A Hero for Miss Hatherleigh

by Carolyn Miller

  Emma gasped. James stretched out a hand, gesturing for the letter with impatient fingers. He read it, his brow furrowing to a greater degree. “Oh dear.”

  “Caroline is so good to have told us.” Emma’s breath hitched, her eyes searching him anxiously. “Oh, Gideon, whatever will we do now?”

  “But he has been told you are in London.” James tapped the letter. “When was this posted?”

  “On Thursday.”

  “And it takes two days for the mail to arrive …”

  “And this was delayed due to the direction,” Gideon said.

  James shook his head. “Then unless he is a fool, he will already be on his way here.”

  Emma blanched. “Oh no.”

  “Which really means there is only one thing to do,” James said, staring hard at Gideon.

  He gave a small nod of comprehension—mixed with not a little resignation.

  “Emma,” Gideon said, taking his sister’s hand. “It seems your wish shall be fulfilled; we’d best return to Sidmouth as soon as possible.”

  “Truly?” Her eyes lit.

  “Truly.” And he exchanged glances with his brother as Emma wrapped him in a fragile hug.

  CHAPTER FOURTEEN

  LORD PRATT, so the village whispers suggested, had left for London on Sunday afternoon—displaying no reluctance to travel on the Lord’s day. It seemed his highhandedness—or Grandmama’s request—had swayed the villagers to closed mouths. The Pratt, as he was now known, had been none too subtle in questioning the villagers, and they took exception to his arrogance as much as to his prying into the lives of people they now regarded as their own.

  “Mr. and Mrs. Kirby,” asserted Mrs. Goodacre, “have been nothing but friendly, and I don’t take to no stranger asking strange questions about people I like. Then the Pratt asked about a Mr. Carstairs. ‘Mr. Carstairs,’ I said to him, ‘has never lived here, and if you can’t make up your mind as to know who it is you be asking about, then I have no good mind to tell you!’”

  This was related to Caroline with such an air of triumph that she could only congratulate the apothecary’s wife for her quick thinking.

  The experience of Mrs. Goodacre seemed a common one, with various other townsfolk relaying their own encounters with the man they now held in disdain. Even her plump savior from the library offered his misgivings, saying to her on the Tuesday, when they happened to again meet at that establishment, how glad he was to hear that his lordship had left town.

  “For we certainly don’t want the likes of him here. Imagine having the audacity to interrupt a man who is simply trying to read! I don’t care what he calls himself; that is not my idea of gentlemanly behavior.”

  Knowing this led Caroline to feel a certain degree of ease, enough that she could venture to attempt some sketching in the garden, doing her best to approximate the likeness of the plants and water features. But though she had visited the village, she had yet to return to the Assembly Rooms. Pratt might have left the village, but the place still held the fingerprints of fear.

  She peered closer at the pretty pink shell she had discovered on that excursion with the Kirbys. How were they getting on? She hoped Emma was feeling better, and Mr. Kirby—

  No. She would not think on him. She’d best steer her thoughts away. Best focus on her sketching, on the shell that demanded closer perusal. How would Serena depict such a—

  “Miss Hatherleigh.”

  Breath hitched, then released, as the footman apologized for startling her.

  “Lady Aynsley requests your attendance in the drawing room.”

  Minutes later, her sketchbook fell to the floor as she rushed to clasp Emma in a hug. “You are back!”

  “We could not stay away,” Emma said, her face pale, but her smile filled with warmth. “London is not a particularly healthful place at the best of times.”

  And this was certainly not the best of times, Caroline thought, looking at her shadowed features carefully.

  “Besides, my brother was keen to resume his searching.”

  Caroline turned to Mr. Kirby. “I hope you may find what you are looking for, and quickly,” she added, thinking on the letter she had written. Had they not received it? Why were they here? What should happen if Pratt returned?

  Grandmama sent for tea, a surprising request, seeing as she normally could neither abide unexpected visitors nor wish them to prolong their stay, and had made no secret of her disapproval of the Kirbys as suitable friends. But judging from her conversation, all centered on the mystery of Lord Pratt and his questions to the villagers and how she—single-handedly!—had persuaded him to leave, it became apparent just what she was doing. To their credit—and her grandmother’s obvious disappointment—the Kirbys said little, offering noncommittal answers as to why this man was so insistently curious about them.

