by Sahara Kelly
Heart in Hiding
The Six Pearls of Baron Ridlington - Book Six
Content © 2018 Sahara Kelly
Cover © 2018 Sahara Kelly for
P&N Graphics
Acknowledgement
To all the amazing and wonderful readers who have enjoyed, supported and shared their thoughts about this series – my most profound thanks. To my British readers, a special hug, since to be recognised in one’s home country is way above and beyond awesome, and has brought me to tears more than once.
To the friends who believed in me and not only added words of encouragement, but appropriately timed kicks up the bustle when I needed ‘em, my eternal gratitude. Without you, and your unfailing support, these books would have been less than they are. Much love coming your way, Syn and Scott. Every writer should have friends like you.
Author’s Note
The Battle of Waterloo has a definite role to play in this book. The events I mention that occurred during the fight are real, and the significant error occurred cost more than a few brave soldiers their lives. Lines of communication can be murky at the best of times, but in June of 1815, when so many thousands of soldiers engaged in a massive fight to defeat Napoleon, it was not a surprise. There were multiple commanders and confusion—it defies description. The casualties of that battle were so devastating that they prompted the Duke of Wellington to write the following after his victory:
Nothing except a battle lost can be half so melancholy as a battle won.
A note about typhus…this is one of those diseases that disappears and reoccurs throughout history. The devastating weather, and famine it caused, pretty much assured its return in 1816 and 1817. The Irish were hit terribly hard, since their prolific potato crops failed thanks to brutally cold summer temperatures and endless days of rain. Famine ran rife and it was the darkest of times for this small but amazing island. In other parts of the world, similar occurrences were recorded…Russia and India lost thousands to outbreaks of cholera.
That perfect storm of volcanic eruptions and astronomical influences changed the face of our planet at that time, both socially and politically. Quite astounding, if you think about it.
THE ROYAL DECREE…
“And in October, the year of Our Lord 1661, our Sovereign Monarch Charles II did award to the Barons of the Realm the Distinction of a Coronet. Such Attribute may now be included upon Crests, and Coats of Arms, according to the wishes of the Most Noble and Right Honourable Family. The Coronet shall be distinguished by Six Short Points, each featuring a round Ball at their tips, henceforth to be known as Pearls…”
…AND THE RIDLINGTONS
A Baron’s coronet is distinguished by its six points, which are known in heraldic terms as “pearls”. So it was fortuitously convenient that Jack Holbury, Baron of Ridlington, produced six offspring during his lifetime. It took three wives for him to get there, but at the birth of the sixth child, the Ton immediately dubbed his family “The Six Pearls of Baron Ridlington” and then promptly forgot about them.
His first wife, Margaret, gave birth to Edmund, Simon and Letitia. They were followed by second wife Mary’s children, the twins Richard and Kitty, and the final addition—Hecate—was born to third wife Moira. The Baron outlived his wives by nearly two decades, ruling the Ridlington household with the iron hand of a stern father, while managing to almost completely ignore the unusual brood he had sired.
And now, the last of his children is about to embark on her own adventure. Thus proving that yes, they did indeed live up to their sobriquet.
Prologue
March 1816, the Devon coastline
“I don’t know, Hecate, it looks a bit neglected,” said Mrs. Cressida Ridlington, as she followed her sister-in-law into the building.
“Yes, it does, doesn’t it?” grinned Hecate Ridlington. “Think of all the wonderful things I can do to it.”
Cressida exchanged a look with her husband, Richard.
Who shrugged. “She’s not been through any kind of repair experiences,” he said. “Give her a month or two of hammering and sawing, and she’ll understand your concerns.”
Hecate smiled, walking from room to room. “You must admit that for a small country house it is remarkably well set up. Plenty of bedrooms upstairs and a large attic chamber. The quarters for the servants are in excellent condition. And not only is there a very fair sized hall, but a dining room that could probably seat at least a dozen at a pinch, a large parlour, a small parlour and a room that might have been a study.” She led them into the latter. “There are even books left.
