by Regina Scott
“Surely they can be told to wait,” her mother protested.
William shook his head. “I’m afraid not. If they are forced to remain unmilked, the milk gets quite hard and, er, I believe it is quite uncomfortable for them, not to mention the fact that they will eventually go dry, which would be quite a shame for the Squire, if you take my meaning.”
Gen rose, determined. While she had no reason to wish Alan well, she couldn’t imagine exacting her revenge through some innocent beasts. “It’s all right, Mother. I got us into this, I’ll get us out. William, if you could show me how to do it, I’ll milk them.”
He was turning red again. “I’m sorry, Miss Munroe, but one alone won’t make a difference. A skilled milker could do no more than ten cows in an hour, and I would imagine with this being your first time and the cows not familiar with you, you’ll do far less. There looked to be at least thirty cows out there. You could never get to them all in the hour or so we have remaining. I’d say we need at least ten people for the job.”
Gen sank back into her chair. “Ten people?”
Allison jumped to her feet. “I’ll help. It will be a lark.”
Her mother frowned at her. “I cannot like it, but very well. Since you have explained that it will cause the beasts pain if we refuse, I shall assist as well, William.”
“We’ll all have to help,” Gen agreed. “Chimes, Mrs. Chimes, Bryce, and the other servants as well.”
Her mother nodded.
Sometime later, armed with tubs and buckets, the entire household of Wenwood Abbey descended upon the herd and set to work. William instructed the Munroes and Bryce, who had never been near a cow before, how to go about the milking. Mrs. Chimes and the groomsmen, it turned out, had had some experience and therefore proved the most adept, doing three animals in the time it took the others to do one. Gen found that if she followed William’s instructions—touch the cow first to make sure it knew she was there, always milk on the animal’s right side, and let them chew on the pansies if it seemed to help—she could manage the task.
The animals’ udders were warm to her hands, the milk soft as it squirted past her fingers. The smell was not unlike the horse stables, sweet and musty. After about the fifth cow, however, the novelty of the experience wore off, and she found each successive beast more daunting. By number seven her arms ached; by number nine her back hurt as well. It was nearly dark before they finished.
As Gen limped back toward the house, William fell into step beside her. “How often does this have to happen?” she asked him, almost afraid of the answer.
“Twice a day, I’m afraid,” he told her with a gentle smile. “But you’ve got the hang of it now. And it shouldn’t be long. I’m sure the Squire’s pasture will drain soon.”
She nodded, too tired to do otherwise. Her one consolation was the tubs of milk, a good fifty gallons even with the amount they had spilled. Mrs. Chimes was already mumbling about the cheeses, butter, and clotted cream she would make.
“And with so many to help you, it will go much easier in the morning,” William assured her. “Have the gentlemen carry the tubs for you, and as for the eight maids…”
Gen gasped, pulling him to a stop. “Eight maids! Oh, no, William, don’t tell me!”
A slow smile spread across the curate’s face. “Why, I believe you’re right, miss. Eight maids a-milking. The Squire has done it again.”
Chapter Twelve
Nine Drummers Drumming
S
ince the pond was now reduced to a large frozen mud flat littered with dying pond lilies and threaded by a trickle of a stream, Genevieve decided to put the cows there the next morning after milking. Part of her feared the creatures must have frozen in the night, but they were apparently closely packed enough to generate sufficient heat, for they greeted her family and servants complacently when they all trooped out for the next milking. She was wracking her brain for what to feed them (besides Mrs. Chimes’ pansies) when Tom Harvey arrived with a loaded hay wagon. She thankfully directed him to the back gardens.
“And did the Squire tell you when he planned to retrieve them?” she couldn’t help asking as he turned the draft horses toward the back of the clearing.
He shook his head, trying unsuccessfully not to grin. “No, miss. The water’s gone down some, but the problem is it seems to be freezing. The barns should be ready in a day or two, though.”
“A day or two! Our garden won’t last that long.”
“Aye, but they’ll be well fertilized.”
She stomped back into the house to escape his chortle.
