by Candace Camp
“Old Mr. Benton used to have that sort of pain. Poultices of bishopsweed helped him. It’s also called goutweed. Just boil the leaves, wrap them in a cloth, and put it on his back. Don’t let it burn him, of course.”
The older woman looked at her for a long moment. “Fancy that. Bishopsweed, eh?”
“Yes, ma’am.”
“Well, you seem to have a head on your shoulders. Bit of the old earl in you, I can see.”
“Um, thank you.” Mary wasn’t quite sure how to respond, but her answer seemed to satisfy Mrs. Bagnold, who turned back to Sabrina and launched into a discussion about Lord Humphrey’s horses that left Mary in the dark and even, after a time, brought a line of annoyance to Sabrina’s smooth forehead.
It was some time before Lily and Mrs. Martin returned, Lily happily cradling several books in her arms. Lady Sabrina rose almost immediately, making her good-byes, and led the girls out to her carriage.
“Can you believe that?” Lily asked, her face flushed with excitement. “Mrs. Martin lent me three of her books, and she said I could borrow more when I finished. She has all Mrs. Radcliffe’s books and several more that I have not even heard of. I told her I would bring her the two I bought in London, and she seemed most appreciative.”
“Who would have thought that the vicar’s wife liked to read your books?” Camellia marveled.
“Who indeed?” Lady Sabrina remarked rather sourly.
Lily and the others glanced at her in surprise, and Sabrina sighed. “I am sorry, dear. That sounded quite petulant, didn’t it? But when I think of all the times that I have sat and listened to her talk about Homer and Chaucer and Aristotle and such, when all the time she’s reading novels of romance! One never knows, does one?”
Sabrina leaned her head back against the luxurious leather squab behind her, closing her eyes.
“Are you all right, Lady—I mean, Sabrina?” Mary asked.
“Yes, my dear, quite all right.” Sabrina opened her eyes and smiled. “I must apologize. I should have brought you to see the vicar’s wife some other day. I fear facing both of them together was too much. I find it’s even given me a headache. I hope Mrs. Bagnold was not too overwhelming.”
“She’s not nearly as bad as our aunts,” Camellia told her candidly.
“She seemed fond of her husband,” Rose added.
“I don’t think that Mrs. Martin is cold,” Lily said. “I think she is actually shy. That’s probably why she doesn’t talk much. But when we were alone in her library, she was very pleasant.”
“It is so nice, the way you are all able to see the bright side of things.” Sabrina’s tone was cheerful, but Mary could hear the underlying strain in her voice, and she knew that Sabrina’s headache must be causing her a good deal of pain.
Impulsively, Mary laid her hand on Sabrina’s arm. “It was good of you to introduce us to them. You have made it much easier for us to get on here.”
“I am so delighted.” Lady Sabrina’s lovely smile was somewhat brittle.
Knowing that their new friend was tired, Mary hustled her sisters out of the carriage and into the house. Lily was disappointed, as she had been about to show Lady Sabrina the books Mrs. Martin had lent her, but she quickly recovered and was content to pass the treasures around among her sisters. She also regaled Sir Royce with the tale of their adventure that evening at supper, finishing with the candid revelation that she had never thought that a preacher’s wife could be so nice.
Sir Royce’s lips twitched a little, but he answered gravely, “Indeed, I have often found them a trifle frightening myself.”
“It was very good of Lady Sabrina to introduce us to them,” Rose added.
“Was it?” Royce’s smile was sardonic.
“But of course.” Mary lifted her chin a little challengingly. It seemed almost as if Sir Royce wanted to thwart their friendship with Lady Sabrina. The notion made no sense, and she could only put it down to his general bad temper of the past few days. “It is bound to be of great benefit to us to be introduced as her friends,” Mary went on reasonably. “As you are well aware, we do not always make the best impression upon the people we have met in England.”
“You seem to have made friends readily enough with Lady Sabrina,” he pointed out sourly.
“I fail to see why that should be any concern of yours,” Mary shot back.
