Lady Cecily and the Mysterious Mr. Gray

by Janice Preston

  ‘Might I visit the children tomorrow, then, sir? For I, too, plan to return to Town very shortly. I have been here—’

  Her jaw snapped shut and they both halted as a familiar shriek arose—ebbing and flowing—from the road beyond the gatehouse.

  Chapter Ten

  Kilburn’s horse raised his head and stared intently in the direction of the sound.

  ‘What on earth was that?’

  ‘It sounded,’ said Cecily, her heart beating a rapid tattoo as anticipation prickled along her spine, ‘like a donkey.’

  Cecily’s stomach churned as they resumed their walk. It was, surely, ridiculous to be excited by the braying of a donkey, but she could not deny her reaction. All she could think—hope—was that it was Sancho. And Zach.

  And then what? What difference will it make?

  As quickly as her spirits soared, they crashed to the ground. It made no difference whatsoever. He was still a Romany. Whatever feelings he aroused in her, any relationship was impossible—even simple friendship, given what had already passed between them.

  They reached a point where a track branched off from the carriageway, towards the belt of woodland that defined the boundary between the Grange and the Manor. This track culminated in a narrow gate rather than a stile, allowing riders to pass between the two estates. Cecily had intended to accompany his lordship as far as the edge of the wood, but she now changed her mind. She had come to the Grange with the intention of encouraging him to renew his offer, but Zach’s warnings had shaken that resolve. She still wanted to marry, but was Kilburn the right choice?

  She could risk walking with him no longer, for what would her answer be were he to grasp this opportunity to offer for her again? The gleam in his eye spoke of rekindled hopes and she now realised it might prove tricky to discourage him from renewing his offer too soon, before she was ready to accept or refuse him.

  She needed more time: to observe him; to prepare herself; to come to a decision.

  And neither could she deny her impatience to be rid of Lord Kilburn so she might investigate that sound.

  ‘I must return, sir,’ she said. ‘Will it suit you if I visit the children tomorrow afternoon?’

  ‘You will not walk further with me?’

  Kilburn looked around. They were standing in the open and Cecily knew that, even if he had thought to try and woo her with a kiss, he would not do so where they might be seen. He had never behaved towards her in any manner other than that of a gentleman. And that in itself made her wonder anew at his motives for his original proposal. His conduct had never been that of a man consumed by tender feelings, let alone passion.

  ‘Not today,’ she replied.

  He looked searchingly at her, then nodded. He raised his hat.

  ‘Until tomorrow, my lady.’

  He mounted his horse and set off down the track at a canter. Cecily waited until he was out of sight, then hurried towards the gatehouse. She could see Walker, the old retainer who manned the gates between dusk and dawn, working in his garden beyond the house. Out on the road she looked right and left, but there was no sign of anyone, human or animal. Her heart—uplifted in hope—sank down to its rightful position.

  Foolish, foolish, foolish.

  She trudged back through the imposing stone pillars that flanked the entrance to Leyton Grange.

  I should be grateful, for what does it say about me that I was so excited to think it might be Zach?

  She must put him from her thoughts and her heart.

  Must.

  His words whispered in her memory: ‘Follow your heart, dove.’

  I cannot, for my heart will only lead me to ruin.

  But she halted nevertheless. Suppose...just suppose it was him? Where would he camp? She spun on her heel and ran back out on to the road, where she turned left, heading towards a stretch of common land on the opposite side of the road. Known locally as the Wedge, it was where the villagers grazed their livestock and she had ridden across on her previous visits.

  She turned on to a faint path worn by sheep and deer through the coarse, tussocky grass and clumps of bramble and gorse. The land rose before her, obscuring her view of the whole area, and she found herself holding her breath and treading softly as she approached the top of the rise. On the far side, she knew, the land dropped away to a stream. What better place for a travelling Romany to set up camp? She stopped. The skin on the back of her neck prickled with awareness and she spun around.

  Nothing.

  Her heart raced and her mouth went dry as she slowly turned a circle, searching every clump of bushes, and the more distant trees, for any sign of life. There was no sound. Not a breath of wind. No birdsong.

