by Valerie King
“Ah, I see what you are about. Perhaps you are right, perhaps it is his pride that prevents him from becoming reconciled. Do you think he has sustained his separation from society with as much force as Lady Waldron?”
“I do not know if I would go that far, but I do think he played a part in the whole of it, that he still does by withholding the truth.”
“You have given me something to ponder,” he mused.
Abigail took a sip of tea. “You said there was a second reason why the four gentlemen you mentioned earlier did not agree to help you pay for the orphanage.”
Mr. Clark settled his cup on his saucer with a loud clink. His expression appeared decidedly grim as he began to speak. “There is a want of generosity in our vale that has existed since I became vicar so many years ago. I have noticed it from the first, and you may be certain any number of my sermons have been dedicated to encouraging a giving spirit among my parishioners, but a certain parsimonious spirit has prevailed.”
“Your neighbors are stingy,” she stated. She could not keep from smiling.
“Yes, in a nutshell,” he returned baldly, though he appeared resigned.
“I am sorry to hear it,” she said. “Then it is possible that the quarrel between Lady Waldron and Lord Treyford has merely been an excuse in this situation.”
“Very possible,” he agreed.
“Well, you have given me a great deal to think about as well,” she said.
“So, how do you enjoy living at Oak Hill?” He eyed her carefully, so she thought she understood the point of his question. She could not help but smile. “I daresay I will astonish you when I tell you that I could not be happier.”
He choked on his tea.
“Are you all right?” she asked.
He wiped his mouth. “Miss Chailey. Astonishment hardly describes what I feel of the moment. Do you know just how many governesses I have had to comfort over the years, how many poor, suffering creatures have come to me in tears because of Mr. Lavant’s variable manners and exasperating foibles? Because of his daughter’s snakes, mice, and frogs? Yet, you sit there, a picture of unequaled composure, and tell me you could not be happier? I cannot credit that it is true, yet I can see by your expression you are in earnest.”
“My father was a man very much in the mold of Mr. Lavant. Perhaps Papa was not nearly so loud or so determined to enjoy himself at my expense as Mr. Lavant, but I believe I understand my employer quite well because of having been raised by an eccentric parent. Besides, even were I discontent in Mr. Lavant’s society, which I am not, how could I be anything other than pleased by how very much he loves his daughter?”
Mr. Clark smiled warmly. “He does, very much, does he not? His finest quality, I think.”
“I could not agree more.”
Abigail took a long sip of tea. She could see by the hour that she had kept Mr. Clark well past the usual quarter hour for social calls. She knew she ought to be going. However, there was one remaining subject she needed to broach before taking her leave.
Her heart began to thump in her chest as she took a deep breath and said, “I have been given to understand that you know the highwayman, that you are acquainted with him. Is this true?”
Mr. Clark became instantly discomfited. He fidgeted with his napkin, which slid off his knee and onto the floor. He coughed, he spilled his tea, and then he offered her a macaroon.
“No, I thank you. I have already had two. I perceive I have given you some distress.”
“You have surprised me,” he responded, clearing his throat several times. “I hope I do not offend you when I say that I cannot tell you anything about this gentleman. To do so would be to violate certain confidences appertaining to my particular office as vicar of Oakmont.”
“I shan’t press you further, only I was hoping . . . that is, I had the opportunity to meet the highwayman upon my arrival at Three Rivers Cross, and there was something of import I felt I should tell him.” This much was true, for at the very least she should warn him about the forthcoming presence of Bow Street in the vale.
“Perhaps there is something I could relate to him on your behalf,” he offered.
“That is very kind of you. However, what I must tell him is a very private matter.” Now she was telling whiskers.
Mr. Clark’s brows rose a little, and Abigail felt a blush warm her cheeks.
“I see,” he added.
“Well, the hour is much advanced,” she said, rising to her feet. “And I should be returning to Oak Hill.” Settling her cup and saucer on the table at her elbow, she added in what she felt was a completely brazen manner, “I would only wish that if you are able, would you please tell the highwayman that I shall be exploring the moors tomorrow afternoon.”
Her cheeks were now burning, and so she did not hesitate to offer her hand to the good cleric. After he shook it gently and told her how happy he was she had called upon him, she quit the vicarage.
Her cheeks did not stop flaming for fully a quarter mile down the lane.
* * * * * * * * *
“And were her cheeks actually the color of tomatoes?” Lord Treyford inquired, smiling happily. Mr. Clark had called on him to relate the contents of his conversation with Miss Chailey, and together they were walking his three best pointers around the perimeter of his wooded estate.
“Yes. I daresay I have never known a lady to have bungled a request for an assignation so badly before. She must not be in the habit of arranging them, I am gratified to say. What a beauty she is. And so full of pluck. And that hair of hers, like an exquisite sunset. You would do well to make such a one your wife, Trey, if she would have a highwayman and an outcast for a husband.”
“She will have neither,” he said. “She has as much as told me already.” Lord Treyford could not stop his smiles. He was inordinately pleased that his proper governess had hinted to Mr. Clark that she must meet the highwayman again. He had not expected this of her, which was another reason he might be in a fair way to changing his opinions of governesses.
