Capturing Sir Dunnicliffe (The Star Elite Series)

by Rebecca King

  “I brought you these,” he said, offering Hugo a parcel containing a pair of long trousers and a new shirt. “I thought you might want a change of clothes.” He turned away from Hugo’s grateful look and was pleased when the man disappeared into the bedroom to change.

  “Cook has been busy again, I see,” she muttered, watching as Simon lifted the lid of the box to reveal an array of pies, pickles and cakes. “She is going to wonder where all of this food is going if you are not careful,” she chided, wondering just what the staff at the Manor made of her father bringing her half of the pantry three times a week. “I can feed myself, you know.”

  “I know, but you are sometimes so incredibly busy with your work that I am sure you forget to eat.” He knew he was right by the tell-tale blush that stained Harriett’s face. “At least this way you don’t have to worry about baking, and Cook needs the work.”

  Harriett shook her head, and waved toward the heavily laden table. “Are you going to stay and eat with us?”

  “Sorry, I have to go away on business for a couple of days.” He nodded to Hugo who reappeared wearing the new clothing.

  “Thank you for these,” Hugo added, pleased to be feeling a little fresher.

  “You’re welcome. I have asked a few of the men in the village to keep an eye out for strangers. They have seen the man hanging about a few times, but he hasn’t approached anyone to ask them any questions. I have warned them that he is up to no good and they need to keep an eye on him,” Simon added.

  “They don’t know Hugo is here, do they?” Harriett asked, her heart sinking at the thought of gossip spreading.

  “No, only us three know,” Simon assured her before he left the cottage.

  When the door closed behind him, Harriett slid the bolt across and turned to Hugo.

  “Let’s have something to eat,” Hugo suggested, eyeing the pies hungrily. The delicious scent of cooked meat and warm pastry hung tantalisingly in the air, making his stomach rumble in anticipation.

  She was about to reach for the plates when there was another knock on the door. She froze and turned to Hugo, who merely shrugged and returned to the small bedroom beside the kitchen door.

  At the door, Harriett took a deep breath and slid the bolt across, lifting the latch to slowly open the door.

  She was shocked to find Mrs Partridge standing on her doorstep.

  “Hello Harriett my dear.” The older lady was clearly unsure of her welcome.

  “Are you quite well?” Harriett replied, standing back to allow her surprise guest in. Although she didn’t want to admit the lady to the house, it would be incredibly rude to keep her on the doorstep. She stood back to allow the older lady to shuffle in; her breathing as laboured as her tread.

  Before closing the door, Harriett glanced quickly around the garden. Her attention was drawn to a quick, furtive movement next to the outbuilding at the far end of her garden. Although she couldn’t see anyone, she knew someone was watching the house. Closing the door quickly, she pasted an over bright smile on her face and turned to her guest.

  “Would you like a cup of tea?” she asked politely, sending a silent apology to Hugo who was now stuck in her bedroom as she turned to the dresser to get some cups.

  “Oh no, thank you, my dear. If I am gone for too long, Albert is certain to worry. It took me ages to get out of the house by myself as it is,” Mrs Partridge replied, wheezing heavily as she leaned against the table while glancing curiously about the kitchen.

  Luckily there was nothing out of place to hint at Hugo’s presence.

  “Do you need some more tisane for your chest?” Harriett asked, trying as gently as she could to get to the reason for the visit. Mrs Partridge was breathing so heavily, Harriett wondered how she had managed to make it up the hill from Padstow, and wouldn’t be surprised if she expired on the spot.

  “Oh no, thank you, I am still taking what you kindly gave me before. It’s that I wanted to talk to you about, because I wondered what I owe you.”

  “Owe me?” Harriett frowned.

  “Yes, my dear. I wanted to thank you for everything you did for me while I was poorly.” She shot Harriett a rueful smile. “I know I wasn’t the best patient in the world, but you were very kind to me regardless. If it wasn’t for your medicines I don’t think I would be standing here right now, and I wanted to thank you for your kindness.”

