So Randolph had stepped in to approve plans for the spring planting. And he had remained at Wyndport until the worst of the fever had passed. But the illness had postponed their inevitable confrontation over replacing Jackson.
He stared at the steadily falling rain.
When he got back, he must have a serious talk with his father. The man had long had a keen interest in agricultural reform, assuming a leading role in the management of Wyndport, adopting Coke’s successes, and devising experiments that led to his own. But his failing health would no longer permit him to monitor daily operations. He needed help.
Jackson was excellent at carrying out instructions, but he lacked the understanding and the decisiveness necessary to run a large estate on his own. His dithering would aggravate the situation if a crisis arose while the marquess was too ill to issue orders. Randolph had enough to do on his own estate. He didn’t have time to run Wyndport, especially if he must spend the Season in London.
So they must replace Jackson. The new steward would also have to oversee the manor staff and Wyndport’s other concerns. It would leave the marquess with nothing to do, but too many decisions had been delayed in recent months because Wyndport was ill and Randolph wasn’t available.
At least the delay at Wyndport had allowed him to spend time with Lord Sedgewick Wylie, who had been visiting his own father’s estate nearby. Sedge had been his closest friend since childhood, though they saw each other infrequently these days. Sedge had not only commiserated with him over Whitfield’s demands, but he’d volunteered to accompany him to Cumberland and provide moral support.
Randolph absently fingered his card case as a gust of wind shook the carriage.
Sedge’s presence had made the journey bearable despite frequent delays. In fact, it was the only thing keeping him sane. He couldn’t remember a wetter year. Even the turnpikes were muddy morasses, and side roads like this one were nearly impassable. The one-week trip had already stretched into two. He never wanted to see another raindrop. Or another mud-filled ditch. Or another ramshackle inn with poor service and worse food. Even the best room last night had offered poorer accommodations than his stable boys enjoyed at home.
Every new delay and every fresh discomfort had increased his trepidation. What if Whitfield or his father suffered a relapse while he was out of touch? Could he ever forgive himself if he was unavailable when needed?
But those were fears he carried with him wherever he went. It was the new ones that bothered him now. Whitfield’s insistence had raised a premonition of disaster that he had firmly ignored. But it lurked in a corner of his mind, prodding him each day and bursting into fresh dread when he had awakened this morning to the realization that it was the Ides of March.
He snorted at himself. Shakespeare aside, this day was no less propitious than any other. It was only the ceaseless rain that played on his nerves – and an aggravating suspicion that Whitfield had been less than forthright.
“What do you think happened to the baggage coach?” asked Sedge, abandoning his own perusal of the soggy countryside. They were climbing a gorse-covered ridge that afforded no protection from the wind, and they’d already squeezed past one mud flow that nearly closed the road. There was no way of knowing if worse lay ahead.
He shrugged. “Perhaps they passed us.” The suggestion was unlikely, of course, though he wanted to believe it. “They wouldn’t have expected to find us at the Swan and Garter. That was the worst inn yet.”
“Too true. There wasn’t even a wench to warm my bed.” Sedge laughed at the expression on Randolph’s face. “I do love to make you blush. But you need not chastise me. I wouldn’t have trusted anyone in that place anyway.”
“Nor I.” He sighed. “I hope the baggage coach was not cut off by that bridge problem.”
It was the first time either of them had uttered the fear they had shared since breakfast. A harness strap on the baggage coach had broken while changing horses the day before. That sort of repair usually took less than an hour, so Randolph had continued on, knowing their valets would catch up by evening. But they had not.
At breakfast, they had learned that a bridge had collapsed the previous afternoon – a bridge they had crossed after leaving the baggage coach. It was unlikely that anyone had been on it when floodwaters swept it away. But this corner of Cumberland was so inaccessible that negotiating the detour would take days, even if the weather cooperated.
“At least we have a change of clothing with us,” said Sedge, ever the optimist.
