Mists of Moorhead Manor

by Bancroft, Blair

  Ever so slowly I traced the winding path past flower beds, where I caught an occasional glimpse of golden rudebeckia, mums, and a last lingering rose. I shuffled my way past a lily pond that was fed by water diverted from the small stream that ran behind the house after tumbling its way down from the moors. And at last I came to what I must accept as my modest goal for the day, a small marble folly in the Greek style, set directly against the garden’s rear wall. It was perhaps twelve feet wide and ten feet high with elaborate carvings in the style of Greek friezes at the top of the bench which ran along the rear wall. Although the roof of the folly kept me from seeing the hill, I could somehow feel its presence, towering over the rest of the garden.

  I stood in the shelter of the folly and peered into mist so thick I could not even see the movement we usually associate with fog drifting in off the sea. It simply sat there—the word shroud flitted through my mind but was quickly dismissed. My purpose today was to have a small private adventure, not frighten myself half to death. I lowered myself to the bench, hoping the cold and damp would not seep through my boiled wool cloak and my serviceable woolen gown. So far, so good. I slid into a corner of the seat, raised my legs onto the bench, and pulled my knees up to my chin. A most unladylike position, but who would see me?

  Encased in fog, I lost myself in speculation about what I had done that morning. Was I right to blow winds of change through the sickroom? Or was I being insensitive, attempting to impose my own hardiness on someone who would never be anything more than weak and fragile?

  Fragile, ha! my inner voice mocked. Imagine how much strength it took to stage those tantrums.

  And what would Exmere think? Once again, I had taken the bit in my teeth and set off on a path unapproved by either the earl or his heir, although I was nearly certain the earl would not have said no. If I’d asked him.

  I made a face.

  And then I heard the crunch of footsteps on the gravel and, for no logical reason, was terrified. I now knew every person at Moorhead from the earl to the gardeners. I had absolutely no reason to be afraid. But I was. And me with my lantern glowing beside me on the bench, signaling my location. I was on the verge of tossing my cloak over the lantern when a dark silhouette began to take shape through the mist. From the fit of his clothing, a gentleman, not a gardener.

  Robert? My heartrate soared, even as I uncurled, my feet settling flat on the pebbles.

  “Hiding are you, Penny, my girl?” boomed a male voice I instantly recognized. “Can’t say as I blame you. Cursed odd bunch, our family.”

  I gulped, caught my breath. “Mr. Blythe, you startled me. I did not think you a man with a taste for misty gardens.”

  “Kenrick, dear girl, Kenrick. We have made you a member of the family, if you will recall.”

  “Which therefore makes me one your ‘cursed odd bunch’, I believe.”

  He laughed, though the fog seemed to swallow the sound of his merriment. “Penny, Penny, truly—what are you doing out here? Cook came huffing and puffing to find someone to go after you, and I was the only one available. For all the talk of death by accident, in the past six months two girls have died, and fear stalks even the hardiest.” He gave me a hard look. “Or should.”

  I could not deny it. When his tall form loomed up out of the mist, I thought my heart might stop. And I was very far from a person who flinched at nothings. “I beg your pardon,” I said, “but I enjoy my few moments of privacy even on days such as this.”

  Another soft chuckle. “Ah, that’s put me in my place.”

  “Oh no!” I protested. “I never meant it that way.” Fool, fool, fool! I barged on, digging myself deeper into the pit with each word. “I was merely trying to explain why I venture out into the mists. It’s a bit of adventure, you see—something that takes me away from . . .” I paused, the pit gaping before me, ready to swallow me up.

  “My dear girl, say no more. I perfectly understand. One needs a very sharp knife to cut through the gloom of Moorhead Manor. Which is why Rob, Hunt, and I spend so little time here. You, poor thing, have no choice but to hide yourself in the mist for a few moments of peace. Believe me, I perfectly understand.”

  These were sentiments that might have assuaged my embarrassment, except that while he was talking, Kenrick Blythe had taken the liberty of moving the lantern, sitting down beside me, and putting his arm around me. The danger in the air made a sudden shift. Not death but dishonor. Abruptly, I stood. “Thank you for your concern, Mr. Blythe, but I would like you to leave now.”

