by Laura London
“I suppose that you’ve come out here to tell me something unpleasant,” I told him candidly. “I can’t think of any other reason for you to come out here and cozy up to me.”
“Can’t you?” A smile lurked behind the brilliant eyes. “Actually I do have something I’d like to ask you. I meant to lead up to it by tactful degrees but since you’re so perceptive I might as well tell you now.”
“Pray, do,” I requested with dignity.
“It’s nothing so terrible, only that I would like you to take one of the servants whenever you leave the estate grounds.”
Of all things, I had not been expecting this. I stared at him, amazed.
“But that would be ridiculous!” I said, in rather a hurry. “To begin with, I never go anywhere. Well… except Dyle, but that’s only once a year. Oh, and I went to the squire’s ball, though I doubt if they would ask me again because they only had me on Kit’s account.” My God, was I now to be like Christopher, with spying bodyguards? I felt a nasty tinge of resentment creep up to sit gargoyle-like on my shoulder. I wasn’t used to taking orders from anyone but Mrs. Goodbody.
“I daresay it’s that you don’t want me in Mudbury alone. Now that I can understand—such a den of vice and iniquity as it is.” I could hear the rebellion in my voice.
“It’s a routine precaution. I work in the War Office and you are my dependent. There’s no real danger, of course. It is general government policy. Your friend Christopher is used to this sort of thing.”
It was all too pat for me. “Your routine precautions didn’t help Christopher and his father much, did they?” I blurted out.
He seemed to hesitate. “So Kit confided that to you. Christopher’s father was directly involved in military espionage for the Crown. Unfortunately, this made him a prime target for Bonapartist agents. Obviously you don’t qualify as a dire threat to Napoleon.”
The marquis looked like he had more to say, but he was interrupted by a long, silvery whistle that sounded like a cross between a calf’s bleat and the somber honk of flying geese. The whistle was quickly answered by another. I picked up a long, fat blade of grass, folded it between my thumbs, and made an echo of the whistles.
“Do you hear those whistles? Those are my sisters calling to each other. Grass whistles are our secret signals. They can be heard farther than a shout,” I explained.
A more experienced woman would have been quick to recognize the sensuality behind the marquis’s slow, lazy smile. I misunderstood. Encouraged by his smile, I asked him doubtfully if he had made grass whistles as a child; it was hard to picture Lord Dearborne as a rowdy schoolboy.
“No, but why don’t you teach me,” he said with a deepening smile. “It seems like a valuable skill to acquire.”
Oh, the traps that are laid for the unwary. I’d been warned before that Lord Dearborne was an experienced rake, but that didn’t deter me from taking the bait like a mouse scampering to a cheesed mousetrap. I took a spike of grass between my thumbs, carefully cupping my fingers with the tips touching, and presented my hands to him with great seriousness.
“See, first you must hold the grass like this.”
He took my cupped hands gently between his and regarded me quizzically. “And then?”
“Then you bring your fingers to your lips…” Oh, stupid, stupid me.
His long fingers slowly removed the grass from my hands and opened my fingers so that they lay palm up in his grasp. He drew both trembling palms to his lips, kissing them softly. These were the first real kisses I had received from a member of the male sex and they had a devastating effect. I melted as butter in the sun. His fingers caressed the sensitive skin of my wrists before drawing them up to his neck, at the same time forcing my shoulders gently down until I lay back on the blanket, passive and stunned. He tenderly lifted a strand of hair from my forehead, brushing his lips lightly across the skin beneath. A moment passed. His voice was a husky whisper:
“I wish that my conscience was either a bit stronger or a bit weaker. My God, you’d be such an easy mark.” He cupped my cheek in his hand. “You’re so damnably seductive even in all your innocence. There should be a legion of chaperones protecting your virtue. Such a slow learner, pet.”
He was right. He was also gone before I realized it. I opened my eyes and I was alone, listening once again to the far-off whistle of the twins. It seemed as though nothing had happened, like he had not been beside me at all, had not kissed me and spoken to me. It had been a dream… or a wish.
