Baleful Godmother Historical Romance Series Volume One

by Emily Larkin

  When the last of the echoes had died, Marcus spoke. “Penge, Farly, I know you’re anxious about your boys, but we do this carefully. I don’t want anyone getting hurt or lost.” He waited until he’d seen the stableman nod. “We’ll split in two, half go left, half go right, but stay in this cavern until we know how many exits there are. No one hares off on his own. Is that understood?”

  * * *

  The cavern was smaller than a cathedral, but only just. It had three exits: the hillside hole, and two natural passageways, one broad, the other narrow. They split in half again to explore them. Barnaby led Catton, Clem’s father, two gardeners, a stableman, and a footman down the narrower passageway.

  It was more crevice than cave, shoulder-wide. The crevice kinked and twisted, the ceiling dropped so low that they had to duck their heads, then rose again, the passage widened slightly—and was blocked by a cave-in ahead.

  Barnaby recalled Miss Merryweather’s words. I felt as if the roof was going to fall on my head. “Stop,” he said.

  The men halted.

  Barnaby raised his lantern and examined the ceiling before stepping closer to the debris.

  The litter of boulders, stones, grit and dust looked fresh. He bent and picked up a fragment of rock. The broken surface was pale and clean, as if it had snapped off not an hour ago.

  “Catton, go back and fetch the others, will you?” Barnaby kept his voice calm, aware of Clem’s father at his shoulder. He unslung the rope he’d been carrying, tossed it aside, and examined the ceiling again. It looked safe. “Right, let’s clear this.”

  Chapter Nine

  Sweat dripped off Barnaby’s face. There was grit in his eyes, grit in his mouth. He didn’t speak, just panted, and all the time a silent prayer was running in his head. Let them be alive. He worked shoulder to shoulder with Marcus, digging with his hands, grabbing rocks, heaving them aside—and each time he reached into the rubble, he was afraid his groping hands would close on a bony ankle—and each time it was merely a rock, and his breath hitched with relief and he threw the rock aside and turned back to the debris—and felt the fear again.

  “I’m through,” cried a gardener who’d been working near the top of the cave-in.

  Barnaby straightened, and wiped his face with a filthy sleeve.

  Harry’s father shoved past, scrambling over the rocks to the hole the gardener had made. It was no larger than a man’s head, and as dark as an abyss.

  “Harry?” he shouted. “Clem?”

  Barnaby heard men panting all around him, and then he heard a faint cry like a bird. “Pa? Pa, is that you?”

  “Harry! Are you all right? Is Clem with you?”

  The voice came again, closer this time, louder. He heard how hard the boy was trying not to cry. “Clem broke his arm, Pa.”

  “Both alive,” someone said. “Praise the Lord.”

  * * *

  Marcus let Penge and Farly speak to their sons, and then ordered everyone back. “We take it slowly from here, understood? Everyone’s alive, and I want to keep it that way.” He scanned the men’s sweating, dusty faces. “Owens, take the carriage to Brixham and fetch Doctor Curnow to the abbey. You know where he lives? Howard, Arthur, go with him as far as the abbey and bring us back something to drink.”

  “Yes, sir!” The men hurried off.

  Marcus scrambled up the rubble to the hole and raised his voice. “Harry, you and Clem stay well back. You hear me?”

  “Yes, sir,” came the faint reply.

  * * *

  They widened the hole slowly, passing rocks down from man to man, no longer driven by urgency, keeping a wary eye on the roof. Barnaby stripped down to his shirt and worked alongside Marcus again. If the servants had looked like gargoyles on the abbey steps, they looked like trolls now, filthy with dust and dirt.

  When the two footmen returned laden with ale, they all took a break. Barnaby gulped his ale thirstily. The hoppy bitterness cleared his gritty mouth and stung his taste buds to life. He fished his watch out of his ruined waistcoat. Ten past four.

  By four thirty, the hole was large enough for a man to crawl through. Five minutes later, both boys were out of their dark prison, white-faced and tearful and exhausted.

  Barnaby found himself laughing with relief. He met Marcus’s eyes and grinned.

