Читать книгу Married For His Convenience - Eleanor Webster, Eleanor Webster - Страница 11

Chapter Two

The fox hunt was today.

That stark thought shot through Sarah’s mind the moment her alarm sounded.

Shaking off the remnants of sleep, Sarah shifted in the decadent comfort of Lady Eavensham’s guest bed and blinked blearily at the rose-print wallpaper and pink curtaining.

Of course, she’d stayed the night at Eavensham.

Getting up, Sarah padded across the rug’s thick pile and pulled open the velvet curtains. Bother. Morning sunshine flooded the chamber, turning floating dust motes molten.

She’d hoped for rain. In the happy event of a deluge, the hunt would be cancelled and she could snooze in the unaccustomed luxury of that wonderful bed.

Indeed, she might even have had the opportunity to rescue Miss Petunia Hardcastle from the tower in which she currently languished.

Or she could have breakfasted with Lady Eavensham’s guests and heard something of London. Of course, they were hardly likely to have stumbled upon Charlotte, but just hearing about the city made her feel closer to her sister—as though her quest were more possible.

Sarah sighed. It was not to be. Albert and Albertina must be rescued. They were the only mating foxes within the area. Lord Eavensham seemed bent on extinguishing the local population.

With this thought, she pulled off her nightgown, stooping to pick up her dress. Blood still spotted the sleeve. Bother. She’d forgotten all about the rabbit.

Moving with greater urgency, Sarah splashed water across her face and pulled her hair into a bun. Then, scrawling a note of thanks to Lady Eavensham, she hurried down the stairs and towards the cellar door.

Fortunately, the stubby candle remained where they’d left it last year. She sighed. Animal rescues had been a good deal more fun when Kit had been a rebellious adolescent and they’d done this together.

She lit a match, putting it to the wick so that the candle flickered into reluctant life. Cautiously, she stepped down the stairs and into the murky darkness, her shadow undulating eerily against the casks of wine and gardening implements.

To her relief, the wicker baskets and leather gardening gloves remained and she grabbed both baskets and gloves, hauling them upstairs into the scullery. Fortunately, this room was empty save for Gladys, the scullery maid, who stood washing dishes at the sink. Likely, the other staff were occupied in the kitchen or serving breakfast.

‘Morning, miss,’ Gladys said.

‘How’s Orion?’

‘Orion, miss?’

‘The rabbit.’ Sarah flushed. She had a foolish habit of naming her animal friends and had called him after the constellation.

‘I near forgot. He’s over there, miss. I give ’im some vegetables. The stuff what’s wilted round the edges.’ The girl’s broad-boned, country face remained impassive as she scrubbed the plates, moving reddened hands with methodical rhythm.

‘Um, could he stay a little longer? I promise I’ll pick him up soon, but I have to do something.’

‘I dunno what Mr Hudson’ll say.’

‘Not a word if he knows nothing. Besides, he’ll be too busy preparing for the hunt. By the by, would you have any table scraps left from last night?’

The rhythmic movements stopped. ‘Oh, miss. Mrs Crawford don’t have you on starvation rations, does she?’

‘What? Oh, no, nothing so drastic. I need them for another project.’

‘To do with four-legged critters, I’m supposing. You are a one. Ain’t you ever going to grow up?’

‘Seems unlikely at this point.’

‘Well, there’s a bowl for the ’ounds in the larder. ’elp yourself.’

Sarah did so.

* * *

Within half an hour she had manoeuvred both baskets to the outskirts of the forest and set about propping up the traps.

The bugle sounded.

She started and, biting her lip, glanced about nervously, half-expecting the thunder of horses’ hooves. She’d be lucky if she had time to capture both foxes now. Hurriedly, she pulled out the meat scraps from her handkerchief, placing them within the bottom of the baskets.

A flash of rust-brown fur skirted the periphery of her vision and she spotted two curious eyes, bright pinpoints of light, within the cover of the bushes. Sarah held her breath.

The fox stepped forward—a dainty movement like a cat on snow. Albertina. Her red tail had puffed into a brush, making her body appear ludicrously thin.

Sarah sat so still that each woodland sound was magnified. The woodpecker’s tap-tap-tap, the drip from leaves wet from yesterday’s rain, the rustle of an unseen bird or squirrel.

The fox edged closer.

Finally, with a burst of brave energy and a wild scrabble of claws, she darted into the basket.

