by Kim Bowman
Jon stole a glance at his wife. She stood pressed against the sideboard, her hands covering her ears, and a ghastly expression on her white face.
“I-I-I’m s-sorry.” Her voice shook with the tremors wracking her body. Tears streamed down her cheeks. “I-I’d no idea it would d-do that. I didn’t kn-know it w-was loaded.”
Jon let out a long sigh.
“Hrmph.” Gran held out her hand to the frightened footman who possessed her pistol. His hands shook as he handed it to her. “One must never handle firearms unless one knows what one is doing.” She pushed past Annabella and grabbed another ball from the case on the sideboard.
“Gran.” Jon leapt forward, pushing Annabella safely out of the way behind him. “Grandmother, it was an accident.”
“An accident of breeding, if you ask me,” she muttered, wrapping the ball in some patch and pushing it down the barrel. She added fresh powder to the flash pan and swung around, pistol in hand. “Now, my dear, allow me to demonstrate the proper use of a firearm.”
Annabella shrank against Jon’s back.
“Gran, you’ve managed to quite frighten my bride,” he said calmly, keeping his eyes on the pistol.
His grandmother shook her head and released a sigh of frustration. Then she raised the pistol, took aim, and fired. The shot exploded from the barrel and lodged directly between the eyes of the First Duke of Blackmoor.
Gran gave a satisfied nod and laid the pistol on the sideboard again. “Insufferable man by all accounts. I shan’t miss having him grace our dining hall.” Then she angled a look over Jon’s shoulder at Annabella. “I suggest you put on some boots and make yourself otherwise presentable. You may meet me down here in half an hour.”
Annabella scrambled across the carpet and disappeared through the door without uttering a word, leaving Jon to wonder if she’d return as Gran had instructed or pack her bags and demand to leave Blackmoor.
Gran took a seat at the table and placed a scone on her plate then doused it with Devonshire cream and blackberry preserves. “Where are my cats? They need to be fed.”
Samuel nodded at two footmen near the door and they hurried from the room.
“Might I suggest removing all the firearms and sharp objects from the residence, my lord,” murmured the butler in Jon’s ear.
Jon sighed. “Samuel, I couldn’t agree more.”
Chapter Eighteen
“Come along. The morning waits for no man.” The dowager marched through the salon, followed by her assortment of cats. Annabella counted eight haughty tails swishing as they walked. Heavens! That put the count at three more than had attended dinner the previous evening. Were there even more hiding somewhere? A shudder tore through her. I hate cats. Hate. Them.
Having no choice but to follow, she fell in line behind the dowager, curiosity and a bit of unease replacing some of the fury she felt. Where could the woman be taking her? The hallway they traversed led to the kitchen, but going outside seemed to be the dowager’s intention, given she had on a bonnet. Or rather, a very unusual squat, flat-top straw hat with a short brim. The elegant red velvet band looked out of place on the tattered hat. Annabella had never seen anything quite like it before.
Wherever they were heading, it obviously didn’t entail leaving the estate. At least Annabella couldn’t imagine a woman of nobility being seen in public in such attire and with several cats in attendance. While the dowager duchess wore her linen dress in a pleasing shade of cream with the regal air of a queen, it had certainly seen better days. As had the dark leather belt, which had some sort of cylinder attached to the right side. The container was several inches long and about four inches wide at the top, tapering down to about half that size at the bottom. And what the devil was sticking out the top of it? Arrows?
As they entered the kitchen, a young boy of about ten hurried toward them with a bow cradled in his arms, his unkempt wavy brown hair fluttering. He stopped in front of the dowager and handed her the bow.
“Thank you, Ernest. Now go fetch my smallest bow, another quiver with arrows, and my black shooting glove. You may bring them to the range.”
“Right away, your grace.” The young boy ran up the back stairs.
