“But how should we know what herb a horse would like?” She wrinkled her nose, looking at the various pots of plants. “Or maybe they like all herbs, and we can just choose any of them.”
“I believe the answer is in the first part of the clue,” he said.
“Sacred to the Druids and used in witches’ charms . . .” Miss Stewart read.
“And safe for horses to eat,” Arthur reminded her.
“I don’t know,” she said. “And it is so dreadfully muggy in here. Maybe we could ask the horse man. What was his name again?”
“It’s yarrow,” Arthur said.
“Let’s ask Mr. Yarrow.” Miss Stewart started toward the door.
“No.” He picked up the shears. “The herb is yarrow.” He clipped off two bunches of the plant and handed one to Miss Stewart.
“Pretty,” she said, admiring the little yellow flowers.
Arthur hurried outside, holding the door and not letting his foot tap impatiently as he waited for Miss Stewart to join him.
“Is the answer yarrow, Mr. Harms?” Arthur said.
The stablemaster nodded. “Aye. Now ye’re to ride to the gardener’s toolshed near the edge of the forest. Do ye know where ’tis?”
“I do.” Arthur fed the yarrow to one of the horses.
Miss Stewart fed her clump of the herb to the other.
Mr. Harms helped them mount, and they were off.
If there was one thing he could compliment Miss Stewart on, she was an excellent rider. The pair galloped around the pond and past the house and gardens, then turned their mounts up the slope to the forest. A gentle rain had started, but it was hardly more than a few cool drops on his cheeks. Nothing to be alarmed about, yet.
Chatsworth and Joana were coming out of the gardener’s toolshed when Arthur and Miss Stewart rode up.
A stableboy waited for the horses.
Chatsworth tipped his hat when he saw Arthur and Miss Stewart.
Joanna waved. “Mr. Rothschild and Miss Newton just left,” she said.
“Those two had a bit of a row,” Chatsworth grinned. “I think we can catch them easily. Especially if they’re still arguing.”
Arthur glanced around, wondering in which direction they’d gone. What had Miss Newton and Rothschild been arguing about? The thought bothered him.
He dismounted and handed the reins to the stableboy, then helped Miss Stewart from her horse.
“Good luck to you,” Chatsworth said. He took Joanna’s hand, and the two rushed away.
Arthur and Miss Stewart entered the toolshed. An envelope sat on an upturned bucket.
Finding it a bit dim to read inside the shed, Miss Stewart opened the envelope outside, small drops of rain landing on the paper as she read.
The last clue is simple as can be.
It tests your knowledge of Royal history.
The wives of Henry VIII are all now dead.
But do you remember which lost their heads?
If you believe it was numbers one and three,
off to the rose garden with you.
But make haste to the pig house
If you believe it was wives numbered five and two.
The treasure awaits, so don’t delay.
The first to find it has won the day!
“That is simple enough,” Miss Stewart said, turning over the paper. On the back was a numbered list of King Henry’s wives. “So which lost their heads?”
“Do you want to hazard a guess?” he asked.
“Do you know?”
“I do,” Arthur said.
“Is it Catherine of Aragon and Anne Boleyn?” Miss Stewart asked, her brow furrowing as she looked over the list.
“Anne Boleyn and Catherine Howard,” Arthur said.
“Numbers two and five,” Miss Stewart said. “Then the treasure is at the pig house?” She wrinkled her nose. “What is that? It sounds dreadful.”
“A little barn in the forest, with a pen around it. Griff’s mother insisted the pigs be kept well away from the manor house.”
“I don’t blame her,” Miss Stewart said.
“Make haste.” Arthur started up the path into the forest. “If they’ve chosen wrong, or if we can outrun them, we can still win.”
The rain was coming harder, but they were so close to their goal. The pig house was just up this forest path.
Miss Stewart called out from behind him, and he stopped, hurrying back.
“Are you hurt?” He looked her over, wondering if she’d fallen or twisted an ankle.
