THE LEGEND OF NIMWAY HALL_1750_JACQUELINE

by Stephanie Laurens

  The next two farms appeared in rapid succession. As they’d done the day before, they took their midday meal at one of the farms, adding the contents of their saddlebags to the platters the farmwife, Mrs. Sturrock, set on the table.

  One of the boys they’d met by the millpond the day before was the Sturrocks’ son. He proudly pointed to the nice fat fish displayed on the platter in the center of the table. “I caught that—we each got three!”

  Richard smiled. “Well done! Do you still have the withies?”

  That started a conversation that commenced with the local fishing spots and, over the meal, extended to other forms of sport the locals indulged in. Jacqueline and Mrs. Sturrock smiled, then put their heads together to discuss feminine interests.

  They left the Sturrocks’ farm and continued in a sweeping curve, calling at three more farms before, with the sun sliding down the western sky, they turned their horses’ heads once more up the track that wended its way up the escarpment.

  It was then Jacqueline returned to her questioning. Over her shoulder, she threw him a glance. “You mentioned you were a younger son. Do you have many brothers and sisters?”

  “One brother, three sisters.” He debated how much to reveal, then added, “They’re all married. My brother will inherit the family acres”—and the titles and entailed wealth—“and my sisters are settled with their husbands.” On their various estates.

  The trick—the challenge—was to answer honestly while not letting fall any clues as to his actual identity. That, she and the others there didn’t need to know.

  “If you spend most of your life in society, how do you fill your days?”

  “The usual. Riding in the park”—so tame compared to riding in the country—“and attending the theater, balls, and parties.” All of which long ago lost their luster. After a moment, he admitted, “I also attend lectures at the Royal Society on just about any scholarly endeavor.” When, surprised, she looked his way, he flashed a self-deprecatory grin. “No, I’m not an aficionado of any particular science—I number among the purely curious. And I do enjoy reading.”

  “But you enjoy dealing with people.” She waved toward the fields. “You liked chatting with the farmers, helping the boys fish, and even rescuing that kitten.” She shot him a glance. “You enjoy using the knowledge you have and putting it to use helping others.”

  Her words gave him pause. After a second, he made himself shrug. “I suppose I’ve absorbed things over the years, and if I’m there and I can be useful…it’s a way to pass the time.”

  Inwardly, he frowned as he guided the chestnut upward, close behind her mare.

  After several minutes, she said, “Most people like using their talents, their skills—like all those we’ve been speaking with today. Everyone likes to have a purpose.”

  He humphed and made no answer, although his mind, entirely without his direction, drew the obvious conclusion: If one had a purpose, one had a reason for living.

  So what was his?

  They reached the top of the escarpment and continued along the bridle path that led to the Hall stable.

  She turned her head and regarded him, her expression serious, her gaze level. After a moment, she asked, “Are you happy with your life?”

  The question took him by surprise. He blinked, then slowly replied, “I’ll have to take that under advisement.” The honest—unsettling—truth was that he really didn’t know. “I’m happy enough to be alive.”

  “But what about how you spend your life?”

  She was cutting far too close to his bones. He assumed a lighthearted mien. “Can any man truly answer that he’s content with all that is his lot?”

  Her gaze held his, then she arched her brows. “Philosophy?”

  Yes, and he was taking refuge in it. Reaching the stable yard spared him from having to formulate any further answer. Hopkins and Young Willie appeared, and the next moments went in dismounting and handing over the horses’ reins.

  For once, Richard made no move to assist Jacqueline from her saddle—not that she waited for him to lift her down—but up to then, he’d been intent on winning the entertaining tussle of wills they’d engaged in over that social point.

  He knew her nerves leapt when he lifted her—as did his—and those possibly weren’t reactions it was wise to unnecessarily prod, but assisting a lady to and from her saddle was a courtesy that was ingrained in him, and he felt curiously diminished and dismissed when she didn’t allow him to pay it, to play what he saw as his appropriate role.

  With multiple reasons contributing to his inner frown, he fell in by her side, and they paced toward the house.