I stood up and shakily brushed the grass from the front of my gown. Far off over the hill, I could see the twins running toward me. Christopher would be here as well. It was time for our meeting.
* * *
Later that week, another misfortune occurred among the staff at Barfrestly Manor. Although it was not as serious as the mishap which ended Henri, it was still the cause of considerable alarm. Jason, the undergroom, while exercising one of the horses, stepped into a rabbit hole and broke his leg.
Dr. Brent spied me at the cottage door as he was riding out after attending Jason. Though I gave him no encouragement, he trotted over to say hello, his oversized medicine bag bumping clumsily against the saddle back, where it was secured.
“Well, how’s the little sleuth? Still a lover of French cuisine?” he asked, smiling down at me. Gentlemen will have their joke.
“I’m doing very well, thank you. Have you finished setting the undergroom’s leg? Will he be all right, do you think?”
“Yes, he’ll do, it was a simple fracture. You would do well to fill in that hole the horse tripped in though; someone might have a nasty fall.” He favored me with a patronizing smirk. “Where is your little friend Christopher?” His horse sidled briefly as he reached down to slap a deerfly from its neck.
“Oh, he’s around. I’m surprised you didn’t see him.”
The smirk intensified and his eyes widened with unconvincing disingenuousness.
“But how good it is of Lord Dearborne to keep you here, you and Christopher make such charming playfellows.”
“The marquis is not being ‘good’ at all,” I retorted, stung. Dr. Brent had a special talent for touching the raw places. “My sisters and I are responsibilities of the estate. It’s in the will.”
“Ah, naturally, it’s in the will. Good-bye for now, and give my regards to your sturdy Mrs. Goodbody,” he said, turning his horse.
I watched him ride out of sight, down the carriageway. He had an obnoxious way of putting tilings; in fact, he could make my hands curl into fists just by the way he said “how-di-doo.” It wasn’t only the things he said, it was also the way he said them, as though he knew that you fed your share of boiled turnips to the cat or used your church-offering money to buy peppermint sticks. Like the nursery rhyme:
I do not like thee, Dr. Fell,
The reason why I can not tell,
But this I know, and know full well,
I do not like thee, Dr. Fell.
The marquis instructed Joe Hawkins to fill in the rabbit holes in the pasture, but even with the assistance of my sharp-eyed sisters, Joe was unable to find the offending opening. Jason was put on a stagecoach for another Lome property, to recuperate under the watchful eye of his mother, who was housekeeper there. Luckily for him, Dr. Brent was able to recommend a replacement as undergroom, because there were now so many horses at Barfrestly, between riding hacks and coach horses, that it was full-time work for two people to care for them.
The play was only a week away now and we were busy with dozens of last-minute tasks. It was necessary for me to go into Mudbury to round up some final props—a rusty old sword from the blacksmith that looked like it had been around since the real Norman invasion, an old hobbyhorse for one of the twins to ride (what’s a battle without cavalry?). These items and others had to be collected and ready in time for our dress rehearsal.
I set off on foot for the village, alone. I knew Lord Dearborne didn’t want me to go places by myself, but
I had several reasons, good ones, I thought, for ignoring his politely phrased orders. One, it was only Mudbury; two, I was not about to walk around Mudbury with a servant in tow. Lord, people would think I’d grown as puffed up as the squire’s wife! Lastly, I was a big girl now, in spite of what the marquis obviously thought. I hadn’t been allowed to go alone to the village until my fifteenth birthday. Mrs. Goodbody always said, “Little ships must keep to shore, larger ships may venture more.” I was a larger ship now and I wasn’t going to give up this hard-won privilege, marquis or no marquis. I felt the little resentment gargoyle still enthroned on my shoulder.