“Any idea which trunks are in the boot?” Rather than strap trunks onto the roof, they had split them between the boots of both coaches, again because of the weather. He hadn’t bothered unloading them last night. A small valise holding his razor and a fresh cravat had been all he’d needed.
Sedge shook his head.
“The way my luck has been running lately, mine will hold nothing but evening coats,” muttered Randolph, returning his gaze to the window.
“Or boots.” Sedge grinned. “Or a dozen shirts but no cravats.”
“Waistcoats and handkerchiefs.”
“Court dress and night caps.”
“Why would I pack court dress for a trip to Cumberland?”
“Books, then. You take those everywhere.” He shuddered delicately.
“Don’t turn that vacuous façade on me,” warned Randolph. “I know you too well. Your own trunk is just as likely to be crammed with books.”
“How dare you impugn my reputation as a care-for-naught?” Sedge demanded theatrically. “It will more likely be stuffed with quizzing glasses and an assortment of hats.”
“Or cravat pins and watch fobs.” Sedge had become the quintessential dandy in recent years, his style copied by half the young bucks in Town – along with his gestures, his apparent interests, and his bored drawl. Even long-established fribbles turned to him for leadership now that Brummell was gone.
“I would rather it held jewelry than a stack of nightshirts.”
“Or a collection of evening shoes.” Randolph’s light tone was suddenly forced. They had reached a narrow pass.
Too narrow. Rocky cliffs squeezed the carriage between them, their crumbling surfaces barely a yard away. A stand of pines clustered near the crest, entangling their branches overhead to plunge the coach into darkness.
He suppressed a shudder, fingering the card case to keep the breathlessness at bay.
Normally, carriage travel did not bother him, for his sported oversized windows that offered spectacular views of the countryside. But this pass closed them in as tightly as if they had driven into a cave.
The card case slid smoothly across his skin, twisting, turning, its jeweled surface cool under his stroking fingers. Its style was one he had seen nowhere else, so his grandmother must have commissioned it from her own design. She had presented it on his twenty-first birthday – her last gift, for she’d died only a month later, plunging the duke into a melancholy that had lasted nearly three years.
Randolph shifted his gaze to the other window.
Nothing but rock.
She had been the one person who had understood how much he hated being closed in. When they were together, her calm acceptance had helped hold his panic at bay. So the case had become a talisman, linking him with her calm, reminding him that one person had not considered him a freak. Over the years, the case had become his good luck piece, a charm that protected him from harm.
He needed it now. Rain whipped through the pass, propelled by swirling winds that threatened to slam them into a cliff wall. Lightning crackled, followed immediately by crashing thunder. The horses snorted in terror.
His thumb traced the jeweled design as John Coachman shouted encouragement to the team. He closed his eyes, visualizing how sunlight glinted on the bright colors that formed the Symington crest, recalling the love that had blazed in his grandmother’s eyes whenever she looked at him.
“We should have stopped when the rain worsened,” he said,
hoping Sedge would attribute his nervousness to concern over the weather. This creeping terror was unmanly, but no matter how hard he’d tried, he had never found a way to defeat it.
“But we are nearly there,” Sedge reminded him. “If that last ostler was right, it should only be a few more miles.”
“Which will take well over an hour. Longer if we have to dig the coach out of another ditch or clear mud from the roadway.”
Sedge laughed. “It has certainly been an instructive journey. How many ditches have we landed in?”
“Six,” he replied after a quick calculation. “These boots will never be the same.”
Another laugh. “I thought I was the dandy.”
“Unlike you, I only brought one other pair. And your imitators would be appalled if they could see you now.” Yet despite lacking both valet and a change of clothes, Sedge somehow contrived to look elegant. His own appearance would never compare. Even in the best of times, he preferred comfort to fashion. At the moment, between mud, rain, and this endless journey, he could easily be mistaken for a vagrant.
“Do you think Lady Elizabeth will do?” asked Sedge, changing the subject.
