Allison Lane

by A Bird in Hand

  But why are you surprised? asked a voice in her head. You know he cares for nothing but himself.

  Yet his attitude went far beyond selfishness. His antagonism was so overt that she could no longer even think of him as her father. He had become an enemy. A stranger. Fosdale. Childish, perhaps, but she could no longer acknowledge the blood tie.

  She and Cecilia had been in the morning room when their mother entered the study across the hall. The study door had not latched, allowing them to overhear the entire exchange. Now they stood out of sight on either side of the doorway, their horrified eyes meeting across the opening.

  Lady Fosdale quietly closed the study door, slinking away like an abused dog. It was her typical reaction to orders from her husband. She was miserably unhappy in her marriage but lacked the backbone to stand up to Fosdale. Sometimes Elizabeth suspected that his sole purpose for denying her wishes was to break any hint of spirit that might have survived five-and-twenty years under his thumb.

  Cecilia silently closed the door to the morning room. “How can he accept Sir Lewis without even consulting me?” she hissed.

  “A rather silly question, don’t you think?” Elizabeth paced the floor. “He wants us off his hands and out of his purse as quickly as possible. Sir Lewis is available and genuinely cares for you. You are unlikely to find another suitor. You heard Fosdale. He will never take us to Town.”

  “I cannot wed Sir Lewis!”

  “Why? You get along well with him.”

  “Don’t you understand?” Her voice was rising, but a gesture dropped it back to a fierce whisper. “I will die if I stay in this godforsaken valley. I must see London. I must! I need Society’s excitement, its vivacity, its approval. I need to be with people of my own class. But Sir Lewis leaves his estate only to visit his mother in Carlisle. How can I survive even one more year of stultifying boredom, let alone a lifetime? Look at how we pass our days – skulking about the house with nothing to do, or drinking tea with village women who barely qualify as gentry. Even their conversation is boring, for they repeat the same stories over and over again. Merciful heavens! They still chatter about Peter Finchley eloping with Flora Matthews, and that happened two years ago!”

  Elizabeth had read enough London newspapers to know that visiting and gossip were the mainstay of Society everywhere. “London is no different,” she pointed out, hoping Cecilia would listen this time. Her complaints were old ones, but escaping the valley would change nothing. “From what I have read, ladies gossip in Town as well.”

  “Fustian! Who would waste time telling trite tales when there is so much to do? I must escape, Elizabeth. My beauty is wasted here. What good does it do to play the harpsichord like an angel or paint delightful watercolors when there is no one capable of appreciating my skill? In London, I would be a diamond, with gentlemen falling at my feet in droves. They would write poetry in my honor, overwhelm me with gifts, vie day and night for my favors. I would have at least three escorts to every party, dance until dawn in luxurious ballrooms, attend the races, ascend in balloons, drive with royalty. I would wed a handsome prince and live happily ever after, dashing the hopes of hundreds of beaux.”

  Her eyes had taken on a faraway expression that was all too familiar.

  Elizabeth bit back exasperation. She had heard this recital too often, but nothing could convince Cecilia that it was naught but imagination embroidering wishful thinking. “Pull your head out of the clouds, Cecilia. Reality rarely matches expectations, as you should know merely from watching Mother. She was just as beautiful as you, and her accomplishments were quite as spectacular. But like us, she lacked money and prestige. Has she ever attained a single dream?”

  Cecilia glared, unwilling to admit the truth, so Elizabeth did it for her.

  “Of course not. Nor will you if you do not pursue more realistic goals. London’s standards of behavior are far more rigid than we adhere to in the country. You would never be allowed to attend a race or risk your life in a balloon. Not that it matters. Fosdale will never take us to London, and if he has already accepted Sir Lewis’s offer, you will have no choice. Unless you agree, you will have to endure his wrath for the rest of your life.”

  She shuddered as she said the words, for it was precisely what she feared for her own future. So far, she had avoided a forced marriage. It had not been difficult, for poverty tied them to Ravenswood, and she had discouraged every eligible male in the area. No one was willing to put up with her.