  It was not long before Grandmama’s expression grew bored, and Caroline’s impatience mounted. She could only hope Grandmama would feel it necessary to leave soon. For how could she ask the questions she longed to have answered whilst Grandmama and Miss McNell remained?

  Salvation came in the unlikely form of Jezebel, whose hacking cough drew all eyes and a cessation of conversation. Within the minute, a most disgusting retching sound was followed by the loathsome sight of a brown, damp mass of … something. A something that landed on the hem of Grandmama’s gown.

  “Good heavens!”

  “Oh, dear Lady Aynsley! Oh, poor Jezebel!”

  “Poor Jezebel, indeed,” Grandmama snapped, casting Miss McNell a look that would have cast lesser mortals to stone. “Get this cleaned up now.”

  Miss McNell fluttered off to find a servant amid a waft of apologies, clutching Jezebel to her chest as if fearing her pet might be thrown into the sea.

  Grandmother rose stiffly. “Please excuse me.”

  Mr. Kirby stood and offered a bow, and his belief they should leave.

  Caroline’s chest tightened. But if they did, how would she ever know—?

  “I hope a tiresome cat will not chase you away,” Grandmama said, as a servant scuttled in to clean and remove the offending item from view. “I’m sure Caroline can entertain you sufficiently.”

  “Grandmama, do you want assistance?” she felt obliged to say.

  “Beatrice shall attend me. Good day.” And with a regal nod to the Kirbys she departed.

  Caroline exhaled, turning to meet her guests. “Well, I certainly didn’t envisage such drama this afternoon.”

  “Poor Jezebel,” Emma murmured.

  A spurt of laughter pushed up. “Poor Jezebel, indeed.”

  Amusement tweaked Mr. Kirby’s features as Emma released a soft giggle. Already she was looking better, her pale cheeks holding a tinge of rose.

  Caroline exhaled, curbing her humor. “Forgive me. I should not laugh, but that wretched cat …” She shook her head, forced herself to focus on her guests and ask the question before any further interruption could be made. “I must confess that I am surprised to see you. I trust you received my letter?”

  “Thank you, yes. It was what convinced us to return,” Emma said.

  Mr. Kirby gave a ghost of a smile. “If I were a gambling man, I would stake Pratt has already called upon our brother and demanded to see us.”

  “And your brother?”

  He paused a moment, then said, “He is not easily intimidated, and his servants know to be vigilant. Besides, we have an alternative scheme in mind.”

  “Which is?”

  “My brother found reason to send two servants in a carriage to a house far away in the north near Durham. The servants, strangely enough, hold something of a resemblance to Emma and yours truly, and are making various stops using the name Kirby.”

  Caroline clapped her hands. “With the intention that he will follow their trail! How very clever.”

  “It was my idea,” he said with a half smile.

  “Clever, and so modest, too,” she said.

  Emma laughed, a sound
that seemed to surprise Mr. Kirby as he glanced at her quickly. “You know my brother well, Miss Hatherleigh.”

  Telltale heat swept through her cheeks. It was so silly to want Emma’s words to mean more. To turn the conversation from her embarrassment, she said, “Well, I hope his servants can hold their own. Lord Pratt did not seem the type to let such things escape him, and I cannot imagine he will be best pleased to discover he has been fooled.”

  “You are correct,” Mr. Kirby answered. “Which is why James and I decided the most capable servants would be ones employed from a certain locale not far from Gentleman Jackson’s.” He smiled with grim self-satisfaction. “I think even that scoundrel will think twice before meddling with an ex-prizefighter and his wife.”

  Caroline blinked. “You are not serious.”

  Emma gave another gurgle of amusement, which again drew a keen look from her brother. “I like how dear Gideon thinks someone will mistake a prizefighter’s physique for his! Tell me, Miss Hatherleigh, would you mistake my brother’s build for that of a prizefighter?”