“There was something else she said to me, about you, however—not the highwayman—that I found intriguing.”
“Indeed?”
“Mmm. She said she felt it was your pride that kept you from becoming reconciled to many of the families in the vale.”
“My pride? How is that?” He was piqued.
“Specifically, that were you to make the truth known about your injuries as a result of the duel, many would forgive you, for you must know that you are believed to have been intent on murdering Lord Chandos.”
“Of course I know that is what is thought of me.”
“Then, why do you not clarify what happened? Wait. Do pause for a moment. I must say, when we reach this particular rise, and your woods part to reveal so idyllic a scene, I vow there cannot be a prettier place in Christendom.”
Treyford stopped as he was bid, though the dogs, with tongues lolling, continued happily on their way. Clark was right. Capability Brown had done a magnificent job so many years earlier. The path diverged, revealing a meadow stocked with just a handful of sheep, the grasses waving gently in the afternoon breeze, the moors beyond. “I am greatly blessed,” he said reverently. “Whatever my status in our little vale.”
At that, Mr. Clark sighed. “That you are. But come, let us continue on our way. I am meeting with Lady Boxwood at six.” When they were once more in motion, Mr. Clark continued. “Of what were we speaking?”
“Nothing to signify,” he responded ruefully.
“Ah, yes, now I remember. I must say I am in complete agreement with Miss Chailey. You cannot know how unhappy I am that you are ostracized from Three Rivers Cross society in this ridiculous manner.”
“Do not fret, my good friend, for I am not unhappy.”
“Yes, but in doing so, you have made it impossible for any genteel woman to marry you, for what Lady of Quality could abide being treated as an outcast among the neighboring families? Not one. Besides, you of all men sh
ould marry.”
“I am not interested in marrying anyone,” he answered in what he felt was an entirely reasonable manner. “So the point is moot.”
“There is only one difficulty with your quick answer.”
“And what might that be?”
“You will not like what I have to say.”
“I can bear it,” he returned in a playfully brusque manner.
“Just this—I used to watch you with your niece when she was very young, little more than a toddler, before your sister removed to Plymouth. You were never happier than when dandling that child upon your knee.”
At that, an overwhelming sensation of sadness poured over Treyford, of longing so profound, that he found it difficult to shape an answer in his head. Finally, he responded, “You are right. I do not like what you have said to me.”
Mr. Clark clapped him on the shoulder. “Why so glum?” he asked facetiously. “For now you are a highwayman. Much better than being an old married man with a dozen children racing about the halls of your ancestral home.”
“You are nearly as vile as Lavant,” he countered, but he could not help laughing. “So Miss Chailey means to march about the moors tomorrow afternoon?”
“So it would seem.”
“Did she happen to mention the hour she would be traversing our moorland or what particular direction she meant to take?”
“No, she did not.”
Well, there was a difficulty, but not an insuperable one. “I believe I have a sonnet to write,” he said.
“What?” Mr. Clark asked, his brow wrinkled in some confusion.
“It does not matter. You are a good friend, Clark. And do not fret. I shall have the rest of the money for the orphanage before the next fortnight, I promise you.”
Mr. Clark sighed heavily. “I wish I had not learned of this bad business of yours. I cannot approve, Trey.”
“Even I do not approve,” he responded. “A kind of madness seized me when I saw the narrow-hearted response to your plea for an orphanage from among Three River Cross’s most distinguished families. I felt something ought to be done to turn this stultified community on its ear.”
“You have certainly done that. The word is Bow Street is due to arrive any day.”
“Well I know it. Lavant told me on Monday.”
“I do wish you’d give up this business.”
“I shall, but not until you have your orphanage.”
Once more, Mr. Clark sighed heavily. “If you are caught, it could be Tyburn Tree.”
“I know, my good man, I know.”
* * * * * * * * *
The following morning, Abigail was in the middle of a lesson in French culture with her yawning, eye-rolling pupil, when a billet arrived for her. She glanced at the neat scrawl that had few curls in each letter, denoting a masculine hand, and felt the cadence of her heart spring to sudden life. She turned the missive over at least twice before quickly secreting it in the pocket of her gown. She wondered if Miss Lavant had noticed her odd behavior, but when she glanced her direction, she saw that her charge was examining her nails with little concern for anything else.
When ten frustrating minutes passed with Miss Lavant showing no interest at all in the reign of Louis XIV, she suggested that her pupil practice the most recent Mozart sonata she had introduced to her yesterday. This seemed to please Miss Lavant, at least to the degree anything resembling work pleased her, which afforded Abigail the opportunity to slip from the schoolroom and take a brief refuge in her bedchamber.
Despite her intention of remaining calm and somewhat disinterested in the contents of the letter, her hands trembled as she settled herself on the edge of her bed and broke the maroon wax seal.
She unfolded the fine sheet of vellum and saw at once that he had indeed written a sonnet in honor of Artemis and that there was a message after. She did not know which to read first. She closed her eyes and tried to quiet the thumping of her heart. She would read the inscription first and then the poem.
The message was clear. He had heard she meant to walk about the moor—bless dear Mr. Clark—and was it not fortunate that he had also meant to stroll about on the highlands, though not until later, at dusk, for otherwise he feared discovery.
