A Very Austen Romance

by Robin Helm

  For a dreadful moment, Conrad felt certain she’d flee again. Instead, that familiar little jut of her chin promised an interesting response. He was not disappointed. “Afternoon walks along the east side of the park are almost as lovely, and one does have a fine view of sunset from the birches….”

  He could mention that he intended to see the prospect for himself and leave her to deduce that he wished her to join him, or he could offer just a little more of the hopes he had only just begun to accept himself. The risk made his gut clench and his throat go dry. Though unsettled, Conrad spoke at last. “I wish you would agree to join me—to show me the views you like most.”

  “Join you?” Miss Dashwood hurried to the steps, but as she neared the top she called back, “If you see me out on your walk, Mr. Thayer, please do feel free to join me on mine.”

  ***

  The walk never occurred. Margaret dashed downstairs with a heedless recklessness that would have earned her a scolding if her mother or sisters had been about. As it was, they were safely ensconced in Marianne’s rooms, doing their best to keep tea and biscuits settled in her stomach. Still, the illness that had been so severe with the boys was much less so this time. Thus far at least.

  Voices in the library brought her to a stop on her way to the back terrace. The Colonel and Mr. Thayer, and they’re speaking so quietly… but why?

  After her annoyance over Mr. Thayer’s eavesdropping… Margaret paused in reflection and allowed herself a moment of satisfaction to realize that she’d hidden it well. Still, after such annoyance with someone else, she decided not to hide her presence. Instead, she entered the library quietly but in full view of anyone caring to look at the doorway. Both men stood leaning over the library table with their backs to her.

  “—have sent for a rider. He’ll come in fast from the coaching inn at Haselbury Brian. If these men do not return after that, we’ll repeat the process each day until the men retur—” Mr. Thayer stopped speaking as Margaret moved between them and bent over the table herself, eying a paper with several sketches on it. “Miss Dashwood!”

  “Margaret?” The Colonel eyed her with a mixture of amusement and reproof. “What can we do for you?”

  “I came down to take a walk, but when I heard voices, I chose to step in and see if I am needed.” The words sounded disingenuous, even to herself. Still, Margaret spoke boldly and with confidence she didn’t feel. “When will the rider arrive? Are Mama and Marianne safe? Should they be sent to the rectory, do you suppose?”

  The Colonel escorted her from the library with assurances that her help would not be required, and the women need not be removed from the house. “It’s a matter of capturing the men in the act and turning them over to the Navy for trial. Thank you for your concern for your mother and sister. It comforts me to know they have you.”

  “But I—”

  He’d disappeared, though. As she turned to go back, Margaret heard the door click shut and a key turning in the lock. That’s all it took for her to decide. I’ll watch, then. I’ll not be put off so easily. Intruders won’t expect a woman to know what is at play and might overlook her.

  As she climbed the stairs to her room, Marianne decided she would need one of Betsy’s caps and the girl’s plainest dress. If I’m to be ignored, what better way than dressed as a servant?

  CHAPTER TEN

  A rider appeared just an hour before dawn. Conrad sent word through Roberts to call Brandon into the library before racing off to retrieve the false packet meant to represent the dispatch. However, when he returned, Davies passed him a letter and said the rider had left. Trepidation filled him as he accepted it.

  The direction had been written by Admiral Croft. There could be no mistake about that. However, it had originally been sent to him in care of his ship, and Croft had obviously rerouted it to Delaford. The cost of such a message must have been excessive. He would have to discover the amount and reimburse the household accounts for it. His ready cash dwindled almost visibly.

  Conrad broke the seal and began reading. Tears filled his eyes, but before he could take in all the letter said, another rider appeared in the drive with a thunder of hooves that sounded like a dozen riders. “Davies!”

  “Going sir.”

  “I’ll be in the library.”

  ***

  Footsteps pounded past Margaret’s door. She waited a moment and when they did not return, she slipped from her room and scurried after two men. Conrad and the Colonel?