“I hope so, especially after we’ve put up with so much to get here. And she would spare me a miserable Season in Town.” He relaxed as the cliffs receded. They were heading downhill into a valley. Thick forest edged the road on this side of the ridge, but trees had never bothered him.
He spared a thought for John, who must be freezing despite having two cloaks, one of them made of nearly waterproof leather. And this latest team of job horses must be near exhaustion. They had already traveled four miles through rain and mire, most of it uphill.
“Don’t offer for the chit just to salvage a wretched journey,” warned Sedge, his usual undertone of laughter missing. “I guarantee I can find you a suitable bride in Town. Not everyone is hungry for a title.”
“I know, and my reasons for making this trip have nothing to do with Lady Elizabeth.”
“Ah, yes. The manuscript.”
“It is supposedly Chaucer’s original of ‘The Monk’s Tale’ from Canterbury Tales. Not even one of the first copies, but in his own hand.”
“How can you recognize his hand?” asked Sedge curiously.
“I have seen it before, on a letter with provenance back to the day he wrote it. And I’ve studied a page from ‘The Knight’s Tale’.”
“So you can talk to her without raising expectations.”
“Maybe.” He had not pointed out the flaw in Whitfield’s plot. How was he to learn anything about Lady Elizabeth without encouraging her to throw herself at his prospects? “How much can we converse without risk? She has lived here her entire life, isolated from Society. What will she do when faced with a high-ranking gentleman? Most girls would rather die than allow such an opportunity to slip through their fingers.”
“I will stay close,” promised Sedge. “Why else am I here?”
“To provide company on this interminable journey.” He met Sedge’s guileless grin. “Don’t think to fool me. You will stay close to protect your own hide.”
“Why would anyone look at a younger son when a future duke is at hand?”
“Fosdale has two daughters. And you are noted for your charm – to say nothing of possessing looks that cause even the most sophisticated chits to swoon, style copied by half of London, and a fortune nearly as large as mine.” He grinned as he repeated the litany he had heard more than one female utter. “And you are only one step removed from a marquessate. Reggie seems in no hurry to wed.”
Sedge frowned at the mention of his older brother, but turned the subject. “How much do you know about Fosdale?”
“Very little. Whitfield’s friend was the previous lord. I looked up the family while I was at Wyndport. The title dates back to Edward III. Fosdales have remained out of politics since the sixth earl lost favor with the crown for opposing Henry VIII’s divorce. The current earl is impoverished. He has not left Ravenswood since failing to attach an heiress back in ’93. He wed the daughter of a minor baron two months later.”
“It does not sound promising. What makes Whitfield believe Lady Elizabeth would suit?”
“He didn’t say. But there is always London.”
“Just stay clear of my mother and aunt until you get your bearings, though they will likely focus on me.”
“Don’t tell me you’re under pressure, too.”
Sedge released an exaggerated sigh that was nearly drowned when an enormous gust of wind hit the carriage as they emerged from the pine forest. “For years now. They are determined to set up someone’s nursery, but Reggie is not cooperating.”
Another blast of wind skidded the coach sideways. The stiff arms of a rowan scraped one window. John Coachman cursed.
“Are you all right?” Randolph opened the trapdoor. A torrent of rain slammed into his face.
“Just a scratch, my lord,” said John, adding more curses as another crash of thunder startled the horses. “The bridge is up ahead. Once we cross, the road is more open.”
“Which means worse wind,” grumbled Randolph, fastening the trap.
“Perhaps not,” countered Sedge as new gusts rattled the carriage. He was peering out the window. “It looks like an estate wall shelters the road.”
“Ravenswood?”
“One could hope.” Sedge’s hand clenched. “But can we make it across?”
“What now?” He shifted to look out Sedge’s window.
Wind lashed at the carriage. A loud crack announced that a tree had snapped nearby. But his eyes remained on the bridge as his fingers twisted the card case.