  Marcus grinned back. He’d never looked less like an earl. His hair stood on end, shaggy with dust, his face was plastered with sweat and grime, his shirt and breeches were filthy, his riding gloves torn, his boots ruined.

  They gathered up shovels and ropes and blankets and lanterns and made their way out of the cavern, back to Woodhuish Abbey. Despite the early hour, the abbey was alive with light and bustle. Dr. Curnow had just arrived. They saw Clem into the doctor’s care, and Harry into his mother’s, and then all ate out in the stableyard on wooden benches, gardeners, stablemen, footmen, earl and baronet, shoulder to shoulder, wolfing down bread and cheese, draining tankards of ale.

  After food came a hot bath, and then—as dawn lit the sky—bed. Barnaby fell asleep as abruptly and profoundly as if he’d swallowed a large dose of laudanum.

  * * *

  He woke at midday. For several minutes, he contemplated going back to sleep, then he levered himself out of bed, yawning, and wandered across to the window and opened the shutters. Sunlight streamed into the room, painting the colors in the carpet as bright as jewels.

  Barnaby shaved and dressed and made his way downstairs. Servants brought him a late breakfast and a pot of tea in a parlor that looked out onto the cloister and its rose garden. “How’s Clem’s arm?” he asked a footman.

  “Doctor splinted it. He says the boy will be fine, sir.”

  Barnaby was chewing his first mouthful when Miss Merryweather looked into the room. “You’re awake. Excellent!” She drew out the chair opposite him and sat, her eyes eager. “Tell me it all. I’ve only heard it third-hand from one of the maids.”

  Barnaby told her while he ate his way through his plateful of eggs and sirloin. “It sounds as if the boys are extremely lucky to be alive,” Miss Merryweather said, when he’d finished.

  “They are.” Barnaby reached for the teapot and poured himself another cup of tea, not because he wanted it, but because it gave him a reason not to look at Miss Merryweather. Her morning dress was plain cambric, her hair dressed in a simple knot, and yet somehow she managed to be even more captivating than she’d been last night—and he was not going to stare at her like a lovestruck schoolboy.

  “I wish I’d remembered to tell Marcus on Monday.”

  He glanced at her and caught an expression on her face that gave him pause. He was not going to let her shoulder that guilt. “We both forgot.”

  “Yes.” Miss Merryweather wrinkled her nose. “But at least we did meet them, otherwise no one would have known where to search.” She shivered and rubbed her arms. “I don’t like caves!”

  Barnaby sipped his tea thoughtfully. “I think that cavern is the most extraordinary thing I’ve ever seen. I’d like to go back.”

  Her brow creased. “You would?”

  Marcus chose that moment to enter the parlor. Barnaby had a few seconds of awkwardness, when his face stiffened and his shoulders stiffened and he couldn’t meet Marcus’s eyes, but Marcus greeted him with easy cheer and pulled out the chair alongside him.

  Let it go, Barnaby told himself. Last night he had, without even meaning to. He and Marcus had worked alongside each other as if they were friends again, as if that afternoon with Lavinia had never happened.

  He tried to relax his face, tried to relax his shoulders, but a kernel of awkwardness remained, sitting uncomfortably in his chest.

  The servants brought more eggs, sirloin, and another teapot. “You planning on exploring that cavern?” Barnaby asked, in as neutral a tone as he could manage. “See where that other exit goes? Or will you seal the whole thing off?”

  Marcus chewed, and thought. “I wouldn’t mind exploring.”

  Their
eyes met. Barnaby found himself grinning. “When?”

  Marcus chewed another mouthful, considering this question. “Tomorrow. I’m going to be lazy today.”

  * * *

  Barnaby decided to be lazy, too. At Lady Cosgrove’s suggestion, they all strolled in the walled gardens. Espaliered fruit trees were trained along the south-facing walls, their branches thick with blossom.

  “See that?” Miss Merryweather said, pointing at a small wooden block inset in the stone wall. “In winter they take out all those blocks and light fires inside the walls, to heat the gardens.”

  “They do?” Barnaby stepped closer. Yes, each block had a ring attached so it could be pulled out. “I’ve heard of such things.”