After picking up the old sword, I stood outside the blacksmith shop, chatting with the smithy. He was only too glad for the company and an excuse to pass a few minutes in the fresh air. The blacksmith was just in the middle of telling me how lucky I was to ride on such wonderful horses as Lord Dearborne’s when my eyes widened like harvest moons. I had been idly regarding the passersby, when, incredibly, I saw the same man that I had smashed into in the church crypt in Dyle! There was no doubt it was him, walking hunched over down the other side of the road! He was wearing an olive reefer jacket with top-boots, but it was the face that was unmistakable. It didn’t seem fantastically scary now, not being illuminated in yellow in the depths of a crypt, but it was still a singular face.
He had thick, bushy eyebrows, a pliable cucumber for a nose, and his cheeks were covered with pockmarks. His shoulders and back appeared murderously strong. Heart beating like a hammer and anvil, I watched him pass. When he was almost out of sight I took my leave of the blacksmith and began to follow, keeping a discreet distance. What on earth could he be doing in Mudbury—not even the most optimistic smuggler could think that there was any business to transact here. Had he come to find me? To punish me for seeing him in Dyle? To spy, like Christa said? I decided to do a little spying of my own. Better to find out what he was up to now than have him kidnap me from my bed.
I followed him to the edge of the common land where he paused by a two-story brownstone house. I watched him from the shadow of a weeping willow as he eyed the house speculatively. The shutters were closed and there was no light showing. I knew Dr. Brent lived in this house. Perhaps Mr. Sacre Bleu was going to rob his house in his absence. But no. He began walking again, down the edge of the common land to a stand of trees, and then down the other side of a long flint wall. He was stomping along deliberately in what I assumed was a sailor’s walk, and took occasional glances over his shoulder. I was careful now to stay hidden as well as I could behind the flint wall.
He took a sharp turn and took a narrow path into the woods. I followed him, stopping now and then to see if I could still hear his feet shuffling through the leaves. The noise stopped ahead of me and I took it for a sign that he had reached his destination. I crept quietly and low to the ground in a roundabout way, leaving the path and circling, wondering what to do next. A pheasant flushed in front of me, stopping my heart with the commotion of its wings. I waited a few moments and then continued, very cautiously. Between the trees, I could see a small meadow filled with friar’s cap and lanky Queen Anne’s lace. In the middle of the meadow was a large spreading oak. I crouched down underneath a beautifully delicate group of ferns, and observed as Mr. Sacre Bleu placed something under the gnarled roots of the oak. He turned and left the scene, going down the path again.
I waited for a few moments, getting up the courage to investigate the mystery under the roots. His footsteps faded, and I held back yet longer. I wanted to make certain he wasn’t coming back, so I mentally recited all seven verses of “Rise, the Children of Salvation” before I went to look. Having finished the hymn, I crossed the meadow to the oak, to see a corner of what looked like sailcloth sticking out from underneath the roots. I reached down and pulled it out. It felt light in my hands. I had no idea what it contained—smuggled goods, war secrets, or what.
I was never to know the answer, for suddenly I was struck from behind by what seemed a bolt of lightning. I remember thinking, But it’s not even raining—and falling forward to the ground…
I was dreaming a fitful, fearful dream, in which I was being tossed on the breast of the sea in a very small boat which rode up and down on the waves. I was seasick and vomiting over the side, and was dimly conscious of a cool hand laid on the back of my neck.
“That’s the way. Let it all up and you’ll feel much better.” The voice was gentle, caring. “Here, let’s wipe your face and rest a while.” I sensed a clean handkerchief being passed over my face, and yes, I did feel a little better. I opened my eyes—the light was much too bright—and saw Lord Dearborne kneeling next to me. He was draping his coat over my shoulders.
“Why did you hit me?” I said to him, weakly.
“I was not the malefactor, although you were up to something which annoyed someone to the extent that he decided to chloroform you. It also appears that you have been struck on the head. Out with it, what mischief were you up to? What was so important that it made you disobey me and go wandering around the countryside alone?”
“You are not my father. You are not even Mrs. Goodbody. You have no right to order me to do anything.”
“That does not answer my question. What were you doing wandering around in the middle of nowhere?”
