He nodded to Wilmont, even now gesticulating wildly as he talked about his find.
“… it was lying like this when I arrived this morning, as if cut from the cliff by God Himself.”
Gideon felt a moment’s shame. It appeared he had misjudged the man and his willingness to enact extreme measures of excavation and extraction.
“Ah, Mr. Kirby! Tell me, what do you think of my find?” he asked, almost gleefully.
He looked at the large vertebrae, about an inch thick, and again felt that twist of envy. “It appears most intriguing. Do you have thoughts on what it might be?”
“One can only hope for an ichthyosaur, like Miss Anning discovered.”
“And the rest of the skeleton?”
“Will be hard to find,” he said, with an air of regret. “Seeing as it broke away from the cliffs, I cannot be sure precisely where it came from.”
Gideon managed a tight smile, the rush of gladness at hearing such a thing chased by a qualm of conscience. “Does Miss Anning know yet?”
“No, though I’m sure she soon will.”
This last was said with no small measure of pride, but Gideon could not fault him. How hard would it be in this moment of triumph to not appear like one was gloating over one’s good fortune? Even if it seemed the good fortune had almost literally fallen into one’s lap. Was it truly a victory if one stumbled over such a discovery, rather than achieving it as a reward for one’s labor? He quashed his inner acerbity, offered his congratulations, and turned away.
How long would it be until he, too, could claim a find? He trudged the sandy path along the rock-strewn beach. Perhaps this was a fool’s game. Perhaps he had been misled. Perhaps he should have joined all those others in searching these more popular cliffs, and not have pinned all his hopes on Sidmouth holding similar treasure. The sharp stabs of envy rose again. He was running out of time. When would be his turn?
CHAPTER SİXTEEN
THE FRESH BREEZE tugged at her curls as Caroline eyed the sketchbook with disfavor. Why was it that no matter how much she tried, her sketches never seemed to be quite right? Perhaps she should have paid more attention in art class to the instructions given by the art master, rather than concentrating quite so much on his handsome features.
Tossing her book aside, she slouched—most unladylike—in the stone seat, watching the sea vista before her. For some reason, today it reminded her of Emma, with its green-gray glints and unruffled surface. Beneath its surface lay depths she had not yet encountered, such depths she wondered if they might forever remain a mystery.
Her brow furrowed. Was it more prudent to hold thoughts and feelings close to your chest, or was it better to let others know of one’s concerns? Verity had little guard on her mouth, while Cecy at times seemed to have too much, so that one could never be quite sure what she was thinking. Perhaps it was more judicious to be somewhere in the middle.
A cleared throat made her start.
“Excuse me, miss.”
“Yes?” She glanced at the footman.
“You have visitors. Your friends, the Kirbys.”
Her heart scampered with anticipation. She pushed the tendrils of hair from her eyes and rose, enquiring of the footman where she might find them, then, after scooping up Mittens, set off in the direction of the south terrace.
As she hastened through the rose garden, up one set of shallow steps and along the flagstone path to the next rise, she wondered what she would say. How could she ask without revealing interest far deeper than she had any right to display? Oh, what did it matter! Friends asked questions about the other’s well-being; such actions proved they cared.
Pinning a smile to her face she reached the steps of the terrace and lifted a hand in greeting. “Good afternoon, Mr. Kirby, Emma.”
This last she offered a kiss on her cheek. Her heart fluttered. What would it be like to be so free and easy that she could offer Mr. Kirby a similar token of affection?
Suppressing that most irrational thought, she continued. “How glad I am to see you! Thank you for coming to rescue me from an afternoon of boredom.” She waved her fingers. “You can see I have needed to resort to charcoals in order to entertain myself.”
“You poor thing,” said Emma, light filling her eyes, in stark contrast to the shadows underneath. “Your life seems almost unbearable.”
Caroline chuckled, turning to Mr. Kirby. “Your sister is most unsympathetic today.”