  In a single move, he stood and swept me into his arms, his lips coming down hard on mine. Having had some experience in these matters, I brought up my knee to where it would hurt the most—though not as hard as I might—, stepped back from his suddenly slack embrace, and slapped him hard across the face. Ideally, I should have stalked off in high dudgeon, but, truth was, I feared rapid movement would have me blundering into the thorns of a rose bush or straight into the stone wall. So I pointed toward the house and declared, “Go! I will find my own way back to the house.”

  After a look that sent shivers up my spine, he staggered off. Frankly, I hoped he would be the one to walk straight into the wall. My legs gave way and I flopped back onto the marble bench, my breath whooshing out of me as my back hit the marble backrest. There was a grinding sound, a noise I could not quite place. And then I thought I saw a bit of darkness where only white marble had been before. I reached for the lantern, held it up to the oddity, which my common sense said I must have conjured out of thin air, perhaps a product of my overheated brain after my encounter with Mr. Blythe.

  Oh dear God. Not my imagination. At the end of the bench a gap had opened in the wall, revealing a tunnel that seemed to lead into the depths of the hillside. I stared, my mind racing. If I explored the tunnel, would it shut behind me, making me the girl who disappeared, never to be seen again?

  I would have to come back when the sun was shining. And after leaving word where I might be found. Even more sensibly, with a stalwart companion in tow.

  Accepting the necessary reality of these precautions, I managed to defy the temptation to explore. Some adventures were not to be indulged in alone. Yet I was somehow reluctant to share my find. Then again, the tunnel was likely something known to the family. I could almost see Exmere’s lips curl in patronizing derision when I described my discovery of a secret passage.

  I set down the lantern and put my weight to the section of the wall that had swung out. With a creaking protest, it closed, leaving everything looking as impenetrable as it had before. Would I be able to figure out how to get back in?

  Would I have the courage to do so?

  Perhaps I would ask Exmere to accompany me.

  I smiled.

  The walk back to the house was not an easy one. Every step of the way I expected Mr. Blythe to jump out at me. Though there was no sign of him, I suspected my days of walking alone through the mists might have come to an end.

  Chapter Eleven

  Mrs. Linnell’s suggestion for a maid for Vanessa left me stunned. I had been so enveloped in the drama of the last few days that the obvious solution had never occurred to me. Nell Ridgeway’s maid, Alice Ord, it seemed, had accompanied her mistress on surreptitious visits to Moorhead Manor and was already well-liked by the staff. And, Mrs. Linnell added—evidently informed by some mysterious line of communication between servants—Alice had not yet returned to her home in the village. So after seeking Allard’s approval, I mounted Bess and set off for the Ridgeways. It was a brisk and surprisingly sunny October day and I traveled more than half the distance before reality penetrated my self-satisfaction with being on the verge of accomplishing the first item on my list of changes.

  Bess’s steady gait faltered as my hands twitched on the reins. I was being high-handed again. Although I had permission from the butler and the housekeeper, I had not consulted Lord Hycliffe about hiring a maid for Vanessa. Should I have done so? Or would consulting the earl about hiring
a maid from the Ridgeways once again bring Exmere’s wrath down upon my head?

  Though why Exmere should think his father too fragile to cope with reminders of his wife’s desertion remained a mystery

  Silently, I mouthed a few words of my secret vocabulary.

  Lady Vanessa needed a maid, I assured myself, as befitted her station. Alice Ord, a trained maid, was in need of a position. The logic was irrefutable. I would go the Ridgeways, broach the topic as delicately as possible, and hope no offense was taken by either household. If there were repercussions, let them be on my head, for the concept of a maid for Vanessa was entirely mine.

  An hour later, I rode away from the Ridgeways on a wave of relief. Mrs. Ridgeway had been all graciousness, getting over the awkward ground as lightly as possible, even expressing satisfaction that Alice had found such an excellent position. And no, we need not send someone to fetch her. Young Tom would deliver her in the pony cart.

