by Jo Goodman
“Miss Gaylord? She is from a good family.”
Ferrin shook his head.
“Miss Scott? You were seen taking rides in the park with Miss Scott.”
“No.”
“What of Lady Hathaway?”
“Emma or Evangeline?”
“Either. Both. They are the daughters of a marquess, for heaven’s sake. What can be objectionable about marrying the daughters of a marquess?”
“Even you must understand that I cannot marry both, and no man should be asked to choose between them.”
“That is a good point.” It did not take him long to find another candidate. “There is Lady Jane Appley.”
“Too green for my tastes.”
“Miss Knightly.”
“An ape-leader.”
“Lady Amelia Bents.”
“Too silly.”
Wellsley heaved a sigh. “Yet you have flattered and cajoled and been attentive to all of them.”
“Hence my reputation as a rake.” When Wellsley remained quiet for a time, Ferrin thought his friend had put the thing to rest and was heartily relieved by it. He failed to recognize that drink had merely slowed Wellsley’s thoughts, not put a period to them. He blinked, startled, when Wellsley snapped his fingers.
“I know,” Wellsley said, lifting his glass again. “I should have thought of it from the first. You must find Boudicca.”
Chapter Five
Cybelline nodded politely to Mrs. Meeder as they passed outside Foster’s notions shop. Mrs. Meeder had been one of the first villagers to make a point to visit and welcome Cybelline to Penwyckham. Cybelline recognized quickly that the older woman was not disposed toward friendliness, rather she was insatiably curious about her new neighbor. It occurred to Cybelline that what answers she provided would be repeated with considerable relish, if not embellishment, to everyone Mrs. Meeder henceforth called upon. At one point Cybelline wondered if Mrs. Meeder were perhaps not an emissary sent by the villagers to determine what sort of treatment they might expect from her.
From Mrs. Meeder, Cybelline learned that neither of her assumptions about the Henleys was accurate. The villagers knew she was Lady Rivendale’s niece because the Henleys had received the countess’s correspondence and discussed the imminent arrival. The couple also had not ignored Lady Rivendale’s instructions to make the house ready. Mr. Henley had fallen while making repairs to the countess’s roof almost six months earlier. Mrs. Henley had all she could do to care for her husband and her own home. With two badly broken legs, cracked ribs, a dislocated shoulder, and a head injury that thankfully kept Mr. Henley insensible to his own pain, Mrs. Henley was left to fend for both of them. There was help from their neighbors, but no one had time enough to spare for a home that had been unoccupied for more than four years.
Mr. Henley had been too proud to inform Lady Rivendale of his ignominious fall from her roof, and he promised his wife he would divorce her—no matter that the church did not sanction it—if she took it upon herself to write. The money the countess sent quarterly arrived but was not spent, even as the Henleys’ own needs became greater with each passing month.
When Cybelline heard all of this from her visitor, she put herself on the Henleys’ doorstep that very day. Mrs. Henley produced the money at once, certain that was the purpose of Cybelline’s visit, and did not extend an invitation to come inside. It required all of Cybelline’s persuasive powers to convince Mrs. Henley that she meant to take her and her husband back to the Sharpe house and see that they both were made comfortable there. They were still employed by the countess, she told Mrs. Henley, and, therefore, their welfare was now her responsibility, and she had no intention of shirking it.
Recalling that afternoon, Cybelline smiled to herself as she entered the notions shop. Mrs. Henley had been difficult to convince, but her husband would hear none of it. Seeing the futility of argument, Cybelline had simply ordered Mr. Kins and one of the grooms to put Mr. Henley on a litter and transport him to the waiting carriage. She was surprised by her own high-handedness, but Mr. Henley had no words for it. He did not speak during the entire journey. Mrs. Henley confided later that she could not recollect that such a thing had ever happened before, not in twenty-five years of marriage. She was also not unhappy about it.
“Good day, Mr. Foster,” Cybelline said. The shop’s owner was standing on a stepladder rearranging bolts of fabric. She saw him grab the shelf to steady himself. “Forgive me. I did not mean to startle you.”
He turned and smiled broadly when he saw who it was. “Ah, Mrs. Caldwell. It is always good to see you. You received my message, then, that your threads have arrived.”