  The library was ablaze in candlelight—excessive, she thought. The men sat at the far end of the table, their heads bent close and hands out of sight. Guns, I suppose. Will they be forced to shoot?

  The Colonel saw her first. “Leave, Margaret. Quickly.”

  “I’ve come to help. How can I—?”

  “By leaving,” Mr. Thayer insisted.

  Still, she protested, even as a man burst into the room. “I’m followed. I tried to lead them past as if cutting through the property, but they gained, so I returned.”

  “You did well,” Mr. Thayer insisted. He passed the man another pistol. “Be at the ready.” To Margaret he repeated. “Leave, Miss Dashwood.” Perhaps the hurt she felt showed in her eyes because his expression and tones softened. “I implore you.”

  She might have protested, but something the rider had said sparked a fresh thought. Margaret whirled in place and raced out the door. One last peek back showed him staring where she’d stood. You are a strange man, Mr. Thayer.

  Recalling the effectiveness of drapery for concealment, Margaret slipped behind those in the entryway and listened. She didn’t wait long. One by one, the sounds of horses stopping and boots dropping to the ground filled the early morning air. Darkness still shrouded the house, however. All but the library.

  She heard them whispering—German, perhaps. It certainly wasn’t French. What else could it be?

  Their footsteps sounded stealthy, quiet, as they inched their way around the perimeter of the entryway. Extraordinary, considering they did little to disguise their arrival.

  One man drew so close that Margaret held her breath and prayed for her heartrate to slow. What would they do if they found me here? Would they believe me to be a frightened servant? That thought prompted another, inopportune one. And did the Colonel not see that I’ve disguised myself? Should I have brought his attention to that fact?

  The movements continued until they’d fully entered the hallway. The front door stood wide open, allowing for her to slip out. A scan of the area showed one man left to guard the horses.

  Her mind whirled with options until the best one presented itself. Margaret slipped back inside and swept the dark, shadowy area for anything that might serve as a weapon. The Colonel’s walking stick lay across a bench, but she did not possess the strength to use it with effectiveness—certainly not with one blow. The furniture was too large, of course.

  Then she recalled the cuspidor that sat just inside the music room door. Heavy, brass, and just the right size with which to strike someone over the head. She ran on tiptoe down the center carpeted runner and to the entrance of the room. In seconds, she had it in hand and played at overhand, underhand, two hands and one until she’d developed a feel for how she could wield it.

  Just in time, she recalled that leaving through the terrace doors would bring her up behind the man with the horses—through shrubbery that might conceal her if she were to make noise.

  Without the shelter of the front eaves and portico, the cold morning air bit through her clothing. Margaret ignored the chill and dashed through damp grasses to the front of the house again. Silhouettes of stamping horses and a man adjusting the cinch on one of them appeared just as the first gray-green hints of dawn streaked through the sky.

  She danced across the gravel, one foot and then the next, each time she saw a horse stamp or move. However, as she neared, her right foot came down hard when the cuspidor unbalanced her. The man turned and his eyes widened as she brought the brass thing down
hard on his head. His mouth opened as if to call out. Her heart raced, and just in case, she whacked him again. This time, the blow only grazed him as he crumpled to the ground.

  Whew!

  One by one, she led each horse away from the house and smacked its rear flank. The animals took off on a wild run each time she did. That left a heavy man who, presumably, could awaken at any moment. Unless I’ve killed him. A tiny puff of white around his nose dissipated almost as quickly as it formed. Likely not. Still… The only thing she could think of to bind him with were the great cords that held back the entryway drapes.

  Margaret dashed to the steps and peered inside. No one. She grabbed the cords from two of the drapes and raced back to bind the man. It wasn’t a simple process. Indeed, the thick, silky cords almost refused to stay tied. Loops and twists around the ankles only created a rope puzzle rather than an effective binding, and it took much longer to constrain the man’s wrists and ankles than she had anticipated.