“It’s not, of course.” He set his wineglass down sharply. “I was simply concerned about your safety. I would have thought you would be, too.”
Mary’s amazement was mirrored in her sisters’ stunned expressions around the table. “I beg your pardon. I fail to see how it is in any way unsafe to visit Lady Sabrina.”
He let out a grunt of humorless laughter. “Yes, you would.” He cast a glance around the table and sighed. “The devil take it.” He stood up, tossing his napkin aside. “I must ask you ladies to excuse me. I find that I am in no humor for company tonight.”
Royce started toward the door, then turned. “I would ask, though, that you inform me next time you decide to take a jaunt away from Willowmere.”
He walked out the door, leaving the other occupants of the room staring after him.
“Well!” Camellia lifted her eyebrows. “I wonder what’s bothering him.”
“It is not our place to question Sir Royce’s behavior,” Miss Dalrymple began sententiously, and Camellia rolled her eyes at Mary. “However, I imagine that it begins to grate on a young gentleman to be idling away his time in the country, looking after a set of girls.”
“If he finds it so boring, why doesn’t he leave?” Mary snapped.
Miss Dalrymple drew in a horrified breath. “He could not do that. A gentleman would not leave you four unprotected. He feels duty-bound to wait until the earl or Mr. Fitzhugh arrives.”
“We aren’t children. We don’t need someone watching over us all the time.” Mary glanced around at her sisters. “We managed to take care of ourselves well enough until now.”
Miss Dalrymple sighed. “It is precisely that sort of remark that I fear will make it hard for any of you to make a suitable match.”
“Maybe we aren’t interested in ‘suitable’ matches.” Camellia scowled.
“Hardly surprising. However, it is your duty to the earl.” Satisfied that she had ended that particular rebellion, their teacher turned her attention to the pastry tray.
Mary, seeing the fire that sparked in Camellia’s eye, kicked her under the table.
“Ow!” Camellia shot her an aggrieved look, but she subsided, and they finished the meal in silence.
The next morning Miss Dalrymple sent a note that she was feeling indisposed, much to the Bascombe sisters’ relief.
“I hope she is not feeling too ill.” Rose glanced at Mary guiltily. “But I cannot say I’m sorry to be free of her for a day.”
Camellia was less sympathetic. “She probably wouldn’t be sick if she hadn’t had the fish, ham, and roast beef last night, not to mention three pastries and two jellies.”
“The question is, what are we going to do with our free day?” Lily asked.
They spent the morning in the attic, and by the time they sat down to a luncheon of cold meats and cheeses, they had found two more trunks filled with Flora’s things and had them brought down to the sitting room. After lunch, however, Camellia declared that they should go exploring.
“I could show you the maze,” Mary volunteered. She had told Royce she would not take them there, but at the moment she did not feel particularly inclined to follow his edicts. “Though I fear we would get lost there by ourselves.”
Camellia grimaced. “Somewhere farther than the lower garden.” She leaned against the window frame, staring out disconsolately. “I know! What about that little lake?”
“The tarn?”
“Yes, the one beyond the gardens. It would be a nice walk, and there’s some sort of little house down there.”
“A summerhouse.” Mary nodded. “I saw it, too.” She went to t
he window to look across at the small dark lake and the round folly that stood beside it.
“We could have a picnic,” Lily suggested. “We could get Cook to put those little tea cakes in a basket, and we could have tea by the lake.”
“What about Sir Royce?” Rose stood up. “He wants us to tell him if we leave.”
“Don’t tell me you’ve decided we can’t get on by ourselves, too,” Camellia said in disgust.
“No, of course not. But—”
“But nothing,” Mary interjected. “If we tell him, he’ll insist on going along or sending some grooms or something, and it will spoil the whole thing.”
“I suppose.” Rose, too, looked out the window a little wistfully. “But what about that man at the inn?”
“I doubt that he is still hanging about.”
