Wyndcross (The Families 0f Dorset Book 1)

by Martha Keyes

  She remembered Lord Ashworth’s promise to call on her and wondered with slight panic if she had missed him. Questioning Lindley on the subject, her fears were confirmed.

  “Yes, Miss, I understand that his lordship came around quite early this morning—I don’t know that I shall ever accustom myself to these country hours,” she added with a disapproving shake of her head. “He insisted that you not be disturbed, though, and took himself off in a hurry.”

  Kate sighed. “Very well. Thank you, Lindley.”

  Once she was dressed, Kate descended the stairs. At the bottom, Clara swung around on hearing Kate’s footsteps, a look of relief on her face.

  “There you are!” The relief was mixed was something which seemed nearer to anger than anything Kate had seen Clara exhibit in the past.

  “Yes, I apologize,” Kate said. “Lindley let me sleep far longer than I had planned.”

  “You’ve been asleep this entire time?” Clara asked. “And you such an early riser.”

  Kate smiled, knowing she couldn’t explain the reason she had struggled to fall asleep. “I know. I barely recognize myself.”

  “Well I am glad you’ve had a good rest. So much the better, for I have quite a day planned for us.”

  Kate’s eyebrows went up.

  Clara reached for Kate’s arm, tucking it in the crook of her own and shepherding her towards the morning room.

  Clara had instructed for various periodicals to be brought into the room so that she and Kate might peruse them together in hopes of finding a dress design.

  “Mama insists I look very smart when the engagement is announced.”

  Kate had fought with the impulse to clarify—what engagement was Clara planning for?

  She was just as caught off guard by Clara’s sudden desire to schedule out an entire day. Something was clearly different about Clara. Her laughs had a forced quality to them, and she seemed to be jittery. Had something happened between Clara and Mr. Bradbury?

  The door opened.

  “Miss Matcham,” said the footman Davies. “Lord Ashworth is here to see you. I have left him in the library, ma’am.”

  Kate hadn’t considered what Clara might think of her, a guest in the house—and a female one at that—receiving a gentleman—and Lord Ashworth at that—at Wyndcross. The activity they were engaged in only heightened the awkwardness of the visit.

  She glanced at Clara. Her brows were raised and nostrils flared in an expression reminiscent of her mother.

  “Thank you, Davies,” said Kate, setting the magazine on the table next to the sofa and standing to leave the room.

  Clara stood suddenly. “Yes, Davies, thank you. Please have Lord Ashworth shown in here.” She smiled. “Quite silly to leave him kicking his heels in the library when we can receive him here.”

  Davies’ eyes shifted toward Kate in uncertainty, but he said, “Very good, ma’am,” bowed, and closed the door behind him.

  Kate hadn’t the faintest idea how she and Lord Ashworth would manage to discuss a plan when Clara was in the room.

  Once the door was closed, Clara turned her head to Kate. “A secret tryst with Lord Ashworth?” She clucked her tongue and shook her head in mock disapproval, but her eyes held an unforgiving light despite her smile.

  Kate chuckled to dispel the tinge of annoyance she felt at Clara’s words and at the way her presence complicated things. “I admit I am no expert on the matter, but it hardly seems fair to call it a secret tryst when a gentleman is announced in broad daylight by Davies.”

  “You looked very cozy with Simon at dinner. And now Lord Ashworth? My my, who could be next?” She tapped the side of her chin with a finger, wearing a roguish half-smile that didn’t extend to her eyes. “Based on last night, perhaps we should expect that Mr. Bradbury will be announced. At this rate you will have all the men in the county calling upon you. I never took you for a flirt, Kate.”

  Kate flushed. She hadn’t thought Clara to be petty or spiteful.

  “Lord Ashworth,” Davies announced.

  Kate blinked quickly to dissolve the tears pooling in her eyes.

  Lord Ashworth, holding his hat in his hands, stopped short just beyond the doorway. He had clearly not been expecting to see Clara in the room.

  Clara offered him a seat, and as she moved a pillow to make room for him, Lord Ashworth caught eyes with Kate and grimaced. His grimace, though, turned to concern as he looked at Kate. He looked a question at her, but Kate only shook her head and forced a smile.