  Dragging him out of sight proved nearly impossible. It worked best when she grabbed his boots and pulled him that way, but his head bobbed alarmingly along the ground. Whatever his foolishness might be in aligning himself with thieves, she did not wish to be the cause of an untimely death. So, she hooked her arms under his and attempted, almost in vain, to pull him out of sight.

  Shouts and a gunshot sent her heart racing and her concerns skittering for cover in dark corners of the drive. Margaret rolled him over and over, until he was half hidden by the shadows at the base of shrubbery, and raced for her cuspidor.

  Just outside the front door, she waited. It wouldn’t be easy to whack someone on the head with the cuspidor and push him down the steps, but if she could… she would. The waiting became interminable.

  Finally, a body appeared—half turned away. She saw at once it couldn’t be the Colonel or Mr. Thayer, so she raised her cuspidor and brought it down hard against the side of the man’s head. This time, he crumpled without hesitation, although a groan did escape. Margaret’s brilliant plan to kick him down the steps failed. Utterly and completely.

  Fortunately, the next man didn’t look as he backed out of the house, two guns trained on whoever might follow, and fell backward over the first man. Margaret dropped the cuspidor and scrambled for the guns. Shouldn’t one of them have gone off?

  A shout of alarm preceded the arrival of the third man, but Margaret confronted him with both guns pointed right at his chest. In her best attempt at a servant’s diction and syntax, she ordered him to drop his pistols. When he hesitated, she raised her arm a bit more, hoping that was what one did to aim such large weapons.

  “You may drop those now, Miss Dashwood.”

  Her gaze slid to the voice behind the man. “We have overcome the others,” Mr. Thayer assured her. “Please set the pistols down and stand back until we’ve—” He broke off. “Where are the horses?”

  Margaret couldn’t help but raise herself up from setting down the guns with her jaw thrust out and her eyes flashing. “I sent them on their way. It wouldn’t do for these ruffians to have a means of escape.”

  The man on the ground groaned and gripped his head. Margaret kicked him just to keep him there. “Don’t move, you horrible… blackguard.”

  From behind Mr. Thayer, the Colonel pushed a man forward. “Margaret, if you would be so kind as to return upstairs and ensure the ladies are undisturbed…”

  She would have complied, but one question demanded an answer. “The gunshot?”

  “Missed me,” Mr. Thayer admitted. “It struck a book, however.”

  “Who fired it?” By the way the man the Colonel pushed forward glared, she suspected him. “You contemptible swine,” Margaret hissed. “You horrible, contemptible swine. I hope you hang for it.”

  “He’ll hang,” the Colonel assured her. “But for treason.”

  ***

  The soldiers hung back, waiting for a glimpse of the “servant girl” who had foiled the plans of the Dutch spies, Conrad presumed. Margaret, however, had stormed upstairs in a rage that he chose to attribute to the destruction of a book, and hadn’t been seen since. Their rider embellished the story so much that one might presume that Miss Margaret Dashwood had captured the group of men with one scathing look. Thankfully, the rider did not know her name.

  Eventually, however, the soldiers marched the men down the drive and away from Delaford. The Colonel and Conrad returned to the library and found the housemaids already righting chairs and dusting off the bookshelf where Pilgrim’s Progress had taken a direct hit to the spine. Books on either side showed damage as well, but not the kind of destructiveness that Christian’s journey to the Celestial City sustained.

  “Margaret may never recover,” Brandon muttered. “Had it been something less ‘frivolous,’ in her opinion, perhaps…”

  A long shadow appeared across the floor. Conrad looked up to find Mrs. Berridge standing there. “Marianne is unsettled, Colonel. May I assure her that all is…?”

  “Well. Yes. But…” Brandon gazed about him. “I see that everything is in order. I’ll come to her in a moment and tell her myself. Perhaps you might check on Margaret? I’d like to know she will forgive us the unavoidable destruction of a book.”

  With a glance at Conrad that he couldn’t read, the woman assured them that she would do as requested and left. Brandon retrieved the packet they’d hidden and passed it to him. “You might return it to your safe place again. I’ll send word that the courier may come now.”