  “It’s what I do, Mrs Partridge,” Harriett replied, stuck for something to say. She had never thought about what she did before, and the affect it had on people. Having been born a witch and raised by a witch, she had grown up with a love of the herbs and plants that were an essential part of her day.

  “I wondered how much I owed you,” Mrs Partridge said again, rummaging around in her bag.

  Harriett realised that the lady wanted to pay her for her services. “Oh, really, no,” Harriett gasped, horrified at the thought. She didn’t do her work for money.

  Before her mother had died, she had shown Harriett a small box she kept hidden behind a chest in the small bedroom. Shockingly it had contained a significant amount of money – more than enough to provide for Harriett and give her the freedom to work with her herbs as often as she wanted to. She hadn’t had the opportunity to ask where the money had come from, but suspected it originated from her Father. As it hadn’t been given to her though she could hardly return it, and had been left with no alternative but to do as her mother had suggested, and use it freely.

  “Oh, but really-”

  “Mrs Partridge,” Harriett placed a hand on the older lady’s arm. “I work with plants that are grown in the ground. Mother Nature provides the water and the sunshine the plants need to grow. I really do very little. All my mother has done is show me which herbs to use for which ailment, and what works best with which herb. I really cannot charge for what nature provides so readily.” She didn’t add that most of the villagers paid her in goods, bringing her pies, vegetables and the like in exchange for her medicines.

  “Then, if you would permit me, I should like to make you a little something,” Mrs Partridge wheezed, clearly unwilling to give up completely.

  Harriett began to wonder if her father was behind the sudden gratitude. Mrs Partridge hadn’t been the easiest patient she had ever treated, but she hadn’t been bad enough to warrant the old woman venturing up the hill to the witch’s house while still recovering.

  “You don’t need to-”

  “Oh, but I must. It is only right that I do something in return. I see you have enough pies and such, but I should like to do something far more lasting. Unless you have any objections, I should like to make you a nice new shawl, and shall begin right away.”

  “A shawl?” Harriett parroted, shocked that the lady would go to so much trouble for her.

  “Yes, my dear. I think a lovely woollen one, just in time for winter,” Mrs Partridge replied with a firm nod. She froze at the loud hissing that came from the doorway.

  Harriett fought the urge to roll her eyes as Harrold stalked haughtily into the room. His back was arched, and his huge round eyes fixed evilly on the stranger in his kitchen. Immediately he began to hiss and spit, leaning back on his haunches in preparation to strike.

  “Stop it, Harrold,” Harriett snapped, swiftly placing herself between him and Mrs Partridge.

  “I’m sorry,” she said, watching, watching as Mrs Partridge backed warily toward the door. Harrold took advantage of Harriett’s attention being diverted and dodged around her legs, lunging across the kitchen. The loud screeching noise he made caused the woman to scurry to the door as though the hounds of hell were on her heels.

  “I’ll be back in the next few days, my dear, with the start of the shawl. Meantime, if there is anything Albert or I can do for you, then you only need to ask. Good bye!” she shouted, dodging through the door and closing it behind her with a firm click.

  “But-” Harriett said, only to lapse into stunned silence. No sooner had the door closed behind Mrs Partridge that
Harrold stopped screeching. All traces of aggression had simply vanished, and he now stood purring loudly as he stared innocently at Harriett.

  Harriett was still staring at the closed door when Hugo appeared out of the room beside her, a smile on his face.

  “That is one determined lady,” he muttered ruefully, sliding the bolt closed. Harriett watched as Hugo walked around Harrold, barely giving him a second glance as he headed toward the hearth.

  “I think I saw someone in the hedgerow at the far end of the garden when Mrs Partridge arrived.” She said, dismissing Harrold with a warning glare.

  She watched as Hugo moved to the small gap in the shutters and peered through for several long moments before turning away with a sigh.

  Harriett realised that they hadn’t eaten and quickly set about loading two plates with a wide selection of Simon’s latest offerings.

