Lovers and Ladies Page 3

  She had told her family nothing of her plan in case they thought of some way to interfere. She was supposed to pick up some new laying hens from Crossroads Farm just beyond Upper Kennet. Five miles to get hens was not as outlandish as it appeared, for Mrs. Cranby had been the Stonycourt nursery nurse and could be depended on to give them good birds at a low price.

  A sudden gust of wind swirled around and made Amy shiver. She looked up and found the sky was darkening. It had been a clear day when she set out, but it had taken two hours to get this far. Walking would have been faster, and if it was going to come on to rain she could perhaps have sought shelter at Prior’s Grange without needing an accident of any sort. She told herself that a shower would make her piteous plight more touching, and a horse problem was more likely to engage the interest of the master of the house.

  After all, it was not enough just to be given aid and shelter at the Grange; she needed to meet Mr. Staverley.

  To avoid the possibility of being taken for a servant, Amy had dressed as well as possible. Since it was her business to attract, she had borrowed a gown and bonnet from Beryl—without, unfortunately, being able to ask her sister’s permission. The outfit was not in the latest style, but it had been made three years ago by the best dressmaker in Lincoln, and the quality showed still.

  The cambric gown was in a clear shade of blue, worked with a white stripe design. It played up Amy’s coloring well. The high-crown bonnet was lined with matching blue silk and trimmed with white roses and a plume. The plume kept tickling Amy’s cheek and was the devil of a nuisance.

  Amy blew the feathers out of her eyes and glanced at the sky again. Though a little rain would be useful to her plot, a downpour would be unpleasant and ruin all this borrowed finery. She reached behind to investigate the box under the backseat, looking for any kind of protection. She was rewarded by two musty old sacks and a moth-eaten rug. Not much, but they would afford some protection.

  The sky was definitely darker and the wind was picking up. Amy shivered and pulled the rug around her shoulders for warmth. If she hadn’t been trying to catch a rich husband she would have her warm red woolen cloak with her and be less likely to catch her death instead. She’d always known romance was a stupid business.

  How far to go? Another mile or so.

  She picked up the reins and clicked to Zephyr to go faster. The horse didn’t alter her pace at all.

  “Come on, Zephyr!” Amy cried impatiently. “You can’t be any keener on a soaking than I am.”

  Clop, clop, clop. Zephyr only had one pace.

  Amy let the reins go limp again and settled to watching the sky and calculating their progress. She could see the rise of Upper Kennet in the distance.

  The wind grew stronger, whipping up twigs and last year’s leaves, swirling dust into Amy’s eyes. Perhaps some got into Zephyr’s eyes, for she tossed her head a little and her steady pace faltered. Amy grabbed the reins but the horse immediately steadied to her usual pace.

  Amy took off the bonnet before the plume broke and placed it in the box. It would have some protection there, and now she could pull the rug close about her head. She certainly was going to be a piteous sight when she reached her target.

  Then there was a flash of lightning and a crack of thunder. Not overhead but not far away either. “Oh, heavens,” muttered Amy, grabbing the reins. The one thing likely to stir Zephyr to excitement was lightning. The old mare was probably too tired to create a fuss, but Amy wished they were at Prior’s Grange already. This was as much of a plight as she wished to be in.

  She saw the rain coming. It swept over the fields toward her like a gray curtain, and when it hit it was sluicingly hard. Amy gasped and grabbed for the sacks to pull them on top of the rug over her head and shoulders. “Oh, poor Beryl’s dress,” she moaned.

  Zephyr just dropped her head and plodded on.

  There was a farmhouse of some sort on the right, with a light in a window. Amy thought of stopping to ask for shelter but she gathered up her courage. Just down this slight incline and up the next and she would be at the Grange. Now her situation was desperate enough to bring forward anyone’s chivalrous instincts.

  But the road had now become a stream. The wheels of the cart slipped one or twice, and Zephyr’s pace faltered. A sign of uneasiness.

