Chance the Winds of Fortune (23 page)

“Or is going to happen, Rina?” Mary said miserably. “I always tell myself that I should not be so surprised when something from my dreams comes true, and yet I am left stunned by it every time,” she said tiredly.

“You had another vision last night, didn't you?” the duchess asked.

Mary nodded. “Brief images, nothing more. But this morning it was far more terrifying. I saw in my dream that blue riding habit. If only I had known that Caroline would be wearing it.”

“She could not have been wearing it, Mary. That was Rhea's riding habit,” she told her, watching Mary's reaction carefully.

Mary's breath caught in her throat. “I have never foreseen something happening to anyone but our family. Why should I have seen this happening to Caroline?”

“Because she was wearing Rhea's clothing, I imagine,” the duchess reasoned.

Mary bit a trembling lip. “Then…”

“Then the danger was meant for Rhea, not Caroline,” said the duchess, putting Mary's fear into words. “Caroline just happened to get in the way. But that does not tell us what happened to my daughter,” the duchess said, her voice taut with anger and fear. “I must know what has happened. I have to be able to help her. Now tell me, what else have you seen?”

Mary sighed. “The usual confused images. An old man. Water. The ocean, I think. A pair of blue eyes. What can that tell you?” Mary demanded, angry at herself for being so unhelpful. “Oh, and one last thing. I thought I was drowning. It was a horrible feeling, all of that water around me.”

“Well, we can be thankful for one thing at least.” The duchess laughed shortly.

Mary frowned in perplexity. “What on earth could that be?”

“Rhea can swim. When we used to visit Verrick House, I would take Rhea and Francis to a forest pool I frequented often when we lived there,” the duchess explained, a reminiscent smile curving her lips. “Both Rhea and Francis took to the water like fish. They used to love it there. So, my dear, it is not Rhea you see drowning. And that, Mary, is some comfort to me, and I thank you for it.”

“I only wish that I could give you more than that.”

“For now it shall have to do,” she replied vaguely as they entered the salon where the rest of the family was anxiously awaiting news of Caroline's condition, and whether or not Rhea had been found.

All conversation was halted abruptly at their entrance, and all eyes unblinkingly stared at the two silent women. “Caroline is sleeping peacefully, I believe,” the duchess informed them, refusing the cup of tea being proffered by a serious-faced Anna Fletcher playing the hostess in the absence of her aunt and mother.

“No thank you, dear,” the duchess told her, smiling encouragingly at her family. But when her eyes met a pair of troubled brown ones, her expression changed. “Sarah! What are you doing out of bed? You shouldn't be exerting yourself,” the duchess told her sheepish-looking sister-in-law, who had risen with the awkward slowness of a woman heavy with child.

“Sabrina, I know you are concerned about me,” Sarah replied apologetically, but with a firmness to her tone, “but I cannot sit quietly alone in my room, not knowing what is going on. Please do not ask that of me. Truly, I shall be far better off sitting in here with the rest of you than I would worrying myself to death in my room. I'm quite comfortable, Sabrina.”

“That I cannot believe,” the duchess replied with an understanding smile as she took in Sarah's well-rounded stomach. “But to please me, and to set poor Richard's mind at ease, do sit down,” she pleaded as she herself sank wearily onto the sofa and held her chilled hands out to the warmth of the fire.

“Caroline has not regained consciousness?” the general asked, shifting his stiff leg to a more comfortable position near the fire.

“No, Terence. I tried my best to reassure Sir Jeremy, but he is taking this hard. He's lavished so much attention on Caroline that I do not think he would know what to do if she were gone,” the duchess commented.

“You don't think she will die, do you?” Richard asked, his spectacles catching the light from the fire.

“No, I don't, but one never knows quite the extent of a head wound,” the duchess said. There was a helpless note in her voice. “You've seen wounds in battle, Terence. What do you think?”