  “Emma!” Mr. Kirby said in a scandalized tone. “Please do not answer that, Miss Hatherleigh.”

  “Why should she not?” Emma countered. “Miss Hatherleigh might wish to.”

  “I—” What could she say that would not get her into trouble? Oh, how the lessons of decorum should be used right now! Only … she couldn’t quite remember them. “I—I have never had opportunity to notice a prizefighter’s physique.”

  “But you have had opportunity to notice my—”

  “Emma, that is enough!”

  “I think,” Caroline said, sure her cheeks must be as red as Mr. Kirby’s, “that I would like to know why Lord Pratt was asking about a Mr. Carstairs.”

  Emma’s look of amusement faded, leaving Caroline to regret having asked. She peeked at Mr. Kirby who seemed similarly afflicted. “That is a good question,” he eventually said. “I—” But his words died as Miss McNell moved back into the room. “You are still here. Oh, I do hope poor Jezebel didn’t cause you to feel any sort of repulsion for her, poor thing. I’m afraid she is a little out of sorts, and can only hope, dear Miss Hatherleigh, that your grandmother understands that such a thing is only natural for felines, and …”

  Caroline shot her guests a look of apology as Grandmama’s companion carried on quivering excuses, a look that was met with wry smiles and—when Miss McNell finally paused for breath—Mr. Kirby’s apology that he and his sister must away.

  He gave his sister a look that pushed Emma to her feet. She offered Caroline a small curtsy and expressed the hope they might meet again soon.

  As Miss McNell continued to espouse the wonders of Jezebel to poor Emma, Mr. Kirby took Caroline’s proffered hand in both of his and said in a low voice, “Miss Hatherleigh, I am indebted to you. Thank you for sending Emma that information, and for being a good friend to her. Many a time I have heard her thank God that she has found such a friend here in Sidmouth.”

  Her heart glowed with childlike pleasure. “She said that about me?”

  He assented with a smile. “I have not heard her laugh these past days, so your enabling of that has done both her heart and mine a world of good.”

  Gladness radiated through her chest. “I … I am pleased to offer what I can.”

  “Thank you.” He glanced at her hand quite intently—her foolish heart thought it seemed as if he would like to kiss it!—then he let go. “Goodbye.”

  “Goodbye,” she echoed.

  And she watched them exit, feeling suddenly forlorn.

  The next few days Gideon spent seeing to Emma’s comfort. He was glad the return to the little village had met with approval, glad that the salubrious southerly winds this coast was famed for were giving color to her cheeks and vitality to her bones.

  He spent time carefully extracting from the stone the large ammonite found on that last ill-fated expedition, polishing it with cloth and water until it held the appearance of embellished metal. The lethargy induced by Emma’s illness, her condition that so often flared then waned, was put aside in her enthusiasm, and he felt a sense of pride at recognizing, then retrieving, one of the largest specimens of ammonite ever found.

  “It is so large,” Emma said, tracing the ridged surface.

  “Over twenty inches in diameter.”

  “It almost seems to hold something of an ancient shield like King Neptune might have used.”

  But though he smiled, he could not help but want more: the skeleton of the ichthyosaurus, the ancient sea dragon of lore.

  “Gideon? What is it?”

  “Nothing.”

  “You do not appear as pleased as I imagined. Are you not thankful that you have found such a beautiful specimen?”

  “I am, indeed, extremely thankful to God for this. I know I could not have done so without His help.”

  “Then what is it?” Her brow furrowed. “Are you still worried about Pratt?”

  “No, and neither should you be.” Well, that wasn’t entirely true. But he and James had employed measures other than the ones leading Pratt—hopefully—on a wild goose chase north.

  “Then what is it?” Her expression grew mischievous. “Are you concerned about Miss Hatherleigh?”

  “I am concerned about her,” he admitted, glad to see his words widened her eyes. “I am concerned with how much thought and energy you seem to be putting into something that can clearly never be.”

  “Not never be.”

  “Not be any time soon,” he amended.

  “But something you would like to be?”

  He fought the inclination to roll his eyes. Perhaps this tease of hers was necessary for her to maintain a happier frame of mind. It gave her some focus, something that took attention from what her future very likely would be. Or wouldn’t be.