  As I made my way home, I wondered if the estrangement between the families could be ended. After all, the miscreants were long gone . . .

  Which suddenly made me realize that other than Mrs. Linnell’s bare-bones account of Lady Hycliffe and the Ridgeway nabob who ran off with her, they were never mentioned. Not a word about where they went, what had happened to them in the last five years. Did the Ridgeways receive letters? What about Exmere and Huntley? Vanessa? Surely their mother would communicate with them somehow.

  Dare I ask?

  My curiosity piqued, I allowed myself a small smile, not only for the success of my errand but for the surge of anticipation brought on by the possibility of smoothing over an old rift. If only . . .

  Once again, shame and not a few doubts struck me. I might wish to strive for better days at Moorhead Manor, but Vanessa was getting a maid because Nell Ridgeway was dead. And that was something I must never forget. “A soldier is always prepared,” Papa said. A motto I must live by. Beginning with anticipating trouble over the hiring of Alice Ord.

  I heaved a sigh, stiffened my shoulders, and continued on toward whatever Fate might have in store.

  Saved!

  As I approached the house, a lumbering coach and four was just disappearing through the archway into the courtyard. “’Tis the luggage coach, miss,” Dobbins told me. “The markis and his family arrived a half hour since, and what a sight it was. Outriders, they had, with not hide nor hair of a highwaymen these past twenty years or more. Very grand it was, though. I’ve not seen such hustle and bustle in many a year. Not since the missus—” Abruptly, he cut himself off, leaning forward to confide, “I’d go in through the kitchen, miss. Quieter that way, don’t y’know.”

  I was so pleased to have the earl and his heir distracted from my possible insubordination that I would gladly have crossed to the house and mounted the servants’ stairs barefoot if that I had been required. As it was, I picked up my cumbersome riding skirt and made my way upstairs as rapidly as possible. Vanessa and I had thought to have a few days to become accustomed to our new ventures before we were faced with company, and I had to forestall any second thoughts she might have about going down for supper. Maid or no maid, she must make an appearance tonight.

  Sure enough, I could hear her arguing with David the moment I opened the sitting room door. Without a proper maid, Vanessa declared, she could not possibly show herself before two young ladies of the ton. “Nor Lady Rothbuy,” she added on a wail. “Everyone knows what a high stickler she is!”

  “By tomorrow you will have a maid,” I announced without preliminaries. “For tonight we will manage. I have, after all, prepared myself for dining with Wellington. And, believe me, if ever there was a connoisseur of females . . .!”

  “Alice is coming then?” Vanessa looked so eager, so vulnerable at that moment, my heart clenched.

  “She is indeed,” I assured her. “And delighted to accept the position. Young Tom will bring her in the morning. And meanwhile . . .” I offered a confident smile. “We will have you looking as fine as any London lady.”

  Some time later, Maud and I were selecting suitable gowns from Vanessa’s extensive wardrobe while she sat before the fire, fluffing her waterfall of newly washed hair, when Lady Emmaline came bustling in, looking stricken. “Penny, my dear, you simply must help me,” she burbled. “I have tried every which way, yet although our numbers are even, I can find no arrangement that accommodates precedence, salubrious conversation, and the juxtapositions Lady Rothbury requires of me!”

  Scarcely pausing to draw breath, she added, “The marquess must be on my right, of course, though what I shall find to say to him I cannot imagine. He is a sporting man with little conversation beyond horses and races, mills, cockfights . . . and possibly gaming,” she added on a rush. “And if I put Huntley near the top of the table next to the marchioness, where he undoubtedly belongs, she will eat the poor boy alive, for she has a quite encyclopedic knowledge of the ton and the latest on dits which poor Huntley absolutely abhors—”

  “Let me see the list,” I said, cutting her off in full spate. Ah, but of course, I thought as I attempted to make sense of her scribbles and crossing-outs. The marchioness was in the seat of honor to Lord Hycliffe’s right, with Vanessa in her customary place on his left. The marquess was at the opposite end of the table, seated to Lady Emmaline’s right, with Exmere to her left. Next to Lady Daphne, I noted sourly, and had to force my attention back to the scribbled diagram in my hand. Lady Emmaline was right. Huntley next to Lady Rothbury simply would not do.