“Yes. My maid told me. She enjoys coming here, Mr. Foster, as you have an excellent selection of fabrics and patterns. Miss Webb is not easily impressed.” She saw him blush at this bit of intelligence. Cybelline was amused that they had not been in residence much beyond a fortnight and Webb had made a conquest. “I am going to embroider pillows for my daughter’s room.”
Mr. Foster stepped off the ladder and ducked behind the counter. When he reappeared, he was holding a parcel wrapped with string. “Would you like to examine them before you go? I would be most distressed if you left and then discovered they were not precisely what you wanted.”
Cybelline nodded and indicated that he should loosen the string. She unwrapped the parcel herself. The floss was of a superior quality and in the exact shades she had described to him. “All of it is perfect,” she said. “You realize, Mr. Foster, that were you located on Bond Street there would be a steady stream of fashionable young ladies in your establishment.”
“You are very kind to say so,” he said modestly.
“I am speaking the truth, though if I hear that you are planning to leave Penwyckham I will not forgive myself.”
Mr. Foster chuckled. He folded the fabric wrapping around the threads and retied the string, then slid the parcel toward her. “I have marked the price on it,” he said.
“I see. I believe I have that much with me.” She opened her reticule and found the proper coins. “It has been a pleasure, Mr. Foster.”
“The pleasure is mine.” He glanced past her shoulder to the window of his shop. The sky was markedly more gray than it had been when last he looked. “Did you walk all the way from the Sharpe house, Mrs. Caldwell?”
“I did. The distance is not so great. It cannot be more than six miles.” She looked over her shoulder in the direction of the shopkeeper’s gaze. “Do you anticipate it will snow? Is that what concerns you?”
“The answer to both your questions is yes. Will you allow me to find someone who can take you home? Mr. Harding has a wagon. Mr. and Mrs. Winslow own a carriage, though Mrs. Meeder reports the axle is broken and has not yet been repaired. Apparently it is a source of heated discussion at the Winslow cottage.”
Cybelline quickly dispelled the idea of requiring help. “I would not want to be the cause of raising that subject with the Winslows, and while I am certain Mr. Harding’s wagon would be just the thing, I could not ask it of him.”
“I will ask him. I doubt it will be any hardship.”
“No, please, do not trouble yourself or him. I will walk. The air is bracing but not too cold for my tastes. I am certain to be home before the ground is blanketed.”
“Then allow me to escort you.”
“It is a very kind offer, but I assure you that it is unnecessary.” She collected her parcel, slipping it under her arm. “I am all for a brisk walk, and the challenge of arriving home before the storm is all I need to motivate me. Thank you, Mr. Foster, and good day.”
Mr. Foster came around the counter quickly and walked Cybelline to the door. “Promise me that if you cannot win your race with the snow you will seek shelter. The Pembroke cottage is on your way. Do you know the place I mean?”
“Yes. Someone pointed it out to me on one of my earliest trips into the village. I had no idea that anyone lived there.”
“Mr. and Mr
s. Lowell have the run of the property now that Mathias Pembroke’s passed on. He left the place to them, and they take boarders from time to time since there’s no inn close by. It sits nicely back from the road, but not so far as you can miss it from a passing coach. On foot, though, you’ll have to look carefully. I’ve heard the cottage was once a hunting lodge connected to the Sharpe estate. That would have been long ago, before my time, if you can credit it.”
Inclining her head politely, Cybelline made small protesting sounds in response to Mr. Foster’s self-deprecating remark about his age. She tried not to glance out the window again, but she was anxious to be off. If Mr. Foster kept her much longer, she would be forced to accept his escort, and while he was not the least objectionable, she simply did not want the company. It was to temporarily escape all the activity and interruptions at the Sharpe house that she had decided to walk to Penwyckham. No one was pleased that she ventured out alone, but there was no one in a position to stop her.
“Mrs. Meeder is of the opinion that it is Lady Bellingham’s grandson who has taken possession of the cottage, leastwise that’s what she’s been able to learn from Mrs. Lowell. Such connections are of interest to her. It makes him a personage of some importance in these parts.” Mr. Foster’s ears reddened. “Like yourself, Mrs. Caldwell.”