I do not ask that you meet me, for that would be an improper request, but I shall be at the top of the path behind Oak Hill as the sun is setting.
Abigail could not have been happier with such a missive, except that she had no idea how she was to arrange a solitary walk at so late an hour without creating a strong protest or, at the very least, suspicion.
Time enough to consider the perplexing problem. As for the poem, it was not perhaps the finest verse ever contrived, but the requisite fourteen lines filled the page, and more than once he referred to her beauty as a pool in which he could be submerged and lost forever. This did not make a great deal of sense to her, but then, she recalled that he was Spanish, so perhaps this was an image more familiar to residents of the Iberian peninsula. Whatever the case, his efforts pleased her so much that she lost a sense of time as her mind gave way to any number of daydreams that the poem suggested to her, of racing madly across the moors on horseback alongside her knight, of swimming in a warm pool, of basking in the sun, of holding the highwayman’s hand, of kissing him again.
She was drawn from her reveries by Miss Lavant scratching at her door and begging to know if she absolutely had to continue practicing the Mozart piece.
Several hours later, Abigail was finally able to leave the manor, but not without fending off not only Mr. Lavant, who laughed at her professed desire for a period of reflection on the moors, but Mrs. Nympton, the housekeeper, as well. The latter felt a stroll so late in the day would invite every manner of attack from the wild animals known to inhabit the moors.
Abigail felt her concerns were a trifle absurd, but she took a lantern to allay the good lady’s fears. When Miss Lavant asked to join her, she refused again, reverting to the same excuse she had employed with her father.
She was dressed in a serviceable gown of muslin, with a straw poke bonnet settled over her curls and, against the cooler night air, a fine plaid shawl of merino wool draped over her elbows.
She struck out to the west, following the wide, well-worn path up to the moors directly behind Mr. Lavant’s property. The distance was not above two miles, so that before long she was standing at the top of the rise just as the sun was setting.
The vista was extraordinary as evening settled in slow stages over the valley below. She could see all three rivers clearly at various turns and twists. Lights began appearing from one end of the sculpted land to the next. Centuries of farming had turned the vale into a soft green mosaic of farms, manors, and clumps of thatched villages. Sheep could be heard bleating at long distances, and only a steady wind, which buffeted her bonnet, disturbed the tranquility of the landscape below.
Occasionally, she would turn to watch in peaceful delight as the sun disappeared over the moors and every now and then turn back to watch the moon rising, in its gibbous state, to the east. She wondered if anything could be lovelier than this. She pulled her shawl more tightly about her, lifting her eyes to the heavens. Stars began to appear one by one. She made a wish, and just as swiftly, the wish came true.
“I was so afraid,” a low, masculine voice, in a distinct Spanish cadence, began softly near her, “that you would not come to me.”
Abigail gasped lightly and turned toward him. “You startled me.”
“I did not mean to,” he murmured, his accent exotic.
Abigail sighed deeply. He was dressed just as he had been the first time she met him, only six days past. His Spanish hat was angled over his black hair, and a half-mask covered the upper portion of his face. Dark eyes glittered upon her, at least they appeared dark through the slits of his mask.
She searched his face, wanting to remember the strong line of his jaw, the shape of his lips, how his hair curled at the nape of his neck. “Your poem was very bea
utiful,” she said.
He chuckled softly. “And you are too kind,” he returned, moving close to her. He took the lantern from her and settled it on the grassy sward at her feet. He then possessed himself of her hand and with a smile began drawing her away from the view of the valley below. “I fear my silhouette might yet be seen. Come. Walk with me a little. I know I dare not keep you long, else you will be missed.”
Abigail smiled. “I suppose you are right.” She then hurried on. “You must think it odd that I would beg Mr. Clark to tell you where I would be, in other words to hint at my desire to see you again.”
He smiled, taking both her hands in his. He walked backward slowly down the path, leading her away from the circle of light. After a moment, he turned to walk beside her, catching her arm and wrapping it tightly around his, so that they might continue their journey side by side. “I do not think it odd when I remember that night, the kiss we shared, the moon that seemed to bless the moment of our being together. These things I remember, and then your desire to be here is not so strange, for I desired it as well. I have hoped, when there was no reason to hope, that I would see you again. Dios mio, but you are so beautiful, my dear Abigail.”
“Then, you know my name.”
“Of course. The daughter of the moon must have a name. Mr. Clark told me many things.”
“Mr. Clark is a splendid fellow.” She felt she would always be grateful to him for this stolen time with the highwayman.
“Si,” her companion returned. “He is a good man with a good heart.”
She remembered what it was she needed to tell him. “There was something most particular I had to tell you,” she said.
“I hear the concern in your voice. What is troubling you?”
“Are you aware that a Bow Street Runner has been hired to capture you?”
At that, he laughed lightly. “Yes, but you are not to worry, my beauty.”
“I am worried. Even Lady Waldron spoke of Newgate once you were captured.”
His jaw seemed to harden. “The lady concerns herself too much in my affairs. But never mind. You are here, and I am grateful that you told me, for then I know that you have come to care for me.”