He smiled, a smile that trickled gladness through her heart. “She can be most insupportable.”
Caroline gestured to the curved stone benches, positioned to best capture the view, then invited them to sit. Emma obeyed, and begged to hold Mittens, a request Caroline gladly fulfilled. Mr. Kirby remained standing, his hands behind his back.
“May I offer you some refreshments?” Caroline asked.
“Thank you, no. We cannot stay too long,” Emma said, before bending her head to murmur to the pug.
Caroline eyed her. Today must be one of Emma’s good days, for her color was better than her last visit, though her energy seemed to be dissipating fast. How hard her life had been. Perhaps Emma might find some comfort from a pet of her own. One like Mittens, who was happy to be cossetted, only wanting to lie and be stroked, who never raised her bark loudly. She blinked. Perhaps Emma might like to borrow Mittens for a time.
“My sister just wanted to see you,” said Mr. Kirby, his deep voice stealing her attention. “She would not let me have a moment’s peace until I agreed to escort her here. Apparently Emma’s brother simply cannot compete with your conversation.”
Caroline’s smile at his self-deprecation grew taut as she wondered at his words. Did he mean he had no interest in seeing her himself? She stifled the thought. When would she stop thinking so selfishly?
“Oh, listen to him, as if denying his interest in you himself. Really, Miss Hatherleigh, it cannot be denied that my brother had just as much inclination to visit as I did.”
Gladness bloomed across her chest, her cheeks filling with a heat sure to approximate the color filling Mr. Kirby’s countenance.
To avoid further embarrassment, she resolved to put into practice her earlier contemplations and ask about her guests. “And how have you both spent your day?”
“I have done nothing much of interest,” Emma admitted, before motioning to her brother. “But Gideon on the other hand …”
Caroline looked at him expectantly.
He shrugged, and Caroline thought his eyes held a sense of strain. “Really, I have nothing of great import to share.”
“How goes your fossil hunting?” she asked.
His lips tightened as he lifted one shoulder in a shrug. “If I am honest, I would say I am more frustrated than anything. The ammonite is all well and good I suppose—”
“Oh, Caroline, you should come and see it,” Emma interrupted. “It looks marvelous all polished up.”
Strange hurt twinged within when Mr. Kirby made no further invitation, but only shook his head. “I thought by now that I would have found something to make my visit worthwhile.”
“I see.” She was a fool to wish his words did not strike so closely to her heart. Conscious she was being watched closely by Emma, she sought to cover her conflicting emotions with an unwavering smile. “What is your next step, do you think?”
“I hope to visit the cliffs nearer Ladram Bay tomorrow.”
She nodded. “I hope you find what you are looking for.”
He lifted his gaze to hers, and for a long delicious moment, she was trapped in his dark gray gaze. Breath constricted, her midsection all aflutter. She wrenched her gaze away, back to Emma, who was smiling at her in a manner most curious.
A slight sense of panic forced Caroline to say quickly, “I received a letter from home today. It was from my mother, and concerns a Mr. Amherst. Have you heard of him? He is the son of the Earl of Rovingham.”
The siblings looked to each other as if uncertain. It would seem they did n
ot recognize the name. Caroline hurried on. “Yes, well, he is a young gentleman I have the misfortune to know.” She laughed, uneasily aware that she maligned her former friend. “He has some money, to be sure, but his scandalous behavior in London was such that I can have nothing more to do with him.”
She was conscious of the note of pride that had sounded in her voice, and strove to diminish it with a smile. “You understand what I mean, do you not, Miss Kirby? Some gentlemen are not at all what they seem, and I could never have anything to do with someone who purported to be one thing but then proved to be exactly the opposite.”
Emma’s face grew pale, and Caroline grew uncomfortably certain that she had again said something that caused distress. But precisely what she had inadvertently said she did not know. A glance at Mr. Kirby revealed that he did not appear much better. Truth be told, he looked a little startled, and—now she thought about it—seemed to be avoiding her eyes. She felt a frown form, and smoothed her brow. What had she said that had caused such angst? Was it something to do with Emma’s husband?