Bow? Arrows? Shooting glove? Annabella furrowed her brow. What trouble has your temper gotten you into this time? Perhaps Seabrook’s grandmother intends to use you as a target.
The dowager glanced over her shoulder. “Come along, then.”
How wise was it to follow the woman she had deliberately provoked at dinner the previous evening? Did the dowager intend to now exact her revenge? Annabella sighed and headed out the door after her. Best not to irritate her further.
The sun shined high in the sky, bathing her in warmth. A gentle breeze fluttered through her hair and tickled her skin. She loved the feel of her hair waving in the wind, free of ties and combs and without a hat pressing into her head and heating her scalp.
Once down the path and away from the house, the dowager began to speak, her words as crisp and precise as her steps on the dirt path. “You simply cannot throw a tantrum unless you intend to do it properly. Flinging things willy-nilly, yelling so the rosebuds close up… By my word, whatever possessed my grandson to marry such a simpering female is beyond me.”
Annabella stiffened. “Funny. I was just thinking my judgment was poorly lacking when I married him.”
Her grace stopped and stared at Annabella, eyebrows raised. After a beat of silence, she let out a hoot of laughter and clapped Annabella on the back. “Well said, my dear. Well said. Now that’s how you spar with someone. There might be hope for you yet. But we simply must improve your skill with weapons.”
She started walking again, and Annabella followed, surprised that she had to lengthen her stride to keep up.
“Weap— I beg your pardon? Weapons?”
The dowager offered an indulgent smile and patted the cylinder strapped to her hip. “Weapons.”
The garden path opened up into a clearing. Directly ahead stood three easels holding some sort of straw mats. As they drew closer, Annabella could make out three more easels across the field, and a red circle was evident in the center of each coiled straw mat. Targets.
The young boy hurried up to them with the equipment the dowager had requested.
“Thank you, Ernest.”
Seabrook’s grandmother slid the bow she was carrying over her head and then settled it over her right shoulder, letting the string fall across her chest and the bow rest against her back. She then took the black glove from the boy, slipped it over Annabella’s right hand, and laced it up.
It covered her palm almost to her elbow, leaving her fingers exposed. She noticed that the dowager already had a similar piece of leather affixed to her hand. Once the glove was secured, her grace took the bow and cylinder form Ernest and handed it to Annabella. She then pulled the bow back over her head and moved to stand directly between two of the targets.
“Idle threats are no way to get what you want.” The arrow barely scraped against the side of case on the dowager’s hip as she slid it out. “But when a man knows you’re capable of causing him bodily harm—” She held the arrow in front of her and sighted along the edge then placed it on the bow and pulled back, letting go. The arrow flew through the air in a perfect arc and hit the target across the field square in the center. The dowager smiled. “—he will be completely at your mercy.”
Bodily harm? At my mercy? Annabella didn’t know whether to be horrified or impressed. Surely Seabrook’s grandmother wasn’t implying that she shoot Seabrook with an arrow! Throwing a vase or a candelabra at him was one thing. But she didn’t truly want to do him harm. She hadn’t realized the gun was loaded, so she was grateful it hadn’t gone off when she pulled the trigger.
Mostly.
She froze, her breath caught in her throat. Where had that thought come from?
“Ernest, be a dear and move these three targets in…” Her grace took several steps forward, moving about halfway
between the targets on the other side. “…to about right here.”
The young boy got to work taking the straw mats off the bases.
“Well don’t just stand there, Frenchie. Bring yourself over here.”
“You don’t have to—” —be insulting about it. Annabella sighed. Yes… she did, given the way she’d been provoked.
Frowning, Annabella joined the dowager, careful not to step on one of the cats weaving around her skirt. The marmalade striped male, who had apparently taken a fancy to her, leaned against her leg and rubbed with his round face. Get away. Annabella furtively pushed at him with her foot, but he wouldn’t budge. She glared at the cat, but he paid no attention.
The dowager cleared her throat.