Cressida wrinkled her nose. “Oh, that smell is so familiar.”
“Mice?” Richard quirked an eyebrow. “We had plenty of those.”
“Mrreeeooow.” An indignant sound arose from the ink black creature who had followed them into the room.
Hecate nodded. “I agree, Bub darling. No mouse would dare to show his whiskers in your residence.” She leaned over and petted the large head. The cat gave her a contented murmur, as if to acknowledge her comment.
“You’re determined, then?” Richard gazed at his sister with affection. “I know, of old, that once you set your mind to something…there’s little use arguing.”
“Dear brother,” she grinned back. “Yes, you know me well. There is something about this house, some attraction I feel inside. It’s as if it awaited my arrival to come back to life. As soon as I saw it, I felt…well, I should say it felt like home.”
Cressida gave her an impulsive hug. “Then we are with you, my dear sister. If there’s anything we can do to help, you need only send a message.”
“And wait for a day or so, I should think,” added Richard with his newfound practicality. “The roads between here and Branscombe Magna are rough, to say the least. And these incessant rains and bad weather aren’t helping matters.”
Hecate nodded. “I do understand that. Neither of us will be able to walk over to the other’s house for tea. And although that sounds lovely, I know we all value our privacy. I’m near enough to be able to reach you somehow if there is trouble, Richard.”
“Yes, but will you?” He regarded her soberly. “Promise me, Hecate. If you run into anything of a dangerous or risky nature…you will ask for help? Just because you’ve attained your majority, doesn’t make you an instant expert in all things.”
“I shall make sure she remembers your words, Mr. Richard.”
A deep voice sounded behind them and they turned to see Dal, Hecate’s friend, companion and guardian standing by the door. He wore a dark robe, and the turban twined around his head was fastened with a simple amber pin. His features were carved planes in the amber hues of his face, and he’d been at Hecate’s side since her accident over a year ago.
Richard nodded. “Very good. If Dal says it will be so, I am content.”
Hecate rolled her eyes. “Honestly, Richard. What on earth can happen out here in this lovely quiet spot? I’m barely a mile from Little Beechwood, so I will be able to buy supplies and receive messages there. The Bell Inn is on the Royal Mail route, so I might even get the London papers, if I wish.”
“Er…probably a couple of weeks late,” offered Cressida.
Hecate turned her unusual teal blue gaze toward the other woman. “Does it really matter?”
“No, I suppose not,” sighed Cressida. “I have never been an ardent follower of London news, but it seems as if we’re disconnected to the important things if we don’t read about what’s happening now and again.”
“Don’t worry,” soothed Hecate, walking to the grubby window of the soon-to
-be-her-study. “I’m sure village gossip will supply more than enough news for my tender ears.”
Richard joined her. “This is an amazing view, love,” he said, hugging her. “Edmund would wholeheartedly approve.”
Knowing her eldest brother’s affinity for the ocean, she nodded, and they both watched the stately passage of a large three-masted schooner as she scudded over the distant waves, sails billowing and wake gleaming white against the grey waves.
Then Richard shivered. “God, it’s cold. Not just here, but everywhere. The rain never lets up more than an hour or two. I hope spring is better, because I don’t envy you trying to organize any outside repairs in this weather.”
“I’m not worried, because I know I’ll be happy here,” said Hecate, her voice level. “I realise it will not all be smooth sailing. There will be challenges. Changes. I will have to adapt and adjust. But I will be happy, when all is said and done. This much I do know.”
Richard and Cressida glanced at each other. They recognised that tone of voice—it was the one they heard when Hecate was speaking of things that had yet to pass. She had gifts, some might say talents, which included seeing through the veils of time and stealing glimpses of the future.