  “Lewis hasn’t signed anything,” Cecilia reminded her, rebellion sparking in her eyes. “And Mama is right. I stand a far better chance of attracting Symington’s interest than you do. Why would a duke’s heir look at a bluestocking spinster whose countenance is so plain she would be considered an antidote in Town? I can offer beauty, charm, and every female accomplishment he could ever want. Thank God for Lady Mitchell’s illness. Lewis cannot return for at least a fortnight. By then I will be promised to another.”

  Elizabeth started to object, but Cecilia swept on.

  “It is perfect, Elizabeth! We will live in London and never see Cumberland again. You heard Papa. Symington is wealthy and heir to a great title. No more unfashionable gowns. No more antiquated carriages. No more pitying looks from merchants’ daughters whose wardrobes are newer than mine. I will be a duchess, with all the world at my feet! Imagine the power – and the good I could do for the less fortunate,” she added, abandoning her baser motives for the moment. Oddly enough, her generous gestures were every bit as genuine as her selfishness and blind stubbornness.

  “I see nothing wrong with flirting with him,” agreed Elizabeth. “He may fall madly in love with you.”

  “Of course he will!” She was back to her usual self. “Every gentleman I meet is smitten by my beauty. Symington will be no different.”

  “We all know that you are the local diamond. But be careful. Fawning will likely disgust him. London gentlemen dislike girls who are too coming. The heir to a duchy will be accustomed to girls who throw themselves at his title. If you act like every other scheming miss, he will brush you aside without a second look.”

  Cecilia frowned.

  “And you had best not let Fosdale suspect your plans, or he will lock you in the attic until Symington leaves,” Elizabeth added.

  For once Cecilia did not protest the warning. They had both heard the determination in his voice. “I will wed him,” she vowed, grasping the door handle. “And you will do nothing to stop me. You have to admit that you don’t want him.”

  Elizabeth gave up. “As you wish. But at least take the time to honestly consider the future. You have always liked Sir Lewis. He cares about your happiness and will make a devoted husband. Symington might prove to be an ogre, no matter how dazzling his wealth and status.”

  Anger flared, but Cecilia suppressed it. “Very well.”

  Elizabeth grimaced. Calculation had remained in Cecilia’s eyes. But it really wasn’t her affair. She had done her best to point out the difference between fantasy and reality, but Cecilia’s dreams were too deeply embedded. As was her skepticism.

  Since neither of them had traveled beyond Cumberland, Elizabeth’s voice carried no more authority than if they had been discussing the exact population of heaven or the fashions currently popular in China. And Cecilia considered herself irresistible. Elizabeth could only pray that the girl would do nothing stupid. Trickery would lead to the same barren existence that plagued their mother.

  She sighed.

  Cecilia considered London a glittering paradise. Her imagination had woven twisted images of Society into a vision of opulence, frivolity, and male adoration that could not possibly be true. Her success with area beaux made her think she was a modern Helen of Troy, capable of inciting wars – or at least duels – and winning the devotion of every gentleman she met. Rejected suitors would dedicate their lives to mourning their loss.

  Such improbable fantasies were absurd, of course, but Elizabeth did not have time to tilt at Cecilia�
��s delusions today. Her own problems were too critical.

  Fosdale was not stupid. Tying her to Symington would require a compromise and could only be accomplished within minutes of the guest’s arrival, for he must know that she would be on her guard as soon as she recognized his motives.

  She had no intention of marrying anyone. Her mother was miserable – reason enough to distrust so permanent a union. The fact that a wife had no control over any aspect of her life merely confirmed her antipathy. Marriage was not for her. Let Cecilia have Symington.

  She had already planned her own future, for remaining under Fosdale’s control was equally repugnant. Yet she needed more time to escape. She had not yet amassed the wherewithal to support herself.