Unconsciously rubbing the old wound in his thigh, where he could still feel a twinge of pain from the sharp thrust of the enemy's blade, Terence thought of all the young men, some hardly more than boys, who'd suffered and died in battle. “She has definitely sustained quite a bump on her head, but I suspect much of her problem—since you have led me to believe that Caroline is a highly excitable young woman—is caused by hysteria. I can, of course, only speculate on what occurred, but I would hazard a guess that she was knocked unconscious, then awoke to find herself stranded in a desolate country lane. Having to walk back to Camareigh, with a head injury, especially for a girl of Caroline's tender sensibilities, must have been quite traumatic for her.”

“Whatever it was happened out there,
she
wouldn't have been of any help,” James declared morosely, a look of confused anger in his eyes while he thought of his missing cousin.

“James!” the general reprimanded him sharply. “That was a contemptible thing to say. I am ashamed of you.”

James swallowed his tears and dropped his head in shame. “I'm sorry, Father,” he said in a choked voice.

Ewan and Francis exchanged glances, for although it was not proper for James to have said what he did, they all knew it was the truth. Francis made a grimace as he stared down at his belly: the wide sword belt holding the pillow against his body was beginning to sag alarmingly. Shaking his head, he glanced first at Robin, who was staring bemusedly into the flames, and then at his cousins. Their attire, and his own costume, would have been laughable had not the situation been so serious. They had been in the midst of a dress rehearsal. Mr. Ormsbee had been bustling around, fussing and fidgeting like a hen over a chick, when Robin had spotted the unusual activities down in the stables. And that had been the last Mr. Ormsbee had seen of his amateur actors.

Mary had persuaded her sister into accepting a cup of tea and was offering refills to the others when the doors to the salon were flung wide and the duke entered, his expression grim. The expectant faces turned toward him did not make his request any easier, especially when he looked into his wife's violet eyes, for he could never hide anything from her.

“I am riding over to Stone House-on-the-Hill. That was where Rhea was headed—perhaps the old man can tell us something. Has Caroline said anything?” he asked.

“No, she's still sleeping,” Mary answered while the duchess stared at Lucien, a puzzled expression on her face.

“I'd like to accompany you, Lucien,” the general offered, getting to his feet, his stiff leg forgotten as he contemplated getting into action.

The duke smiled. “I thought you might, so I've had Butterick saddle your horse.” Then he tried to forestall what he knew was coming when he saw his wife rise hurriedly. “No, Sabrina. I don't want you coming with us.”

“Damn it, Lucien, I am,” Sabrina contradicted him. “Rhea is my daughter too, and I'll not be left behind. I have a right to be with you,” she told him, looking at him squarely, a determined glint in her eyes.

The duke grasped her shaking hands and held them against his chest for a moment. “I only wished to spare you, my dear. I do not know what we shall discover.”

“I know, Lucien,” Sabrina answered softly, “but we have always shared everything. Don't shut me out now.”

“I want to go too, Father,” Francis said boldly.

“Me too, sir,” Ewan volunteered. His offer was then echoed by both George and James.

Richard had already stepped forward to stand just behind the duchess. He didn't need to offer; they all knew he would not stay at Camareigh while the rest were out hunting for Rhea and the Earl of Rendale.

Before any further offers could be made, the duke held up a silencing hand, which effectively halted the mass exodus. “I will not have the whole household racing around the countryside like madmen. I am touched by your willingness to help, but I think we should try and carry out this search in some kind of orderly fashion. If you agree, Terence,” the duke said, nodding deferentially to the general, “I think you are the best man to organize the search party.”

“Thank you, Lucien. I shall try my damnedest to find her,” he said quietly. “What I suggest,” he began, his voice assuming the tone of one accustomed to command, “is that Francis and Ewan lead two search parties in different areas. Ewan, you take the east side of the lane: Francis, you take the west. That way we shall cover more ground. Also, I want you both to start at a designated point, then work north toward Stone House-on-the-Hill. That way we will know precisely what ground has been effectively searched, and we'll have closed a circle around the area in which Rhea was traveling. Does that meet with your approval, Lucien?” the general asked, unwilling to usurp the duke's authority in his own home.

“It will be as you wish,” the duke replied, his eyes lingering on his wife. “If you insist upon accompanying us, Sabrina, then I want you to ride with me,” he told her, his voice leaving her no choice. “Richard?”

