by Cindy Anstey
MATT AWOKE WITH a feeling of dread … No, that wasn’t entirely true. He had barely slept, and the feeling of dread had not left him since Lord Bobbington had voiced the possibility that Johnny might not have survived three … no, four winter nights in the woods.
Camille’s reaction upon hearing their story and the part Johnny played in it—entrapped by a fake shilling—was gut-wrenching. She had swooned in a graceful silent collapse, caught at the last moment by Charles, the footman. It would have been less affecting if she had succumbed to hysterics, for when the smelling salts were administered, she sat still, seemingly unaware of the tears streaming down her face. Marie had helped the poor girl from the room while Mrs. Lundy continued to rub marvelous Kate’s wrists with some sort of fish-odored ointment. Matt had declined the treatment.
And now, dawn had at last come.
Ignoring the chill and the laid but unlit fire, Matt quickly performed his ablutions and dressed. He thought to tiptoe away before the young gentlemen needed him; they would not rise for some time, and Matt could join the search for the first few hours before his valet duties would call him back to the manor. Though Johnny might have been discovered by then. Matt could but hope.
However, Mr. Ernest and Mr. Ben were not still abed. They were waiting in the hallway, fully dressed, outdoor clothing in arms.
“There he is.” Mr. Ben greeted Matt with affection—a slap on the shoulder and a pumped hand. “You had us quite perplexed yesterday. Rode out twice looking for you. So glad that you are well, though I must say, you are not in the best of looks.” He glanced at his brother as he said this, moving so that Mr. Ernest could have his turn shaking Matt’s hand.
This was their first meeting since Matt’s return, for a message had been sent down the previous night—by way of a disgruntled Walker—that Matt and Kate were to have the evening off. Eternally grateful, Matt had spent what remained of the day as near to Kate as was politic. He told himself that it was to ensure that she was not suffering any late effects of their ordeal, but in truth it was a wish, no, a need, to be close to marvelous Kate for as long as practical.
“Bobbington explained, Matt. And we are ready to do our part.” Mr. Ernest nodded.
“We’re just going to grab a bite in the dining room, Matt, and then we will head out with you,” Mr. Ben said as the two gentlemen started toward the front stairs. “The squire is coordinating the searches from Hendred Manor.”
With a bob of his head, Matt proceeded to the back stairs, going toward the men’s quarters at the bottom of the staircase rather than the servants’ hall. He had to ask Charles—or was that Bernie?—where Johnny’s room was located, but once there, Matt found a pair of slippers, a scarf, and a vest that could provide a scent for the dogs. Throwing the items into Johnny’s satchel, Matt glanced around the small room. His jaw tensed when he noticed a pair of dice sitting near his friend’s bedside.
Despite Matt’s disinclination to gamble, he knew that the odds were not in Johnny’s favor.
* * *
IT WAS HARD to eat; nothing was palatable. Matt could see that Kate felt the same way. She was chasing her food around her plate and putting nothing in her mouth. They were standing, plates in hand, in the servants’ hall. The breakfast had been set out on the tables, but no one wanted to sit. There was a general rushed feeling despite the very early hour. And a sense that there was not enough time. Well, not enough daylight. It was dark early at Yuletide; the sun would be down by four.
Just as Matt poked at his eggs for a third time, one of the Shackleford grooms leaned across the threshold into the room. “Wagon’s ready for them wanting to go to Hendred Manor,” he called.
Nearly all the men dropped their plates on the table, most unfinished. They grabbed at coats and hats that had been temporarily set aside and piled out of the room, heading toward the yard door. Matt started to follow until a gentle hand on his arm stayed his steps.
“Good luck,” Kate said, meeting his gaze with a steady look. Her eyes said far more than her mouth, but in a language Matt had yet to learn. While there was no doubting her concern and anxiousness, Matt could see something more, something deeper. But now was not the time to query her about it.
“Thank you,” he said, resisting the urge to place his lips on hers … for comfort, merely comfort.
Outside, Matt was the last to exit the manor, and he was dismayed to see that the wagon had already started down the drive.