  She paced the floor as she considered her dilemma. The suggestion that Fosdale might lock Cecilia up so he could foist Elizabeth on Symington was no joke. He would never allow interference with his schemes – especially by a female. With Cecilia around, no gentleman would even look at Elizabeth, which was another reason he would strike the instant Symington appeared. She wouldn’t put it past him to lock them in a room together, then cry rape.

  So how was she to escape?

  She took another turn about the room. Symington was calling to buy the Chaucer, so he would not stay long. She stifled a shudder at the loss, for she had no chance of preventing its sale. Fosdale had no interest in books.

  Keep your mind on business! The situation was too critical to permit sidetracking.

  Idiot! Her feet came to an abrupt halt.

  The solution was so obvious that she swore at herself for not seeing it sooner. If she was not here, then no one could trap her, and Fosdale would not object to Cecilia’s flirting. She need only stay away for a week. By then, Symington would either be gone or in love with Cecilia.

  Her great-aunt lived on her uncle’s estate in the next valley. Uncle Jason’s family was in Carlisle for the winter, and no one had checked on Aunt Constance in nearly a month. How was the woman enduring this endless rain? Calling would raise no questions, particularly if she left without discussing it first.

  It was perfect. More than perfect, she realized when she noted that the rain had actually stopped falling. Dry skies would explain her precipitous departure, for sunshine was becoming a rare sight.

  Her mother would shut herself in her sitting room for the remainder of the day, as she always did after a confrontation with Fosdale. He would stay in his study, plotting to rid himself of an unwanted daughter. Cecilia would be perusing her wardrobe, planning her own campaign. It would be hours before anyone missed her.

  Satisfied, she packed a bandbox and called for her horse.

  CHAPTER TWO

  A fortnight later, Elizabeth pulled her hood lower as Aster picked a careful way along the path. Little had gone right since she’d fled Ravenswood.

  Today it was the weather. It had seemed to be clearing when she’d left Bornhill Park. Instead, the storm had roared back in, stronger than ever, with freezing gales and heavy rain.

  She shivered, resisting the urge to hurry lest Aster slip on this steep slope. Heather and gorse covered the mountainside, offering no shelter, though once she reached the valley, trees would protect her from the coldest air. Maybe. Wind screamed through the pines below, whipping their supple tops as if they were stalks of grain, sending waves rippling across the stand that made it resemble a lake.

  The path dropped into a fold. Birches shook their bare branches, rattling like the bony fingers that figured so prominently in Uncle Jason’s ghost stories. Or like the clicking needles of a thousand demented knitters fashioning a shroud around her living body.

  Don’t be so fanciful. It was the scent that had raised that last image. The air was ripe with rotting leaves and damp soil, just as it had been the day they had buried her grandfather.

  The premonition of danger that had assailed her for the past hour was merely the product of the same vivid imagination that had cursed her for years, she reminded herself, hunching deeper into her cloak. Sights. Sounds. Smells. All arose from the storm. It was annoying, of course, for the cold wind cut through her clothing as if it did not exist. But it could not harm her.

  She had been away longer than she’d originally planned, but that was good. Even if this relentless weather had delayed Symington’s arrival, he would be long gone by now. She would have heard if Cecilia had snared him.

  Fosdale had been incensed at her escape, of course, sending a strongly worded command that she return home immediately. She had refused. And fate had smiled on her, for he could hardly chastise her decision. When she’d arrived at Bornhill Park’s dower house, she had found Aunt Constance abed with a debilitating chill. The superstitious staff had been dosing her with concoctions that were worsening her condition.

  Elizabeth had sent the footman back to Ravenswood with a note that described Constance’s illness and hinted that the lady had summoned her niece to provide proper care. No doctor served this remote part of Cumberland, so Elizabeth’s knowledge of herbs and her skill in treating injuries made her the logical person to call on in times of need. She had even helped the midwife on occasion, though Fosdale remained ignorant of that last activity. Since innocent maidens were not supposed to know about such earthy subjects, her expertise was another means of discouraging unwanted suitors.

