03 - Dreams of Destiny

by May McGoldrick

  She was not so heartless as to disappear without letting him know where she was headed, of course. She did not want him to worry. At the same time, she didn’t want to be chased through the countryside, either. That was why she had explained as much as she could in her letter. Still though, after a couple of hours on the road, Gwyneth had a strange feeling that she was being followed.

  At the crest of a hill, Gwyneth slowed down enough to take a good look behind her. A solitary rider was traveling at a fairly good speed in the same easterly direction. She didn’t think it was David, though.

  She had no reason to be concerned, Gwyneth told herself. From a distance, a casual onlooker would think she was a young man. Her clothes hid her curves, and her wild red curls were tucked up into her large hat. Her horse and her attire did not indicate a gentleman of any substance, so even a highwayman might easily dismiss her. Still, though, she recalled the burly man with the smashed nose standing by the door of the tavern when she’d left early this morning. She’d seen him across the way from the stables when she’d come out dressed in the lad’s clothing sometime later. She did not forget the suspicious look he had directed her way. Still, the two meetings could have been coincidental.

  She spurred her horse over the crest of the hill. She was familiar with this part of the country, and she’d just stay ahead of the trailing rider. Nothing to worry about, she repeated silently to bolster her confidence.

  Halfway down the hill, she glanced ahead at what was left of a stone cottage near the road. She thought she’d seen something move on the far side of it. Slowing down, Gwyneth recalled the many stories she’d heard of how highwaymen stopped and robbed unsuspecting travelers, blocking the road ahead while a gang member closed in from behind. She remembered the rider following her from Gretna Green. And hadn’t someone else had once told her how these rogues often chose their victims at a village or changing station?

  Being unarmed put her at a disadvantage, and taking her money purse would be the least they would do to her once they discovered her gender. Gwyneth shuddered at the very thought of it. Yanking the mare’s head to the left, she spurred the animal off the main road. A line of hills rose up beyond a grove of trees and she galloped madly toward it.

  Catch her they might, but she was not going to be easy prey for them.

  *****

  Violet did not know what had caused the desertion of the ancient abbey, but she had a good idea that the charred remains of a few village huts outside the broken walls were a clue. The battered ruins of the place still offered shelter from the wind and the weather, at least, and the well still provided refreshment to travelers passing through. Around her, she could see the telltale signs of cooking fires, and she sensed many folk had stopped here over the years.

  She draped the old blanket around her shoulders and crawled into a corner formed by the wall and a stone building. From here, she could see the valley below. The sun still hung like a pale disk in the western sky, but she had walked as far as her legs could take her for one day. She hadn’t gained back her strength completely. Being fed regularly by the kindly cotters had also spoiled her, as her stomach was already growling from hunger.

  The thought of Rita and Angus sent a pang of regret through the young woman’s heart. She had left directly from her baby’s grave without a word of farewell. She had not gone back even to thank the good people for all they had done for her.

  The loneliness she felt now was much worse than when she had been carrying her unborn child. As near as a fortnight ago, she had someone to talk to, a child to plan for, a vague future to dream about. Violet had been focused outside of herself for so many months now that she could think of no reason why she was even here. Why was she running away? Why shouldn’t she just close her eyes and sit in this same place until she withered and died like a weed at the end of its season?

  The movement in the distance caught her eye, disturbing her reverie. A solitary rider was galloping madly along the valley floor. Perhaps, she thought whimsically, it was the angel of death coming to claim her. Violet pulled the blanket over her hair and snuggled herself back between a pair of fallen stones. If it was her time to die, then she would be joining her daughter, at least. The grim thought actually cheered her.

  It wouldn’t matter what happened to her corpse. The worms and the wild animals could do their office. She wouldn’t care. She would finally be at peace. She would no longer need to worry about her past sins or the shame she’d bring to anyone she might meet in the future.

  The rider was now coming up the hill toward the abbey. He appeared to be a small man, though obviously very skilled in handling the animal he was riding. As Vi watched, though, she noticed that he seemed to be nervous or afraid of something. Several times, as he approached, the rider looked over his shoulder at the valley behind.

  Violet looked back along the valley. It was empty of anyone else for as far as she could see. The rider disappeared behind a small grove of trees at the base of the hill beneath the burned village. Vi knew the man would be here in just a few minutes, and suddenly she wished she could crawl even deeper into her hole. He would be getting some water for himself and his horse and hopefully be on his way again, Violet told herself. Still, she didn’t want to be seen. She thought about running for it, but before she could move, the horse and rider appeared at the abbey gate.

  Clearly, he had been here before, for he spurred his mount directly across the rubble-strewn courtyard toward the well. This close, he was even smaller than she’d thought him to be. His clothes were worn and humble, which struck her as strange, considering how well he rode. A wide-brimmed hat was pulled low, keeping his eyes and most of his face in shadow.

  Violet saw it too late to cry out in warning. The rider was getting down from his horse when a snake, warming itself on a smooth red rock by the well, darted across the dirt, startling the horse. As the animal reared up, the rider was thrown, one foot still in the stirrup. At the next instant, the steed was charging across the courtyard, dragging the rider behind. Luckily, the yard was small, and the horse stopped at the wall and stood wild-eyed, pawing the ground.