“But there was that time in the garden—”
“Mary didn’t even see anybody,” Camellia protested. “They just found a footprint, and what does that prove? Anyway, she said he smelled like Cosmo, and the four of us can take care of Cosmo.”
“Of course we can,” Mary agreed. “The fellow at the inn ran away when I screamed, and whether it was really Cosmo in the garden or not, he didn’t do anything even though I was completely alone.”
“We can take Papa’s pistols, and Camellia can bring her knife,” Lily volunteered. “What about the rifle?”
After some discussion, they agreed that the rifle was not necessary, given that they were taking other weapons and it was rather heavy as well. So they dug out the case of pistols and loaded them, concealing one in Camellia’s pocket and the other in Lily’s. They picked up a blanket, put on their sturdier walking boots and old bonnets, and made their way downstairs. It took little persuasion to get the cook to fix up a small basket of cakes and a jug of water for them. It was more difficult to convince her that they did not require a footman to carry the basket.
Mary felt a qualm as they exited the side door, carrying their basket, jug, and blanket. She knew she should not encourage her sisters in a scheme that would ignite Sir Royce’s wrath. But she was tired of living as they had since coming to Willowmere, staying about the house all day, drilling on a seemingly unending list of nonsensical things. She had had enough of being told what to do. It would be fun to get outside for a while and do something new and unexpected.
And when Royce started to lecture, as he undoubtedly would, she would explain that she had been entirely responsible for the expedition and deflect his anger from her sisters onto herself. She felt sure that Royce would be all too ready to do that anyway.
They went west from the house, bypassing the gardens and cutting through the arm of trees that extended south from the woods, then crossing the sloping meadow beyond. The tarn was as darkly beautiful as it had appeared from the house, and the little bridge that arched over the narrow end provided a picturesque touch. They explored the summerhouse first. It was little more than a round room, with a circular bench that ran most of the way around it. Whatever furniture had once been there had been taken away, and since the archways were shuttered and even nailed closed, it afforded no view of the lake except through the open doorway.
They decided to spread their blanket on the bank of the tarn instead. They took out the cakes and ate them, chatting and laughing, and later, having put their things back in the little basket and shaken off the crumbs, they lay back, desultorily talking as they watched the puffy clouds float overhead, the sound of the water gently moving in their ears.
Mary had just drifted off into a doze when there was a snap and a stifled screech from Lily. Mary’s eyes flew open and she sat up just as a man broke out of the nearby shrubbery and ran straight for them.
Chapter 19
Instinctively Mary bounded to her feet. Lily screamed as the man grabbed Rose’s arm, and Rose swung her fist at him, but her blows fell ineffectually on his arm. Mary could hear Camellia cursing as she pulled out the pistol, and she knew that Camellia was concerned about firing at the man with Rose so close. Mary grabbed up the picnic basket and swung it with full force at his head. It landed not on his head but on his shoulders, and it cracked apart, sending him staggering back a step.
Lily threw the earthen jug, hitting the assailant high on the back. He let out a roar and swung around, his grip on Rose loosening. Rose flung herself to the ground, and Camellia seized the opportunity to fire a shot. The man’s cap flew from his head, and he let out a yelp and turned, his eyes round with astonishment. Lily was already digging the other pistol out of her pocket.
The man turned and ran for the woods. Camellia, the better shot, took the pistol from Lily’s hand and raised it. Bracing it on her arm, she squeezed off another shot. The attacker staggered, grabbing his arm, then ran as if the hounds of hell were after him.
“Rose!” Mary flung herself down beside her sister. “Are you all right?”
Rose nodded, sitting up and rubbing her arm where the man had grasped it. “I’m fine. I’ll have bruises there tomorrow.” She let out a giggle of nervous relief. “I won’t be wearing any short sleeves for a while.”
“Blast it!” Camellia dropped the pistol into her pocket. “I missed him twice.”
“You hit him with that second shot,” Lily replied a little breathlessly, sinking down to the blanket with her sisters. “I saw him clutch his arm.”
“Yes, but I aimed for his back, which was a broad enough target.”