  Proper food and the discontinuance of buckbeans and cobweb pills had eased Constance’s nausea. Bark teas, licorice, and a well-heated room soon had her back on her feet. With no further excuse for staying, Elizabeth had headed home, acutely conscious that time was pressing. If she had known the visit would last this long, she would have brought some of her work with her.

  She shivered as another gust of wind raced down the mountain to slam into her side. Aster staggered. If only it would stop raining. But the clouds showed no sign of dissipating.

  Incessant rain was not uncommon, particularly in spring, but this year the storms had been longer and stronger than ever before. Even the oldest of the village residents could recall nothing like it. Streams that usually bubbled now roared, racing with frightening power down the slopes. Rivulets appeared in new places, waterfalls thundered, wind-whipped trees dropped branches or toppled altogether. She had already passed several places where rock and mud had broken loose from hillsides, blocking paths or sweeping them away.

  She reached the pines that clustered along the river, then turned downstream. Aster’s hoof sank fetlock-deep in mud. Before setting out, she should have made sure that the clouds were really thinning, but she had been too anxious to reach Ravenswood.

  Another blast of wind made her shiver. She had been foolish to believe that she would come to no harm outdoors. The storm’s fury was building to new heights. Could she safely continue, or should she seek shelter?

  Urging Aster onto stonier ground, she mulled her options. No one lived on this side of the river, though Sadie Deacon had a cottage on the other side a mile below the bridge. But that was a mile out of her way. Ravenswood’s park was opposite where she stood, with the house only two miles beyond the bridge. The park wall would protect her from the wind for half that distance. She couldn’t stay here. The only shelter she had passed since cresting the ridge was an empty shepherd’s hut half an hour ago, but it was uphill, exposed to the full fury of the wind. In the worsening storm, it would take nearly an hour to reach it – if she could at all. Away from the trees, even Aster might make no headway.

  So Ravenswood must be her goal.

  A tree crashed somewhere to her left, reminding her that the forest presented its own dangers. Aster readily broke into a trot. He was a steady mount, but the storm was making him nervous.

  If only it hadn’t rained so long. The house was barely half a mile from where she rode. She had often forded the river along here, for it usually spread across a thirty-foot bed as it picked its way around myriad boulders. But today, water topped the high bank, raging far beyond its usual bounds in its race to the sea.

  By
the time she reached the last bend before the bridge, the path was gone. The flood had picked up speed, gouging away the bank and devouring the path, part of a meadow, and everything else in its way.

  She retreated toward the trees, choosing the rockiest ground to improve Aster’s footing.

  “Damnation!”

  A boulder toppled into the torrent as rapacious water consumed another chunk of land. Even as she swerved farther from the river, ten feet of ground collapsed beneath Aster’s hooves. He screamed.

  For once, she ignored his predicament, fighting to free herself from the sidesaddle. Too many ladies suffered injuries from being trapped when a horse went down. And she might become one of them, she admitted grimly, ripping at her habit skirt, which was caught on the leg rest.

  Aster plunged and twisted in a frantic attempt to regain his footing. The motion threw her hard to the right, freeing her leg. But her shout of relief was lost as muddy water closed over her head. She sent up a brief prayer of thanks that poverty had prevented her from trying that newfangled leaping head – which would have locked both legs in place – then struck out for the surface.

  * * * *

  Randolph cursed his grandfather as he stared out the carriage window. Why couldn’t he have proposed this journey during the summer when the weather would be reasonable? Nothing had gone right since he’d left the duke’s bedroom.

  In his haste to get this errand behind him as quickly as possible, he’d overstepped on the stairs and fallen. The resulting bruises kept him in bed for three days. But at least the delay had set his immediate fears for Whitfield’s health to rest. The duke had appeared to be much better when he had taken his final leave. So the doctor had been right – not that it would release him from his promise.

  He sighed.

  His brief stop at Wyndport had stretched into more than a week. Ever since the accident, the marquess had suffered one ailment after another. This time it was a fever that kept him muttering deliriously about ghosts and other spirits he alone could see.