“Here, Matt,” Mr. Ernest called from a coach sitting next to the stables. “I sent the wagon ahead. There is room with us.”
Matt nodded, turned to see Kate standing with Mrs. Lundy by the servant’s entrance. Their eyes locked, and for several moments neither moved … until Mr. Ernest called again. Kate lifted her hand as the cold wind whipped against her skirts.
Matt waved back and then joined his two young gentlemen in their coach.
* * *
KATE TRIED NOT to dwell on what was or was not happening beyond the grounds of Shackleford Park, but the searches were all she did think about. When one of the squire’s footmen arrived just after one o’clock to speak to the Beeswangers and Steeples, Kate contrived to be near the drawing room door. To no avail. Good solid English oak prevented any sort of listening, as did Mr. Walker’s persistent interference.
“Your young ladies are not in the drawing room, Miss Darby. They are in the library—chatting and sketching and not in any need of your assistance that I can tell.”
“I will verify that for myself, Walker.” And so saying, Kate marched toward the library until out of the butler’s sight. Then she sat upon the first chair she came across.
Some time later, Miss Imogene found Kate sitting in the gallery under a painting of a distant Beeswanger relative. Lost in thought, thoughts of what she could not identify, it took a few minutes before Kate became aware of a person standing next to her with a St. John’s water dog at her side. It was the movement of Jasper’s tail that caught her attention.
“Oh. I beg your pardon, Miss Imogene,” Kate said, jumping to her feet.
“Not at all, Kate. Walker looked in the library a moment ago expecting you to be there for some reason, and I offered to find you. There has been a message from Hendred Manor that I thought to share with you.”
“Yes.” Kate swallowed and stared expectantly at the young lady.
“Mr. Belcher has been found and arrested.”
“And Rolland … Johnny?”
“No word yet, I’m afraid. Come join us in the library, Kate.” Miss Imogene gestured down the hall.
“Is there something I can do for you, Miss Imogene?”
Kate was offered a sad smile. “No, no. Indeed not. I thought you might like some company. Even if you don’t wish to talk.”
Taking a deep breath, Kate smiled, albeit rather weakly. “Thank you, miss. That is most kind of you.” She hesitated for a moment. “But if you have no need of me, I think I will take some mending to Mrs. Lundy’s room.”
Miss Imogene reached out, encasing Kate’s hand in both of hers. “Excellent idea. Sit by the fire and get warm. Your hands are like ice.”
Kate nodded, leaving Miss Imogene to her own devices, and retrieved the sewing basket from upstairs before heading to the housekeeper’s sitting room. Voices from within floated down the hall toward her, giving Kate pause. She did not feel capable of participating in pleasant conversation at the moment and nearly turned around. But upon realizing that the voices were those of Marie and Camille, Kate continued. It would be cowardly not to be with Camille as they waited to hear about Johnny—for it had become amply clear that the French lady’s maid harbored a tendre for the young footman.
“Bonjour,” Marie said brightly as Kate stepped into the room. “Camille has been teaching me some French … Well, actually, I’ve only learned to say hello, but I am doing so with an excellent accent—apparently.” She grinned and pointed—indeed, pointed—toward the petite figure next to the fire as if Kate would not know to wh
om Marie referred. “I’m a natural linguist … though I don’t rightly know what that means. But I like the sound of it.”
Kate smiled at her friend, knowing full well that Marie’s enthusiasm was a ruse. She was doing her best to distract Camille. It was a kindness and an endeavor in which Kate could participate.
“Most excellent, indeed. Might I listen in on your lesson?”
“But of course,” Camille said, sitting up straighter, though only marginally.
For the better part of an hour, Camille tried to teach Marie how to say Comment allez-vous and merci correctly, with marginal success. Marginal success in terms of Marie’s dubious accent, not as a distraction, for the lesson did, in fact, do that trick. As Camille tried to help Marie roll her rs and ignore final consonants, she began to reminisce about her early years in France. It brought out memories of childhood friends, delicacies not available in England, and visits to Paris—Paree.