Richard slipped his arm around his sister's waist. “I'll ride with you, thanks. Sarah?” he added, turning to look at his wife. “You will be all right?”

“I would have it no other way, Richard. And don't worry,” she said with an encouraging smile, “I shan't have your heir while you are gone.”

“What about me—us?” Robin amended as Stuart nudged him, eagerly pressing closer. “I want to help look for Rhea.”

“I would prefer that you stayed here at Camareigh, Son,” the duke replied, his tone of voice telling Robin that his request had been denied.

“But—”

“No buts about it, Robin. Someone should be here with Aunt Mary and Sarah. What if we received news about Rhea? Who would be here to send word to us?” As the duke reasoned with his disappointed son, he noted with sympathy the trembling lip that Robin was fighting to control. He placed a gentle hand beneath his son's chin, and raising his face upward, looked him directly in the eye. “I shall be counting on you, Son, to see that all is well here at Camareigh.”

“Yes, sir,” Robin replied huskily. “I'll watch out for Aunt Mary and Sarah. You can trust me, Father.”

“I have no doubt about that, Robin,” he said, ruffling his son's dark curls. Then he glanced around at the determined faces surrounding him. “Very well, then let us delay no longer.”

* * *

When the group of riders from Camareigh entered the yard of Stone House-on-the-Hill, all was quiet. From the chimney on the east side of the farmhouse a trail of blue smoke was rising slowly into the chill autumn air. There seemed to be nothing amiss in the farmyard. The big double doors to the barn were wide open, and fresh droppings of cow manure were strewn across the yard, giving evidence that someone had just recently led the cows out to pasture. In the distance they could hear distinctive lowing sounds from the grazing cows.

Butterick quickly dismounted and assisted the duchess from her mount before either His Grace or Lord Wrainton could lend a hand. Her horse was a big chestnut stallion that he'd always thought unsuitable for a woman, especially the petite duchess; she'd hear nothing against the horse, though, and to this day she'd yet to suffer a fall. Butterick sometimes had the feeling that the duchess would far prefer riding astride the brute rather than sidesaddle, but that, of course, was ridiculous and completely unheard of.

“Everything seems normal enough,” Richard commented, glancing around.

“What seems to be, and what is, my lord,” Butterick stated knowledgeably, “are often two different things altogether. Always look beneath the surface, I do. That's where the truth is hiding.”

For a second Richard gazed at the horse trainer in amazed silence. “Incredible,” he murmured. “Shall I see if anyone's at home?”

“Most likely 'twill have gone with the cows—” Butterick paused, a smile lighting his face. “Aye, there I told ye so.”

As they stood silent in the farmyard, the clear notes of a young girl's voice raised in song could be heard coming ever closer from the near pasture:

It was in and about the Martinmas time,

When the green leaves weer a falling,

That Sir John Graeme, in the West Country,

Fell in love with Barbara Allan.

He sent his man down through the town,

To the place where she was dwelling:

“O haste and come to my master dear,

Gin ye be Barbara Allan.”

O hooly, hoo—

“—ooh!” The girl's voice rose into a squeal of fright as she rounded the house and came face-to-face with the five riders and horses crowding close in the yard. Another squeal followed close on the heels of the first one, but this time it was one of awed surprise as she recognized the Duke and Duchess of Camareigh. She quickly bobbed a curtsy, then remembered her skirts, which she'd tied up round her waist for trudging through muddy fields. And her pattens were indeed coated with thick, black mud. Blushing with embarrassment, she hurriedly brushed down her skirts and hid her petticoats from curious view, thereby maintaining her modesty.

“Yer Graces,” she gulped, her eyes round with wonder.

“This is young Janey Taber, the elder Mr. Taber's great-great-granddaughter.” Butterick introduced her, recognizing the young girl who could not have been more than thirteen. “That's right, ain't it, young Janey?”

“No, sir, Mr. Butterick,” she answered shyly. “I'm his great-great-great-granddaughter. He's mighty old, Mr. Taber is,” she reminded him.

“Janey,” the duchess said with a warm smile, “we are here to see your great-grandfather. Is he hereabouts? Perhaps inside?”