  “He’ll want to see inside the wall now, Merry,” Marcus said, and a quick glance showed that Marcus looked as amused as he sounded. “Barnaby likes to know how things work.”

  Miss Merryweather took him to view the hollow wall. “Fascinating,” Barnaby said, and wished he could see the system in action.

  Marcus and his wife had wandered to the far side of the garden, hand in hand. They looked as if they’d like to kiss. Miss Merryweather must have thought so too, for she glanced at them, and steered Barnaby along a path that led into one of the kitchen gardens.

  “The gardeners plant flowers in with the vegetables,” Miss Merryweather said. “See all the marigolds and nasturtiums? They help keep the insects away.”

  “They do?”

  “One of the gardeners told me. Plants are quite interesting, you know.”

  Barnaby nodded, and found himself telling her about cocksfoot and lucerne, and how if you planted them, you could maintain three times as many sheep—

  And then he realized what he was doing. He felt himself go red. “I beg your pardon, Miss Merryweather.”

  “Whatever for?”

  “For prosing on about agriculture.”

  “Because, being a female, I can’t possibly find it interesting?” She opened her eyes wide and fixed him with a stare.

  Barnaby felt his face become even redder. That sharp, blue stare seemed to skewer him like a rapier. “Of course not.”

  Dimples peeked in Miss Merryweather’s cheeks. To his relief, Barnaby realized she was roasting him. “Agriculture is a topic that bores most people, male or female,” he said, more certain of his ground.

  “And yet, we all rely upon it.” Miss Merryweather took his arm, and led him down a path between beds of vegetables. “Marcus says you’re better than any bailiff when it comes to land management.”

  Barnaby blinked. “He does?”

  “He says that any tenant who has you for a landlord is extremely fortunate.”

  Barnaby felt himself blush again. “I would hope my decisions improve their livelihoods.”

  “Marcus says you like to understand things inside and out, and that the practice interests you even more than the theory. He said he’s seen you plant crops and help with lambing and dig out ditches.”

  “I like to know how things are done,” Barnaby said, uncomfortably. Had Marcus done nothing but talk about him?

  “Marcus says—”

  “Marcus says a great deal too much!”

  Miss Merryweather glanced at him. Her dimples became very pronounced. She was silently laughing at him. “Do you wish to change the subject?”

  “Yes,” Barnaby said.

  “What would you like to talk about?”

  Barnaby stared down at Miss Merryweather, and wanted—quite shockingly—to kiss her. He wrenched his gaze from her face. “Tell me about the monks who built this place.”

  * * *

  They spent an hour in the gardens—during which time he and Miss Merryweather discussed Augustinian monks, balloon ascensions, Shakespeare, and the skill of Marcus’s French chef. Miss Merryweather made him laugh three times, and each time she did, Barnaby wanted to kiss her. He took care to keep his distance from her, to look at her no more often than was polite, but it was difficult when her conversation was so invigorating and he enjoyed her company so much and she had such captivating dimples.

  They all returned to the abbey, to discover that the chef had produced a tray of particularly French and particularly irresistible pastries. Miss Merryweather clapped her hands in delight. “Look at them!”

  Barnaby was looking. Each dainty pastry was a masterpiece in itself. He saw tiny slices of glazed fruit, and whipped cream and powdered sugar, and three shades of chocolate. His mouth began to water.

  “I’m going to have to increase Guillaume’s wages again,” Marcus said, eyeing the laden tray.

  They settled in the drawing room, with the French doors open to the cloister and the scent of roses drifting in.

  Barnaby watched Miss Merryweather examine the tray, watched her choose two pastries, watched her tease Marcus over his own selection.

  The day they’d met, she’d said people called her Merry because it was less of a mouthful. She was wrong. They called her Merry because she had the gift of laughter, and because Merry was the name that suited her above all others in the world.

  I like her. In fact, he liked her too much. More than any other female he’d met. Not because she was pretty—although she was extremely pretty—but because of who she was: observant and shrewd and plainspoken and funny.

  He studied her face for a moment, heart-shaped, with wide cheekbones and a delicately pointed chin. Such clear blue eyes. Such a full, sweet mouth. And behind those things, such a quick, keen mind.

