Harold was her best friend, her only friend here at Gisborn Hall. Her girlfriends were married now. In love with their husbands, she thought suddenly, her mind going back to last night when Henry had been so ... loving. Her heart clutched just then. Would he ever feel for her what he felt for Sarah? Would he ever only think of her when they made love? Only think of her in the morning when they were in the breakfast room? Only think of her when they were having tea, when he would reach out and give her a quick kiss on the cheek while she poured? He had done that just the day before yesterday. And then Harold had to lift his big, hairy head and regard her poor husband with that look that suggested he had best leave his mistress alone.
Harold!
Was that him? She hurried toward a brown and white mass nestled against a small hillock at the far end of the field. Sounds of flowing water came from beyond the hill. The river? she wondered, surprised she had come so far. The river marked the back border of the earl’s lands! This was very close to the place they’d found Nathan. Nearly running, she called out Harold’s name. A puff of white cleared from in front of her face when she finally knelt next to the hairy beast. “Oh, Harold, is this where you’ve been all day?” she asked in exasperation, her gloved hand stroking the long hair. “Nathan knows better than to come back here alone,” she chided him.
When Harold didn’t move, she crawled to where his head rested on the ground. There was no evidence of trauma, no sign he’d been hurt. But his body didn’t move. No white puffs appeared near his head. “Oh, Harold, no,” she whispered, tears welling up even before she fully realized what had happened. Why didn’t he move? Why did he come here? He was old, of course. Far older than any dog his age had a right to be. But here? Now? She could not bear to believe Harold was ... gone.
Hannah pulled a glove off her hand, burying her fingers into the downy fur at his neck. He couldn’t have been dead long, she thought. He was still warm. Collapsing onto his body, one hand stroking his ear, she burst into tears. “No,” she cried, a hiccup interrupting her plea. She continued to weep as sobs shook her entire body. How could her only friend in the entire world die? Never had she felt so alone. Never had she felt so bereft. She couldn’t remember feeling this much despair when her mother died, but she must have, she thought. Even when a modicum of sense told her she was a countess and shouldn’t be prone on the body of her deceased dog, Hannah continued to cry until exhaustion and cold took their toll. Before long, she fell into a fitful sleep.
“Pray it doesn’t rain tomorrow, Mrs. Batey,” Henry said with a grin as he allowed his valet to help him remove his greatcoat. “With any luck, we’ll get a better start on the center irrigation ditch.” His nose was a bit red from the chilly air, but he was obviously happy at the progress the team of laborers had made that day on the greenhouses.
The earl seemed in such good spirits, the housekeeper wondered if she should keep her concern for the countess to herself. But Henry Forster knew something was wrong even before she answered his greeting. “What is it? What’s happened?” he asked, a bit of urgency in his voice.
Mrs. Batey rung her hands together. “May be nuthin’, milord,” she replied with a shake of her head. “But ... Lady Gisborn hasn’t returned. And from the looks of your coat, it’s gotten even colder out there.” A flurry of snowflakes had sailed off Henry’s coat as Murphy removed it from his shoulders.
Henry eyed the housekeeper with an arched eyebrow. “Hasn’t returned from ... where?” he wondered. Hannah hadn’t said anything about making calls. She didn’t yet know many people in the area. And it was far too cold to be out delivering food to the two infirm women she’d made deliveries to just a few days ago.
“I don’t know,” Mrs. Batey replied, her hands now held out on either side of her plump body. “She was looking for the dog, you see, and when she couldn’t find him in the house, she got dressed for the weather and left. And no one has seen her come back.” The old woman looked as if she was about to cry.
Panic gripped Henry. If she was with Harold, he wouldn’t be overly concerned about Hannah, but if she was out looking for the dog ... where would Harold have gone?
Sarah’s.
Henry took his greatcoat from a surprised Murphy and tossed it over his shoulders, the capes swirling as they settled onto his frame. “I think I may know where they’ve gone. Tell Billy to keep my horse saddled, though,” he ordered before hurrying through the vestibule and out the front doors. It would be twilight shortly. Surely Hannah would know enough to come home before darkness settled over the estate, before the cold and snowfall worsened.