I was sick, and he was being entirely too forward in his manner of questioning. This made me angry.
“What were you doing out here?” I asked him.
“I was riding. Peterby was showing me this deserted corner of his property, and I was on my way home down the path through the woods. Now if you don’t come across with the information I have requested of you I will add to that lump on the back of your head.”
He looked decidedly grim. It made me hate him, but I was also afraid, so I told him:
“I was following Mr. Sacre Bleu.”
“And who, pray tell, is he?”
“He’s an ugly sailor-type person with a cucumber nose who swears in French.”
A different look, perhaps of recognition, passed over the marquis’s face.
“You followed him here. What was he doing?”
“He was poking around underneath the big oak over there. I went over to look and there was some sort of package there.”
The marquis got up and walked to the oak, investigating where I had pointed, under the roots.
“There is nothing here now,” he said.
“What does it all mean?” I called to him weakly.
“It means you should do as I say regarding my desire for your protection. It also means that you had better tend to your play-producing and other domestic pursuits and leave off following cucumber-nosed suspicious persons.”
“If it pleases Your Lordship.”
“It pleases me. Now let’s go back to the estate and you can have Mrs. Goodfellow attend to that crack on your head.”
“Mrs. Goodbody.”
“Whoever. Now let’s go, I’ll give you a hand up.”
This I allowed. But when he put his arm around my waist, I pulled at it with all my strength.
“I may be a slow learner but I am catching on. You may place that arm somewhere else.”
“You little fool. Do you want to fall off the horse and break your neck?”
“Non tali auxilio nee defensoribus istis tempus eget. That’s Virgil. And it means…”
“I know what it means,” he interrupted. “ ‘Not such aid nor such defenders does the time require.’ What an independent little creature you are. But don’t fight me now. You’ve been hurt and I want to take you home quickly.” His voice had softened persuasively and he caressed my face gently with the back of his hand. This time when he pulled me into his arms and lifted me lightly into the saddle, I didn’t object. I didn’t push him away when he mounted behind me, one strong arm steadying me against his chest. Perhaps it was only the effects of the head injury that kept me leaning quietly on his hard body as the stallion’s effortless strides carried us back to Barfrest
ly.
Chapter Eight
Lord Dearborne created quite a sensation riding up to Barfrestly Manor with me in the saddle in front of him. He ignored me when I demanded to be allowed to walk into the cottage, brusquely picking me up and carrying me straight to my bed, as Mrs. Goodbody came hurrying across the yard, mobcap askew, puffing like a March wind.
“My Lord! Elizabeth! My dear lambkin! Where are you hurt, my love?” asked Mrs. Goodbody, white-faced. “Your head? My word, here’s a lump as big as an egg! Was that nasty Plumford boy throwing rocks again? If it was he then depend upon it I shall go straight to his father and give him a piece of my mind!”
“Oh, no, Mrs. Goodbody, it was nothing so bad as that,” I assured her. “Only I was following a smuggler, or perhaps a spy, one can’t be sure for he swears in French—only that alone doesn’t mean he is a spy, er, where was I? Oh yes. I followed him and saw him hide a parcel, probably stolen state secrets, or maybe…” I paused to reflect. “Maybe just smuggled gems of great value. Well anyway, he came back around after I thought he was gone and hit my head.”
Mrs. Goodbody choked and said she never did, not in all her born days, hear the likes of my story, which was a gratifying response. What was to follow was not gratifying in the least. Lord Dearborne, with an air of paternal solicitude that would have done credit to an archbishop, leaned over me and patted me on the hand.
“Yes, Mrs. Goodbody,” he said with the innocence of a suckling babe, “it’s a pity that Elizabeth forgot to take an escort with her as I requested. There are a good many rogues about the countryside in these unsettled times.”
There, now the fat was in the fire.
“Elizabeth Cordell,” exclaimed Mrs. Goodbody, her complexion changing from white to red. “Do you mean to say that the marquis asked you not to go out alone and you never told me of it and then deliberately went and disobeyed him?”