  “Of course.”

  Though the Colonel seemed eager to leave, he paused and gazed at Conrad. “You should take her from here, Thayer. She’s always dreamed of the Indies—even as a little girl. Did you not say you would be sent there again?”

  “Take her?”

  Brandon only looked at him.

  After an uncomfortable squirm, he protested. “It isn’t an appropriate place for a lady. If she is susceptible to the intense heat or seasickness, it would—” Conrad cut himself off. What kind of nonsense was he spouting, anyway? Anyone would think he meant to court Miss Dashwood—to marry her.

  “Before I overlooked a fine mind and excellent conversationalist, I would also consider how many ladies would understand a man’s desire for time alone with a book.” Brandon stared for a moment, and when Conrad swallowed hard and gave a slight nod, he bolted from the room, presumably to find his wife and assure himself of her safety and comfort.

  Just because a young lady managed to keep her head about her and aided in the capture of traitors to the Crown… Terror mingled with admiration as he recalled the man bound in the shrubbery. It was well considered, but if he’d evaded her, he might have taken her for the servant she pretended to be and killed her!

  A perusal of the empty room only intensified emotions he resisted. Alone. Pensive. Conrad paced the floor, growing more agitated with each step. Had Miss Dashwood lost her senses, or had he credited her with having more than she truly possessed? I don’t know whether to shake her or kiss her! That thought brought him to a standstill—right in front of Miss Dashwood herself. “I—”

  “Perhaps both are in order—so you may discover which is best suited to the situation?”

  Did I speak aloud? The familiar jut of her jaw and the twist of her lips assured him that he had. The apology he constructed disappeared somewhere between his thoughts and his lips, and instead, he smiled. “Do not tempt me, Miss Dashwood. You may find it a battle you cannot win.”

  “Are you suggesting that I surrender, Mr. Thayer?”

  He stepped a little closer. “Would you? I wonder.”

  “There is, I suppose, only one way to discover that answer.” She cocked her head and gazed at him. “When did you cease to be a thorn in my side?”

  “I don’t know…” Conrad inched a bit closer—as close as he could without tossing all propriety out the door. “When did you become essential to my happiness?” He brushed her hand with the back of his and hooked his smallest finger around hers. “Ho
w did I ever consider you a nuisance?”

  That earned him the smile he’d grown to love most. “Because, Mr. Thayer, I am indeed quite the nuisance.”

  He swallowed a rising lump in his throat and forced himself to ask the question that now burned in his heart. “Would you consider,” he squeaked out, “becoming my nuisance? Would you do me the honor of becoming my wife?”

  Instead of blushes and lowered lashes, Miss Dashwood—Margaret—gazed at him with open frankness before asking, “Have you a library, Mr. Thayer?”

  “I own but five books of my own—all of which smell much like the sea. I do not own a house as yet. However, once I settle somewhere, building a small library will be my second most important task.”

  That smile returned. “And what would be the most important one?”

  He leaned close enough that with the slightest inducement, he could kiss her cheek. “Discovering which room my wife had chosen for its use.”

  “I see.” The longer she stared at him, the more unnerved he became. At last, she set her jaw and said, “Yes.”

  “Yes?”

  Margaret nodded. “Yes.”

  ***

  “—heard one of the servants saying it was an under maid who did the real work of capturing the…” Mrs. Berridge dropped her voice to a whisper. “—spies.”

  Margaret entered the sitting room, and at the sight of her betrothed rising from his seat, nearly forgot to ask the question on her mind. You’ve gone silly, Margaret Dashwood. Utterly, ridiculously, silly. He’s just a man, after all. A fine one, but just a man.

  “Ah, Margaret. How are you feeling this evening?”

  She shot a reproachful look at the Colonel. “My headache has gone, and I’m famished, thank you. But never mind me, you were going to tell us about the spies, I think? What were they after at a place like Delaford? You are no longer in the militia.”