“Please excuse us,” said Emma, rising to her feet. “I fear I must return home.”
“Oh, but …” Caroline began, her words failing at the resolute tilt to Emma’s chin, the way she glanced at Mr. Kirby and he offered a small nod. Oh, why did he refuse to look at her?
“I’m sorry if I have said something upsetting,” she continued. “I did not mean to speak out of turn.”
They demurred, but she could tell by the way brother and sister made their goodbyes and left, still refusing to look her in the eye, that whatever she had unwittingly said had hurt them deeply. Leaving her with trouble clouding her heart, the sure and sorry knowledge she had once again failed her friends, and the accursed heat of tears in her eyes.
Gideon trudged up the beach, his feet sinking in the sand, along with his hopes. Few rocks called for attention. Nothing seemed different today. How much longer would it take? He should give up, on fossil hunting, on other things …
His heart clenched again at the memory of yesterday’s encounter. He was a fool to think on her; he should have known she would have interest from men who could afford to keep her in the style to which she was obviously very well accustomed. This Amherst man … why did he not remember him? It was not as if Gideon had never danced at a London ball. Perhaps such doings had occurred when he was away exploring, or last year, when he’d been too distracted by his sister’s worsening situation to notice or care much for anything else.
Yesterday had proved challenging in other ways as well. He’d spent the morning searching the beaches and cliffs near the Beer headland when he’d been accosted by a group of men, Baker and Belcher among them.
“You be looking for anything particular-like?” Belcher had asked in his strong Devonian accent.
Gideon had forced a smile past his uneasiness. “I think you gentlemen are aware that all I search for are the petrifications this area is known for.”
“Well, there be none round ’ere,” Belcher said, arms crossed.
Should he make a push to stay, or would resistance result in a broken head? He did not like the thought that he was being warned away, but neither could Emma afford for him to be hurt. So, feeling like a whipped schoolboy, he had bowed to their united front and turned away.
He did not wonder at their hostility. Last night had seen a full moon, and with the sea not quite so turbulent, would have proved an excellent night for removing cargo from a ship anchored offshore. He had no wish for any part in their doings; it was the excisemen whose job it was to find such men and deal with their activities.
No, he had enough on his mind without worrying about smugglers and the like.
His chest grew tight. He would give himself one more day. Emma’s condition varied daily and so he could not spare much more time. She had been so patient with his quest. His stupid, foolish quest. He glanced at the cliff face. Nothing called for attention, so he trudged farther, farther than he had gone before. Sighed. He had given this quest his best shot. He had searched, he had persisted—nobody could fault his determination. But still the find he sought eluded him. He should give up. Emma needed him to focus attention on her, on her future. And the longer he stayed, the more chance there was that Pratt might discover his whereabouts, and then who knew what may result?
Gideon kicked a stone. Nearly swore as heat traveled from his toes through his booted foot. Fool. He was such a fool. Thinking he knew best. “Should I give up?”
His words were ripped away by the wind, and he glanced over his shoulder to ascertain that nobody had heard his cry to God.
He stumbled over a slippery stone, down to one knee. Pain jarred through his body. What, was God punishing him now? Was it pride that had taken him so far, pride that had stolen so much time? Fool. He was such a fool. How much longer? He should give up.
Besides, what would he even do if he did find a fossil? Even without a perfect specimen, Wilmont’s find had already seen his name grace the London papers. He snorted. The man would likely even be invited to speak at the Geological Society. It seemed most unfair that some young, heavily financed whippersnapper could receive such opportunities when Gideon’s own efforts had failed. Not that it was likely he would find anything, not with his luck. But even if he did find something, could he afford to let the truth of his name be made public?
Fool. He was such a fool. How much longer? He should just give up.