“I’m not hurt. Just soaked. We must return to the toolshed until the rain stops.”
Arthur wiped raindrops off his face. He glanced up the path. “The rain is lighter in the forest, beneath the trees,” he said. “And we can shelter in the pig house.”
“Absolutely not.” Miss Stewart whirled and stormed back down the hill.
Arthur glanced back once more, gritting his teeth, but he followed. It would not do to leave a lady alone in the rain. Even if it meant losing the contest.
When they reached the toolshed, Rothschild was running toward it—from the direction of the manor house. And he was alone.
“Hold the door, Mather,” he called out, one hand on the rim of his hat. “Quite a downpour, isn’t it?”
He rushed past Arthur and into the small building.
“What are you doing?” Arthur asked, crowding inside with the other two. “Where is Miss Newton?”
Rothschild shook his head, frowning. “Headed off to the pigs, I wager. She insisted it was the answer to the clue, but of course Mrs. Griffin wouldn’t hide a treasure in that foul-smelling place.”
“Miss Newton was right.” Arthur looked through the door at the pouring rain. “How could you leave her alone? In this?”
“She’s rather upset with me.” Rothschild shrugged. “We argued about the herb, about the king’s wives, about everything, really. She’s pretty enough, but when she has to be the most intelligent person in the room—that’s not the reason men seek out a young lady’s company.”
“You are so right, sir,” Miss Stewart said.
Rothschild nodded, glad to have someone in agreement with him. “I told her as much and”—he held out his hand toward the doorway—“there you have it.”
Arthur let the shed door slam behind him as he stormed out into the rain, furious with his friend for treating the young lady so poorly. Was Miss Newton taking shelter alone in the pig house? He could think of only one other place she might be.
Chapter 8
Emmeline paced back and forth across the wet floor of the gazebo. Rain pattered on the roof and ran down the columns. She was furious and embarrassed and . . . hurt. She wiped at her cheeks, wishing she could stop her tears. But Mr. Rothschild’s words kept coming back into her mind. You’re pretty enough, but men don’t seek out a lady’s company because of her intelligence. Finally, she sat on one of the curved stone benches that surrounded the green copper floor and scooted forward to the very edge to keep from being dripped on.
Why had she argued? She rested her elbows on her knees and put her face into her hands. Hadn’t she told herself that she would be agreeable for the sake of her hosts? But when she thought of plastering on a smile and accepting Mr. Rothschild’s erroneous conclusions about the answers to the clues . . . she just couldn’t do it. Pretending not to understand something in order to spare a man’s feelings—it felt dishonest somehow. As if she weren’t being true to herself.
Emmeline sighed. Today had been a disaster. Why had she come to Griffin Park? While she felt that she and Joanna and Mrs. Griffin had truly begun a friendship, she was fooling herself if she thought that she belonged here with these people in the first place.
Hearing a footstep on the copper floor, she looked up.
Lord Ma
ther stepped beneath the gazebo roof and took off his hat, letting a stream of water drip off the brim.
She wiped her cheeks furiously with her gloved fingers, humiliated that he’d seen her weeping.
Lord Mather sat on the bench next to hers. “Rothschild told me what he said.” He spoke in a matter-of-fact tone, voice louder than usual to be heard over the rain.
Emmeline was grateful that he didn’t attempt to sugarcoat his words or give her extra sympathy. Having one more person speak down to her might just be the final blow to her already battered self-confidence. She glanced past him, worried that Mr. Rothschild might be right behind. She wasn’t ready to face the man just yet. “Where is he?”
“Taking cover from the rain with Miss Stewart in the gardener’s toolshed.”
Something about the way he said the young lady’s name gave the impression that he was frustrated with his partner as well. But perhaps Emmeline was reading too much into it. “You agree with him,” she said. “That a woman should not correct a man. That she should not argue with his decisions. That it is outside her realm.”