Midafternoon brought a knock at the servants’ door loud enough to break through their frivolous chatter. Kate rose to answer it but saw Mrs. Lundy rush down the hall and remained as she was … standing … listening. There was no reason for a message about Johnny to come to the servants’ door. Squire Fleming would notify the master of the house and Sir Andrew first, and yet Kate held her breath. Tilting her head slightly, she strained to hear.
The tonal range of the person who had knocked was high. Was it a woman? Girl? Oh. A young boy. A lad. A voice she recognized.
Today? Bother. Why today?
Kate sighed very heavily, turned to drop her mending on the chair behind her, and walked out of the room with a shake of her head. This was something personal—again. And monumentally frustrating.
By the time Kate got to the door, the message had already been relayed, for it was Mrs. Lundy who turned to deliver it. “I’m afraid it’s your mam, Kate. She wants you to come to her cottage—”
“She’s quite put out, miss,” Colby interrupted, still standing on the stoop. “Thinks that you have forgotten her.” His face was pinched as if he shared the insult—perceived insult—as well.
“Did you tell her that things are in a muddle at the big house, Colby? Before it was company and now it is a missing member of the staff.” Kate leaned past Mrs. Lundy, feeling the bitterness of the wind drafting through the open door. “I can’t rush away as yet.”
“She won’t be pleased, miss.”
“That is unfortunate, but it can’t be helped. I will be there as soon as I can. Did she say why she needs me?”
“No, miss. She just told me to say: You should stop dilly-dallying and get yourself over to Vyse.”
“I will, Colby. I will as soon as I can.” Kate nodded, closed the door, and hit her forehead against the cold wood, making a dull thunk. After a moment, Kate straightened and pivoted to find Mrs. Lundy still behind her.
“You are needed here, Kate,” Mrs. Lundy said with an enigmatic look, then glanced out the window at the midafternoon sun. “Besides, it’s getting late. And this is one time too many. And your mam has neighbors to help her if need be.” She turned back with a deep frown. “Will that do or should I think up something else?”
Lifting the corner of her mouth, Kate snorted. “Yes. Thank you, Mrs. Lundy. That will do quite nicely. There is no question I am required at the manor.”
“For now, at least,” Mrs. Lundy said kindly, ruining her contrived forceful manner.
“Indeed,” Kate said, turning her thoughts from her mam and her back to the door.
“Is that three … no, two?” Mrs. Lundy muttered behind her. “Oh dear, it is three. But are they ravens?”
Kate looked over her shoulder. “Is all well, Mrs. Lundy?”
The housekeeper was again looking out one of the windows that lined the corridor. Her brow was deeply folded, as she leaned toward the glass. “Yes, yes,” she said dismissively without looking in Kate’s direction. “There are one, two, three, but…” Mrs. Lundy sighed, straightened, and turned toward Kate. “Nothing to worry about, my dear; they are starlings … just starlings.” She smiled, looking somewhat sheepish. “Thought they were ravens—and you know that three ravens together—”
“Bring bad luck.” Kate nodded, trying to hide her grin, and returned to the cozy sitting room and her mending.
The sun dropped below the horizon just after four and the men returned within the hour. They crossed the threshold with dirty boots, weary frowns, and limited news. All met in the servants’ hall before cleaning up to share what was known.
“Belcher was caught first thing this morning,” Matt announced. He was sporting a few new scratches on his cheek, and his coat was thoroughly rumpled, his boots caked in mud. “Sitting at his sister’s table, wolfing down ham and toast, when the squire’s men knocked on her door. I heard he bellowed something fierce, cursing Niven up and down.” Matt glanced at Kate as he spoke with a slight curve to his lips.
Then he turned to Camille. “I was with the searchers at the Bidford farm. The dogs found the scent well enough at first but lost it within a quarter mile. It took near on two hours to find it again. And so it went all day. The weather has not been in our favor, burying the trail completely in some places. We will go out again tomorrow to pick up where we left off. We will find him.”
Camille nodded, her expression grave.
“And of Rolland,” Matt continued. “He was sighted near Wattage Lane but has not been seen since. The search for him will continue tomorrow as well.”