Her day didn’t get any better. Her mother repaired to her room near the chapel to escape the smell that seemed to be permeating through the Abbey walls. Even Allison no longer found the beasts so interesting. Gen joined her in the music room at the front of the house where the lowing and odor were considerably lessened. They had decided a ride might be more the thing when Chimes ushered in Reverend York.
“Ladies, ladies,” he said, nodding, panting, and wiping his sweating brow all at once. “I hastened here as soon as I could. A most unfortunate situation, most unfortunate. I understand your poor mother has gone into a decline because of it.”
“Not at all, Vicar,” Gen replied, rising to allow him the use of the sofa. Catching Allison’s eye, she snatched up her embroidery as well. “She is merely resting from her exertions.”
“We have been assisting the Pentercasts in their time of need,” Allison put in from the spinet bench as Gen joined her there. “We have some of their cows in our garden.”
“Yes, so Mr. Wellfordhouse gave me to understand. A most gracious act, most gracious. Rather unlike the Munroes of the past.”
“How may we assist you today, Vicar?” Gen asked quickly as Allison brindled.
“You mistake me, Miss Munroe. You mistake me. I am here to offer assistance to you.”
Gen smiled politely. “I fail to see how, sir.” She winked at Allison. “Unless you’d like to take a turn with the milking?”
He stiffened. “Indeed, not, miss, indeed not. I thought to give more spiritual comfort, as befits my station. Do you know yet who the culprit might be?”
Gen shook her head. “No. Truth be told, I haven’t had the opportunity to do more than confirm it was not an accident.”
“Do you know who did it?” Allison asked.
Reverend York blinked. “I, my dear?” he asked, pointing to his wide chest. “Indeed not, indeed not. However, there are certain rumors going about the village, I am most sorry to say.”
“Oh?” Allison prompted. Gen knew she should stop him; listening to idle gossip never did anyone any good. But she had to admit her curiosity.
The vicar leaned forward conspiratorially. “New Year’s often prompts the youth to act in the most inappropriate manner, most inappropriate, if you take my meaning. I’m sure we all know a certain young man who is having a difficult time with his behavior.”
“Who?” Allison breathed, eyes wide in anticipation.
He leaned back and crossed his hands over his belly. “I cannot say, I cannot say, of course. But I have it on good authority that it was the younger brother of a certain prominent landowner.”
Gen frowned. Geoffrey Pentercast? That made little sense. He’d been the one to warn them. She hadn’t time to ponder, however, for Allison leapt to her feet.
“I won’t believe it! Geoffrey Pentercast may be a lout and a bully, but he’s no vandal. You tell those fish wives in the village to find someone else to pick on.”
“Allison!” Gen cried, appalled by her sister’s vehemence. “I think you should apologize to Reverend York.”
Allison glared at her, then dropped her gaze. “Sorry,” she mumbled, paling as she sank back onto the bench.
“No harm done, no harm done,” the vicar rumbled. “You are most kind to defend him, Miss Munroe. Considering the damage done to your property and the Manor, most kind indeed. I warned the Squire his brother’s drinking w
ould get out of hand, truly I did warn him. And now that the boy’s run off…”
“Run off!” Gen and Allison chorused.
Gen was surprised to see what appeared to be a satisfied smile settle on the vicar’s face. She found it hard to believe the man was enjoying their reaction to his tale. “Indeed, yes. I have it from dear Fancy that young Geoffrey hasn’t been home since the night of the flood. Damning evidence, if you’ll pardon the pun.”
“It can’t be,” Allison insisted. “I will not believe he would endanger his own family’s lives.”
“With that I must agree, my dear, I must agree indeed. It is my opinion that in his drunken state he thought the waters would damage the Abbey. And what Pentercast could pass up the opportunity of causing a Munroe some difficulty, eh? However, once he realized his own family was in danger, he had no choice but to rouse you all in hopes you would help them.”
Allison shook her head, opening her mouth for another protest. Gen stepped into the conversation instead. “But has no one searched for him? The Squire and his mother must be frantic with worry.”
