaps if you were to catch one of the horses for me,” she suggested, casting a weary look around the field.
A piercing whistle made her jump skittishly. Mr. Massingham had already set off in pursuit of one of the wagon horses peacefully cropping grass. He was back in under a minute, leading a heavily ribbed grey.
“There’s no danger that this noble beast will throw you,” he remarked dryly. “The problem will be in getting him to go at all.”
Vicky chuckled as she approached the horse. “I believe you are a snob, Mr. Massingham. Old Granddad here has nobly earned his keep for many years.”
“This collection of bad points is unworthy of his rider,” he insisted, placing firm hands on Vicky’s waist and lifting her easily onto the grey’s back. “Be sure the grooms, or whoever you send back, bring something to use as splints, and cloth or string to tie them on with.”
“I will.”
His hands were still at her waist. As he removed them somewhat lingeringly, serious dark eyes gleamed up into hers with a light in their depths she had never expected to see.
“Don’t come back here yourself. You have my word that everything will be done for him as you would wish. Go home and rest.”
“Very well,” she acquiesced meekly, then added, not so meekly, “I must go ahea
d to Jeb’s house to warn his wife first, though.”
“No! You are near collapse. Send someone else to warn Mrs. Laycock. That is an order, Miss Seymour!”
Her chin elevated in automatic defiance at the fierceness of his protest. “You forget, Mr. Massingham, that I am not one of your military subordinates. You do not issue orders on my property!”
Instead of taking umbrage at her haughty tone, Mr. Massingham laughed in genuine amusement. “How gratifying to find you have just confirmed my judgment. Ellerby is definitely not the man for you. He would never know how to control you in a thousand years.”
As her lips parted to take up this new challenge, he placed a finger on them. “Now is not the time to resume hostilities, my dear girl. You are tired and dirty, and I suspect your hands are full of splinters that need prompt attention.”
So he had noticed the wince she had tried to conceal when she had grasped the old grey’s mane. She hesitated, the independent side of her nature unwilling to capitulate.
“Please, Vicky, do as I say this one time. You look completely done up.”
She was spared the ignominy of voluntary capitulation by the forceful smack Mr. Massingham administered on the rump of the patient horse at that moment.
Rider and steed moved off with a motion that, while far from beautiful, was at least purposeful. As she leaned down to open the gate leading to the carriage drive, Vicky glanced back for the first time. Mr. Massingham was on his knees beside the injured man, his back firmly turned to her.
CHAPTER 14
Mr. Massingham had been quite correct in his assessment of Vicky’s present state as “done up.” If asked the cause, he would have replied that her condition was the result of the gruelling physical ordeal she had just experienced, and in this assessment, he would have been essentially mistaken. Vicky could have told him, but she’d have died first, that the primary cause of her depleted state was emotional, not physical, and was directly attributable to himself.
The recent emergency had called forth great physical effort on her part in an automatic unthinking reaction to her tenant farmer’s plight. When the immediate danger had passed, however, enabling her thinking processes to reactivate, she had been struck, with a force equal to that pile of logs, by the unwelcome knowledge that the sick sense of panic that had swept over her while she was struggling to free the horses had been entirely due to a fear that Mr. Massingham might be crushed. The implications of this revelation had left her weak and shaken.
