So, she watched the dancing, listened to the music played on flutes and drums and stringed instruments she did not recognize, and tried not to shudder when strange men leered at her and pressed too close, actions which forced her to hold Stephen’s arm a little tighter.
“Look, a vantage point is over there.” Stephen pointed to a grove of trees, then led the way. Cecy wondered at Lady Heathcote’s interest, her stamina tonight at surprising odds with other occasions when she had proved rather fond of complaint. But perhaps her tolerance of the cold and the noise had something to do with the three glasses of wine she had drunk at the tavern.
Cecy huddled into her shawl, wishing she could wrap it around her hair, to disguise herself a little. She seemed to have been the target of too many interested gazes, people whose countenances told of surprise just as evident as Ned’s had been.
She glanced around, but did not see him. Unsurprising, really, given the large crowds in attendance. She had caught a glimpse of Ned’s brother, and wondered about his attendance tonight, given how much John had railed about his younger brother’s exploits in London. Indeed, it was strange that he would choose to grace this event with his supercilious presence.
There came a loud call, followed by another one, then a loud drumming accompanied by clapping that soon escalated into a raucous cheering. Various couples began to dance wildly, careless of who observed, the firelight of flaming torches throwing their features into weird shadows.
“They’re bringing out the Green King.”
“The what?” She peered past Stephen. A tall, rather ugly, painted figure was being wheeled toward them on a wagon of straw.
“The Green King. It is a symbol of good fortune for the future harvests.” He smiled patronizingly at her and patted her hand. “There’s no need to worry. It’s only a dummy, a kind of Guy Fawkes figure made of leaves and branches, dressed in men’s clothes.”
But there was something eerie about it, something which made her feel sick in her stomach and bade her to look away. Oh, she should never have come. People pressed closer, and the scent of liquor and sweat clogged her nostrils, forcing her to drop Stephen’s arm and wrap the shawl around her face so she could breathe its fresh-washed aroma.
Loud chanting filled her ears, and she edged farther away. The night felt too full of ancient wickedness, of pagan ritual, things she did not want to see. She closed her eyes and prayed, conscious of a dark heaviness, a wildness that seemed to have enveloped the crowd.
“Miss Hatherleigh?”
She opened her eyes. Stephen. “I want to leave.”
“Oh, but the bonfire is about to be lit.”
“I want to go home. This all feels terribly wicked and wrong.”
Disappointment—or was it frustration?—crossed his features before he finally nodded, and turned to speak to his mother and sister. In that moment, she felt her arm grasped, tugged, and turned to face a dark-complected man she had never seen before.
A scream rushed up her throat and filled the night.
“Miss Hatherleigh!” Ned pushed past a burly man, elbowing him aside, as he desperately tried to advance through the press of bodies. But there were too many people, too many oaths muttered his direction, scowls cast at him as he struggled in vain. John was lost to him now; Father was right, John needed no keeper. Cecilia on the other hand …
“Miss Hatherleigh!”
His superior height saw her head jerk as if she’d heard his call. He pushed more vigorously through the crowd, ignoring the curses, as he concentrated on the chestnut curls being dragged away. Where was Heathcote? Why wasn’t he protecting her? With a final heave he escaped the tangle of limbs and hurried to where she was even now remonstrating with a brightly cloaked man. “Cecy!”
She turned, pulling her arm free before slumping in obvious relief. “Oh, Ned!”
He wrapped an arm around her shoulders, felt her sag into his embrace. “Are you hurt? What has happened? Where is Heathcote?”
“I was startled, but I am well—”
“Miss Hatherleigh?” Heathcote pushed forward, eyeing Ned’s posture so severely that he was forced to drop his arm. “I’m so sorry we were separated. I did not know—”
“That was obvious,” Ned murmured.
“Pardon, Amherst? Have you something to say?”
Ned straightened his shoulders, noting he had at least a good inch on the other man. “I think you would be better off discovering what that man wanted with Miss Hatherleigh than grumbling at me.”
“I was about to!” he snapped, before turning to the dark-featured man and muttering an oath. “But he is a gypsy!” An expression of disgust crossed his features, and he moved to pull Cecilia away.
The gypsy’s dark eyes flashed under the low brimmed hat, his features contorted, hands stretched imploringly, before uttering a garble of sounds Ned could not decipher.
“What? What are you saying?”
“Amherst! Leave him,” Heathcote said, glancing around them. “’Tis a crime to even speak to such folk.”
Be that as it may, something about the man’s piteous expression engendered his compassion. At least here, on the outer edges of the crowd and in the darkness, they could not be easily recognized.
Again, the garbled noise came forth. The man gestured to his throat, his wild eyes and unshaven countenance unnerving.
Heathcote frowned at Ned. “What is he saying?”
Ned shrugged, then grew conscious Cecilia was speaking. He lowered his head and begged her to repeat her words.
“I think he’s saying someone is sick.”
“What? How can you know that?” Heathcote stared at Cecilia incredulously. “He sounds barely human. Besides, what would he want with you?” He placed a hand on her arm. “Come, we should leave—”
She tugged her arm away. “I would prefer to see if he can be helped.”