“I believe you mean that as a kindness, Mr. Foster, but”—here Cybelline pointed to the increasingly overcast sky—“I will have to be apprised of the details regarding the grandson at some later time. I must be off. You said so yourself.”
“Oh, yes. Yes, of course. I have chattered on shamelessly. You will think me as great a gossip as Mrs. Meeder.”
“Gossip? I would not call her such. When a village has no newspaper, one depends upon a town crier.”
“The town crier. Yes, that is certainly the way of it.” He chuckled appreciatively and opened the door for her. Cold air eddied into the shop. He shivered. “Have a care how you go now, Mrs. Caldwell. I will be inquiring after you when I next see someone from the Sharpe house.”
“I am appreciative of your concern, Mr. Foster. It will go a long way to keeping me warm.” She stepped outside. Once she was off the protective shelter of the stoop, the wind pressed sharply against her pelisse. She reconsidered Mr. Foster’s offer to secure her a conveyance. Mr. Harding’s wagon might be just the thing to get her home safely. It was Mr. Harding of whom she was less certain. He had been one of the first villagers interviewed, in this case for a position as a groundskeeper, but Mr. Kins reported smelling liquor on his breath and was of the opinion that Harding was a rough sort, too ill-tempered to accept direction from his superiors. Cybelline allowed that Mr. Kins knew best, and she had never met Mr. Harding. She did not think she wanted to now, not in circumstances where she would be alone with him.
Waving gamely at Mr. Foster through the shop window, Cybelline ducked her head against a fresh blast of wind and began walking. She stopped once on the edge of the village to secure the uppermost frog on her pelisse and turn up the fur collar. Icy fingers of wind slipped under her bonnet and tried to carry it away. The ribbons held, but they tightened uncomfortably on the underside of her chin. She wondered if it were possible to be hanged by one’s own hat and what Mrs. Meeder might have to report to the villagers should that come to pass.
The road to the Sharpe house followed a meandering brook. It began to snow before Cybelline reached the first wide curve. When she turned to glance back at the village, the view was blurred by falling snow. The ground was already hard and cold enough at this time of year to keep the snow from melting. The road was quickly covered, though it remained visible to her because of the grass that bordered either side. When the snow became deep enough to hide the grass there was still the shrubbery, and farther back, the woods with the winding brook in their midst. She could hear the rush of water in the brook and thought that as long as she kept that sound within her hearing she would be able to find her way home. The brook ran along one side of the property, and the Sharpe house, rising as it did above everything save a few of the tallest trees, was easily visible from that distance.
It remained only for Cybelline to put one foot in front of the other, a manner of living she had perfected since her husband’s death. It would serve her now in the most literal sense.
Cybelline stopped once more to open her pelisse and tuck the parcel inside. Her hands, though gloved, were clumsy with cold, and it took her far longer than was her wont to secure the fasteners again. She was shaking by the time she resumed walking.
There was nothing for it but to go on. The pace she set for herself helped to keep her warm, for thoughts of Mr. Foster’s concern had long since vanished. Her boots were practical enough for the trek in dry conditions, but melting snow was seeping through the leather. Her stockings went from uncomfortably damp to sopping wet. She was not at all certain she could feel her toes any longer, though she worked at wiggling them from time to time.
Cybelline could not say precisely how far she had walked when she realized that she had lost all sense of where the road lay. The snow was slightly more than ankle deep and only tufts of the tallest grass were still visible to her, and then only when she was directly upon them. The curtain of snow was so opaque that the trees up ahead were no longer visible. Those off to her right she could still see, and she set herself on a path toward them. There was some shelter from the snow here also. Where there were pines, their boughs formed a protective canopy above her. The going was decidedly slower, though, with Cybelline having to pick her way through thickets of holly and over rocky inclines. The edges of the brook were heavily frosted with snow, but the water ran clear and loud, and she was in no danger of losing her way a second time.
Cybelline had never seriously considered seeking refuge at the Pembroke cottage, but she had also not anticipated the slip that put her in the drink. She counted it as something of a tribute to her hoyden youth that she was able to avoid falling squarely in the midst of the rushing water. Her brother would have been proud of her athleticism in avoiding a certain dunking.