  The visit was short. Clara prattled on about various topics, not seeming to need much input from her companions beyond a “yes,” a “no,” or a laugh. The opportunity for private conversation was not to be had, and after ten minutes, Lord Ashworth began to take his leave. Almost as an afterthought, he asked Clara if she happened to have a quill, ink, and paper.

  “I promised Miss Matcham I would provide her with the name and address of the woman who assisted in furnishing my London house. I understand Lady Hammond intends to refurnish a number of rooms in Berkeley Square and is searching for someone reliable.”

  Kate’s eyebrows raised, this being the first time she had heard a word on the subject. On encountering Lord Ashworth’s speaking glance, though, she composed her face and said, “Ah yes, thank you. Fanny will be so grateful.” She paused a moment, entering into the spirit of the fib, and added, “As will I. I can tell you that, while Louis XIV may well have known how to decorate in opulence, his attention to comfort seems to have been sadly lacking. I speak from personal experience with the chairs in Fanny’s dining room.”

  Lord Ashworth smiled appreciatively at Kate’s improvisation as he gratefully accepted the quill and paper from Clara.

  When Clara seemed inclined to peer over Lord Ashworth’s shoulder, Kate said, “Clara, surely you agree. Do you remember the chairs at the Levenham’s ball? They suffered from quite the same problem, and, while they may well do for a short sitting, they leave one quite...quite—” she searched for the appropriate word “—numb after a long evening.”

  Clara smiled distractedly and turned her head to Lord Ashworth. “Good gracious,” she exclaimed with a forced laugh and smile, “what a long address this person has!”

  Lord Ashworth chuckled and wrote a final word on the paper. “It is not the address that is long but rather her name.” He held it out to read from it. “Giselberta Ottovordemgentschenfelde.”

  Both Clara’s and Kate’s eyebrows shot up, and Kate bit her lip.

  “Good heavens!” she said.

  Lord Ashworth’s eyebrows knit as he looked at the piece of paper doubtfully. “If I’m remembering it right, that is, which I never seem to.” He shook his head.

  “I’m afraid,” said Kate, clearing her throat to gain control of her impulse to laugh, “that Fanny may take exception to her for no better reason than her name.”

  He shrugged his shoulders. “I’ve tried to convince her to adopt a different name—Frieda Schmidt, for example—but, like the small number of Germans I’m acquainted with, she is very proud of her name and completely unapologetic to oafs like me who can’t for the life of them remember how to pronounce or spell it.

  “In any case, I can vouch for Giselberta’s passionate opposition to chairs in the style of Louis XIV. She has very strong opinions, especially when it comes to the French.”

  He handed the paper to Kate with a wink and took his leave.

  Kate didn’t know whether to feel reassured by the wink or concerned that Lord Ashworth was taking the situation too lightly. Her stomach clenched as she thought of all the time that had been wasted since her discovery the night before. She hoped that the paper in her hand would have some indication of Lord Ashworth’s plan and not, as she fear, the name and address of Giselberta. She didn’t dare look while Clara was in the room.

  It was welcome, if somewhat surprising, when Clara insisted that they go for a ride. Kate had suggested rides on numerous occasions, but Clara had always insisted on a diffe
rent activity.

  Kate assented, knowing that she would at least have the opportunity to look at Lord Ashworth’s note as she dressed for the ride. They agreed to meet in the courtyard in ten minutes.

  Once she closed the door to her room, Kate rested her back against it and unfolded the paper with shaking hands.

  Everything is arranged. You may rest easy. Yours, Ash

  Kate stared at the words in disbelief.

  Angry tears sprang to her eyes. He was refusing her a part in things when she had so clearly explained how important it was to her. And how could she know that he did indeed have a plan of his own? Or that he would be successful in carrying it out?

  But he had given her no choice in the matter. Trusting him seemed her only option.