  Suddenly a flash of lightning split the gray sky. It was followed almost immediately by a deafening crack of thunder. Zephyr stopped dead, then began to toss her head and back them toward the ditch. Amy grabbed the reins. “Ho! Steady, girl! Steady.”

  The horse responded and plunged forward. This surprising surge of energy almost sent them into the opposite hedge. Amy hauled back on the reins.

  The reins broke.

  Amy let out a very unladylike curse. She leapt from the seat and sloshed her way to grab the horse’s head.

  Zephyr immediately quieted and stood inert, head hanging. The rain poured down, and Amy was literally soaked to the skin. Another flash of lightning. Another roll of thunder. Zephyr twitched, but Amy’s soothing voice and a comforting hand on her nose were enough for the weary mare.

  Amy wished she had someone to comfort her. The noise and power of the rain were numbing her. Or perhaps it was just the cold. It hadn’t seemed a cold day for late April, but now that she was wet she was chilled through.

  In a moment we can go on, Amy thought.

  The rain was slackening a little—going from torrent to downpour. She gathered her resources. It couldn’t be more than a quarter mile to Upper Kennet, sanctuary, and a fortune.

  Then the thinning of the rain showed her the road ahead. Though the slope of the road was very gentle, it formed a little dip before curving up to Upper Kennet. That dip was now a pond with two small rivers pouring into it. Prior’s Grange was on the next rise, but it might as well be in India for all her chance of getting herself and the cart there today.

  Amy muttered a few more distinctly unladylike words.

  She considered wading through herself and making her way up to the Grange, but apart from the fact that she couldn’t abandon poor Zephyr here, her behavior would appear strange enough to raise embarrassing questions. She would have to seek shelter at the farmhouse, and there was the devil of a chance of finding a rich husband there.

  Amy could have wept from disappointment, weariness, and cold. She was shivering as she pushed and cajoled Zephyr into turning. Her hands were numb, her half-boots were up to their tops in muddy water. She eventually got the job done and tugged the horse wearily back the way they had come. The slope had seemed nothing as they had come down it; now it was a mountainside.

  Surely it was only a minute since she had passed that flickering light. Where was it? Visions of a warm kitchen, hot tea, and dry clothing were dancing in her head.

  There. A light.

  It was a small, square farmhouse with a barn to one side and another outbuilding to the other. Surprisingly there were two open gates, one at either side. Amy simply picked the nearest.

  Sensing shelter, Zephyr’s pace picked up a little. She gave no trouble as Amy led her into the barn.

  When the rain stopped beating down on Amy’s head it was a shocking relief. Amy leaned wearily against the horse’s warm flank. She looked down. A dirty puddle was forming at her feet. Poor Beryl’s dress.

  She looked around. The storm had dimmed the day, but she could see this barn was rather ramshackle, probably unused. What sort of farm was this? She felt a trickle of unease at such evidence of neglect but stifled it. At least the barn was dry. The house would offer some kind of shelter.

  Amy started to unharness the horse and rub her down, but her numb fingers were unable to perform the simple task. She blew on them, she tucked them into her relatively dry and warm armpits. It was no good, and her own shivering was getting worse by the minute. She could feel an impulse growing in her to burst into tears of misery. She had to get help.

  She hated the thought of stepping out into the deluge, but across the muddy q
uagmire of a yard the warm golden light of a lamp glimmered in a window. She could see the shelves of a kitchen and could imagine the fire there, the warmth and aroma of the ovens. A haven.

  Pointlessly, she dragged the soaked sacks further forward onto her face, then made a dash for it.

  After three steps her feet went from under her. She slammed forward into the mud and slid for a yard or so. Stunned, she lay there winded. The mud was glutinously foul between her fingers. The rain beat down on her back. She could laugh or cry. She chose to laugh.

  A fine beginning to her career as a fortune hunter. No one would want her at this moment.