Sarah pulled the string. The lid snapped shut.

She hated this part; the frightened yelps, the scratch of paws and the smell of fear and urine.

‘It’s going to be fine, Albertina. It’s for your own well-being.’ She spoke softly in the sing-song voice she always used with animals, throwing in French phrases while pulling the twine tight around the clasp. The basket rocked, creaking noisily with the animal’s exertions.

She’d done this for years now, since she’d first arrived here. It had helped with the sick loneliness.

In those first weeks without either her mother or sister, animals had been her only friends. They’d populated her world, making her life as an unwanted child within a strange household bearable.

Her sister had so loved animals. Indeed, Charlotte had few accomplishments; she was not well educated and could not paint or play the piano, but she had always demonstrated this steady, undemanding kindness. Nor did she discriminate, somehow finding good in scrappy urchins or grumpy shopkeepers.

When Sarah had first come to the Crawfords, life without her sister had felt intolerable. Sarah would dread both sleeping and waking and her whole body had felt hollow and bruised as though she had been kicked.

Sighing, she refocused on the basket, still rocking with Albertina’s exertions. This was not the time to reminisce. She must get the animal to the other side of the stream and, with luck, return to capture Albert. After that, she would go home and work on Miss Petunia’s release and hope that, just maybe, this manuscript would sell and a trip to London might enter the world of possibility.

* * *

The blasted babbling brook did it. The memories hit, the pain dizzying in its intensity. For a second, Sebastian saw his children, real as the hounds and horses. He saw them paddling, laughing, carefree.

His hands tightened reflexively and, seeking solitude, he urged his horse up the hillside and away from the other riders. His mount stopped at its summit and he found himself looking into a picturesque valley, interrupted by a silver stream threading through its base.

Something—a flicker of movement—caught his attention. He stiffened. Some village idiot was wading through the water. Even worse, he saw that the stream looked more like a river and was in flood. It moved swiftly, almost overflowing its banks.

‘Hey!’ he shouted.

It was a woman.

He spurred his horse down the slope. ‘Madam! Can I help?’

She did not turn and moved awkwardly, a massive basket propped against one hip. He shouted again. This time she turned, glancing over her shoulder.

‘Lord Langford?’

He started, hearing his name, then felt a jolt of recognition.

‘Miss Martin! What in heaven’s name are you doing?’ He jerked his horse to a standstill, dismounting.

‘I cannot stop—’

She must have slipped and was caught off balance by the force of the rushing water. She lurched backwards, dropped the basket and, hands flailing, fell. She righted herself within the instant, lunged after the basket and tripped again. This time she fell face-first.

At this rate, the woman would drown herself in three feet of water.

Dropping the reins, Sebastian stepped into the stream and grabbed her hand. She straightened, regaining her foothold. Water streamed down her face and strands of hair fell forward in a dripping tangle.

‘Albert—’ she gulped, reaching for the basket.

‘Leave it—’

‘She’ll drown.’ She lunged again.

‘Stay still! I’ll get it.’ He caught the basket, pulling it towards them.

He had meant to take her back to the bank, but the fool woman was already wading to the other side.

He followed, his feet squelching in the mud as he placed the basket on the bank. What—

He stared. The basket rocked as if possessed and a yipping, scratching noise emanated from the wicker slats.

‘What on earth have you got in there?’ he asked.

Miss Martin flushed. Sebastian bent, cautiously peering under the lid. He closed it quickly, stepping away.

‘It’s a fox,’ he said.

‘Albertina.’

‘You have captured a fox?’

‘They would have killed her,’ she said.

‘What?’

‘The hounds.’

‘That is the point. And what a fool thing to do. You could have been hurt. It could have bitten you,’ he said.

‘No. I wear gloves and follow a strict procedure to prevent injury. I do not approve of fox hunting.’

He saw no hint of apology or regret in the stubborn lines of her face.

‘You ruined the hunt.’

‘I saved Albertina’s life. It is a cruel practice. Moreover, their population has been decimated.’ She put her hands to her hips and thrust out a surprisingly full bottom lip. ‘Albertina is a creature that wishes to do no harm.’

‘Tell that to the chicken farmer.’

She opened her mouth as if to argue, hands still at her hips. ‘But—’

‘Enough, enough. I refuse to debate the merits of fox hunting while freezing to death on a riverbank.’

‘I’m not cold.’