  Swallowing the lump in his throat, he said, “Do you remember why I wanted to discover the secrets of the earth?”

  “You said you wanted to reveal God’s interior ornaments of the earth.”

  “Do you think it selfish of me to still wish to discover more?”

  “Not at all. If I were you, I would want to pursue all such dreams and even more. I would seek adventure and travel to exotic lands to see as much as I could. But as I cannot, and will not”—her face shadowed—“I need to know that someone is pursuing their passions and living. Really living,” she added, her eyes shimmering.

  He grasped her hands and squeezed gently. The London doctors had said the pregnancy would continue to sap her strength, but despite his pleadings they were reluctant to do anything to save her life. Their reasoning? That an operation to remove the child was highly dangerous, and would likely further weaken her, if not kill her outright. So, she was left carrying the unwanted child which would soon extinguish the life of the sister he desperately wanted alive. Oh, what a tangled coil in which they existed.

  “Heavenly Father, help us.”

  “Amen.”

  They shared slightly twisted smiles, she blinking rapidly, he willing away the moisture burning at the back of his eyes.

  She exhaled, shoulders slumping ever so slightly.

  “What can I do for you to make this day easier?”

  “Besides stopping this nausea?”

  “I wish I could.”

  “I wish—” A tear trickled down her cheek, and he drew her close to his chest. “I hate that I don’t want it,” she whispered. “Does that make me evil? A mother who does not want her child?”

  What could he say? What would provide comfort, not more guilt or shame? “It makes you honest.” He stroked her head. “God sees. He knows. He understands.”

  “I know, but …” She drew in an unsteady breath, and shifted upright. “Listen to me, feeling sorry for myself.” She wiped her eyes. “How pitiful I am.”

  “Not pitiful. Loved.”

  Her lips tweaked into a semblance of a smile. “You are sweet.”

  “Now, what can I do to make your day more pleasant?�
��

  “I don’t know. I wouldn’t mind seeing Caroline, but I suspect her grandmother might not be so keen.” She gave another twist of her lips that suggested wryness. “I still think she believes us beneath her, which is ironic, considering …”

  He shook his head. “It does not matter what she thinks. But if you like, I could ask Miss Hatherleigh to visit?”

  “No. I don’t think she needs to be disturbed. Mrs. Ballard said she’d take me to the warm sea-bath now that they are in operation once again. Perhaps that might wash off some of this misery.”

  He offered a smile he hoped encouraged, but his concern remained unabated. Emma’s fragile state of mind, her fragile state of health, could not last like this for much longer, that much was patently obvious, and so heartrendingly true.

  CHAPTER FİFTEEN

  CAROLINE HOPED TODAY’S visit to the village would put her in a better frame of mind. News contained in the latest epistle from her mother definitely had not helped. She was expected to return to Aynsley to begin readying for the London season within the fortnight. Within two weeks! How could she leave this place and all she had grown to love within such a short space of time? How could she leave her new friends and return to her former life where she had none? Granted, she would like to see her family members again—to see if the conciliation offered in her letters would have any effect in their day-to-day relationships—but oh, how she would miss the closeness she had started to experience with Grandmama.

  And the Kirbys.

  She chewed the inside of her bottom lip as the carriage continued its progression to the village. She could not think anymore that Mr. Kirby and his sister were social rungs beneath her. On the contrary, from the London address Emma had given her, it seemed that they had quite noble connections. For who else could afford to live in Grosvenor Square? And who else could afford to employ servants simply to hoax the Pratt into pursuit?

  Puzzling over this, she lighted from the carriage at the post office. “I shan’t be too long,” she told the driver. She hoped to find here souvenirs of her time and suitable gifts for her family. She had previously bought a copy of Devonshire: The Beauties of Sidmouth Displayed, a wonderful guide to the town and surrounds. Cecy might enjoy that, being the reader that she was, although she suspected Verity might enjoy something a little more unusual. Perhaps she would ask Mr. Kirby if he could recommend a place where she might purchase an ammonite or two. Such a gift would certainly not be in the usual way.