Forcing himself to remain calm, Henry merely walked to Sarah’s house, his strides a bit longer than normal. The windows were lit with lamplight, and the chimney emitted a curl of smoke laced with the scent of herbs. Although it was his right to simply enter the dower house, he knocked, calling out Sarah’s name. When she opened the door, a hint of surprise showing on her face, she curtsied. “You haven’t found the dog yet?” she wondered, saying the words before waving him to enter.
Henry shook his head, realizing just then that Hannah’s search for the dog probably started at the dower house. “Actually, I was looking for Lady Gisborn. Is she here?” he asked, suddenly thinking he sounded like a jealous husband who didn’t want his wife and his lover to socialize.
Sarah’s eyes widened in alarm. “Oh, Gisborn,” she breathed, one hand going to her chest. Nathan appeared next to her, his face lighting up when he realized his father had come to call.
“Hello, son,” Henry said as he held out his right hand. The boy took it and shook it firmly.
“Did Lady Gisborn find Harold?” the boy asked. “Andrew said she was real worried when she asked where he went off to.” There was a hint of excitement in his voice. “I thought he might be here when I got home from my tutor’s, but mum says he didn’t pay us a visit today.”
“Shush, Nathan,” Sarah said, her hand reaching out to hold onto her son’s shoulder.
“Where did Harold go off to?” Henry queried, the sensation of panic gripping him again. It would be dark soon. It was getting colder, and more snow was falling.
“Andrew said he was heading through the field. Like he was going to where I was playing yesterday,” he added with a guilty grin. “Can I come with you?”
Sarah held onto her son’s shoulder more tightly, her knuckles whitening with the pressure. “You’re staying here, Nathan. I’ll not have you out there in this weather,” she said more to Henry than to her son.
Before Sarah even finished her statement, Henry took his leave of the dower house and was off at a run, heading back toward the stables. How long had Hannah been gone? If she’d found Harold, why wasn’t he back at the house? Or had she stumbled? Hurt her ankle in a rabbit hole? Was she lying in the field somewhere, covered with snow and freezing to death?
Billy stood holding the reins of his horse, his slight body shivering in the growing gloom. “Good evenin’, guv’nor,” the groom said as Henry acknowledged him with a nod, grabbed the reins and mounted Thunder all in one smooth move. And then he was off, spurring his horse into the field. Despite the grayness of twilight and the slight covering of snow, he could make out the path they had followed through the newly plowed field the day before.
Occasionally pausing to call out Hannah’s name and scan the horizon for signs of her or Harold, Henry felt his panic turn to fear. What could have happened? He was almost to the river. Certainly she wouldn’t have gone to the river.
Unless she was running away.
No, she couldn’t. She wouldn’t leave him. He was sure of that. Not after last night. Not after the night they had spent together. Not after the way she had responded to his kisses, to the way he’d made love to her, to the way he’d held her afterwards as if she were the most important thing in his world.
Which she was.
Barely aware of his last thought, Henry caught sight of an arc of jet black against the stark white of snow that covered the
side of the hillock separating the field from the trees at the river’s edge. He slowed his mount, allowing the horse to pick his way carefully to the mound.
Good, God! He was off his horse and kneeling next to Hannah even before he was quite sure it was her. One of her hands seemed embedded in something; in the growing darkness, it took him a moment to realize Harold was under her. He pulled her body up and against his, a bit relieved to feel warmth on the front side of her body but aware that her back had been exposed to the cold for some time. “Hannah, my love,” he whispered, his lips seeking her throat. He felt the pulse there and breathed in relief.
“Harold,” he heard in a faint whisper. Hannah’s eyelids were wet, as if she’d been crying. Henry regarded the mass of fur for a moment. Too still to be asleep, Harold lay on his side with his eyes closed. Henry was aware of what must have happened even before he felt the dog for any signs of life. Harold had come back to the mound to die. Back to the place very near to where he’d rescued Nathan. Where Nathan had nearly died.