‘I am.’

‘If you are feeling the chill, there is no reason for you to remain. Indeed, I should go. I must get Albertina away before they spot us.’ Miss Martin spoke quickly, already bending to pick up the basket.

‘Leave it. I’ll carry it wherever you are going.’

‘I can manage.’

‘So far you have managed only to half-drown yourself.’

‘I was not in any danger. The stream is not deep, although faster than on previous occasions.’

‘You make a habit of this?’ He felt incredulity, irritation and an uncharacteristic desire to laugh.

‘Not a habit exactly.’

‘You’ve done it before?’

‘Yes, but really there is no time for questions.’ She frowned, giving a worried glance towards the ridge.

‘Very well. Where to?’ he asked, bending to pick up the basket.

‘Just beyond those trees. We’ll be hidden there. Oh...’ She paused briefly. ‘I just realised, you must have been part of the hunt. I hope you are not too disappointed?’

‘A rather belated sentiment, but, no, not overly. I’ll be able to get back to London sooner.’

‘You do not enjoy country weekends?’

‘Not particularly.’

‘Are the others leaving as well?’ she asked, a little wistfully.

‘I do not know. Had you stayed for breakfast instead of embarking on this fool enterprise you might have ascertained this information in a civilised manner.’

‘You think I am ill-mannered?’

‘I think you are peculiar.’

A grin lit up her face. ‘That is an established fact.’

He felt again a reluctant, unfamiliar tug at his lips. How Edwin would tease and even Elizabeth would giggle if they could see him squelching through mud, accompanied by this bedraggled woman while carting a fox within a basket.

Or they would have done.

Before.

Any desire to laugh deserted him, leaving behind that familiar dull, empty feeling. Forgetting always made remembering worse.

The wind blew cold. He shivered in his sodden clothing. Now he wanted only to see this woman was safe and waste no more time on foxes.

‘Is this suitable?’ he asked abruptly, placing the basket on the ground.

They’d entered a copse, darkly cool and scented with bark and moss and mushrooms.

‘Indeed, and please do not trouble yourself further,’ Miss Martin said. ‘I’ll take her to the barn, once I get Albert and the coast is clear.’

‘You’ll what? You are planning to capture a second fox and take them somewhere—’

‘Yes, I have a basket back—’

‘That is the most foolhardy plan!’

Sebastian made a sudden decision. Bending, he pulled loose the string of the basket. It rasped through the clasp as he tugged it free, kicking open the lid.

The fox scuttled out, disappearing within a second.

‘Why did you do that?’ Miss Martin turned on him, her pale face suddenly flushed and her straight, thick eyebrows drawn.

Because it felt so damn good to do something! Because it was a hell of a lot better than waiting.

Of course, he did not say this. Instead, he spoke in calm, level tones. ‘It is foolish to introduce a fox to a farm or wherever you live.’

‘Of course, I do not introduce them. I release them once the hunt is done. I certainly do not wish them to become habituated to human interaction.’

‘You could have fooled me.’

‘I do not aim to keep them as pets if that is what you are thinking. I aim to save a species which we are likely to drive into extinction.’

She spoke with surprising dignity for someone dripping wet from head to toe. Tendrils of dark hair had loosened from her bun, dangling about her face. He saw also that, under the folds of clinging cloth, her figure was not as nondescript as he had imagined.

‘Well, extinction is postponed for another day,’ he said curtly. ‘The hunt is likely done. Now, I will take you home or to Eavensham before you catch your death.’

‘Your further assistance is entirely unnecessary.’ She placed her hands on her hips.

‘It is entirely necessary and I have every intention of delivering you to safety.’ He whistled for Jester who immediately stepped across the stream and headed up the bank towards him.

‘And I have absolutely no intention of being delivered anywhere. I am not a—a bolt of cloth or a bag of potatoes.’

‘Then perhaps I should tell Lord Eavensham of today’s exploits?’

‘Blackmail? That’s hardly honourable.’

‘But expedient.’ If the last year had taught him anything, it was that the honourable finished last.

‘I will not give in to blackmail.’

‘I can respect that.’ He stepped forward, planning to put her on his horse by physical force, if necessary. He would waste no more time on cajoling or fancy words.

She must have read his intent because she raised two small fists, her well-marked brows drawing fiercely together. ‘Don’t even think of it. Kit taught me to box and I am not afraid to use every trick in the book.’