This did not mean, however, that there were no consequences to her initial misstep. Her pelisse, gown, and underskirts were wet halfway to her knees, and her feet felt like iced stumps. She was immediately cognizant of the danger but with no options except to keep forging ahead.
If she had been looking for the Pembroke cottage, she would have missed it. What guided Cybelline to that place was the sweet smell of wood smoke rising from the chimney. The scent of it was carried on the back of the wind and made her pick up her head and take stock of it the same way a hound was alert to the first whiff of a fox.
She came upon the old hunting lodge soon after catching the fragrance of the smoke and stumbled around it, hammering ineffectually on the sides of the structure until she found the door. She pounded with both fists, calling out at the same time. It was only when the door swung open that she allowed herself the luxury of collapse.
The man answering the cries for help was knocked sideways by the body that hurtled into the room on its way to the floor. He managed to recover his balance enough to catch it but was unable to sustain the high ground for long. He and his bedraggled bundle lurched badly to the floor.
“Mr. Lowell! Here! I have need of you.” He was not yet finished calling for help when it arrived.
Mr. Lowell, with his wife following closely in his wake, hovered over the tangle of bodies. The unexpected visitor had bested their distinguished lodger in the very first round.
“I do believe it’s Mrs. Caldwell,” Emily Lowell whispered. “I am certain that pelisse is from a London modiste. No one in Penwyckham has anything so fine.”
Lowell grunted, a sound that could have a number of different meanings depending on pitch and vigor but on this occasion signified agreement. Bending, he slipped his arms under Mrs. Caldwell’s and peeled her away. She was as limp as a hen whose neck had been wrung but many times heavier. He was a bull of a man, used to physical labor, but i
t was still a struggle to lift her.
“Put her in front of the fire, Mr. Lowell,” his wife ordered. She quickly stepped back to clear the way. “I’ll fetch blankets and start the kettle.” She paused long enough to dart a sideways look at her boarder. He had risen to his feet but remained hunched over, straightening only as he dusted himself off. “Do you need assistance, Mr. Wellsley?”
He shook his head, for clearly the question had been an afterthought and rightly so. There was no fault assigned to Mrs. Lowell for considering his needs second to those of their guest. “Carry on, Mrs. Lowell.”
She regarded him oddly. “She knocked the wind out of you, didn’t she? Bowled you over and took your breath. And here I thought you cared far too much for the cut of your clothes. Do you see, Mr. Lowell? Mr. Wellsley has taken a hard spill.”
Mr. Lowell grunted heavily and his wife scurried off to fetch the blankets as promised. He set his sodden bundle in the ladder-back chair where she promptly pitched forward. She might have broken her nose on the stone apron at the hearth, but Mr. Lowell caught her fur collar in his meaty fist and was able to lower her gently to the floor.
“Perhaps if we make a pallet for her here.”
Mr. Lowell was startled to find Mr. Wellsley standing over him. The man had a silent tread that unnerved the hosteler. There was nothing natural about one body sneaking up on another the way he did. It would make even the most God-fearing creature wonder if he was suspected of some misdeed.
Rather than grunting, Mr. Lowell cleared his throat and nodded his approval of the suggestion. His wife saved him from actual conversation by appearing with an armload of blankets. She looked questioningly at their boarder.
“I suggested a pallet here, since she cannot sit up in a chair.”
“Very good, Mr. Wellsley, but she must be moved back from the fire. Her clothes and the blankets will scorch.” She dropped the blankets on the chair and chose two to spread out on the floor where she wanted the men to put Mrs. Caldwell. When that was accomplished, she folded a third so that it could be placed under her head. “You men will absent yourselves while I make Mrs. Caldwell comfortable.” She gave her husband a significant look lest he mistake her meaning. She was depending on him to remove their lodger from the room, as he did not look inclined to go. Mrs. Lowell did not know what passed for modesty in London these days, but in Penwyckham, a woman, even an unconscious one with feet like blocks of ice, did not reveal her naked limbs like the veriest tart. “Go on now. Shoo.”