  To his relief, she didn’t ask more questions; her inquisition to that point had unsettled him enough.

  That morning, she’d referred to her day’s purpose as a fact-finding mission. As matters had transpired, quite aside from learning what her farmers would be selling at the market and the fair, she’d gathered answers on subjects far removed from such matters.

  They approached the side door, and he reached past her to open it, then waited for her to enter. Once she had, he drew in a deep breath and followed.

  He hoped she was satisfied with the answers she’d wrung from him.

  Unfortunately, those answers, as such answers were wont to do, had raised several even-more-unsettling questions—for him.

  Chapter 7

  The market in nearby Balesborough was held in the village square.

  At ten o’clock the following morning, Richard strolled with Jacqueline down one of the alleys formed by parallel lines of stalls. An explosion of color surrounded them—the bright hues of the bunting strung around many stalls, the myriad shades of the wares displayed, and the cheerful scarves many local women had tied about their hair clashed and contrasted with the more sober browns, tans, greens, blues, and blacks of the crowd’s attire. As at any market, scents of all sorts assaulted their noses, and a cacophony of voices engulfed them—the calls of stallholders eager to attract passersby to their wares, and buyers commenting on said wares or haggling over prices. All in all, it was a good-natured roar.

  Richard did his best to shield Jacqueline from the inevitable jostling of the largely happy throng. Many of those passing, certainly those better clad, recognized the mistress of Nimway Hall and smiled and nodded or bobbed in greeting. Time and again, Richard glanced back, keeping a protective eye on Elinor and Mrs. Patrick; with baskets on their arms, the older ladies were following in his and Jacqueline’s wake, but were wont to become distracted by the offerings and stop to chat and buy.

  Most of the household had traveled to the market; Richard spotted their now-familiar faces here and there, eagerly examining this or that. Even Cruickshank was there. As far as Richard knew, only Hugh and Freddie remained inside the house.

  Richard was, therefore, pleased when, on scanning the crowd, he spotted Sir Peregrine Wallace standing in the shadow of one of the walls bordering the marketplace. If Wallace was there, he couldn’t be at the Hall, searching for the orb and making trouble for Hugh and Freddie.

  As far as Richard could discern, Jacqueline was there primarily in support of her farmers and their families. On first entering the market, she’d paused to have a word to the town clerk, who had been standing with a board and a list to one side. She’d smiled and thanked the man for ensuring the Hall’s farmers had good positions that day. The man, small and unprepossessing, had bloomed in the light of her approbation.

  Subsequently, with Richard keeping station by her side, she’d joined the throng examining the wares displayed. Although she occasionally paused at some stall not held by one of her people, to exchange greetings and comment encouragingly on the wares, her principal goal was clearly to halt at—and thus draw attention to—the Nimway Hall estate workers’ stalls. They found both woodcutter families; the Hammonds were doing a brisk trade in their smaller carved toys, while there were several farmers waiting to purchase handles from the Tricketts’ stall.
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br />   As they moved on down the avenue, the sights and sounds, the noise and the colors took Richard back to his childhood, to markets he’d attended with his parents at the villages attached to their various estates. He’d always liked markets.

  Amid the bustle, several of the Nimway Hall estate people spotted him and smiled and nodded. One of the lads he’d helped with the withies grinned and waved. Richard smiled back and felt a pleasant warmth unfold inside him.

  Jacqueline met and spoke earnestly with the alderman in charge of deciding the arrangement of stalls at the fair, impressing on that gentleman the importance of assigning various positions to her farmers. Richard helped by looming supportively, making the alderman just a touch uncertain; he caught the man’s eye and, when the good fellow agreed to do as Jacqueline wished, smiled approvingly. No words had been needed; the man had understood.

  Together with Jacqueline, Richard strolled on, heading down the next line of stalls, while that warmth inside him grew and spread.

  Jacqueline paused to speak with Mrs. Higgs, who was standing behind her stall—a board on trestles, one half of which was covered with swaths of cloth, the other half with hanks of yarn.