“But he is a gypsy!”
“He is a man.”
“But a moment ago you were begging to leave!”
Anger heated within. How dare Heathcote have brought Cecilia to such a place then ignored her wish to depart? What kind of gentleman was he? “Miss Hatherleigh, perhaps it would be best if you left—”
“Oh, but surely we cannot leave without helping in some way.” She eyed Heathcote. “That would be unchristian.”
Somehow her pleading glance slid to Ned, and he knew what she wanted him to do. “Heathcote, take the ladies away. This crowd is far too intoxicated for anyone’s safety, much less those who are gently bred. Miss Hatherleigh has received a great shock and should be taken home immediately.” He turned to her, stooping slightly to meet her eyes in an expression he hoped conveyed assurance. “I will do my best to assist him.”
“Thank you,” she murmured.
A shout behind him was followed by cheers as the bonfire was lit, the flames bringing out the ruddy glints of her curls. Her little smile and the approbation in her eyes gave him the strength to bow and trust her to Heathcote’s—and to God’s—protection. He watched until he saw Heathcote had safely escorted them to the carriage, then with a sigh he turned to face the man, whose gesticulations soon drew him away from the crowds, down through the trees, down to where a collection of oddly shaped wagons indicated the gypsy camp had gathered in the grove.
He peeked over his shoulder, glad to see nobody seemed to have noticed his departure. Heathcote was right; it was a crime to have anything to do with such folk. But Cecilia was correct also, and it was not right to ignore a fellow man’s suffering, even though he be of a class far below.
Ned swallowed and muttered a prayer for protection as the man gestured inside a wagon, from whence came the sound of coughing. Was this insane? What if the person inside had smallpox? What if it was a sham? How could he know this wasn’t some ruse to attack him, to steal his coin—or worse? But perhaps this was another opportunity to perform a good deed that might outweigh the bad of his past.
He stepped up the small ladder, pushed past
a leather flap and poked his head inside. On a pallet a woman lay coughing, the candlelight showing a waxy sheen on her forehead. He was no doctor, but even he could see the evidence of something serious. No sign of the pox marred her skin, so he laid a hand on her forehead. She was burning hot.
“Water?” he asked the man, who did not seem to immediately understand. He mimed a drinking action. “She needs to drink.”
The man pointed to a small pitcher. Ned grimaced. Who knew how fresh that water might be?
An elderly woman pushed past the canvas flaps and uttered something unintelligible, before pointing to Ned and gesturing him to leave.
The man gave a motion of resignation—the universal palms up as a man’s submission to women—before signaling him to leave the cramped space.
“I’ll bring a doctor,” Ned promised, speaking slowly. “Doctor, tomorrow. And she must drink.” Again he mimed the action for drinking.
The man gave another gesture of helplessness, his sounds such that Ned wondered if he might not be possessed of a speech defect, regardless of what language he was speaking. His heart wrenched as he exited the caravan. No wonder the man felt so helpless that he had resorted to trying to drag a young woman to assist him. How terrifying it must be to be unable to make oneself understood. How terrifying it must be to be regarded with fear by people who made little effort to understand.
Ned muttered a prayer for the woman, and the man, pleading once more for God’s protection. Somehow, he sensed that if the villagers knew there was sickness in the travelers’ camp that their mercy would be as meager as that offered by Heathcote.
His prayers changed to those for Cecilia’s protection, that the evening’s events had not frightened her so much she could not sleep. Just what he’d say to Cecilia when he next saw her he did not quite know; he could only hope that she would understand and perhaps even appreciate his efforts.
Hurrying through the trees, he could see the flames ahead, the screeches and cackles of the night becoming louder. What a strange night this had been, a night of midsummer madness. It was almost enough to make him believe in fairies and goblins and the creatures of dark vales. Perhaps during his long ago study of Shakespeare’s A Midsummer Night’s Dream he should not have been so quick to scoff. He smiled at himself. Clearly the night’s wildness was affecting his brain. But what some deemed as far-fetched he had learned could be true, as his experiences last year had proved.
He shivered, conscious the night still held danger, as memories poked past his prayers and fancies to remind of other hazardous events.
A crackle drew his attention to the left. He peered through the darkness, his awareness alert enough to hear, to see a thick branch swinging at his head, before enormous pain and the blackness of the night blunted every sense.
CHAPTER FİVE
HOURS SPENT OFFERING prayers and trying not to worry left her drained and heavy-eyed, her fingers ink-stained as she wrote about the evening’s events in her diary. How could last night turn so unruly? But … really, why was she surprised? She had known the festivities might hold an element of danger, that they were unlikely to lead to the calm—and, quite frankly, boring—lassitude induced by her usual evening routine.
Last night had proved to be the very opposite of boring. Verity had repeatedly expressed her regret at missing the treat when Cecy had stolen to her bedchamber and shared the night’s events as she’d promised. Whilst she had not enjoyed the Heathcotes’ company overly, it had been interesting to be out, to see something of why the village festivities were so well attended. She had never visited a tavern before, only taken to coaching inns on longer trips to visit Grandmama in south Devon, and even then it had always been with the assurance and protection of a private parlor, with their own servants to secure and pay the way. Last night’s adventure had both alarmed and proved exciting, although a little loud and overwhelming, as faces turned to stare while Stephen secured them a table. And then to see Mr. Amherst …
She continued writing.
