Sheri Cobb South (19 page)

“You are quite right, Emma; I did not return to my rooms. I did not yet know the bridge was out, but I did not fancy slogging home through the mud. In fact, I had hoped to bed down in the stable for the night and resume my journey in the morning.”

“The
stable?”
Emma Hollingshead’s tone mingled amazement with skepticism. “Could you not have asked Mama to put you up for the night?”

“I daresay I could have, and I don’t doubt she would have agreed to do so. You will no doubt think me proud to a fault, but I could not stomach the idea of casting myself on your mother’s charity. Your father’s groom, though a gruff sort of fellow, is a kindly soul who would not have objected.” He paused, then spoke again with a hint of amusement in his voice. “You need not look so appalled, my love. If a stable was good enough for the Christ Child, it must surely have sufficed for me.”

“No, no, it’s just that—Colin, can you honestly tell me you were in the stable the entire time?”

“Until I returned to the house to beg a blanket from Mrs. Holland, only to learn that the vicarage was ablaze. Why do you ask?” She did not answer, and when he spoke again, his tone was grave. “If you fear that I might have seen or heard something I shouldn’t, you need not worry, for you must know I could never betray you. I daresay you must have acted out of desperation, and dread of being forced into a hateful marriage. For putting you in such a position, your mother must be held as much to blame as yourself.”

“Good God, Colin, what are you suggesting? Can it be that you think me capable of—of—”

“We are all of us capable of the darkest deeds, Emma. History teaches us that, of all things.”

“And why, pray, would I commit such a wicked act?”

“For love.” The tenderness in his voice almost brought tears to Lady Fieldhurst’s eyes. “For love of a man who can never marry you.”

“But I didn’t do it! You must know that I did not. In fact, I thought—I feared— You cannot deny that you had reason to wish him dead!”

“A man I loved like a father? No, Emma, I am sorry, but much as I love you, I confess I should be extremely reluctant to murder for your sake.”

“But you said you had a plan that would allow us to marry,” she reminded him.

“And so I did. I planned to write to one of my old schoolfellows who now has a modest living within his gift, and see if he would be willing to give it to me. The income is by no means large, but it would allow me to support a wife and, if we should be so blessed, a child or two.”

“Oh, is that all it was?” breathed Emma on a sigh of relief. “I daresay you think me very foolish.”

“Shall I tell you what I think of you, my dearest love?”

There followed a silence so very protracted that the viscountess began to despair of ever escaping from the cave at all. At length, weary of shifting her weight from one foot to another, she began to grope along the cave wall for a place to sit. A loose pebble shifted beneath her foot, skittering away in the darkness. A faint gasp sounded.

“My darling, we must not!” cried Miss Hollingshead.

“Someone is coming!”

Lady Fieldhurst seized her opportunity. Emerging from her hiding place with as much noise as she could contrive, she advanced upon the pair with loud exclamations of relief.

“Oh, Mr. Meriwether! Miss Hollingshead!” she cried, determinedly ignoring Miss Hollingshead’s disheveled hair and the curate’s rumpled cravat. “I somehow became separated from my companions and could not find my way back. I can never thank you enough for coming in search of me!”

Having provided the grateful pair with an excuse for their protracted absence, Lady Fieldhurst submitted with a good grace to their concerned (if somewhat belated) inquiries as to her health, safety, and state of mind. She took the arm Mr. Meriwether offered and allowed him to lead her out of the cave and into the sunshine. Other members of the party soon emerged from the inky depths, to be regaled with the story of Lady Fieldhurst’s adventure (which, in the manner of such tales, grew more dramatic with each retelling) until at last the entire group was reunited.

“My dear Lady Fieldhurst!” exclaimed Miss Grantham, having been made privy by the now-thrilling tale. “You must be sorely in need of a restorative. I believe Mrs. Holland added a bottle of her special raspberry cordial to our picnic hamper. It is very good, I assure you.”

Lady Fieldhurst, recalling that the picnic hamper was stored in the boot of the Hollingshead carriage, professed herself all eagerness for a draught of the housekeeper’s raspberry cordial. In fact, she was less interested in a restorative than in cutting short the excursion and reporting her findings to John Pickett.

“So soon?” protested Miss Susannah, instructed to gather her sketchbook and follow her governess back to the carriage. “But I want to see if my handkerchief has been turned to stone!”