  Richard tucked his thumbs in his belt and waited, then the glint of silver at the next stall caught his eye. Buckles and horse brasses were displayed enticingly. After a glance at Jacqueline showed she was absorbed and would have to pass him in order to move on, he strolled over to examine the buckles.

  He selected a pair of handsome shoe buckles in chased silver and had just handed over the coins to the metalworker when, from the corner of his eye, he saw Jacqueline abruptly turn and step back from the neighboring stall.

  Her back was to him; he shifted and looked around her, surveying the gentleman she’d swung to face.

  Corpulent, extravagantly overdressed, and overtly pompous, the gentleman stood before her, his coat of bright blue straining over his stomach; as Richard watched, the gentleman flourished a lacy white handkerchief and swept Jacqueline a leg—one better suited to the French court than a village marketplace in Somerset. “Miss Tregarth, your servant, my dear.”

  The man’s voice was high pitched, almost childishly piping.

  Richard bit his lip. Although he couldn’t see Jacqueline’s face, her reaction sang in the rigidity that had afflicted her.

  Also in the frostiness of her tone as she said, “Sir Godfrey. I’m surprised to see you here, sir.”

  “Why,” the gentleman replied, waving his handkerchief in an all-encompassing gesture, “the pleasures of the country called to me, my dear.” The man’s rather beady eyes, sunk between puffs of flesh, fastened avariciously on her. “As I believe you know, my dear Miss Tregarth, I count meeting your fair self as one of those pleasures.”

  “Indeed?” The ice in Jacqueline’s tone would have quenched the pretensions of a satyr, but appeared to have little effect on Sir Godfrey.

  Eyeing the other man, Richard felt it safe to assume that Sir Godfrey was one of Jacqueline’s would-be suitors. Richard was about to step forward to Jacqueline’s side, but then in the same frigid tone, she stated, “Be that as it may, sir, I fear I must deprive you of my company as I really have far too much to do.” She gave a curt nod. “Good day, Sir Godfrey.”

  Sir Godfrey gaped like a landed trout.

  Jacqueline spun about, saw Richard waiting, a pair of buckles in his hand, and immediately laid her hand on his arm. “Get me away from here,” she muttered, “before I say something truly indefensible.”

  He smiled, all charm, but there was steel beneath. “With pleasure.” Without glancing at Sir Godfrey—now gobbling ineffectually behind her—Richard turned, and together, they continued down the line of stalls.

  Once she felt certain Sir Godfrey wasn’t following, she exhaled. “He’s such a puffed-up popinjay, I took pity and smiled on him once—just once—but that was all it took to fix his attention, apparently unalterably, on me. And before you ask, I have refused him—several times!”

  Richard chuckled. “In that coat, he truly is a popinjay. Does he always dress so brightly?”

  “His coat today, for him, is reserved. But I don’t want to talk about Sir Godfrey.” He was one who tried her patience to its limit. “That said, he hates feathers—they make him sneeze.” She pushed on Richard’s arm, directing him to their right. “Let’s go and view the animals.”

  His deep chuckle caressed her ears again—sending pleasant shivers down her spine—but he obliged and led her toward the area given over to the feathered and hairy.

  Once there, she drew her hand from his arm—not because she wanted to but because she knew she ought to. In perfect harmony—and needing no conversation to maintain that state—they strolled the long line of animals. Most were of little interest to her, but toward the end of the line, she came upon a group of four black ewes. She dallied, studying the beasts, then when the owner looked at her inquiringly—hopefully—she stepped forward and asked from where he hailed and what the size of his flock was, while she bent and ran her fingers through the sheep’s fleece. The wool was fine—as fine as any she’d come across.

  Straightening, she looked at the four sheep. “There’s someone I believe might be interested in these. I’ll find him and send him over.” She met the owner’s eyes. “I suggest you might want to hold them until he sees them. If he wants to add them to his flock, he’ll pay a good price.”