  Violet immediately ran from her hiding place. The rider, one foot still stuck in the stirrup, was not moving. She stopped dead in her tracks, staring in shock at the unconscious person. It was a woman. The hat had fallen off her head, and long locks of red curls lay in the dirt.

  The horse continued to paw the ground nervously, dragging its fallen rider a few more steps. Violet was no rider, but she had some experience with horses from watching the men at the stables of Melbury Hall. She approached cautiously, talking gently to the animal and finally reaching up to take the reins.

  Violet held the reins with one hand and tried to release the woman’s boot with the other. As soon as the foot came free, she pushed the horse out of the way and knelt beside the injured rider.

  She was a young woman, probably of the same age as Vi herself. At closer inspection, the clothes were ill-fitting on her. The boots looked to be far too big, probably an added reason for her foot getting caught. Violet had seen her on the horse. She certainly looked like an expert. She appeared to be breathing, so that was good news.

  “Miss,” Violet said gently, touching her face.

  There was no movement. Her eyes remained shut. Violet reached to brush the hair out of woman’s face, and that was when she saw the blood. The woman had banged her head hard when she first fallen off and probably bounced it on the rocky surface of the courtyard a number of times afterward.

  “No,” Vi said grimly. “You shan’t die on me. If the angel of death is coming for anyone, ’tis only for me. No one else. Only me.”

  *****

  The surly group converged at the ruined stone cottage. Nightfall would soon be upon them. Separating and searching either side of the main road had turned up nothing. They had not been able to find even a trace of the woman.

  “This’ll teach ye a lesson about goin’ places that we’ve no business go
in’, the first of the outlaws to arrive back complained loudly. “What do we know about the ’idin’ places in these cursed hills.”

  “She was on the road ahead of me before going over the crest of the hill,” the leader barked at the other two. “’Twas up to ye two louts to watch her till she rode into the trap.”

  “The she-fox just bloody vanished,” the third man argued.

  “Just ’ow were we supposed to do that when we’re tryin’ to ’ide behind these bloody walls?” the first man added hy. “If ye listened to us, we could’ve snuffed the chit as she was leavin’ Gretna Green, instead of comin’ so bloody far up the road. She would be lyin’ in her own gore by now, and we’d be on our way to get our bloody money.”

  “Fightin’ amongst ourselves’ll do us no good,” the third man put in wearily. “The fox is gone into the ’ills, and we’ve lost ’alf a day lookin’ for ’er. Now, we’ve come too far to walk away not to see a tuppence fer our troubles. Let’s think of what we should do now.”

  The leader scratched his chin. He looked up at the deserted road ahead. “She might’ve shaken us by going into the hills. But we know where the bloody wench is headed.”

  “Are ye sayin’ we should try to catch up to her where she lives?” the first man asked, surprised.

  “And why not?”

  “We know less about this Greenbrae Hall than we do these bloody ’ills. And ’ow believable would it be that someone cut ’er throat or emptied a pistol into the chit in ’er own ’ouse. Ye said ’twas supposed to look like a robbery.”

  The leader shrugged. “We get paid when the wench is dead. I don’t give a tinker’s damn what our man believes. If we don’t get the job done, they’ll hire someone else to do it. So it might as well be us.”

  “Aye,” the third man in the group agreed. “I’m with ye.”

  “We have to plan it right, though. We have to get onto the wench’s estate, get ourselves hired on if that’ll get us closer to her. We only strike when we can see we’re free and clear.” He paused for a moment. “Mind ye, now. Here’s how we’ll do it.”

  *****

  Millicent had finally agreed to Lyon’s wishes, staying behind at Baronsford. He had promised to do everything humanly possible to bring Violet back. The young woman knew the earl. There was no reason why she would not trust him. He and Truscott had taken a carriage to make certain that they had the means of bringing her back to Baronsford. Millicent told them to use any excuse, to lie about Millicent’s health if they need to. They must use any means at their disposal to convince Violet that she was needed here.

  Even trusting their abilities, Millicent found the wait excruciating. They had gone off first thing in the morning, but there was still no news. Millicent could not settle down. She could not stop her worrying. She understood the magnitude of being given this second chance to do things right.

  Violet had been fifteen when she’d left her mother’s house to come and work at Melbury Hall. Despite her age, though, she had been hardworking, loyal, and very quick to learn. Millicent had spoken to the mother and grandmother. She’d accepted the responsibility of looking after their child, of caring and protecting her. It still crushed her that Violet’s innocence and her beauty made her the prefect prey for a dishonest man. Millicent had not paid attention to what the needs of a young woman Vi’s age might be. She’d failed to warn her of the lurking dangers. She’d been in the position of authority in the young woman’s life, but she’d never offered any advice or direction.

  Millicent had also failed to see the obvious. During the last weeks of Violet’s stay at Melbuy Hall, while all the distressing signs were, in retrospect, so apparent, Millicent had not seen them. She’d been so caught up in her own life and in Lyon’s recovery that she had ignored the obvious. Violet was withdrawn. There were bruises on her face. For too many days, she appeared ill. And then she’d begged to be excused from coming to Baronsford. Millicent had let her, and it was a mistake that she hadn’t been able to forgive herself for during these many months that the young woman had been missing.