A hundred years ago she might have been accused of witchcraft. Others had, with much less cause. But in Hecate’s case, the charges would have deserved merit. She was indeed possessed of skills and abilities that marked her as unique.
Fortunately, her family accepted these talents, listened to her, and regarded her as theirs. She was a Ridlington, and thus a member of the family, to be loved and cherished. Woe betide those who wished her harm.
She had proved herself invaluable more than a few times, and only last year had persuaded Edmund to make some risky investments. It had been a month or so before the battle at Waterloo, and he’d looked at her, somewhat nervously, before nodding. She had added some of her own savings as well.
The gamble had paid off handsomely. Edmund now had a substantial fund to use for the upkeep of Ridlington Chase, and Hecate had an account of her own that provided a comfortable income. Some would go toward fixing up the house, but in the main, she was now a woman of independent means.
Even that knowledge couldn’t stop Richard from worrying. But he restrained himself to a sigh. “We must be on our way, Hecate. I’d like to get back to Branscombe as early as we can, without risking the horses, and it’ll be getting cold once the sun disappears.”
“Of course,” she smiled. “Thank you, my dears. I am so happy this place found me while you were here.”
Cressida took a minute to work out that complex statement and then decided to keep things simple. “Us too.” She absently placed her hand against her body where a tiny flutter had made itself known.
“They’re fine,” said Hecate, walking over to give her sister-in-law a hug.
“Why you keep saying they, I’m not sure,” frowned Richard, a worried look on his face. “One baby, Hecate. One at a time.”
“Yes, Richard. Of course, Richard.” She laughed. “Cressy will know soon enough.”
The party separated with expressions of affection; the Ridlingtons rejoining the carriage and heading home toward Branscombe Magna.
Dal and Hecate remained in the doorway, watching the vehicle roll away. “So this is where we shall now reside then, Miss Hecate?” Dal looked around.
“Yes, Dal. Yes, this will be home for us.”
“It’s not as well appointed as the cottage outside Chillendale.” He sounded cautious.
“No, it isn’t. But that was a special moment. And you remember how much work it took to sustain the image of a lady’s residence.”
He nodded. “I understand. Although I shall miss it. Of all the locations in which we have stayed, that one was the nicest, I believe.”
“Then we shall use that as our model for this one. But now it will be real.”
They exchanged glances, and Dal nodded. He understood what she meant, for he had seen the full range of her abilities.
Hecate could twist reality into a different shape and style although it took an enormous amount of her energy.
He silently offered a prayer of thanks that she wouldn’t have to be doing that anymore.
She turned into the house. “We need a name, Dal. A name for our new home.”
He blinked. “Um…Why?”
She smiled. “It’s expected of a lady to have a name for her estate, no matter how tiny. What about…” She put her finger to her chin and thought, her eyes roaming around the dark and musty interior. “Doireann Vale?”
“A strange word. Doran…” he commented, trying to get his tongue around it and pronounce it correctly. “’Tis not English?”
“It’s from a book I read once,” replied Hecate. “All about fairies and their legends. Doireann was the daughter of an Irish fairy King. I used to pretend that I was her, and that he’d given me to the Ridlingtons to keep me safe from his enemies.” She shrugged. “The innocence of childhood, Dal. Nothing more. And Vale for the position we hold, tucked between two hills, overlooking the coastline.”
Dal took a deep breath as a sudden strong gust blew around them, the salty tang of the sea snapping against their skin. “I believe the gods have listened, Miss Hecate. They have sent their approval on the wind.” He looked down at her. “Doireann Vale it is.”
He went inside, but she remained on the doorstep, looking out over the distant headlands to the sea. The waves showed white today, a mark of the turbulence disturbing the waters. As she watched, her vision blurred a little and she saw ships, several ships, making for land.
It wasn’t here, not this coastline, but another; green hills showing through drifts of fog, and spray from the crashing waves.
She heard voices, men’s voices, sailors calling to each other as they clambered up slender ropes to adjust the sails.