  The owner bobbed gratefully. “I’ll wait for him if I can. Your name, mistress?”

  “I’m Miss Tregarth of Nimway Hall, and the man I’ll send over is Farmer Higgs.”

  “Thank you, miss.” The owner beamed and bobbed again. “I’ll wait right here.”

  Jacqueline turned to find Richard watching. He arched one black brow. “Higgs?”

  She nodded as she joined him. “He’s been looking for some blacks for a while, but most have too-coarse fleece for his—and Martha’s and Mrs. Higgs’s—needs. Those”—she glanced back at the four sheep—“might be just what he’s looking for.”

  Richard swung around to return to the Higgses’ stall just as a gentleman came hurrying down the aisle, his protuberant gaze locked on Jacqueline.

  She saw him. Her eyes widened, and she stepped closer to Richard—almost into him.

  His protective instincts flared.

  To all appearances oblivious of Richard’s presence, the gentleman halted before Jacqueline and swept her an obsequious bow. He was more soberly dressed than Sir Godfrey, but his fixation on Jacqueline seemed every bit as acute. “My dear Miss Tregarth. Well met, my dear lady.”

  “Lord Wootton,” Jacqueline acknowledged, her tone flat.

  “My dear, my dear—I’m delighted to find you here!” A beaming smile wreathed his lordship’s face. “I knew you would come, and so, of course, I came, too—it will be my greatest delight to escort you around the stalls—”

  “Lord Wootton—”

  “No, no—I insist! A pretty lady such as yourself needs must be escorted, and who better to do so than one who has her best interests at heart, and who, moreover, wishes—”

  “My lord—”

  “Indeed! Just so!” Wootton beamed fit to burst. “That’s it, exactly, my dear. Why”—Wootton waved wildly—“the day is so fine and has only grown finer for me!” He prosed on, describing the wonders of his imagination.

  Richard had to admit he’d never seen or heard the like. He now fully comprehended Jacqueline’s aversion to would-be suitors.

  One glance at her face showed her jaw clenched tight; he suspected she was grinding her teeth.

  Then Wootton stated, “So you must allow me to know best and grant me the exquisite pleasure of escorting you through the marketplace.”

  “Lord Wootton!”

  “And I have reserved a room at the inn for a private nuncheon.” Undeterred, Wootton reached for Jacqueline’s elbow.

  She flinched back.

  Simultaneously, his features hardening, Richard stepped forward, partially
interposing himself between his over-eloquent lordship and the madman’s object of affection.

  Wootton’s grasping hand landed on Richard’s forearm.

  Wootton jumped as if scalded. Then stared as if he truly hadn’t noticed Richard—large and looming as he was—standing there.

  Richard nearly rolled his eyes but suppressed the impulse in favor of capturing and holding Wootton’s pale and now wide-eyed gaze. Letting menace seep into his voice, he stated, “I believe Miss Tregarth has been endeavoring to make clear to you that she has other calls on her time.”

  He glanced along his shoulder at Jacqueline, faintly arching his brows in question.

  Lips tight, Jacqueline confirmed his words with an exceedingly curt nod. “Indeed, my lord. I fear we must leave you to your own devices—forthwith.”

  Boldly, she claimed Richard’s arm, sternly quelling a frisson of reaction when he closed his hand, his palm warm and strong, over hers, anchoring her fingers on the fine fabric of his sleeve.

  Grace and majesty combined, he nodded to Wootton. “If you’ll excuse us, we must get on.”

  Richard swept her past Wootton and on; head high, she pretended not to notice his lordship’s goggling as he watched them go.

  Once they’d moved out of earshot, head still high, she explained, “I’ve never been able to get it through his head that I am simply not interested in being Lady Wootton.”

  “I now see what you meant about your decisions regarding such as he being easy—he’s plainly uninterested in being the husband of the guardian of Nimway Hall.”

  She tipped her head in acknowledgment. “Indeed.” She looked ahead. “And now we really must hurry and take word of those black sheep to Higgs.”

  Richard obligingly increased his pace.