He sighed, taking off his coat and offering it to her. “Are you never going to forget I said that?”
Emmeline took the coat. The outside was wet, but it was warm inside. She slid her arms into the sleeves. “I cannot forget it. I—” How could she make him see how his words had made her feel? How strongly she felt about the issue of equality? She let out a heavy sigh. “Why do I, as a woman, have this mind if I’m not meant to use it?”
He looked surprised for a moment but seemed to see that she was not boasting but asking an earnest question.
“I am intelligent enough to understand governmental procedures, yet I have no say in the government,” she said. “I want more than anything to attend University, and I’m not allowed. If I could just—” She cut off her words, feeling foolish for even speaking them aloud. “I don’t know why I’m talking to you, of all people, about this.” She looked away, unable to meet his gaze. “You would never consider a woman to be your equal.”
“Why would I want a woman to be just like me?” he asked. “Indeed, that is the last thing I should wish for. Women and men are not the same. Not physically nor in temperament or capability. I do agree that you possess an exceptional intelligence, Miss Newton. But that doesn’t mean you must be a man to use it.”
“I do not wish to be a man. Only to have the same rights as one.” She stood, folding her arms.
He stood as well.
“As a woman, I have none.” She spread her arms, his coat sleeves covering her hands. “I cannot seek higher learning. I cannot become a solicitor or a doctor.”
“But there are still plenty of opportunities available to you.”
“Within my realm,” she reminded him, knowing that her voice sounded bitter.
“Yes.” He nodded. “And how is that a bad thing?”
His expression did not look irritated or arrogant. Simply curious. And seeing it, she wanted to tell him everything.
She sat back down, pulling the coat tighter around her bare arms. “When my father died, a distant cousin none of us had met inherited the estate. He became the baron over tenants and farms and land he’d never seen and didn’t know how to manage. While I, who had been assisting my father in the running of the estate for the entirety of my life, inherited nothing. I was forced to watch as my cousin made one poor decision after another, losing my ancestral home and my mother’s jointure and plunging my father’s legacy into insurmountable debt.” She didn’t realize her tears had returned until Lord Mather offered her a handkerchief.
“I knew every tenant, every animal, knew which crops grew best in which fields. I’d marked ledgers and taken accountings since I was a child. And yet”—she wiped at her eyes with the handkerchief—“that . . . imbecile not only bears my father’s title, but he also has a vote in the House of Lords.” She clutched her hands tightly on her knees. “If it were not for my few tutoring appointments each week and my mother’s particular occupation, we would be utterly destitute. As it is, we live in rented rooms above a public mews in Central London. And it is all because I was born a female.” Emmeline stopped, breathless from her outburst. She felt both relieved and extremely vulnerable at sharing something so personal.
“I didn’t know that,” he said. His voice was gentle yet not patronizing. “What your cousin did was unpardonable. I’m so sorry for what you’ve endured. And I understand your frustration. The laws of primogeniture do have their faults, as do any laws.” He set his hat on the bench beside him.
Wearing only a waistcoat and shirtsleeves, he showed his shape more clearly. His shoulders were broad, his waist slender, and the muscles on his arms defined. Emmeline was embarrassed when she caught herself staring.
He did not appear to notice her studying him. “If you could, what would you change?” he asked. “What would make a difference—to you and to all women?”
“Education,” she said without hesitation. “If young girls were encouraged to attend school and then go on to University, it would change everything. Women have more of an influence on young children than men. Can you imagine what a difference it would make on an entire generation if every mother were educated?”
“Many women do receive an education,” he said.
She gave him an exasperated look. “My learning consisted of French, embroidery, watercolors, and harpsichord. I learned mathematics only because I pestered my father to teach me how his ledgers worked. Girls are limited in what they’re permitted to learn, while boys are encouraged to learn everything.”
Lord Mather scratched his chin as he watched her. He didn’t argue, but that didn’t necessarily mean he agreed.