  Nothing.

  She moistened her lips and swallowed, silently berating herself for such a ridiculous attack of nerves. She was country born and bred—she had never been a girl who clamoured to go to London every Season. She had been content at the Abbey, visiting London seldom, and had only gone there this year because it was time for Olivia’s come out. The countryside was familiar territory for her, so why were all her instincts screaming at her to beware? She scanned the area again. Slowly. Meticulously.

  Still nothing.

  She glanced in the direction she had been heading. She had not even reached the top of the rising land, had no idea what lay beyond. But her curiosity had disappeared, to be replaced with a strong sense of self-preservation. Her mind made up, she started back towards the road. The aged gelding Aunt Drusilla used to ride was still at the Grange. She would ride him over here tomorrow, and have a good look round. She would feel safer on horseback.

  As she neared the road she sensed rather than saw a movement off to her right. She whipped round to face whatever it was, her heart in her mouth. At first, she could see nothing. Then a bushy clump of hazel jerked, even though there was still no wind. She was not so very far from the gatehouse now. Walker would hear if she called for help. She could not walk away without knowing what was there. What was it that had roused her fears and sent her scurrying home like a frightened rabbit?

  ‘Who is there?’

  There was no answer, but the hazel shivered again as one branch was pulled out of sight and then sprang upright again. Her pulse steadied and a nervous laugh escaped her lips. It was some animal, browsing. A deer or some such. That was all.

  ‘I thought you intended to return to the Grange?’

  Her heart rocketed into her throat again as she whirled to face Kilburn, who was close behind her. She had not even heard him approach.

  ‘Wh-where is your horse?’

  He gestured behind him. ‘Back there. Tied to a tree.’ His brow darkened. ‘What are you doing?’

  Her cheeks scorched, but she raised her chin. ‘Why are you spying upon me?’

  His brow arched as he looked her up and down. His supercilious air only served to infuriate her more. ‘I was curious as to why the sound of a donkey appeared to set you into a spin.’

  ‘It did not.’ She was confident she had hidden her surge of excitement from him.

  His grey eyes narrowed. ‘I beg to differ. You masked it well enough until you believed yourself alone, but the erratic behaviour that followed suggests otherwise. I watched as you paced up and down the driveway as though you could not decide what to do. And then you disappeared in the direction of the Wedge. So I followed.’

  ‘Why did you not make yourself known? I sensed something—someone—watching me. You should have spoken.’

  He grasped her arm, his fingers biting into her flesh, and steered her in the direction of the gatehouse. ‘Allow me to escort you home.’

  She had no choice. If Zach had made camp in the area, the last thing he would want was Kilburn paying him a visit. She could not doubt that whatever dislike Zach felt for Kilburn would be mutual. Besides—she glanced up at Kilburn’s harsh profile—marriage was still her goal and it would not help her plan to openly defy him. His spying on her angered her, but she could not deny that, in h
is eyes, he was protecting her.

  ‘You are right, in that I was somewhat agitated,’ she said, swallowing her irritation at having to humble herself. ‘I—I have much on my mind and I could not face returning to the Grange quite yet. I longed for some peace and quiet in which to order my thoughts.

  ‘I knew I should not venture off the estate on my own, but then I told myself it would only be for a few minutes. Then I sensed I was being watched.’

  They halted opposite the entrance to the Grange. The disapproving set of Kilburn’s mouth softened.

  ‘You were frightened,’ he said. ‘I hope that has taught you a lesson. There is a reason ladies should not wander around unaccompanied.’

  She bit her lip and cast her eyes to the ground. He was—infuriatingly—right. She had an example in her own life—Leo’s first wife had been murdered as she walked in the Abbey grounds. The culprit had never been caught...it was thought to be the work of a passing vagrant. But knowing Kilburn was right did not stop Cecily from wishing she could wipe that condescending smirk from his face.

  ‘Wait there while I fetch my horse.’

