If the villains didn’t succeed in driving her away, they might set fire to Theo’s manufactory. That would guarantee he gave up and abandoned the estate. Incinerating the Hall would scatter everyone to the winds. Aster could barely contain her horror at the choice before her.
She had to leave to save those she loved. Again. She didn’t think she could bear it.
“Theo and William are holding the ground between the men in torches and the manufactory and barn,” Hugh reported. “The grooms have just saddled up. It will take them time to reach Mr. Browne.”
While Theo battled rioters, stealthy invaders crept up on the house. It was too medieval to make sense—except in the terms Dunstan laid out. With her gone, her father would abandon Duncan and any upcoming election.
“Everyone knows I don’t ride,” Aster said, attempting to find another solution besides fleeing. “They can’t expect me to just up and run away if they start shooting at windows.”
“They don’t realize that you know they’re there, so, no, they don’t expect you to ride out. They don’t want to rouse the household. They want to frighten us, perhaps do something so appalling that we’ll leave and never come back. I think I’ll sit on the portico with a shotgun,” Duncan said grimly.
The notion of blind Duncan with a shotgun was appalling enough. Desperately, Aster sought other solutions. “If they see me leave in a carriage, would they go away? Perhaps if I didn’t come back . . . ?”
Hugh turned, looking shocked. “You wouldn’t do that!”
Well, yes, she would and had. Her younger siblings had survived and become used to her absence by now. The twins would, too.
But this time, she was resisting the idea. She watched Duncan hopefully. He didn’t have her family’s strong belief in her gift. Surely he wouldn’t believe sending her away was a solution.
“Be the mother duck who leads the predators astray?” Duncan asked with his dreadful intellectual interest. “It would be dangerous.”
And Theo would die a thousand deaths if he knew what she was about. He might never forgive her.
“I don’t think we can trust the difference between assassination and catastrophe,” Duncan concluded dryly. “You’re safer behind stone walls.”
“I’ll go out and sneak up on them,” Hugh declared bravely. “Maybe I can tell who it is or hear what they mean to do.”
“No!” both Duncan and Aster said together.
“The grooms will warn Mr. Browne,” Aster continued. “He’ll come back and catch them by surprise. They won’t expect that.”
That satisfied Hugh. She could tell it didn’t satisfy Duncan, who was clutching his fingers so tightly his knuckles had turned white.
It didn’t satisfy her either, not when danger and violence hung over her head.
If Uranus had corrected the inexplicable parts of her chart—altering everything she’d believed—could it mean that she was meant to change?
Her heart pounded as she considered this switch in perspective.
Instead of limiting her possibilities by staying safe and alone in her home, perhaps her chart meant she was to go out and conquer the dangers, not hide from them? That would be an abrupt about-face, but acting instead of running . . . She took a deep breath to steady herself.
If the Uranus in her chart meant she should take action against danger instead of running from it—what could she do? The list of things she couldn’t do was infinite.
Thirty-one
“Where is Jacques?” Aster demanded as an intriguing notion occurred, brought on by Hugh’s brave suggestion that they learn who the invaders were.
“He’s guarding the back door. The front is bolted and I’ve ordered a guard seated at it with a shotgun and pistols,” Duncan said as if he were ordering fish for dinner.
Aster wrinkled her nose at the idea of weapons in the foyer, but she would need to learn to live with male reactions to trouble—another possible Uranian change in her life. Studying men would be fascinating, if only all the changes would give her time to observe instead of causing her to run in circles of terror.
For herself, she preferred a more peaceable response than weapons. “I’ll need Jacques’ help. I’ll send Hartley to you, and he can serve as messenger. James can take over Jacques’ guard duties.”
She left before Duncan could protest. He would most certainly object if she described what she meant to do. Her vague notion wasn’t much more practical than sending sneaky horsemen to the house to scare her. By doing what? Burning the Hall? Shouting threats? Table-turning seemed logical, if she could think of something suitably scary.
She sent Hartley to his father, and gesturing for the footman to follow her, she hurried downstairs. She found Jacques with his boots propped on a table, reading a stack of paper. A pistol and gunpowder rested on the table, easily at hand—giving her still another idea. She really was good at adapting, wasn’t she? She’d thank Uranus for that too. She should start looking for the positive aspects suggested by the new planet.
Jacques shoved the papers in a drawer and stood up. “You’re not thinking of going out there, are you?” he asked warily. “Theo would cut my head off at the groin if I allowed it.”
Aster laughed at his crude expression and helped herself to the gunpowder bag. She brushed right past him, knowing gentle Jacques wouldn’t lay a finger on her. “I’ll take care of Theo. We’re about to make what I believe is a reconnaissance mission, and stage . . . what is it the military calls a diversion?”
“A diversion,” Jacques said dryly.
“We need brooms and cloaks. James, will you gather what you can find as quickly as you can and carry them to the stable? Be very quiet, please.” Aster hurried into the starlit night, clutching the bag of explosive powder. The moon was low, but the gravel reflected enough light to find her path. “I don’t suppose you have any of your gas sconces out here?”