Realizing he could do nothing for the dog, Henry cradled Hannah in his arms. Her eyes were still closed, her body too chilled and her breathing so slight she seemed lifeless. Holding her tightly against the front of his body, he carefully mounted his horse. He wrapped his coat around her as best he could before digging his heels into the horse. The stallion set off at a run, following the path through the field and back to the stables. Without waiting for Billy to claim his horse’s reins, Henry dismounted, clutching Hannah against the front of his body as he did so. And then he was running, running into the house and through the vestibule. He didn’t hear Mrs. Batey gasp or Parkerhouse’s “Dear God” as he passed them.
“Where’s the largest fire?” Henry demanded, barely slowing down as he made his way to the stairs.
“Lady Gisborn’s room, milord,” Parkerhouse replied as he watched his master take the steps two at a time.
“I’ll speak with you later,” Henry called down, disappearing into Hannah’s room with his wife still bundled in his coat, the hem of her mantle floating beneath. He settled himself into the largest chair in front of the crackling fire, positioning Hannah so her back was to the flames and her front was nestled against his body. Her arms were encased in his greatcoat, the garment still wrapped tightly around her body. Henry cupped one of her cheeks with his hand, placing it so it rested against his shoulder.
“Is she alright, my lord?”
Henry knew he should have expected the housekeeper, but he was still startled at the sound of her voice. “She’s alive,” he answered, surprised at the relief he heard in his voice. “Harold is not, though. Can you have cook make some tea and ... and chocolate, please? And have Murphy bring the brandy from the library.” A list of tasks was forming in his mind, but at that moment, he wanted to get Hannah warm and awake to be sure she was alright. He could find out what had happened later.
Mrs. Batey hurried from the room, barely getting out a “Yes, milord,” as she did so.
Taking a deep breath, Henry realized it was probably the first in a long time. The fear he’d felt at thinking he’d lost Hannah had been palpable. How could a woman he’d only known a couple of weeks have such an effect on him? Yes, she was beautiful, but her physical beauty had nothing to do with how her simple presence in a room seemed to make it so much brighter. Or how her simple kiss on his cheek made him feel so glad to be home when he returned from a day working in the fields. He’d been looking forward to that kiss tonight, he realized, the thought buoying him after the setbacks his laborers had encountered while working on the new ditch. They hadn’t even worked that day due to the chilly conditions.
Unconsciously, his grip on Hannah tightened, and he absently kissed the top of her head as he considered what life would be like without her. Sarah was becoming distant, almost as if she no longer wanted him as her lover and protector. His son would be going to Abingdon soon. Empty, he thought, his lips returning to Hannah’s head. Only she had angled her head up a bit, and his kiss fell on her forehead, the heat of her skin searing his lips. He pulled her away from his body a bit, startled to see her cheeks bright red. Fever!
“My lord?” Murphy stood near the doorway, unsure if he should enter the lady’s bedchamber. A crystal decanter hung from one hand while two glasses were in another.
“Come,” Henry called out, repositioning Hannah so he could remove his coat from around her body. “Help me get this off of her. I think she has a fever,” he spoke in a voice that sounded like one who had commanded soldiers.
Murphy was there in an instant, having deposited the brandy and glasses on a nearby table. The valet expertly removed the coat and mantle, placing them both over one arm. Then he knelt and undid the laces of her half-boots, pulling them off as he turned his gaze up to meet Henry’s. “Should I have Parkerhouse send for the doctor, my lord?” Murphy wondered, his brows furrowing. Lady Gisborn’s boots were stiff from the cold, although he noted she wore more than silk stockings beneath them.
Henry gave the question some consideration. With the snow and growing chill in the air, it would be cruel to require the physician to make the two mile trip from Bampton. Not to mention the poor footman that would have to make the trip to Bampton in the first place. “No. I’m rather hoping brandy will be medicinal enough. Would you pour some? And where is Lady Gisborn’s maid?” he wondered as he noticed the valet still held his wife’s boots and mantle.
“Miss Parker is not in residence, my lord,” the valet paused as he considered how to tell his master that it was the maid’s day off. “She is visiting her parents at the Coley house,” he finally got out. At Gisborn’s look of disbelief, he added, “Miss Parker is due back first thing in the morning.”
Boggled, Henry bit back an angry retort. Lily was barely back from her trip with Babcock and now she was off to Bampton. The sooner she and Billy were married, the better.