  It was tempting to just lie where she was, but Amy heaved herself up, her soaked muddy clothing like a millstone around her neck, and plodded carefully to the farmhouse door. It at least had a little porch covering it, and the rain stopped beating down on her head. She knocked. Nothing. She wiped her sodden hair back off her face with filthy fingers, picked up a stone, and beat on the door with that.

  It swung open. Amy looked up to see a handsome, tawny-haired young man in shirtsleeves staring at her in astonishment.

  Harry Crisp had been congratulating himself on staying indoors on such a day. His friends, Chart Ashby and Terance Cornwallis, had ridden out early to ride with the Belvoir, unwilling to miss a day’s hunting this close to the end of the season no matter how unpromising the weather. Served them right. They’d be drowned rats by the time they found shelter.

  He doubtless would have been with them, however, if he hadn’t felt the need for a bit of time to think.

  At Easter he’d taken his usual trip to Hey Park, his family home. Chart disliked his parents and went home as little as possible, but Harry was fond of his. They were a good sort. They gave him an adequate allowance, and despite the fact that he was an only child, they didn’t fuss over him, or try to interfere with his fun. His father was deeply suspicious of London and clearly feared Harry would one day be ruined there, but even so he made no cavil at Harry’s annual jaunts there with Chart. Yes, a very good sort.

  Moreover, Lord Thoresby was still under sixty and Harry had reckoned, when he’d thought about the matter at all, that he had many years before he need think of settling down.

  Now he knew that his father was not well.

  Lord Thoresby’s untypical petulance about it had been alarmingly convincing. “Load of nonsense,” he’d grumbled. “Just because I’ve been dizzy now and then.”

  “Perhaps I should come and help you here, sir.”

  “Rubbish! And miss the last of the hunting? None of that. I have people here to do what’s needed.”

  “There’s only a week or two left,” Harry said. “Hardly worth going back for.” His father looked as well as normal but he couldn’t persuade himself this was all a mare’s nest.

  “Won’t hear of it,” said his father firmly. “In fact,” he added a great deal less firmly, “I…er…I was thinking it’s about time you spent more time in London.”

  Harry stared at his father in astonishment. “I can’t think why.”

  Lord Thoresby rambled on about gaining a bit of bronze, learning to know a flat from a sharp, and a great many other unconvincing reasons. Harry took the puzzle to his mother.

  “Oh dear,” said Lady Thoresby. She was a small, plump, pretty woman who had given her son his tawny curls and amiable temperament. “I hoped he wouldn’t…You mustn’t mind him, Harry dear. He’s a little out of curl these days. Don’t like to feel he can’t do just as he wishes.”

  “But why would he want me to go to Town?” Harry demanded. “I could understand if he wanted me home, and I’m more than willing.”

  “Marriage,” said his mother apologetically. She looked at her horrified son and chuckled. “It is a state slightly better than hell on earth, dear one, but there is no need to hurry.”

  “He wants me to—Almack’s?” Harry queried blankly.

  “No doubt you’ll enjoy it when the time comes,” she assured him. “After all, a handsome young man, the heir to an old title and a substantial fortune, will suffer few rebuffs. But as I said, there is no need as yet. And you may meet a bride elsewhere.” Lady Thoresby looked up from her needlework.

  “I hope you know, Harry, that your father and I would accept any bride of your choice. There is no need to look for a fortune, or grand connections. Just find a warmhearted girl, dear. One who will make you happy.”

  Harry allowed his mother’s comfortable tone to reassure him. Perhaps it was time for him to start thinking about settling down, but not for a year or two. He was only twenty-four, after all.

  But then his father suffered another dizzy spell, almost falling down the stairs. The doctor examined his patient again and shook his head. “No way to say, Mr. Crisp. He must build up his strength and avoid overexertion and excitement. He could be with us for many, many years.” Silently he conveyed the grim alternative.

  Lord Thoresby would not hear of Harry staying and became agitated on the matter, repeating his opinion that Harry should go to London. Marriage and nurseries were not mentioned but were clearly fretting Lord Thoresby’s mind. Harry had returned to Rutland to arrange for the moving of his hunters and tell Chart what was afoot. His friend would doubtless be horrified.