“I am angry, my lord,” she confessed. “Always. And so frustrated. But mostly, I am tired of being considered less because of my sex.”
“Different does not necessarily mean less,” he said.
She sighed. Apparently, he was not going to change his thinking. At least he had listened. She supposed she’d take whatever small victories she could.
Lord Mather ran his fingers through his hair, pushing curls off his forehead. “Do you know what I thought when Mrs. Griffin assigned the pairs for the race this morning?”
She shook her head, surprised at the change of topic.
“I thought how lucky Rothschild was. He had the most intelligent partner and one who wasn’t worried about sullying her gown or taking a risk.” He interlocked his fingers and looked down at his hands. “I was jealous.”
The tightness in her chest that she had felt before came back full force, and she nearly gasped as heat covered her cheeks. “You were?” she managed to say, feeling uncharacteristically shy.
“I was.” He moved to sit on the bench beside her. “I know we’ve had our differences, Miss Newton. And I imagine we always will.” He held up a hand to keep her from interrupting. “That is as much my own stubbornness as yours. But we aren’t so different. We do share an interest in government affairs.” He smiled. “Giles tells me the two of us are the only ones who read the Times every day.”
Her heartbeat grew stronger with each word he said until she thought he must surely hear it. “Perhaps we have more in common than we thought,” Emmeline said. “We do both like blackberries.” She tried for humor—anything that might ease the tumbling of her insides.
“That is true.” He smiled again.
Had he always had such a handsome smile? Why hadn’t she noticed before? And why were her thoughts so muddled?
Lord Mather took her hand. “I have . . . adjusted my position—albeit the slightest bit—about a woman’s realm. I am not of the same opinion as Mr. Rothschild—except for the part where he said you were pretty. I do agree with that. But I appreciate your intelligence and enjoy a spirited discussion. You are passionate about issues you care about, and I rather like you, Miss Newton.
” He spoke the last words softly.
Emmeline’s face felt like it was on fire, and her thoughts had apparently scattered. Was she really losing her head because a man had called her pretty? What had happened to her reason? She stared at her hand in his, unable to lift her gaze to Lord Mather’s face.
She glanced up, then looked back down quickly. “You are very different than I assumed after our first meeting in St. James’s Park.”
He squeezed her hand. “That will teach us both not to jump to conclusions, won’t it?”
Emmeline nodded. She could feel his gaze but could not manage to lift her eyes again. Her usual confidence seemed to have fled. Finally, she could not stand the silence any longer and decided to change the topic to an easier subject. “Do you think Lord Chatsworth and Joanna found the treasure?”
“I believe so.” His voice resumed a more casual tone, but he did not let go of her hand. “They were at the pig house when I passed.”
“I am glad for them,” Emmeline said. “They will be happy to be Lord and Lady Toodledoo.”
“I can’t think of anyone who deserves the honor more.”
Emmeline noticed that it was easier to hear his voice than it had been a few moments earlier. She glanced upward at the starry ceiling. “The rain has stopped,” she said.
“I am not in a rush to return to the house, are you?”
Emmeline mustered her courage and raised her gaze. She shook her head. “No, my lord. I’m not in a hurry.”
He settled more comfortably on the bench, his arm pressed against hers.
Emmeline relaxed. She hadn’t realized how stiff she’d gone. The entire conversation had felt like running a race. Her insides were still a mess, but a warmth spread through her chest. She tipped her head the slightest bit, resting it on Lord Mather’s shoulder. “I like you too, my lord.” Her words came out as little more than a whisper.
Lord Mather tightened his grip on her hand.
Emmeline thought she could happily sit in the gazebo forever. With him. Her eyes grew heavy, and her vision blurred. Golden stars floating in a green sea . . . Her mother’s words came into her thoughts as she stared at a puddle on the gazebo floor. The reflection of the stars from the ceiling shone back at her. What had her mother said?
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