  She crumpled the paper in her hands, and, in a very unladylike gesture, threw it toward the window in frustration. It was only when she was leaving the room that the idea struck her to suggest that she and Clara ride into Weymouth. Surely, she could find some way to relay a message to the authorities there. If Lord Ashworth insisted on keeping her in the dark, she must find her own way to keep her promise to herself.

  She doubled back and wrote a quick note on the discarded piece of paper from a letter she had been writing to Fanny.

  Tonight. Smuggling operation. Crofte stables.

  Her heart beat rapidly as she hesitated about whether to exclude the last two words. But there was neither time nor paper available to redo it. She folded the note and placed it in the pocket of her habit.

  When she proposed a ride into Weymouth, however, Clara put her foot down. There was a particular place Isabel Cosgrove had told her about that she was intent on seeing. With such insistence on Clara’s part, Kate found it impossible to argue without raising suspicion. She patted the pocket holding the note to reassure herself it was still there. Could she direct Lindley to send it into Weymouth for her? But Clara looped her hand through Kate’s arm.

  “We should leave immediately,” she said, “if we don’t wish to miss dinner.”

  27

  Happy though she was for any excuse to ride, Kate felt an odd misgiving as she watched Clara. Something was unarguably wrong with Clara, and Kate couldn’t help but think that it must have something to do with Mr. Bradbury, especially given Clara’s strange and barbed comments before Lord Ashworth’s entrance. Her conversation was pleasant enough, both she and her horse seemed to be on edge.

  After a spirited string of conversation, Clara suddenly entered into a fit of abstraction, staring between her horse’s ears.

  “Clara?” Kate said in a gentle voice.

  Clara’s head snapped up. “What is it?” she said, her wide eyes glancing rapidly ahead and to each side of them.

  “Nothing at all,” Kate laughed, though her brows were knit. “I was only wondering if you were well?”

  “Of course,” Clara rushed to say, adding an unconvincing attempt at a chuckle.

  Kate tried to meet her eyes, but Clara would not meet her eyes. “If you are quite sure,” she said doubtfully.

  The silence resumed, both women deep in thought.

  What was Lord Ashworth doing? Had everything really been arranged as he had promised? She gripped her lips between her teeth, her stomach feeling unsettled. It felt like an eon since her heart and mind had felt settled about anything.

  But whether Lord Ashworth was the kind and loyal gentleman her heart believed him to be or the devious smuggler her head feared him to be, her feelings would, in the end, still be collateral damage.

  Accepting that fact gave her the bit of strength she needed to ask Clara the home question she had been wondering about for, as it seemed to Kate, ages and ages; the question which might allow her to help Clara unravel the entangled mess she seemed to be in. If Kate herself couldn’t have what she wanted, at least she could try to ensure Clara’s happiness.

  “Clara, do you love Lord Ashworth?” She felt the stiffness in her own neck as she awaited the response.

  Clara was taken off her guard. “No!” Her cheeks flushed. “That is, what a strange question.”

  Kate laughed aloud from relief at Clara’s words. “Is it such a strange question?”

  “Well, yes. After all, what does love have to do with anything?”

  “A great deal for many people, I should think,” said Kate softly, thinking of Mr. and Mrs. Clarkson, her own mother and father, and so many others.

  “To be sure. People not so—” Clara searched for the word, eventually settling on one “—fortunate as you and I seem to put great stock in their feelings when it comes to choosing a spouse.”

  “Does it not seem to you that such people are perhaps more fortunate in that way? Would you not like to marry for love?”

  Clara stared ahead. “Mama says that love is a poor substitute for loyalty.”

  Kate considered Lady Crofte’s words. “Perhaps in many cases that is so, but the two needn’t be mutually exclusive.”

  Clara was silent.

  Kate went on, “I know of someone who both loves and is loyal to you.”

  Clara’s head shot up, and there was no mistaking the glint of hope in her eyes.

  “Mr. Bradbury, of course,” Kate said with a quirk of her brow.

  Clara’s hopeful look intensified for a moment before being replaced by a small scowl and a shake of the head. “I’m sure I don’t know why you should say such an absurd thing.”

  Kate smiled at her indulgently. “Because he told me so, of course.”