“I fear you would be disappointed,” said Mr. Carrington with an indulgent smile. “The process of petrifaction takes several weeks. Perhaps we can manage a return visit at a later date.”

With this vague promise Miss Susannah had to be content, and so the party trudged back through the beeches to the carriages. Their appetites sharpened through exercise, they made a hearty meal of cold chicken, bread, cheese, and apples from the Hollingshead orchard. At last, appetites sated, the little party broke up once more. Mr. Kendall, having extolled the virtues of his new phaeton, dragged Mr. Carrington on an inspection of this paragon among vehicles, while Mr. Meriwether and Miss Hollingshead wandered off and soon lost themselves among the beeches. Miss Grantham, having partaken a little too freely of Mrs. Holland’s excellent cordial, dozed in the shade. Lady Fieldhurst, finding herself alone with Miss Susannah, knelt down on the grass near the spot where that young lady sat sketching.

“Miss Grantham appears to be sleeping soundly,” observed the viscountess in a conspiratorial whisper. “I daresay you can stop drawing now, if you wish.”

“Oh, I don’t mind,” said Miss Susannah, as her charcoal flew across the page.

“I fear I was never very artistic, myself,” confessed her ladyship. “May I see your work?”

Miss Susannah hesitated only for a moment, then held out her sketchbook for the viscountess’s inspection.

The face that gazed up at her from the page was instantly recognizable. The young artist had missed the nose entirely, and the eyes were a bit too close together, but the chin was his to the life, as was the mouth—the mouth that she herself had kissed scarcely more than twenty-four hours earlier.

“I tried to straighten his nose,” confessed Miss Susannah, surveying her work critically, “but I think I prefer it the way it is.

Lady Fieldhurst was inclined to agree. Still, it was a remarkable effort for one so young, and the viscountess did not hesitate to give credit where it was due.

“It is very like,” she told the budding artist. “You have quite a gift.”

“Thank you. Miss Grantham only wants me to draw flowers and trees and such, but I think people are much more interesting, don’t you?”

Lady Fieldhurst agreed, but privately she feared Miss Susannah found her most recent subject a great deal
too
interesting.

“I dare not keep it, for Miss Grantham would be furious if she saw it,” said the artist with a sigh. “Do you think he might like to have it?”

Lady Fieldhurst had no difficulty interpreting “he” as the subject of the sketch. Recalling his dismay when informed of Miss Susannah’s schoolgirl
tendre,
the viscountess could not quite suppress a mischievous smile. “I daresay he would like that very much.”
And how I shall roast him about it,
she added mentally. The return to Hollingshead Place could not come soon enough.

Chapter 11

In Which John Pickett’s Secret Is Discovered

John Pickett’s pace quickened as he crossed the bridge and began the climb to Hollingshead Place. Had he been in London, he would have reported the day’s findings to Mr. Colquhoun, but in the absence of the magistrate, Lady Fieldhurst would suffice as confidante and co-conspirator. His heart grew lighter at the thought of the approaching
tête-à -tête.
In some ways, her ladyship’s companionship was far superior to that of Mr. Colquhoun.

Upon reaching the house, he entered through the servants’ entrance at the rear (thankful to find no sign of the hostile Mrs. Holland) and climbed the back stairs to his attic bedchamber. He opened the door and froze on the threshold. Miss Susannah Hollingshead sat at the head of his narrow cot, reading a small leather-bound volume by the light of a single candle. His stomach lurched as he recognized the book in her hand. Prior to Miss Susannah’s invasion, it had resided beneath his mattress.

While he stood motionless in the doorway, she looked up and regarded him steadily.

“You’re not really a footman, are you?” It was a statement, not a question.

Pickett, squirming beneath her frank gaze, could not but wonder why, since she was the trespasser, he should be the one to feel guilty.

“I serve Lady Fieldhurst in that capacity, yes,” he said, choosing his words with care.

“Now
you do,” she said, acknowledging the literal, if limited, truth of this statement. “But that isn’t really who you are, is it? Molly—she’s the kitchen maid, do you know her?—says you’re not like any footman she’s ever seen.”

“And why, pray, were you discussing me with Molly?”

Miss Susannah grinned. “Perhaps Miss Grantham was not so very far off the mark when she accused me of gossiping with the servants.”