The refrain sounded in his ears as if spoken aloud. He squinted up at the heavens. The sun was beginning its slow descent. Sweat prickled on his neck. His arms ached with weariness. How much longer? He had no great confidence anymore that anything of significance lurked within these shale and limestone walls. He peered at the rock face, discouragement beating at his heart. Would these rocks yield anything greater than an ammonite? Perhaps James was right, and he should just give up and turn his hand to something that might yield more security.
As if God knew his faithless heart and despised him for it, a gray cloud drew overhead. The warmth from before dissipated, sending a chill shivering down his spine. A drop of water hit his cheek. Another. Then another. Wonderful. He would need to seek shelter. He glanced at the narrow slit in the cliff that denoted a cave entrance. He could only hope it did not prove to be a smuggler’s lair, though he rather doubted such a place would be in use today.
He drew within. Inside, the dim space opened out to a cavern the breadth of four men. It held an appearance not unlike that of the cave near Beer he had visited several weeks ago. Save this space seemed naturally weathered, not a place quarried to rough smoothness. An eerie kind of prickling traversed his neck. Surely the free traders would not use this space?
“Hello!” he called out. His voice echoed through the chamber.
There came a scuffling noise behind him—rats? bats?—then, just as he was turning, a glint caught his eye, something hard struck his head, and he collapsed onto the rocky sand-strewn floor.
CHAPTER SEVENTEEN
CAROLINE LOOKED up from where she sat curled up with her book as the door knocker sounded again. Whoever it was seemed somewhat desperate for admittance. She heard a murmur of voices, then the sound of footsteps before the library door was tapped.
“Come in,” she called.
The door opened, admitting Dawkins. “Excuse me, miss, but there is a, ahem, person to see you.”
A person? That could only mean—
“A Mr. Ballard,” he continued.
“Who?”
He cleared his throat. “I believe he said that he works for the Kirbys.”
“Oh! In that case, please send him in.”
She swung her legs to the floor and stood, brushing out the worst of the wrinkles in her skirt. Good thing it was not Mama to see how much of a degenerate her daughter had become in her overly casual state of repose. While such a pose might hold a great degree of comfort, such was not the posture of a daughter of Aynsley!
Mr. Ballard came in, his fac
e holding an expression that coiled a cold kind of tightness within Caroline’s chest. “Yes? What is it?”
He coughed. “Begging your pardon for the interruption, miss, but Miss Emma be wondering if you have seen her brother.”
“Why no, I have not.”
“Oh.” He nodded, then shuffled awkwardly. “Then I best return. Thank ye.”
Putting aside both the fascinating speculation as to why Emma had thought he might deign to visit Caroline, and the outrageous urge to ask such a thing, she forced her thoughts to focus on the task at hand.
“He is missing?” she prompted gently.
“Miss Emma be right worried about him, which is most unlike her.” He sighed. “Poor thing don’t need to be fretting at this time.”
“How is Emma today?”
“Not so well, I’m afraid. But I best let her know and resume searching.”
She chewed her lip. Would Emma welcome Caroline’s support as a friend? Would Grandmama understand Caroline’s desire to visit? She would have to; this strange urgency compelled her to go. “Wait. I will come with you.”
He looked nonplussed, but agreed nonetheless.
When she summoned Dawkins to request her grandmother’s location, he informed her that Grandmama had accompanied Miss McNell on a trip to Lady Dalrymple’s house. This news caused a strange twinge of hurt that her grandmother had not bothered to invite Caroline along for the excursion, despite knowing full well that Caroline had nothing to do today. However, as this news did obviate the need to request permission for Caroline’s absence, she was not too sorry—for she suspected that Grandmama’s permission for Caroline to participate in a hunt for Mr. Kirby might not be forthcoming.
After assuring Dawkins she would return soon, and that no, she didn’t need Mary to act as chaperone, she was helped into the gig with Mr. Ballard.
A Hero for Miss Hatherleigh Page 17