  “Simon’s cook really is very good,” Hugo said several minutes later, eyeing his empty plate with satisfaction.

  “Would you like some apple pie?” Harriett asked, eyeing her favourite dish. Although she was full, she was certain she could squeeze in a small piece of the tart offering.

  “That’s all yours, Harriett, I hate apples,” Hugo said, settling back to enjoy the warmth of the fire.

  Unable to resist the temptation, Harriett cut a small piece and settled down in the chair opposite. The buttery taste of the sweet pastry tantalised her taste buds. Her first bite of the apple filling was too sour, however. She chewed thoughtfully, knowing instinctively that something was wrong. She couldn’t quite place what it was, but the apple didn’t taste right. Frowning, she placed what was left of the pie back on her plate.

  “What’s wrong?” Hugo asked, watching her warily eyeing the treat.

  “It doesn’t taste right,” she replied, placing her plate on the table.

  “In what way?”

  “It’s almost too sour, and has a strange aftertaste.” She scowled across at the pie, aware of Hugo’s close scrutiny. “It’s nothing,” she sighed. “The apples might be off, that’s all. I’ll throw the rest away.”

  Hugo nodded, watching her for several minutes.

  “Where is the Manor?” he asked when silence settled between them.

  She pointed to the rear of the property. “It is about two miles inland, that way. It is a huge Tudor manor house that everyone in the area calls the Manor.”

  “Do you go there often?” Hugo needed to know more about her relationship with her father, and a lot more about her father. He eyed the pie for a moment, wondering why the man was being so generous to a daughter he hadn’t publicly claimed.

  “I have only been there once,” she reluctantly admitted.

  “Once?” Hugo’s brows shot skyward. He was expecting her to admit to only a few times, but once?

  “Don’t you like it there?”

  Harriett shook her head. “It isn’t the house itself. That is simply beautiful, but I have a stepsister, Romilla, who is anything but nice, and I try to avoid her as much as possible.”

  “Strange name,” he replied, wondering who would name their child Romilla. “Doesn’t she like you being a witch?” He didn’t want to offend Harriett, but couldn’t see any way of skirting around the questions he needed to ask.

  “I don’t know whether it is just me, and the fact that Simon is my father, or the fact that I am a witch – or both.” Harriett shifted uncomfortably, unwilling to resurrect old and painful memories, even for Hugo.

  “How is your arm today?” she asked, needing to change the subject.

  Hugo acceded to her discomfort, following her lead, while trying to think of another way of asking her what he wanted to know without causing her distress.

  “It doesn’t hurt as badly,” he replied, pleased that he had full movement back in his arm, even if it was a little weaker than before. “Do you think I will get full strength back in it soon?”

  Harriett nodded, “I don’t know what damage was done inside by the shot, but you should get full movement back, and even full strength, as soon as you start to regain your health. At least you can move it now without pain, as long as you keep taking the tisane.”

  “It just feels a bit heavy.” Hugo scowled at the offending limb for a moment, and flexed it several times.

  “Just keep moving it. As long as it doesn’t hurt, you shouldn’t do any harm to it,” she replied, knowing that with each day he was healing, he was a step closer to leaving. She quickly closed off the bitter sweet sense of loss that swept over her at the thought of being left alone in her cottage once again, and not seeing Hugo.

  Eager to escape her unpleasant thoughts, Harriett stood - and gasped in alarm as the world began to sway around her. She placed a hand on her stomach as a fierce pain lanced across her middle.

  “Oh God,” she gasped, bending over in a desperate attempt to ease the discomfort. Sweat beaded her forehead, and she began to tremble violently. Her stomach roiled in protest at the movement and she knew she was going to be sick.

  “What is it?” Hugo asked, watching in surprise as Harriett bolted from the room. The sound of her retching in the bedroom propelled him into movement.

  Within moments he was standing beside her, holding her hair back from her face while she lost the contents of her stomach into a bucket.