  Loosely connected on the family tree, and almost exactly of an age, they’d been inseparable since their first days at Eton. Harry couldn’t imagine going bride-hunting without Chart, but it was a devil of a lot to ask of even the closest friend.

  And a wife was likely to interfere with his normal masculine pursuits to an inconvenient degree.

  As he mulled over these depressing thoughts, he was occupying his hands with his hobby and trying to mend a small automaton. The lady with china head and limbs and a blue silk gown was supposed to dance to the music box inside. She should point a toe, turn, and move her head. All she could manage was a jerky twitch.

  He was poking beneath her silk skirts, grinning at the thought that this was rather improper, when he heard a thumping on the door. Who on earth would be out in such weather?

  As he opened the door, rain and wind swept in and he was confronted by a mud creature. Sodden sacks for a head. Mud for a gown. The sacks moved and he saw a pale face.

  “Good Lord.” He opened the door farther and gestured for her to enter.

  The woman, or girl—it was hard to say—staggered in, and he could shut out the noise and the cold, wet air. He looked blankly at his visitor and took in the growing pool of mud under her feet. Firkin, Corny’s manservant, would have pungent words to say.

  Consigning Firkin’s future words to the devil, he said, “You must come into the kitchen.” He directed the creature along the passage and into the warm room. Her shoes made slurping sounds as she plodded along.

  Once in the room he looked at the trail behind her and said, “Er…perhaps you could shed some of your covering here.”

  Amy was coming back to some kind of sanity. She was still shivering cold and wetter than she’d been since she fell in the horse trough, but there was warmth about, and no wind, and no rain. “Who are you?” she asked the young man. He was clearly no farmer.

  He gave her a small, elegant bow. “Harry Crisp, at your service, ma’am. You really should get out of those clothes. I’ll find some towels and a blanket.”

  He turned away, and Amy said quickly, “You can’t be alone here!”

  “Can’t I?” he asked with a raised brow. “Oh dear.”

  Amy didn’t know what to do. “I can’t possibly stay here alone with you,” she said.

  It occurred to Harry for the first time that this soggy mess spoke in the manner of a gentlewoman, and clearly a youngish one. It was a delicate situation. “Awkward, I grant you,” he said. “But what else are you going to do?”

  “I suppose,” said Amy faintly, “I’d better go back to the barn and my horse.” Her teeth started to chatter. Her nose was running. She sniffed.

  “What good would that do?” he asked. “No one
would know whether you’d been inside or out so why not stay in where it’s warm and dry? You have a horse? Is it cared for?”

  “N-no!” Amy wailed. “My hands were t-t-too c-cold!”

  Harry had a strong urge to gather this waif in for a consoling hug, but apart from the mud, she’d doubtless set up a shriek of rape. “Don’t worry about a thing,” he said reassuringly. “Just wait a minute.”

  He ran up the narrow wooden stairs to the bedrooms and collected a stack of towels and a spare blanket. He didn’t know whether the girl would have the wit to use them, but he’d do his best to see she didn’t catch her death.

  Back in the kitchen, she was standing as he had left her. He had the strange image of the mud drying and leaving her a grotesque brown statue in the kitchen of Coppice Farm. “Here, ma’am,” he said as he placed the pile on the table. “Make yourself as comfortable as you can, please. I’ll go tend to your horse.”

  She didn’t move. Harry shrugged. He didn’t think he should strip her by force, though it might come to that if she was still fixed there when he returned.

  He went into the passage, pulled on the heavy oilskin cape which hung there, and plunged out into the downpour.

  Amy heard his footsteps and the slap of the door as it closed behind him. She just stood there. To move seemed altogether too much trouble and she wasn’t at all sure what was the right thing to do. But then something told her it was very bad to be standing here getting colder and colder with her teeth chattering. She moved toward the stove, which had a fire in the center. Her shoes went squelch, squelch. She looked behind at the muddy trail she was leaving and bit her lip.