“We do,” Jacques said, gazing around as if expecting soldiers to leap from the nonexistent bushes. “We used to light up the drive for parties. Haven’t lit them in ages, but they operate off the same coal as in the house.”
Aster smiled in delight. “Do you think you could figure out how to turn them on?”
“As boys, we turned them on so we could play outside at night—until our father caught us. I assume they’re still connected. What are you plotting?”
“I noticed that while he was here, Erran was experimenting with a machine for tying hay into squares for storage in the stable.” She had thought it an odd occupation for a lawyer at the time, but he seemed happier playing with wire than sitting in the house.
“Erran was trying to help out by creating a hay press. It’s stationary, so we can’t take it from field to field, which makes it pretty useless, but the bales are easier to haul and store. And in this wet weather, we needed dry storage, why?” He halted at the trough.
“Do you know the opening scene to Macbeth?” she asked, eyeing the lovely stacks of hay just recently hauled in and not yet stored.
“I have it memorized. Want me to find a cauldron and eye of newt?”
“That would be entertaining, too.” She turned as James came running with an armful of brooms and cloaks. “But a stage production with flaming torches, brooms stuck in hay bales, a few cloaks . . . Those men out there think I’m a witch. Can you produce a witchy scene?”
She could almost feel Jacques light up as his imagination caught fire.
“I have no idea what it will accomplish, but I can do that,” he agreed. He grabbed a handful of the fabric James was carrying and swung it dramatically. “More wind would be helpful.”
“Knowing who is down the road and what they’re saying would be more helpful.” Aster took a cloak for herself, disguising her hair beneath a hood and draping the cloak over her clothing so she might blend in with the night. “Stage your scene with the haystacks. The intruders are coming up the bridge path from town, so make your witches visible from that direction, please. Light the torches when
you hear me chanting.”
“You’re not heading down there alone!” Jacques cried, his delight dissipating with alarm.
She shrugged. “I’m small and quiet and they won’t even know I’m there. The hedge is thick. I just want to listen, I promise.”
She ran off, knowing Jacques wasn’t Theo and wouldn’t sling her over his shoulder and bodily haul her back to the house. She loved that her husband wanted to shield her from harm, but he needed to learn that he wasn’t the only one with a duty to protect others.
And this time, she would defend her family by meeting trouble instead of running from it. If she had been limiting her possibilities by staying safe at home, then change meant she must go out and conquer the dangers instead. The ability to act filled her with excitement. No wonder Theo preferred to just do rather than dither as she often did. She must overcome the debilitating effect of fear.
Taking action offered exciting freedom.
The grass was lush from the summer rain. Her slippers scarcely made a sound as she hurried along, blending in with the darkness of the hedgerow, disturbing the creatures who lived there. They rustled and scattered, but her attention was more on the murmur of voices emerging from the lane. They were leading their horses, so the soft plod of their hooves in the mud wouldn’t be heard from the Hall. She couldn’t peer over the hedge to see more.
She should be terrified, but she was simply furious. If these were the men who had harmed Duncan and forced Theo into a position he despised, she’d like to see them drawn and quartered. She realized it was impossible to prove what had happened the night Duncan’s horse had thrown him—but she could prove what was happening tonight.
When the voices rose more loudly from the far side of the hedge, she slowed down, wary of snapping twigs. But the intruders were making more noise than she was.
“They won’t let me past the front door,” a vaguely familiar voice whined. “You should have sent someone else.”
“There ain’t anyone else we can trust,” a less educated voice growled in response. “Just be convincing, tell her Miss Caldwell needs help, get her out in the open. And we’ve got Maeve going to the back door. Even if you don’t sway her, her maids will come running, and she’ll believe them.”
“I don’t like it,” the familiar voice whined. “Theo will kill me. You should have sent Margaret. They’ll believe her.”
“You ain’t got nothin’ to worry about. His lordship won’t know who was at the door. You just get the lady out where we can take her. Once he talks with her all nice like, she’ll run back to town where she belongs.”
Aster shivered. She had no doubt they were talking of her, but who was the person meant to persuade her into running away?
“He’ll never talk her out of leaving all this wealth,” the whiny gentleman continued. “He’s better off burning the Hall or crippling Theo the way he did Ashford.”
Aster stifled a gasp and grabbed a tree branch to steady herself. She should have brought a stout hoe and beat them over the head! Who the devil was this murderous “he” who apparently wasn’t with them?
“Burning the manufactory can be blamed on the rioters. Another accident would be too suspicious,” another voice joined in. “We just want to discourage bringing in any more ladies with powerful families. His lordship’s bewitched now, but he’ll give up if she’s not around. We talked it all out, and this is the plan. Don’t go backing out now, Montfort.”
Ah! She remembered the drunken young man Theo had popped in the nose. Most excellent. Now she had a name, and Theo could ask questions later.
She really would like to know what kind of story they’d concocted that they could possibly believe she would leave Theo over it, but she’d heard enough. Bewitched! She almost laughed aloud at that. If they believed anything of the sort, they deserved what she’d planned for them—and more.
Picking up the heavy cloak, she ran back toward the stable. A fox dashed out in front of her, and she squeaked in alarm, cursing herself even as she did so.
“What’s that?” one of the intruders asked nervously.