  Millicent went to the window again and looked out impatiently. A second chance, she told herself. They were all being given a second chance.

  “I am becoming dizzy watching you pace back and forth between that chair to the window,” the dowager scolded from the sofa.

  Millicent looked over her shoulder at her mother-in-law and smiled. There was a hint of worry in the older woman’s blue eyes as she peered over the spectacles perched on the bridge of her nose. She was considered a tyrant by many, but the dowager and Millicent had met on equal terms from the day they met, and the fondness that now existed between them was solidly grounded in mutual respect.

  “How is the book you are reading?” Millicent asked.

  “What book?” Beatrice closed the book that she was holding on her lap and put it on the table beside her. She patted the space next to her on the sofa. “Come and sit with me.”

  “I cannot.” She entwined her fingers over her swollen belly. “I am too anxious.”

  The dowager turned to Ohenewaa, who was sitting in a chair next to the sofa. Wearing in a plain dress that she’d adorned with a colorful shawl that matched the scarf she had wrapped around her hair, Ohenewaa looked regal. The old black woman’s eyes were half closed, but she was not sleeping. Everyone at Baronsford, starting with Millicent, was accustomed to the healer’s habits. Meditating, praying, or perhaps just watching, Ohenewaa often sat quietly like this for hours.

  “Are you awake?” Beatrice asked.

  “Why does matter, old woman? You will intrude on my time, anyway.”

  “Sorry to bring you back from the ghost world,” Beatrice grouched, ignoring the sharp glance from her friend. “But this is an urgent matter.”

  “What do you want now?”

  “I want you to cast a spell on Millicent to calm her.”

  Ohenewaa shook her head. “How many times do I have to tell you, I have no knowledge of any spells.”

  “I asked you nicely, did I not?” Beatrice argued. “Still, you keep your secrets from me. When are you going to start being honest with your best friend?”

  “Best friend?” The woman’s eyes narrowed, and she looked down her nose at Beatrice. “We can barely tolerate each other’s presence. But I would like a sip of whatever brew you have been drinking that makes you believe we are best friends.”

  “I will gladly make you some this afternoon…but that is only after you say or do something to put this poor young woman’s mind at ease.”

  “I…I am truly…” Millicent tried to break into the argument, but stopped wit a sigh. Beatrice and Ohenewaa were well into one of their daily contests of words.

  It was amusing to watch and listen to them. They each complained and belittled each other and claimed they couldn’t wait until one of them left Baronsford, but the reality of it was that the friendship between them continued to grow stronger and deeper with each passing day.

  Despite their constant complaining, neither had spent a day apart from the other since the first time they met last spring at Melbury Hall. When the dowager had to leave Melbury Hall for a fortnight in London, Ohenewaa claimed that the old woman was too weak to travel alone and had volunteered to go and stay with her. The same was true for the rest of their travels, which had taken them to Baronsford, back to Herefordshire, to London, and back to Scotland again.

  Last month, when Ohenewaa had come down with a fever and a cough, the dowager had refused to leave her friend’s bedside for an entire week. And that was in spite of the doctor’s insistence that Beatrice was too old and weak to endure that kind of hardship.

  Both women had survived the illness healthier than before.

  “You should sit rather than stand.”

  Millicent accepted the chair Ohenewaa moved beside the window for her and sat down. From this position, she had a clear view of the road while still being able to participate in the conversation of the two women, if she so dare
d.

  “You see, she listens to you,” the dowager said triumphantly. “Now order her to stop fretting.”

  “I do not order people.” Ohenewaa placed a hand on Millicent’s shoulder.

  The dowager scoffed. “Now that is the most brazen lie I have ever heard. You order me around all the time.”

  Millicent felt the warmth from Ohenewaa’s touch seep into her body. Even more so than the dowager, she was a believer in Ohenewaa’s power, in her healing touch, in the way the old woman could look into one’s soul and know the pain that resides there. Millicent had seen Ohenewaa’s powers at work in her husband’s healing. Lyon had come to them a broken man, crippled in mind and body, but the old healer had known the source of his pain. She had known what to do, how to draw him out of his stupor. What she had done for Lyon was something that no doctors had even imagined possible. Millicent’s gratitude had no end when it came to Ohenewaa.

  She also owed much of her happiness to the dowager. The old woman had arranged the marriage with her son, and had given Millicent a second chance at life.

  A second chance. Her gaze moved to the road again.

  “Hold in your mind my earlier words. Remember what I told you,” Ohenewaa said quietly to her before withdrawing her hand and walking back to resume the argument with her friend.

  Millicent watched the straight back of the black woman—the confident steps. She knew exactly the words Ohenewaa was alluding to. It was spring; they were at Melbury Hall. Guilt and worry over the disappearance of Violet was paralyzing Millicent, but Ohenewaa had told her not to mourn the loss of the young woman. Their paths will cross again, she’d told her. Millicent just had to be patient. They would have another chance at mending what had gone wrong.