“Apparently you have progressed to plundering their bedchambers as well.”

“Oh, I didn’t steal anything! I came to give you this.” She held out what appeared to be a large sheet of parchment rolled into a scroll and tied with a yellow ribbon. “But you weren’t here, and I remembered that you kept a diary beneath your mattress, and I wondered if—”

She broke off, blushing, and Pickett realized with dismay that Lady Fieldhurst had been right. Miss Susannah, in the throes of a schoolgirl
tendre,
had confiscated his notebook in the hope of discovering some mention of herself. Instead, she had found his notes on the investigation—and now held its success or failure in her hands. Stalling for time while he considered how best to deal with his young admirer, he untied the ribbon and unrolled the parchment. His own face, rendered in charcoal, looked up at him from the curled paper.

“I drew it today, at Mother Shipton’s Cave,” Miss Susannah offered by way of explanation.

“It’s very good.”

“I tried to straighten your nose.”

“I see that,” said Pickett, smiling slightly. “Thank you.”

“What—what is it for?” she asked, returning to the subject at hand. “The diary, I mean?”

“What do you think?”

“I think,” she said slowly, “that it has something to do with how Mr. Danvers died.”

“You are correct. There was reason to suspect the vicarage fire may not have been an accident, so I was sent to find out.”

“Sent from where?”

He hesitated only a moment before replying, “London.”

“Are you a Bow Street Runner?”

He did not bother to ask how she knew about Bow Street Runners; nothing Miss Susannah Hollingshead said surprised him anymore.

“Yes,” he said simply.

“Was he murdered?” she pressed on, wide-eyed.

“I believe so.”

“Do you know who did it?”

“No.” He was almost glad to be able to answer in the negative; had he admitted to any suspicions, he felt sure Miss Susannah would not rest until he had divulged them.

“What will happen to him when you catch him?” she demanded eagerly. “Will you put his head on a pike on London Bridge?”

He had to smile a little at her confidence that he would apprehend the killer, as well as her assumption that he would personally punish the miscreant for his sins. “Heavens, Miss Susannah, I’m only a keeper of the King’s peace. It’s not my place to dispense justice.” She said nothing, and he felt compelled to add, “Miss Susannah, it’s very important that you not tell anyone of this.”

“I know,” she said solemnly. “I won’t tell, I promise.”

He did not doubt her sincerity; he only hoped her good intentions would survive her next encounter with a handsome stable hand or an inquisitive chambermaid.

At last, having dispatched the interloper to her own room amid fervent protestations that she would never breathe a word to a living soul, Pickett was free to seek out Lady Fieldhurst. She opened so readily to his faint knock, he could almost flatter himself that she had been awaiting the rendezvous as impatiently as he.

He would have been surprised to know that this fanciful supposition was, in fact, correct. Lady Fieldhurst had found herself impatient for a private interview with her pseudo-servant from the moment she had recognized him in Miss Susannah Hollingshead’s
chef d’oeuvre.
Having been first the pampered daughter of a country squire and then the sheltered bride of a domineering man fifteen years her senior, the viscountess was unaccustomed to relating to a man very nearly her own age from a position of equality, let alone superiority. She found such companionship surprisingly agreeable, if occasionally unsettling. Now, however, the sight of Pickett’s curling brown hair and plain serge coat forcibly reminded her that he was not really her footman or even her friend, but an instrument of the law. Indeed, there seemed to be little resemblance between the slightly rumpled Bow Street Runner and the powdered and liveried John, except for the nose. And, of course, that mouth...

Banishing what threatened to become a highly improper train of thought, she greeted him with polite formality. “Good evening,” she said, stepping back from the door to allow him entrance. “I trust you had a pleasant and productive journey.”

“It’s given me a few things to think about,” he acknowledged. “And you?”

“I think you will not be entirely displeased with my efforts.”

“I can’t imagine anyone being displeased with you, my lady, for any reason,” he said warmly.

She smiled, but a shadow crossed her face, and he wondered if she was thinking of her late, unlamented husband. Not for the first time, he thought it rather a pity that someone had been hanged for doing the world in general—and this lady in particular—a favor. But it was not his place to make such observations, so he contented himself with remarking, “I take it you did more than merely explore the beauties of nature.”