“Ah, a devoted mother, is dear Fancy, a devoted mother indeed,” the vicar mused. “Even now, she maintains her son’s innocence. The Squire keeps his opinions to himself, but I believe he and some of the villagers have gone looking, to no avail.” He dropped his voice, nodding sagely. “In my opinion, young Master Geoffrey has found someplace to sleep it off. He’ll return when he must, only when he must. I hope it will be in a less inebriated state, far less inebriated. Otherwise who knows what he might pick as his next target.”
“This is ridiculous!” Allison leaped from the bench once more. “I’m sorry, Vicar, but I cannot sit here and allow Mr. Pentercast to be maligned.”
“No, of course not,” Gen agreed, mind whirling. “Reverend York, please don’t think me rude, but I wish you would excuse us. We’ve been through a great deal the last few days.”
“Certainly, certainly,” the vicar rumbled, rising. “I do apologize if my conversation upset you. It can be difficult to face the flaws in one’s friends, but that is how one builds character.”
“Yes, well, we quite appreciate your desire to be of assistance.” Gen managed to steer him toward the door. Moments later, Chimes was seeing him out. With a sigh, Gen returned to the music room.
“I won’t believe it,” Allison greeted her from the spinet. “There must be another explanation.”
“I agree,” Gen said. “The difficulty is, what? I can think of no reason why anyone would want to damage the Abbey or the Manor. Yet I cannot believe an ax just accidentally happened to fall from nowhere with sufficient force to chop through the dam.”
“Oh, it is maddening,” Allison declared, rising. “Let’s take that ride. I cannot stay in this house another minute.”
It took them some time to change into their riding habits, but within the hour they were on horseback and cantering through the Abbey woods. As if by mutual agreement, they avoided the path to the Manor, going instead first through the woods and then down the track toward the main road. It had grown considerably colder, Gen noticed. Her sister’s nose was soon red, and Gen could no longer feel the end of her own nose. Their breaths, and those from the horses, froze in the air. The skies overhead were heavy. There’d be snow by tonight unless she missed her guess.
Allison was not disposed to conversation, so they rode side by side in silence. Although Gen had suggested the ride originally as a way to lift their spirits, she found the grey skies and cold wind little comfort. She was about to suggest to Allison that they return home when she heard the noise. Somewhere up ahead came a hollow booming, not unlike the sound of a large wooden drum. Beside her, Allison frowned.
“What could that be?”
Gen shook her head, reining in her horse. Allison did likewise. They listened as the sound echoed through the woods, steady, rhythmic. Allison’s horse shook its head on the bit. She patted the dark neck and bent to whisper in his ear.
“Whatever it is,” she told Gen, straightening as he calmed, “Blackie doesn’t like it.”
Gen felt a chill run up her back that had nothing to do with the temperature. “Perhaps we should go back for Chimes.”
As if on cue, the noise stopped. There was a moment of silence, then the forest was rent by the creak and crash of a large falling object. Both horses shied, and Gen, like Allison, worked to calm her mount.
“Allison, start for home,” she ordered, trying to remain calm herself. “I’ll be right behind you. We must get Chimes and the grooms.”
“We can’t run away like cowards!” Allison insisted. “It could be the vandal!”
“Don’t be silly,” Gen snapped, though she could feel her pulse racing. She managed to regain control of the beast at last and saw that Allison had hers in hand as well. “There’s nothing here worth destroying,” she added more patiently. “The only thing of value in the whole woods is the ---”
“Wenwood Thorn!” Allison cried. As one, they wheeled their mounts and kicked the horses into a gallop.
They pounded down the track, trees flashing past, cold wind whipping at their faces. Fear seemed to hang from every bare branch. It couldn’t be the Thorn, Gen prayed. Allison had to be mistaken; it was only someone cutting down a tree for firewood; Alan widening the road for a new carriage; Chimes clearing away deadwood. A part of her knew how unlikely those events were; no one would cut firewood so far from town; she had left Chimes safely ensconced with his days-old paper before the kitchen fire; and Alan was surely still engrossed with cleaning out after the flood. Another part insisted that anything was possible.