  Cecily did as he bid, but looked back along the road, picking out the bush that had been moving—the one that had frightened her so. And there he was. Sancho Panza. Even at this distance she could recognise his distinctive brownish-grey colour and those ridiculously long ears that flopped back and forth as he again tore a mouthful of leaves from a branch. She quickly looked away, focusing her attention on Kilburn. If Zach had come—if he had followed her—then he would still be here in the morning. She could be patient.

  * * *

  Cecily awoke at dawn. Her heart raced as she slipped from her bed and dressed in a simple butter-yellow muslin gown. It promised to be another glorious day, but she put on her spencer as it was bound to be chilly this early in the morning and tied the ribbons of the matching bonnet beneath her chin. She walked down the main staircase, head high. She would not stoop to creeping around like a criminal, even though she prayed she would meet no one. If she saw a servant, she would simply tell them she was going for a walk. She saw no one. Anna would not enter her bedchamber until summoned, so nobody would realise she had gone. Rather than stride openly down the carriageway and mindful that the entrance gates might still be closed this early in the day, she left through the side door that would give her access to the path she normally followed to Chilcot. Once she reached the woodland she would be hidden from prying eyes and could follow the right fork of the path, which would lead her out on to the road opposite that tract of common land.

  * * *

  Twenty minutes later, slightly breathless, she crossed the road. Again, all was quiet and still, including the bush that Sancho had been browsing. She had changed her mind about where Zach might have set up camp. The ground down near the stream was very open and more likely to be damp, plus the access for his horse and cart would be awkward. A flat clearing closer to the road was more likely, even if it was further from a source of fresh water. With that in mind, she walked on along the road, her eyes skimmed for any sign that a vehicle had been driven on to the Wedge.

  It was not long before she saw the wheel tracks. She paused to tuck any stray hair back under her bonnet, even as her inner voice chided her for wasting time. She realised the truth. She was nervous. What reception might she expect? And what—oh, dear God—what did she think to achieve with such a scandalous visit?

  The camp was silent, the fire unlit. Zach’s skewbald cob, Titan, was tethered a short distance away, dozing: head down, lower lip drooping and one hind leg cocked. Cecily stood stock still and gazed around, disquiet threading through her. Then a low moan reached her ears. She hurried across the site to Zach’s tent, built of bowed lengths of wood stuck into the ground, with a tarpaulin slung over and secured with rope and wooden pegs. As she pulled aside the flap, a snarling growl sounded from the dim interior.

  ‘Myrtle, do not growl, it is me.’

  The dog eased towards Cecily, her head outstretched, wariness in every line of her barrel body. Cecily petted her as her eyes grew accustomed to the gloom. She could make out a large hump on the ground and a sour smell of sickness pervaded the tent.

  ‘Go away.’ The voice was rough and laced with pain.

  ‘I will not.’ Cecily tied the flap so it remained open. ‘You are not well.’

  ‘I’ll be all right if I’m left alone.’

  She dropped to her knees and crawled into the tent. ‘What is amiss?’

  Zach propped himself up on one elbow, his breathing harsh and shallow. ‘I mean it, Cecily. Go away. You must not see me like this.’

  He flopped back down, as though his strength was spent by that one small effort. His body curled as his knees drew up and he moaned again. Then he hauled in a rasping breath.

  ‘It will pass.’

  Cecily shuffled closer and put her hand to his forehead. It was hot and damp.

  ‘How can you know?’

  Her mind darted around, seeking solutions. She must do something. She could not just leave him. She had nursed sickness many times, but always with the help of a houseful of servants and, where necessary, medical help from a physician.

  ‘I know,’ he said, the words sounding as though they were forced through gritted teeth. ‘It is the result of something I have eaten.’ She felt the power of his glittering gaze on her. ‘Please. Go. There is nothing you can do. The sickness will run its course.’

  ‘I shall make a fire.’

  His lips parted—more of a grimace than a smile. ‘Do you know how?’

  ‘Have you a tinderbox, or do Romanies spurn such artificial help?’