  “Go away,” Harriett gasped, between violent spasms. The trembling in her limbs became worse and she sank to her knees on the cold stone floor with a low moan.

  “I’m not leaving you like this,” Hugo snapped, making no attempt to do as she asked.

  Despite the pain and discomfort, Harriett felt a wave of embarrassment sweep over her at the thought of Hugo witnessing her humiliation. But any awkwardness was forgotten when it became apparent that the retching wasn’t going to stop.

  Over and over again, she heaved and coughed, the pain in her stomach growing worse until she flopped down onto the floor in a tight curl of misery. Although she was still heaving, her stomach was undoubtedly empty, but the pains had increased tenfold.

  “Tell me what to do, Harriett,” Hugo demanded desperately.

  Her face was so pale, she was almost transparent. Something was definitely wrong for her to be vomiting so violently. He had never seen anyone be so violently ill for so long before, and cursed his own inability to help her.

  “I need some mint; that helps sickness,” Harriett gasped around the pain, moaning as the sensations grew so fierce that she was sure her stomach was on fire.

  “I also need some valerian root,” Harriett tried to withhold her cry of pain as she began to retch again, her stomach muscles screaming in protest. “They are in the jars in the workroom.”

  Hugo vanished, bursting into the workroom like a man possessed. It took far too long to scour the rows of neatly labelled jars and bottles until he found the two she needed. Racing back through the cottage, he was unsurprised to find her exactly where he had left her, although she had now gone grey, her lips pinched with discomfort.

  “Harriett, tell me what to do,” he pleaded. He had no idea whether she ate them, drank them or rubbed them in, and stood with a jar uselessly in either hand while he waited for her to answer him.

  “The valerian root - make into a tea. Give me the mint,” she gasped, holding out a trembling hand.

  He brushed it aside and placed both jars on the floor of the room before sweeping her into his arms. Ignoring the dull ache in his injured arm, he shouldered his way out of the room and carried her through to her bedroom at the front of the house, placing her tenderly on the sheets. Within minutes he had returned with the jars, lifting the lid on the one marked ‘mint’ and giving her several of the fragrant leaves.

  She began to chew and suck the juices from the green foliage, prompting Hugo to hurry to the kitchen with the valerian root to do as she instructed. Minutes later he returned with a tepid cup of strange-looking tea. It didn’t smell all that nice but, if it worked, she was going to drink it.

  He hated to se
e her so ill, and felt useless - simply giving her herbs didn’t seem enough. The curses that burst forth were the only sign of his deep frustration when Harriett began to retch again, over and over, until he wondered if she was strong enough to bear it.

  “God, Harriett, let me get the doctor,” he suggested, unable to think of anything else he could do.

  “He won’t be able to do anything, trust me,” Harriett gasped, feeling the world swirl around her. Was this how she was going to die? She glanced at Hugo, lost in a wave of pain.

  “If the valerian and mint don’t work, there is nothing the doctor can give me.” Her eyes met Hugo’s. She knew he understood her silent communication when he closed his eyes and cursed roundly.

  “Go, Hugo.” Her voice was as strong as she could make it. “I don’t want you here for this.” If she had been poisoned, as she suspected, it was going to get a lot worse before the lord removed her pain and discomfort. She didn’t want Hugo left not only watching her die, but having to explain to the locals what had happened.

  “What do you think it is?” Hugo asked, ignoring her request. There was no way in hell he was going anywhere.

  “I think I’ve been poisoned,” she gasped, moaning low in her throat as the burning pains in her stomach increased in another wave of spasms that made her cry aloud. Sweat beaded her brow; her limbs trembled violently. “Apple pie,” she panted, trying to think of anything else that could have poisoned her. Hugo had eaten everything else she had eaten, and he seemed fine. The only thing that was different was the apples. The strange bitter aftertaste was the clue that told her everything she needed to know. Although she didn’t know much about poisons, she knew enough about plants to know that mint and valerian root would ease the sickness and the cramps, but they couldn’t - and wouldn’t - stop the poison from spreading.