Mr. Amherst was an island of calm amidst a sea of noisy speculation, his gaze direct, his poise assured, enquiring—as a gentleman ought—after our welfare. He could not contrast more strongly with Stephen, whose bluster and fluster seemed the very opposite of Ned’s more polished manner. It was as if when I saw him I knew the turbulence of our surroundings would not affect me; he owns a steadiness I can trust, and a care and concern that lends a sense of ease. His suggestions made our evening meal far more tolerable than I first supposed eating a meal at such an establishment might allow, and I am grateful to him for his consideration, both for then and for what happened later.
Her skin prickled, as the memories swept over her again. She dipped the nib into the inkpot and wrote again.
I do not know what I would have done had Ned not appeared when he did. One moment Stephen was there, the next he could not be found, and a strange man—a gypsy, I believe—was dragging me away. Ned’s appearance was truly an answer to prayer, his arm around me so solidly assuring that fear was banished. Oh, that he would hold me because he cared for me! Sometimes I dream that he would kiss me (I scarcely can believe I write this, but I do so only because I know that no one will ever read these foolish words), that he would hold me in the close embrace I saw Caro held by her new husband. But I must content myself with his brotherly embrace, one that offered protection and security, which at the same time fueled this foolish girl’s vain imagination.
His kindness was such that I made so bold as to request his help, something he seemed to understand, as, after securing my safety, he went to assist the gypsy fellow whose inarticulate cries have stolen into my sleep, and necessitated prayers for him and for my dear Edward.
Dear Lord, be with him now, and bless him for his kind consideration both to myself, and the poor fellow—
“Cecilia!”
She dropped her quill, the ink splotching the page. She wrinkled her nose as her mother’s loud call came again. “Yes, Mother?”
“Oh my!”
Cecy hastened from her chair to her bedchamber’s door, where her mother clutched a piece of paper. “What has happened?”
“This note.” Her mother waved it frantically. “Oh, I never should have permitted you to go.”
“I beg your pardon, Mother? Permitted me to go where?”
“Last night! To the village festivities.”
She grasped her mother’s arm and led her to the bed and encouraged her to sit. “What has happened?”
“It’s Mr. Amherst.”
Dread stole through her. “What about him?”
“He was attacked!”
Pain wrenched her chest. No. Oh no!
“It seems he was attacked by those dreadful gypsies who attend the festivities every year. He was found, not far from one of their camps, having been struck by a club or some such thing.”
Breath suspended. This was her fault. Her fault! Oh, dear God … “Is … is he alive?”
“Yes.”
Oh, thank God!
“Miranda writes that he has a severe headache and has been advised to rest. He is at home—why, Cecilia, you’re as pale as a sheet!”
The room was spinning. She sat at her mother’s request. Her mother kept speaking but she could barely hear with the rushing in her ears. This was her fault, her fault! He would not have had anything to do with any gypsies if she had not requested his assistance. Dear God, let him be—
“… well soon enough, I’m sure, so there is no need to carry on like so. I know you care for him but one needn’t wear one’s heart on one’s sleeve for all to see. I am sure he has no thought of you.”
Salt in a wound could not sting any more. Of course he did not. Hadn’t his arm around her shoulders been simply that of a brother? Hadn’t he helped simply from his Christian duty, not from any desire to please her? Of course he had no thought of her.
Her eyes filled, forcing her to avert her face. If Mother believed that now, then how much more certain would t
hat sentiment be when he recovered enough to realize whose foolish idea had led to the attack. He would certainly want nothing more to do with her.
A sob erupted from her throat, and she turned her head to burrow into the pillows as her mother mouthed platitudes whilst patting her gently on the shoulder. Oh, would he ever forgive her?
Darkness filtered through his eyelids, darkness which barely lifted as he opened his eyes and studied his silent bedchamber. Shadowed, the dim recesses of the room held black memories like those regrets lining his heart. Was he forever destined to be the cause of family pain? He eased to his side, grimacing as a wave of nausea washed within. He swallowed, closing his eyes against the blurriness, forcing himself to relax. To pray. To thank God he still lived. To thank God the ache rippling through his head was not as bad as the pain he’d endured last December when a bullet had torn through his shoulder whilst on a ride through Hyde Park. That particular nightmare had caused no end of ramifications, his honor lost, his reputation as a gentleman compromised because of a foolish, stupid wisp of attraction to a lady. A lady whom he had first met whilst in the company of Caroline Hatherleigh.
He wondered how much she had told her sister about that episode, what Cecilia thought of his actions then, and whether she judged him as harshly as his own brother had done. Somehow, he didn’t think so. Cecilia Hatherleigh possessed a kindness that drew forth his own compassion, bolstering him to engage in activity like last night’s, which some—like his brother and parents—might deem reckless, but he still believed had been right and good to do.
Underestimating Miss Cecilia Page 5