  “But if—” I broke off, gulped at my near faux pas, and handed the list to Vanessa. “You, I’m sure, are familiar with everyone,” I said. “What would you suggest.”

  A startled look, quickly erased, and Vanessa bent her head over the list. “I think,” she said at last, “that we must exchange Kenrick and Huntley. That way Huntley will be able to talk sports ad nauseum with Rothbury while Kenrick entertains his wife with all the gossip he so thoroughly enjoys.”

  Thank you, Lord. One tiny step back toward being the daughter of the house.

  “But that places my son above Huntley,” Lady Emmaline protested.

  “Nonsense,” Vanessa retorted. “Is it not far more important to keep our guests happy than worry about precedence?”

  “Of course, of course,” Lady Emmaline murmured. “I simply did not wish to encroach.”

  “Encroach?” Vanessa returned, clearly incredulous. “You came to this house when I was five. You have been mistress here since my mother left us. How can you possibly encroach?”

  Lady Emmaline’s lips quivered, and I caught moisture gleaming in her eyes, even as I silently applauded Vanessa’s words. Progress, blessed progress.

  “Would you like me to come down with you, ma’am, and help place the cards?” I asked.

  In muffled tones she said she would. I excused myself and walked out with her. Poor soul, to feel like a hanger-on after all she must have done to keep the family together after Lady Hycliffe ran off . . .

  Together, we placed the cards that put Lady Daphne next to Exmere and Lord Norvelle next to Vanessa, and myself between Kenrick and Lady Daphne, a social solecism less heinous than failing to keep our guests of honor well entertained, though I doubted Lady Daphne would be best pleased, except for the opportunity it gave her to shun me completely and devote all her attention to Exmere.

  It did indeed appear the families were matchmaking. And I could not like it. On Vanessa’s part I could not like the maneuvering—she was barely ready to appear at table, let alone entertain the idea of a suitor. And Exmere? What could two sheltered young ladies from London know about a man who could climb a cliff in Devon, carrying a dead body on his back?

  What could the Durrant sisters know of any grim reality? Reality I, Penelope Ruth Ballantyne, knew all too well—

  Listen to me! I was defending the fribble when he was as much of a town beau as they were London ladies. What was I thinking?

  I wasn’t. Clearly, my foolish heart was think
ing for me.

  With slow steps I returned to Lady Vanessa, determined that she would be as finely turned out as the daughters of a marquess.

  Fortunately for me, there were many occasions on the Peninsula when we dressed for dinner, so I had four gowns suitable for dining at an earl’s table. Not the latest style, or even the year or two before, but topped by one of my mother’s shawls, transported with great care from India, they did not put me to the blush. Tonight I wore an exquisitely patterned Kashmir shawl over a simple gown of amber silk and knew I looked my best. Lady Vanessa wore a rose silk half-dress with scalloped hem over a white undergown. A double strand of pearls filled in her décolletage, with more pearls twined among the blond strands of her upswept hair. Pearl eardrops peaked out from beneath the soft curls dangling over her ears—curls that had quite terrified me as I wielded the curling iron hot from the fire. No one would be happier to see Alice Ord than I!

  In short, when David pushed Vanessa’s chair into the Green Salon where we gathered before dinner, I thought us both more than passable. Unfortunately, I was keeping a sharp eye on our visitors, and I saw their shock, quickly masked by the marquess and his wife. But Lady Daphne and Lady Jocelyn were not so socially adept, their surprise followed by a flash of disapproval, perhaps even revulsion. My temper flared, and I had to look away, lest I say something appallingly improper.

  They were a handsome pair, however. Lady Daphne, whom I judged to be about my own age, was a classic beauty—with a figure that is frequently described as tall and willowy, dark hair the color of ripe chestnuts, and luminous brown eyes that seemed to invite admiration. Lady Jocelyn was overshadowed by her sister’s strong presence, a pale imitation, even though her medium brown hair gleamed in the candlelight and her green-flecked amber eyes glowed with a happier outlook on the world than her sister’s.