He stared. She sounded as though she’d swallowed the book or a bad script more suitable for the stage. And she looked such a funny, feisty scrap of thing with her wet clothes and dripping hair.

The unfamiliar urge to laugh returned. His lips twitched. He couldn’t help it. The situation was so ludicrous; this diminutive woman was ready to wrestle him to the ground, provided she had sufficient time between rescuing vermin.

The laughter wouldn’t be stopped. It burbled up, ending in a belly roar. He laughed as he hadn’t laughed for a year, as he hadn’t laughed since, well, since the beginning of this nightmare.

When he stopped, he saw that she had dropped her fists and no longer looked fierce, but stared at him as though fearful for his sanity.

‘Do you know you’ve witnessed a miracle?’ he asked, once he had regained the power of speech.

‘I know Mrs Eagan in the village would advise Epsom salts and Mrs Crawford would arrange an exorcism.’

‘Then I’ll stay well away from both ladies.’ His voice still shook with laughter. ‘Truce?’ He put out his hand.

She looked uncertain, but either good manners, good nature or a genuine fear for his sanity overcame her misgivings.

She took his hand. ‘Truce.’

She smiled, the expression transforming her face. She had removed her heavy, leather gloves and he could feel the delicacy of her fingers within his grasp. For a second, it felt right, comfortable even, to have her hand nestled in his palm. He felt a half-forgotten stir of pleasure.

He released her hand and bent, picking up Jester’s reins. ‘Your steed awaits.’

‘You’re still planning to escort me home?’

‘If I may,’ he said, with pretended humility.

‘He’s rather big.’ She looked at the animal with apprehension, surprising for a woman who forded rivers.

‘He is a horse, Miss Martin.’

‘A big horse.’

‘Is it possible, Miss Martin, that despite your ability to capture wild animals, you’re nervous of horses?’

‘Big horses. I haven’t ridden often,’ she admitted.

‘We’ll go no faster than a walk.’

‘A slow walk.’

‘A slow walk,’ he agreed and again felt that odd frisson of pleasure as she nodded, placing her hand in his own.

Sebastian positioned Miss Martin in front of him—no easy task given that she still clutched the basket. He urged Jester forward and they started down the incline, the quiet broken only by the crack of twigs under Jester’s hooves.

Thankfully, Miss Martin did not seem a female addicted to chatter.

‘Would you prefer to return to Eavensham or your own home?’ Sebastian questioned as they stepped on to the country lane at the bottom of the hill.

‘My home, if possible.’

‘Entirely. If you give me directions.’

‘I can. But—’ she shifted and he was aware of her movement and her quick, nervous inhalation ‘—will you drop me at the barn and not the main door?’

‘That would be unusual.’

She glanced back, her face again suffused with that slow, transformative smile. ‘I don’t think anything about this morning could be considered usual.’

‘Perhaps not, but I would still like to see you safe at your doorstep. I’ll not mention your sabotage of the hunt to your parent or guardian, if that is your concern.’

‘No. It’s not that.’ She paused and then continued. ‘My guardian would find your presence without a chaperon exceptional. She worries about my—um—morals, not realising that I am past the age and lack the physical attributes that make concern necessary.’

She stopped speaking and it struck him sad that a woman, still youngish, should dismiss herself so completely.

‘I quite like your attributes.’ He spoke without thought.

Her reaction was immediate. Her back jerked ramrod straight and she twisted about almost violently, despite her apparent fear of large horses and the danger of dropping the basket.

‘Lord Langford,’ she snapped. ‘You will not insult my intellect. I am no beauty, but I am not dim-witted and refuse to be treated as such. I have gumption, if nothing else.’

Good Lord, the woman sounded downright furious.

‘You definitely have gumption.’

She twisted even more precariously. ‘I hope you are not scoffing again.’

‘No,’ he said. ‘I was only wishing that Elizabeth might meet you.’

Again he had spoken with an uncharacteristic lack of thought.

‘Elizabeth?’

‘My daughter.’

‘Why?’

‘I don’t know exactly, but she needs—’

Heaven only knew what Elizabeth needed.

But, he realised with a start of surprise, he would tell Elizabeth about Miss Martin when he returned.

He might mention nothing else about this country weekend, but he would tell her about the rabbit, the fox, the mud, the basket and Miss Martin’s gumption.

Elizabeth would not reply, of course, but he would tell her.