A triple arch of stone spanned the river. But the water was high – very high – and streaming across the approach in a foot-deep flood. The horses slowed to a tentative walk.
He swore.
“Is it safe?” asked Sedge, opening his window for a better view.
“I think so.” Randolph leaned out his own side, heedless of the wet. “It appears that the roadbed is also stone at this point. Perhaps flooding is common.”
“Steady, lads,” called the coachman. The leaders hesitated as they reached the water.
But Randolph’s attention was no longer fixed on the bridge. A horsewoman had appeared upstream, gingerly picking her way along the edge of the flood. What was she doing out in this storm? He had hardly formed the question when a wide section of bank collapsed, tossing her and the horse into the river.
He threw open the door and leaped from the coach.
“Where are you going?” demanded Sedge.
“A lady just fell in the water. If she is caught in the sidesaddle, she will drown. She might anyway if I cannot pull her out.” He tossed his card case back into the coach. “Keep that safe.”
Sedge was scrambling after him.
“Idiot!” hissed Randolph, his eyes riveted on the struggling woman. He nearly lost sight of her when the horse scrambled toward the bank. At least she was free of the saddle. “I can swim. You can’t. Fetch help.” Racing onto the bridge, he gauged the current, then dove in.
CHAPTER THREE
As the river closed over her head, Elizabeth fought down panic. She was free of the saddle and had learned to swim in childhood. Granted, her sole experience had been in the shallow lake at Ravenswood, but a river should not be that different.
Within one minute, she knew she was wrong. Struggling to the surface required every ounce of energy she could muster. The water was icy, numbing fingers and toes. Gasping for breath, she flailed toward the bank, but she could make no headway across the current. Nor could she catch any of the boulders strewn along the riverbed, she admitted grimly as her shoulder crashed into one, bouncing her toward the center of the stream. Her heavy clothing dragged her under. This time she came up retching.
Panic clawed at her mind. Her heart battered against her ribs. Submerged rocks created churning swirls that plucked at her woolen habit, pulling her down. Releasing her cloak helpe
d, but not enough.
Where was Aster? Had he also landed in the river, or had he regained solid ground? Not that it mattered beyond wondering if she must fear flailing hooves as well as sharp rocks.
Steady! Take a moment to plan. Don’t waste any energy. You’re going to need it all.
Blinking the water from her eyes, she looked around. The bridge loomed ahead. Reaching the bank was impossible, but perhaps she could catch one of the piers. She kicked toward her right, but the river was deeper here, with no rocks or even a bottom that she could push against.
The current tugged at her skirts, dragging her toward the center arch even as it tried to suck her into its deadly embrace. Yet she fought on. Lightning split the clouds. Thunder crashed an instant later, startling her even through the water clogging her ears.
The instinctive recoil drove her closer to a pier. Lunging, she scrabbled for a hold as something dark flashed past the corner of her eye. Then the greater darkness of the arched shadows blurred her vision. Barely a foot of clearance remained.
Stupid! She should have grabbed for the arch itself. Now it was too late, and she had missed the pier.
Her hands scraped rock and mortar, searching for a knob or crack that might slow her progress and give her a chance to escape, but she could gain no purchase. Shadow gave way to light. The bridge was behind her.
Cold, exhausted, and despairing, she ceased kicking. Water again closed over her head.
Fool! You aren’t dead yet!
She was fighting back toward the surface when something caught on her arm. Panicked, she twisted, clawing to escape. Swallowing water brought on a new bout of gagging and coughing. It took a moment to realize she was again sucking air.
“Relax!” barked a voice into her ear.
Her eyes flew open, meeting others of rich, chocolate brown.
“Catch your breath,” urged the gentleman. His hand gripped her arm. “I’ve got you safe.”
Another spasm of coughs bent her double. Before he could react, her habit dragged them both under. Her feet hit a boulder, so she pushed upward.
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