Annabella shifted and forced a tight smile as she stared at the lethal appearing arrows in the case. Mother would never have approved of such an activity. Excitement surprised Annabella, creeping along her forearms with tiny quivers as she considered the prospect of learning to shoot a bow and arrow.
The dowager slipped the bow back over her head, pulled another arrow from the container at her side, and stepped behind Annabella. She repositioned Annabella’s hand on the bow. “Straighten your arm and keep it as high as your shoulder. That’s it. Now take this arrow. See that little crease on the end? Slide the bowstring right in there.” The dowager helped guide Annabella’s hand. “Well done! Hold your fingers just like that. Now keep your bow arm straight and pull back the arrow. Let go!”
Annabella jumped and released both hands, letting the bow and arrow fall to the ground, but not before the string snapped on her fingers. “Oh!” She rubbed her hand.
Felines leapt and scattered then collectively scurried back along the path. The little marmalade sent her a narrow-eyed glance over his shoulder.
Annabella suppressed a smug smile. At least I scared those annoying cats away. She glanced at the dowager. “Sorry.”
Seabrook’s grandmother put her hands on her hips. “I have my work cut out for me. Pick up your weapon.”
Hurrying to obey the command, Annabella scooped up the bow and arrow. “Perhaps I’m not quite suited for archery.”
“Nonsense. If you can throw a gun, you can shoot an arrow.”
Annabella’s face went up in flames at the reminder of how she’d behaved. Her mother would be mortified, would have lectured her for hours over such unladylike behavior. She stole a glance at the dowager. Apparently not Jon’s gran.
Suddenly she wanted nothing more than to please the dowager. She positioned the arrow and, with guidance from the older woman’s steady hands, pulled back on the string.
“Steady, steady. This time only release the arrow.”
Annabella did as instructed. The arrow sailed straight up in the air, made a small arch, and landed on the ground quite a distance from the target. Her heart sank with it. How she’d wanted the dowager to be pleased.
The dowager patted her hand. “Don’t fret, my dear. You have a good strong arm. You’ll be hitting the target in no time. Now, collect another arrow and try it again. This time, don’t just shoot willy-nilly.” She again guided Annabella’s arms and hands with her own. “Bring the bow up and position the arrow so you can let your eye follow it out until you see the target in line with the head. Make sure you see the target before you release.”
Annabella squinted into the distance. The red circle floated in and out of her vision. Holding her breath, she squinted harder.
The dowager tapped her on the shoulder. “Open your eyes! How do you expect to see what you’re shooting if you squint like that?”
Startled, Annabella opened her eyes wide. Instantly, the target filled her vision. She let go. The arrow spiraled toward the target, hitting it at the top and to the left before bouncing back to the ground.
“I hit it! I hit the target!” A surge of excitement and surprise had her body tingling. The thrill brought on a squeal of delight.
The dowager seemed to stand taller, and her dark eyes glittered as she offered a smile. “Indeed you did, Frenchie. Indeed you did. Now, this time pull back harder to give the arrow a bit more oomph so that it penetrates the target and doesn’t just hit it.”
With newfound enthusiasm, Annabella shot another arrow. Then another. More of the arrows landed in front of the target or several feet beyond it than actually sank into the straw. But several of them at least struck the target and then landed on the ground. The last arrow did stick in the very top of the target for a second. But then it, too, fell.
She stomped her foot. “Bloody devil’s fire!”
Her grace chuckled. “Don’t worry overmuch about them piercing the straw yet. Get your form down, and then as you practice, your strength will improve. Before you know it, you’ll be hitting the center at a hundred paces.”
Annabella doubted that. But now her mind could think of nothing more than hitting the target center the way the dowager had.
“Ernest, please retrieve the arrows.”
“Yes, your grace.” The boy scampered toward the opposite side of the field, scooping up arrows as he ran. Within a couple of minutes he returned and handed them to Annabella.
“Thank you.”