  Clara’s head whipped around. “He did?”

  If those bright eyes weren’t enough to tell Kate everything she needed to know about Clara’s feelings for Mr. Bradbury, the painfully hopeful tone in which she asked her question would have more than done it.

  “He said so in no uncertain terms,” Kate said significantly. “But even if he hadn’t done so, it would take a greater fool than even myself to remain oblivious to his feelings.”

  Clara flushed with pleasure.

  For a few minutes, they rode forward on the best of terms as Clara recounted the story of how she met Mr. Bradbury. It wasn’t long, though, before Clara’s manner shifted once again to a more restless and strained one. Shuffling in her saddle almost incessantly, she couldn’t seem to keep from looking around them in a manner Kate could only describe as paranoid.

  Suddenly Clara stopped her horse altogether.

  Kate slowed Cleopatra, turning to ask Clara what the matter was.

  “It is so silly of me,” said Clara, looking around them and then down to her boot, “but my boot lace has come loose, and it is causing the boot to rub my ankle in the most uncomfortable way.”

  “Well, that won’t do. Allow me.” Kate steered Cleopatra back toward Clara, dismounting and applying herself to the boot in question. “There is nothing quite so awful as being obliged to continue forward in discomfort when a quick stop could set all to rights. There,” she said, finishing the knot with a tug and looking up at Clara.

  But Clara was not looking at her. She was looking behind Kate, her eyes wide, an expression of dread on her face.

  “Oh dear! Please forgive me, Kate!” she begged in an urgent voice. “It was the only way!”

  Baffled, Kate said, “What do you mean?” She turned her head to follow Clara’s gaze and was met with the alarming view of two rapidly approaching strangers. The nearer and taller of the two, rugged and menacing, wore an unyielding and sneering expression on a face covered in blacking.

  It was Officer Roberts. Gone was his uniform from the night before.

  Kate drew back, but his long stride brought him to her quickly, causing Cleopatra to shy and scramble away. One of Roberts’s burly arms wrapped around her as his other hand covered her head with a sack.

  Tiny holes of light like pinpricks shone through the sack, but otherwise her vision was of no use to her. Her hands were brought roughly behind her back where they were tied together with a rope knotted so tightly that she couldn’t hold back a ye
lp of pain.

  “Oh, please be gentle,” Clara’s distraught voice pleaded, muffled to Kate’s ears through the thick and scratchy sack covering her head. “She is my friend.”

  “Just following orders, ma’am,” said Roberts.

  Kate felt a sudden and rough tug on her wrists.

  “‘At’ll do, I reckon,” said the voice of the other man.

  Whether from the disorientation of having her head covered or from the alarming situation she found herself in, Kate’s head began to spin.

  Only for a moment did she wonder why she found herself being ambushed. It would be far too coincidental to believe that her discovery the night before had nothing to do with it. She had hoped that Clara was oblivious to her family’s role in smuggling, but that was clearly not the case. Her strange behavior suddenly made sense.

  Kate thought of Lord Ashworth and attempted a deep breath to calm the frustration she felt inside—with him but also with herself for ever believing him. Why had she not followed her intuition about Roberts? Whatever plan Lord Ashworth had claimed to have, it had clearly not been put into action. Nor would it ever be.

  If there was indeed a plan.

  She was left to her own devices, then, whatever those devices might be.

  “Wh-what will you do to her?” Clara voiced the question which Kate had been asking in her mind.

  Though she felt she would have been justified in it, Kate couldn’t find it in her heart to be angry with Clara. Her voice was so pathetically full of fear and guilt, and Kate knew even without being able to see her that Clara was in tears. Self-concerned though she might be, Clara was neither ruthless nor hard-hearted. It was clear that she already regretted her role, or at least this part of it.

  “Don’t you worry your head over that, Miss,” said Roberts. “You’ve done your part, now off you go.”

  “But, sir,” Clara said in a voice tentative and pleading. “If you were to let me take her back to the manor, you wouldn’t have to concern yourself with her. She won’t breathe a word of it, will you, Kate?” It was a desperate attempt to save Kate from an unknown fate.