“He was running, and it was at some distance. You got his cap the first time.”
Camellia picked up the hat in question, turning it over in her hands and examining it. “Went clean through it,” she commented, sticking her finger in first one hole, then the other. “Hope it put a crease in his skull as well.”
Mary began to laugh. “Did you see the look on his face?”
Lily joined in. “I know! I bet he never thought a bunch of girls was going to pepper him with shot.”
“What about when you tried to crown him with the water jug?”
Soon all four were hooting with laughter, holding their sides and rocking, letting out another howl whenever they recalled some other moment. But their heads snapped up at the sound of something crashing through the shrubbery, and they turned toward the narrow path leading from the gardens to the tarn. In another instant, Royce hurtled into sight on the path. He was jacketless and hatless, and he carried a large stick in his hand as he bore down on them at full speed. Gradually he slowed, then stopped as he took in the picture of the four girls lounging on the blanket before him.
“What the devil is going on? I heard shots.” His words came out in pants.
Mary looked at the broken branch in his hand. “So you were going to fight him with a stick?”
He grimaced and tossed the branch aside. “It was the only thing at hand. I’d already left the house when I heard the shots. I was coming because they’d told me you had taken it into your heads to go picnicking at the tarn.” He scowled blackly.
“I was the one who fired,” Camellia said, hauling out a pistol to show him. “He didn’t have a gun. At least, I didn’t see one. I hit him once, but he got away.”
“So you were attacked!” His expression grew even more thunderous.
“Yes. I think it was the man from the inn,” Mary told him. “He was quite large, and he grabbed Rose, but we fought him off. Then Cam shot him. Twice.”
Her voice trailed off as Royce’s face turned to stone. The girls glanced at one another. Finally Camellia stepped forward, holding out the cap in mute offering to Royce. At that moment a gardener and one of Royce’s grooms came running into view. When they saw the group before them, they stopped, holding their sides and bending over to catch their breath.
Royce took the cap from Camellia without a word, but his eyes never left Mary’s face. Mary squared her shoulders. “Don’t blame them. It was my fault.”
“I have no doubt of that,” Royce retorted.
“That’s not true. We all wanted to come,” Rose p
rotested, and Lily and Camellia echoed her words.
Royce shot the others a single flashing glance. “Get your things and go back to the house.” He turned. “Jarrett. Giddings. Take these girls straight home. Do not let them out of your sight.”
“Yessir.” The two men approached the sisters and waited. When the girls did not move, they cast an anxious glance at Royce, then at the sisters.
“Miss …” The gardener tugged at his cap and stepped back.
“We’re not leaving Mary.” Camellia folded her arms pugnaciously.
Before Royce could speak, Mary told her, “No, go. I’ll be fine.”
“But—”
“Trust me. It will be much better if Sir Royce and I have our discussion in private.”
All three of her sisters looked from Mary to Royce.
“The devil take it!” Royce burst out. “I’m not going to hurt her!”
Mary nodded encouragingly. “Go on.”
With a few last reluctant looks, the three young women trailed off, followed anxiously by the groom and the gardener. Mary watched them go, then turned back to Royce.
“Shooting at kidnappers,” he said almost conversationally, bending over to pick up the blanket. His gaze fell on the food basket, its side bashed in. He gave it a nudge with his foot. “Cracked this over his head, I imagine.”
“I tried. He was too tall.”
Royce let out a strange dry laugh. “Of course you did.” Savagely he kicked the basket, sending it flying. “Bloody hell, Mary! Have you no sense?”
Mary flinched at the sudden movement, but quickly regained her composure. “I assume that is a rhetorical question.”
“I told you to stay in the house!” He whirled to glare at her.
“No, actually, you did not; you said to tell you before we left on a jaunt,” Mary corrected him. She knew that she was goading him, but something in her wanted to continue doing it, to send his seething temper soaring. She was ready, almost eager, for the explosion. “But that is neither here nor there. We aren’t children to be ordered around. You cannot tell us what to do and expect us to blindly follow your commands.”