He smiled as he took his place behind them again.
“That will be all, Ernest. You may return to the house and help Cook.”
“Yes, your grace.” He cast Annabella a toothy grin then ran down the path toward the house.
Once they were alone, the dowager said, “So, my dear, would you care to explain why you were trying to bring dire harm upon my grandson.” She lifted her bow and took aim.
“That spawn of Satan had the door between our bedchambers removed when I refused to allow him in my bed and locked him out of the room.” The words were out before Annabella could contain them. Horrified, she caught her breath and pressed her fingers to her mouth.
The dowager jerked just as she released the arrow. It shot straight up in the air a few feet then slapped the earth, landing on its side. She let out a curse, nearly causing Annabella to swoon with shock at hearing a refined lady speak in such a manner.
The dowager turned and faced her, eyes narrowed. “Have you no decency? To divulge such obscene details is bad enough, but to do it when I’m in the middle of shooting!”
Annabella’s cheeks were so hot her teeth burned and her throat went dry. Tears tickled at the backs of her eyes. “Forgive me, your grace. I meant no disrespect, I assure you.”
The dowager grunted. “Just when I thought you were a woman after my own heart, you commence with the simpering.” She waved her hand at the bow in Annabella’s hand. “Now, stand up straight, retrieve another arrow, and tell me the whole of it while you practice.”
Annabella needed no further encouragement. She’d been alone in the cottage for days with no one to talk to, then she’d had to suffer Seabrook’s presence in silence as well. It was a relief to finally have someone to talk to, confide in. And confide she did.
Perhaps it was the fact that she’d been holding her emotions inside for so long that the dam finally broke, but whatever the reason, she told the dowager everything. To the dowager’s credit, she listened without scolding or judging and only interrupted to give Annabella pointers on correct archery form and bow position.
When Annabella ended the story, the dowager patted her hand and said, “You have a lot to learn, my dear. And you’ve come to the right place.” She settled her bow over her shoulder. “I think another hour of practice will do you good. But for now, I’ll have Ernest return to retrieve the arrows. Please… come and enjoy some hot chocolate and pastries with me in the parlor.”
The older woman headed down the path then paused and turned. “And as for the door… Darling girl, my grandson has given you the best weapon of all to use against him. And use it you shall.”
Annabella furrowed her brow. “I-I don’t understand.”
“You will. You will. He’ll soon curse himself to the devil and back for taking that blasted door d
own. By my word, this is one battle he won’t win.”
For the first time since sending Juliet to London in her place, Annabella smiled. A genuine smile. One she felt all the way to her toes. A frisson of excitement raced through her, and she began to breathe easier than she had in a long time — almost as if her lungs had opened up and were drinking in the air around her. She hadn’t a clue what the dowager had planned for her. Or how the dowager thought she could use a missing door as a weapon, but she intended to find out.
~~~~
The wind whistled through the archeria on the battlement. If he closed his eyes, he could almost hear the murmur of his brother’s voice. The north tower had been a favorite hideout when Jon and Nicholas had been in a mood to avoid Daphne and Edith.
With so many years between the two sets of children, the girls had worshipped their older brothers and often followed them about. Planned outings on horseback too often had become an indulgent afternoon of hitching the ponies to the cart and watching as a groom led them around the stable yard. Jon smiled. The girls hadn’t believed them about the ghost in the tower until he and Nicholas had proven it early one morning when they’d seen Gran heading up there to shoot arrows through the arrow slots.
“That’s the ghost of the very first Duchess of Blackmoor, herself — from the far north and held captive here by her husband,” said Nicholas to the pair of them. “It is said that she waits up there for someone to join her and then she’ll steal that person’s body and use it to travel to her homeland.”
Daphne had taken a bit more convincing, but little Edith had run crying to her nursemaid and never set foot near the north tower again, even after they’d both come to understand that their grandmother occasionally let a few arrows fly on the breeze from on high.