Murphy took a deep breath. “At the risk of sounding impertinent, my lord, has Lady Gisborn ... has she mentioned anything about the lack of staff here?” he wondered, keeping his voice low. “I realize this is not the best time to be bringing up the matter,” he said by way of an apology.
Henry shook his head. Not only had Hannah not voiced any concerns about the lack of maids and kitchen help, she hadn’t said one word of complaint when Lily had gone missing. She’d even dressed herself and arranged own hair. What other daughter of an aristocrat would have been so accepting of such conditions? And not voice a word of complaint? His uncle’s years of miserly behavior might have left the earldom flush with funds, but the cost to correct the years of – how had Lord Bostwick put it? – deferred maintenance – would drain the coffers if Henry wasn’t careful. Well, there was certainly enough to hire more staff, more maids, at least. “I hear the Stewards have a daughter who is seeking employment in service,” Henry stated by way of a suggestion.
Murphy’s eyebrow cocked up. “Do you wish me to inform Parkerhouse?”
“Yes,” Henry spoke firmly. “We need another maid or two in this house.”
“Very well, my lord,” Murphy said, handing a glass of brandy to Henry as he did so. He left the other on the table next to his master and took his leave of the room.
Henry brought the glass next to Hannah’s lips, thinking the smoky scent would be enough to awaken her. Although she didn’t stir, Henry heard her faint whisper of “Harold”.
Oh, how he wished she would say his name like she did that damned dog’s!
He was about to chide himself for his uncharitable thought – Harold had saved his son, after all – when he heard his name whispered.
And it did sound like a prayer. As if she had overheard his thoughts. “Hannah?” he whispered. He put down the glass and shook her gently, stroked the back of a finger down one of her cheeks. Her lashes fluttered and then opened. “Thank God,” he breathed, holding her tighter against his body.
Hannah stared up at Henry, her mind a jumble, as if she couldn’t tell where a dream
stopped and reality began. “Henry?” she whispered in reply. She attempted to push herself away from his body, to look around at their surroundings. “Where? What?” she murmured.
His tense body suddenly relaxing, Henry repositioned her on his lap and kissed her temple and forehead. “Do you think you can take some brandy?” he offered, holding the glass to her lips. Hannah gave him a look that suggested he should not be offering her spirits, but she sipped a bit, not the least bothered by the strong flavor or the burn she felt as it reached the back of her throat. “You’ve had an awful shock,” he whispered.
The words seemed to bring her back to reality. He felt her body tense, saw her cornflower blue eyes widen before tears welled up in them. “Harold died,” she whispered, one gloved hand covering her mouth.
“I know, I ... I found you with him. He went back to the same place where he and Nathan were yesterday.” He didn’t know what else to say so he merely held her for a few more minutes, coaxing her to drink more of the brandy. When she had drained the glass, Henry set it aside and then used two fingers to begin pulling the gloves, one finger at a time, from Hannah’s hand.
“He was old, you know,” Hannah whispered before a sob wracked her body. “It’s been at least ten years since Father brought him back from Italy,” she explained, her tears subsiding nearly as quickly as they’d started. “He was still a puppy then. Father was allowed to take him from the den because he was generous with his support of the monks that lived in the Alps. They rescued his friend, you see. Mr. Aldenwood was injured in a mountain pass ...”
The name startled Henry. He had just removed one glove and was about to start on the other. “Aldenwood? The adventurer?” Henry interrupted, remembering how her father had described the man who was known to have traveled the world. The man who was now claiming the effects of a volcano would make this growing season especially difficult in Northern Europe. Henry still hadn’t decided what to plant, or even if he should give credence to Aldenwood’s prediction that the summer would be too cold and rainy to support a decent crop at all. If they could get the final drainage ditch dug, they could at least channel the excess water to the river. But even wheat required sunlight to grow. Two large greenhouses were under construction on the part of the east fields scheduled to be fallow this season. There was plenty of timber to erect the frame. He had already talked to the glazier in Bampton about glass panes. If the man wasn’t able to make enough for a greenhouse or two, then oilcloth could be used in its stead.
The Seduction of an Earl Page 25