Indeed, any other explanation was preferable to the destruction of the Thorn. The tree had been her family’s lasting gift to Wenwood; it was one of the few gifts from her father that could still provide comfort. It was her sign that this Christmas would not be the end of her happy life, but the beginning of something new and possibly just as happy. She could not lose it now, not when she needed so much to believe in something.
They thundered into the clearing, and she was forced to rein in her mount sharply to keep from hitting the debris. Her heart seemed to stop beating in a frozen chest.
Lying across the clearing, bare branches splintered and broken, lay the Wenwood Thorn.
“No!” Allison turned her horse in agitated circles.
Her hands as frozen as her heart, Gen barely managed to control her own horse. The beast hadn’t completely stopped before she was sliding to the ground, stumbling toward the tree. Someone moaned, and she knew it was her own voice. She fell to her knees near the base of the tree. Trembling, she reached out a hand to the splintered wood. A sliver cut through the seam of her glove but she barely noticed. The old Thorn had been hacked apart low on its trunk, the sharp cuts still visible in the fractured wood. She wiped away the tears that were falling. She wasn’t sure how long she knelt there before she saw the body.
As if from a distance, she heard her heart start beating again. “Allison!” she cried, climbing to her feet and scrambling around the wreckage. “Help me. Someone’s been hurt.”
Hands still trembling, she dragged away the branches and debris that had fallen over the man even as Allison rushed to her side. It was an older man in a dark suit, large boned, heavy set.
“It’s Reverend York!” her sister gasped just as Gen reached the same conclusion.
The vicar was lying face down beside the tree, hands cradling his head as if he had seen the blow coming. Miraculously, the larger parts of the tree seemed to have missed him, so that when Gen gingerly turned him over, she could find no injury. As Allison watched, hands trembling, Gen patted his pale muddy cheek, calling his name. She was as terrified as Allison, but she didn’t dare let her sister see it. She thought her heart would stop again, but then his eyes fluttered open, focused on her face. His arm shot out to grip hers. Gen jumped.
“Brigands!” he cried, eyes wild. “Vandals! Run, ladies! Fetch help!”
�
�Please, Reverend York, calm yourself,” Gen told him in what she hoped was a reasonable voice. Heaven knows she was shaking inside. “It’s all right. There’s no one here but the three of us.”
He focused on Allison behind her, then back on Gen’s face. “But the Thorn.” He must have caught sight of the wreckage around him, for he closed his eyes again with a groan. “Too late, too late.”
Gen found his sorrow oddly comforting. “Are you hurt?” she prompted, putting a hand under his shoulder. “Can you sit?”
He eased himself up, patting his arms, legs, and torso. “Mercifully, I seem to be unharmed. Oh.” His hands had reached his head. “Perhaps I spoke too soon. I remember now. The brigands attacked me!”
There was nothing for it. Much as she would have liked to devote herself to finding out what had happened to the Thorn, the Reverend York’s health had to come first. “Allison, you must go for help,” she told her wide-eyed sister. “I’ll stay with the vicar.”
“No, no,” York insisted, struggling to his feet. Gen rose with him, alarmed. Allison stepped back out of his way. “I shall be fine. A minor wound. We must fetch the Squire. The brigands must be stopped.”
“Reverend,” Gen scolded, following him back over the tree with Allison at her heels, “you’re in no condition to walk all the way to the Manor. If you must go, I insist you take my horse.”
York had reached the edge of the clearing and paused to lean against one of the larger trees, breathing heavily. “Nonsense. Can’t…take…a lady’s…horse.”
His gallantry amused her, especially under the circumstances. “But you are injured,” she protested.
He shook his head and winced. “That is not the issue. I could not possibly use your side saddle, and I lack the experience to ride bareback.”
“Oh,” Gen pulled up short, nonplussed. “Then Allison must go and bring back help as I originally suggested.”
“Yes,” he said with a sigh, straightening. “I suppose you’re right.” He turned his impassioned gaze back on her, and she was surprised to find that when he stood tall, he towered over her. “They must be caught, the brigands who did this. Desecrating the Thorn is bad enough, but to strike a man of the cloth as well. Such villainy cannot go unpunished.”