  Miss Merryweather said something that made Marcus and Lady Cosgrove both laugh. She grinned, dimples peeking in her cheeks, and Barnaby’s heart seemed to lurch in his chest.

  He looked abruptly down at his plate. For God’s sake, Bee, don’t fall in love with her. He was an adulterer. He would carry that label the rest of his life. And as an adulterer, he was no husband for a respectable young woman.

  Chapter Ten

  April 9th, 1807

  Devonshire

  Marcus and Sir Barnaby set off to explore the cave in the morning, with four of the outdoors servants. By noon, they still hadn’t returned. Merry took to twisting her handkerchief. “Relax,” Charlotte told her, feeding Charles in the sunlit nursery. “Marcus promised they’d take no risks.”

  “But what if the roof falls on their heads!”

  “It won’t. Sit down and stop shredding that poor handkerchief—and tell me, am I wrong in thinking that Sir Barnaby is . . .” Charlotte’s brow creased as she searched for a word. “Easing?”

  Merry sat, and allowed herself to be distracted. “You’re not wrong. He’s growing more comfortable with Marcus and he’s a lot easier in himself.”

  “Good. That’s what I thought—but I don’t have your eyes.”

  Merry smoothed out her handkerchief, and folded it. “Sir Barnaby needs a little time to adjust his thinking. Remember how long it took Marcus? It didn’t happen overnight.”

  Charlotte looked dismayed. “Are you saying it could be months?”

  “No. I think he’s almost there. The rescue in the caves helped a lot.” Merry folded her handkerchief even smaller. “I think . . . this is going to sound silly, but . . . after what happened with Lavinia, I think Sir Barnaby dug a pit for himself—a metaphorical pit—and he locked himself away at the bottom of it—and that day Marcus visited, he tried to climb up out of it, but Marcus kicked him back down, and this time, even though Marcus has handed him a rope and is trying to pull him up, he’s not sure whether he should climb out or not. He thinks he deserves to stay at the bottom of his pit.” She glanced up at Charlotte, and felt herself flush faintly. “Silly, I know.”

  Charlotte shook her head. “No, it makes sense. Marcus did kick him down. Metaphorically. I saw it.” She adjusted Charles slightly. “I hope he does manage to climb out. Marcus needs this friendship. It’s very important to him. His parents were . . .” She grimaced. “Marcus might have been the coal hauler’s boy, for all the attention they paid him. Sir Barnaby wasn�
��t just his best friend; he was his family.”

  Merry nodded soberly. Marcus rarely spoke of his parents.

  Charlotte sighed, and gently stroked Charles’s head. “Plus, most of Marcus’s friendships are political. He needs someone he can relax with and talk about things other than politics.”

  “He does that with you.”

  “Well, yes, but I can’t talk about guns and boxing and all those things men like to talk about. He tried to discuss the great pugilists with me once, when he thought I was a man, and soon gave up.” She laughed, and shook her head. “Although, he did teach me how to box. That was fun.”

  Merry lifted her eyebrows. “Marcus taught you to box?”

  “A little. He said I had a natural aptitude.” Charlotte grinned. “I’ll show you later, if you like.”

  * * *

  At two o’clock, the men returned, filthy, disheveled, and bursting with excitement.

  “You have to come see it,” Marcus said. “It’s incredible!”

  “It goes on and on,” Sir Barnaby said, his hazel eyes alight. “Passages and caverns. And look! Look what I found!” He dug in one pocket and fished out a small, flat, round object tarnished with verdigris.

  “A coin?”

  “Yes, but look at it!” Sir Barnaby held it out to her. “It’s Roman!”

  Merry took the object, and examined it. It was indeed a Roman coin, thin and not perfectly round, stamped with a head on one side and—she squinted—a ship on the other. Perhaps I won’t have to look far for my hoard of treasure?

  She passed the coin to Charlotte.

  “You have to come see it,” Marcus said again.

  “Absolutely,” Charlotte said, inspecting the coin. “When? Now?”

  “Tomorrow,” Marcus said. “The entrance needs a little work.”