Just as Matt finished speaking, Walker rushed into the servants’ hall.
“I have news of the search!” he shouted, trying to get everyone’s attention. He clapped his hands until those who had been in the process of leaving stopped and turned around.
“Belcher has been arrested,” Walker crowed. He looked triumphant, as if he had been there in person.
“Yes, Mr. Walker,” Charles said. “We know, but what of Johnny?”
“No news there,” Walker said, frowning as en masse the staff turned and filed silently out of room.
* * *
“YOU CANNOT GO alone,” Matt protested. “Not with Rolland still on the loose.”
Kate pursed her lips. While she appreciated his attempt to protect her, she would visit her mother if she saw fit, and no one could tell her otherwise … well, except Mrs. Lundy. And the misses … Mrs. Beeswanger. Yes, no one except them … and perhaps Mr. Beeswanger. Certainly not a well-intentioned, overly concerned young valet who looked rather fetching when his eyes flashed with anger.
“Really?” Kate stared, daring Matt to say more. In truth, she did not want to leave Shackleford Park until Johnny’s fate was known. The thought of a message coming to the manor while she was gone increased her anxiety tenfold, but she had to see her mother. Had to solve whatever problem had gotten her mam’s petticoats in a bunch. “I won’t be long.”
“That’s not the point,” Matt harrumphed.
They were standing at the top of the back stairs where they had to part: Matt to the guest wing, Kate to the family wing. It had been a subdued and short evening. The family had not dressed for dinner for the first time since Kate had entered service, and they had all retired early. Another long and tiring day was anticipated—a day of waiting for the older generation, a day of searching for the young gentlemen.
“What is the point?”
“Being by yourself for any length of time, be it a minute, be it an hour. Rolland is a nasty creature with no qualms about hurting others.”
“But you said Rolland was spotted near Wattage. He is likely halfway to London by now.”
“It is possible, yes … even likely, as you say. But what if the person who saw him was wrong or the lout doubled back to fool the searchers or Rolland has a secret hideaway … or stash he needs to retrieve—”
“We will be up all night if you are going to list all of the possibilities. Suffice it to say that I will be careful, but I will be visiting my mam tomorrow.”
“If you go
early, I can accompany you and then join the search once you are back at the manor safe and sound.”
“No…” Kate started to disagree, and then realized that this was a perfectly reasonable suggestion. In fact, Matt could leave her at her mother’s; the new search site was nearer to Vyse-on-Hill than it was to Shackleford Park. He would argue about escorting her back, but he would not win. “Actually, that is a good plan,” she said, and then couldn’t help but tease. “And thought up rather quickly, too.”
Matt smiled; it was not a thing of beauty but a display of wearisome relief. “I’m getting better at it. One day I might even do something spontaneous.”
Remembering his peck on her cheek, Kate thought Matt might have a more impulsive nature than he supposed. “I look forward to it,” she said, trying to sound saucy. She knew she had not pulled it off when Matt nodded, touched her cheek, and said good night.
chapter 17
In which there is a conspiracy of tiny troubles
TUESDAY, DECEMBER 23, 1817
The baying of hounds echoed through the trees as Kate and Matt hurried through the woods. It wasn’t early … well, not as early as they had intended, though they had neither overslept nor stopped long when breaking their fast. The blame had to be thinly spread. Sluggish, fatigued limbs; a chatty mistress; long, needless warnings from Walker; icy roads; and so forth. It was a conspiracy of tiny troubles.
It created a sense of urgency when Kate had hoped for a respite, a little one, from their worries. But now they rushed while Matt scanned the trees. Ahead, behind, side to side … repeat.
Kate watched the path. The hares had been through, leaving their prints in the thin layer of snow, likewise a fox. But there were no human signs other than the ones they were leaving behind them. It boded well. Who would take a difficult route through the bushes when a path was available? No, she was almost certain the villain was far and away—especially if he could hear the dogs.
And yet Matt was still not convinced that Kate could return to Shackleford Park on her own. They had been discussing it rather heatedly and lapsed into silence a moment earlier—a state that Kate found difficult to maintain.