Somewhere, on one of these ships, was someone important.
The knowledge seeped into her bones, settling there, letting her know that he would find her, or she would find him, when the time was right.
She tried to go deeper into her vision, but it changed suddenly to one of tragedy, of pain. There were cries and wails of agony as the green fields turned brown, the earth to hard cold stone, and the people lay down on that stone—and died.
What was she seeing? She didn’t know, but ignorance didn’t stop the tears from rolling down her cheeks as she watched the devastation. She felt herself retreating, withdrawing, and yet as she did so, the image expanded to reveal a countryside that had frozen, bodies scattered like leaves in November, covered with a dusting of snow. It was unreal, horrifying and it caught Hecate by the throat.
She cried out, grasping the door jamb for support as the vision faded.
“Miss Hecate…” Dal was there in an instant.
“Oh God.” She sagged as Dal caught her, picked her up and took her inside to one of the few chairs.
“Sit. I will fetch tea.”
She nodded, fighting to get her breath back, and to banish the worst of the images still searing her mind. Her eyes closed as she fought to push away the scenes, the horror of her visions.
“You saw, didn’t you?” Dal knelt next to her, a steaming cup in his hand. “Here, drink this. You know it helps.”
She took the cup gratefully and sipped the hot, strong brew. Her scattered thoughts reassembled themselves.
“Yes, I saw,” she whispered, after another sip. “I saw so many things. Ships, sailors, storms at sea…then…”
“Then what, Miss Hecate?” Dal touched her arm gently. “Tell me.”
Her hand shook a little, but she drank more tea, knowing the warmth helped. “I saw devastation, Dal. Terrible devastation. Disease, a land turned barren, starvation…” She took a sobbing breath. “This year will be a bad one.”
“What can we do?” Dal’s voice was soft, comforting.
“Prepare. We must prepare. We have to make this house safe, strong and warm. We need t
o lay in as much in the way of foodstuffs as we can, and see to storing more.” She shivered. “We have to be ready, Dal. And we must be ready for him when he comes.”
“Who is coming, Miss Hecate?”
“The man who will change my life. Forever.”
Chapter One
August 1816
An additional log on the fire brought a burst of light and warmth to the small parlour of Doireann Vale.
Hecate needed it as she intended to sit for a while and read; the miserably cold and damp weather seemed to seep into every tiny crack of the house, so a good fire and a blanket had been welcomed for most of this non-existent summer.
“It rains again, Miss Hecate,” sighed Dal, brushing his hands and leaving the hearth as it settled into a comfortable blaze. “Will it ever end, do you suppose?” He walked to the window and stared out at the grey, looming clouds and the raindrops that spattered against the glass.
Hecate shook her head. “I cannot say; I wish I could. Indeed, this year has been quite dismal and I fear for the crops. Our local farmers cannot hope to bring in any kind of decent harvest after so many months of cold and rain.”
He nodded. “You were wise to have us set up such a well-thought out storage cupboard.”
“Mrs. Trimmer thinks so.” Hecate smiled as she mentioned her housekeeper and cook. “Has she spoken to you today?”
“She said good morning.” Dal looked hopeful. “We progress.”
“Excellent. I know she’ll come around. We both know that you are not a run-of-the-mill Devon gentleman, so a period of adjustment is only to be expected.”
He nodded. “I think she is very happy in the servants’ quarters since we added all the things she asked for. And most especially since we have given her the reins of the household.”
“Well, let’s say she thinks we have,” grinned Hecate. “And I agree that converting the old hen house into a new kitchen addition, and giving her the little sitting room it also provided, was a brilliant notion. A little more than I wanted to spend, but in the long run, I believe it will pay for itself. Plus Mrs. Trimmer’s cooking skills cannot be denied, and our hens are doing well in their weathertight new quarters.” She patted her stomach. “I have to remind myself that being kept indoors by the weather means I cannot walk off her pies.”