She froze as the horses halted. An owl hooted, and she could almost hear the intruders exhale in relief. Or perhaps that was her.
“Just critters,” the leader scoffed. “Come on.”
She wanted to whoop and cackle and scare them more, but she was too close. Reacting instead of hiding didn’t mean putting herself in danger. Now that she knew a little more, she picked up her skirt and ran.
The horsemen would have to break cover when they reached the open stable yard. She wanted to be in place before then.
How dare the monsters think they’d frighten her!
She wished she had one of Theo’s telescopes so she could see where the grooms were. She had no doubt that Theo would come running if he thought the Hall was in danger, but that would mean he’d have to sacrifice his manufactory to the rioters. She’d rather catch these predators on her own and leave Theo to save his livelihood.
As she entered the yard, she observed Jacques’ stage setting with approval. He had set up the hay, broom sticks, and cloaks just as she’d hoped. Once turned on, the gas torches would create as much shadow as light, and the straw “witches” would loom spookily. She smiled at the superstitious fools who had given her this notion.
Locating a pitchfork, she stationed herself at the bottom of the ladder the men used to climb up to the loft, waiting for the low murmur of male voices approaching. From the Hall, she heard a knocking and calling at the servants’ door—Maeve? Aster hoped their malicious ex-tenant had a good view of the stable to frighten her into the next county.
Once she heard the clop of horses, she assumed the invaders could hear her. She summoned the Latin she’d learned in order to read her family’s older journals and began loudly intoning passages of nonsense. Jacques’s shadow immediately appeared at the corner. She waved at him and began climbing the ladder, pitchfork and gunpowder in hand. The climb was awkward with the cloak dragging and her skirts wrapping around her ankles, but she was furious enough to scale mountains.
The breeze was chillier on the roof, but she had the heavy wool cloak for warmth. Aster chanted louder, giving her voice depth and direction, delighting in the farce. Maybe she was meant to be a witch. She laughed wickedly at the thought—just as the small group of men and horses entered the open yard. Perfect timing! They froze at her cackle of laughter and glanced around, searching for the source.
She threw more Latin at them, just as the gas torches abruptly flared on. The flames illuminated the stable yard in flickering shadows, casting the haystack witches into threatening flares of dark and light. Jacques had set his stage with the cloaked hay and broomsticks perfectly, creating wonderfully eerie figures. For emphasis, Aster shouted louder nonsense and waved the pitchfork, as if she were truly casting spells.
The horses whickered and stamped nervously. Laughing as maniacally as she could, Aster took a handful of gunpowder from the pouch and scattered it in the direction of the torches below. Her father—with his love of fireworks—had used this prank on more than one occasion.
The powder hit the flames and popped. In a dramatic stage voice, Jacques began chanting what sounded very much like . . . toil and trouble, fire burn and cauldron bubble. Trying not to laugh, Aster pointed her pitchfork at the men and cursed in more incomprehensible Latin, flinging another handful of gunpowder.
The torches theatrically popped and flared, and terrified, the intruders leapt for their horses. The gentleman in the tall hat led the way.
“Call me a witch, will you?” she cackled after their retreating backs.
***
Theo sat astride his horse, William beside him, holding off what appeared to be several dozen angry farmers bearing torches. He didn’t recognize the blackened faces of the ringleaders shouting strident war cries about injustice.
He had a rifle and knew how to use it. He didn’t want to. These could be his neighbors and tenants. They almost cer
tainly had families. But his workers would lose their employment if the manufactory burned. They had families to feed. He was torn.
“I can sic the hounds on them,” William suggested dubiously.
“They have pitchforks. I don’t want dumb animals hurt any more than dumb people,” Theo replied. His sarcasm seeped through.
“You sit up there in your fancy Hall, eating feasts, while our families starve!” shouted one of the soot-coated leaders.
Theo felt a chill of unease.
Aster had said both the manufactory and the Hall were in danger. Surely, they wouldn’t . . . ? He glanced over his shoulder to his home standing like a rock in the distance. He couldn’t see more than the tower crenellations.
Her predictions were absurd . . . except when they weren’t.
The Hall could withstand armies.
His family couldn’t. His family. Aster. The twins. Duncan. All helpless. While he was down here guarding a damned building. If Aster was right . . .
Aster had been right about everything else.
Fighting back a wave of terror, Theo gathered up his reins. Superstition or not, he had to believe her. “Shoot anyone who carries a torch anywhere near the manufactory. The Hall is in danger. I have to go back.”
He kicked his gelding into a gallop, slowing only to order Browne and his tenants to divide in half—half to William and half to the Hall. If he lost buildings because he’d believed Aster’s prediction instead of the danger right before his eyes, so be it. He’d rather take that chance than risk losing his family.
Theo was pretty certain his heart stopped beating as he rode over the hill to see the gas torches flare on at the Hall.
He damned well stopped breathing when he saw the lone figure on the stable roof—Aster. He’d recognize her even if she’d been wrapped up as a mummy. He would kill her—if she didn’t kill him first. What the devil was she about, flinging a cloak and pitchfork and shouting like a bedlamite? He scanned the yard, looking for an enemy.
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