  He gasped a laugh. ‘Of course we do not. We are pragmatic, if nothing else. It is in the cart, along with dry kindling.’

  ‘And I shall fetch water,’ Cecily declared. ‘It is important to keep drinking.’

  He sighed. Then groaned again as he curled again around his stomach. ‘If you can find some rhubarb root, that will help.’

  ‘I will ask the gardeners for some. But let us see if you can keep sips of water down for now.’

  She began to back out of the tent, but he grabbed hold of her wrist.

  ‘Will you not be missed?’

  She smiled. ‘No. Do not fret. It is early yet. I shall do what I can for now and then return later.’

  Worry gnawed at her as she carried a pail down to the stream to collect water. What if it was more serious than he thought? He was in pain, his stomach clearly cramping. Should she send for a doctor? But would a doctor condescend to treat a Romany? She knew the prejudice many people had for Romanies. She might be delaying the inevitable, but she would wait and see how he was later today. Her main worry was how she could take care of him without anyone else knowing.

  She came up with only one answer: she must feign illness herself—to account to Aunt Drusilla for her absence—and she must take Anna into her confidence. Anna had been her maid for fifteen years and Cecily did not doubt her loyalty. But would that loyalty allow her to aid her mistress in an endeavour of which she would strongly disapprove? But care for Zach she would, until he was well enough to forage for firewood and hunt for food, and fetch water for himself. And if that meant she must light the fire and learn to cook for him and care for his animals, then that is what she would do. It was what she wanted to do.

  She carried the water back up to the camp, switching it from hand to hand as her fingers cramped and her arm ached.

  Heavens. How heavy it is.

  She thought of the scraps of housemaids in wealthy households up and down the country, who lugged water upstairs for their masters and mistresses to bathe in, and felt shame that she had never really given thought to the labour involved.

  Back at camp, she dipped a tin mug into the pail and returned to the tent. Zach’s eyes were closed and his breathing was soft and heavy. She placed the mug where it could not be knocked over and left quietly. Myrtle nudged at her hand and she looked down at the dog.
r />   ‘Are you hungry, Myrtle?’

  The terrier’s ears pricked and she tipped her head to one side, panting. Cecily rummaged through the cart, but could find nothing edible. No doubt Zach had planned to catch a rabbit or some such, but the illness had overcome him. Cecily bent to stroke Myrtle.

  ‘I shall bring you some meat from the Grange, Myrtle. I promise.’

  She smiled as she pictured Zach’s likely reaction to her talking to his dog. It had not taken long for her to succumb to that habit, even though the thought of it had been so strange before. The other animals, presumably, could forage for themselves, but poor Myrtle, on three legs, was unlikely to be an effective hunter. Titan—a true cob, with a heavy mane, long tail and thick feathers around his huge hooves—had woken up, shaking himself vigorously before walking to the limit of his tether and straining to reach the grass just beyond his reach. He had already nibbled bare a perfect circle around his stake.

  Cecily went to him and bent to tug at his iron stake. It did not budge. She tried again. Still no movement—she huffed a sigh before kneeling down and taking hold of the stake. She alternately leant back, pulling, and then pushed forward, trying to loosen the stake by wiggling it. She had seen the men working at the Abbey remove posts in just that way. After several minutes, during which she feared she might have to give up, she had finally worked the hole big enough to pull the stake free.

  Now what?

  She walked to a fresh patch of grazing, Titan lumbering behind her. He began to graze and Cecily pushed the stake a few inches into the ground. She eyed the giant horse doubtfully. He was a powerful animal. One tug and he would dislodge his stake, and then where would Zach be? He would, rightly, blame Cecily. She cast around, and found a rock. She picked it up and bashed at the stake—missing it as often as she hit it. But the stake sank further into the ground and she felt the thrill of success.

  After that, she tipped some water into another bucket she had found—she made a mental note to carry two half-full buckets from the stream next time—and put it within Titan’s reach. Her gloves, she saw with a rueful look, were ruined. They were cotton gloves, perfect for summer, but never made to carry buckets and hammer stakes. She returned to the tent.