A Hero for Miss Hatherleigh

by Carolyn Miller

  She was about to enter when a large dark-haired fellow of hulking proportions opened the door, shooting her a quick look from small brown eyes. A sensation of prickles raced up her spine.

  Inside, she met Mrs. Baker, whose chatter with a woman of brown hair and sickly children ceased, and then resumed in hushed tones. Caroline searched the shelves, aware with skin-tingling certainty that her name was being talked about. Only why would these two be bandying about her name? She moved to the counter, and paid for her items.

  “Miss Hatherleigh,” Mrs. Baker said, leaving her companion to draw closer. “It is good to see you getting out and about now.”

  “Thank you. I find the milder weather is more conducive for such things.”

  “We were just saying, weren’t we, Mrs. Belcher, ’ow we don’t take with strangers in our village.”

  “Which might prove a shame seeing as Sidmouth is considered a fine watering hole for tourists, is it not?”

  “Oh, you know what I mean. There be some who don’t quite fit in these parts, whereas others seem to know how things ought to be done. Like the Kirbys, for example. They might be a bit peculiar, and keep themselves to themselves, but we don’t mind that, do we, Mrs. Belcher?” said Mrs. Baker, throwing a look over her shoulder.

  “No, indeed.”

  “Have to say it was good to see your grandmother giving that Pratt man something to think about.” She sniffed. “Poking ’is nose into affairs that don’t concern ’im none. We certainly don’t want the likes of ’im back ’ere again.”

  “No. And you have seen no further strangers in town?”

  “Apart from the usual tourists? Not that there be many of them, not at this time of year. In fact, I can’t think of any, save that man who arrived on the coach when the Kirbys returned. A big man, said his name was Browne or something. I think he’s lodging with the widow on Broad Street.”

  “Was he the man who was just in here?” Caroline asked.

  “Aye.”

  “Who is he?”

  “Nobody knows, miss. Although we have our suspicions.” Again, another look of significance passed between the two.

  Caroline shivered. “You do not think he is likely to hurt anyone, do you?”

  “Now what would put such an idea in your ’ead?” Mrs. Baker said. “Like I said, we don’t know the man, so for all we know ’e might be as sweet as Don Belcher.” This was said with a cackle of laughter and another of those queer sidelong looks. “But it always pays to be vigilant, and let others know if there be something you see out of the ordinary way.”

  “I will keep that in mind,” Caroline said, making hasty excuses and taking her packages to the waiting carriage outside.

  Just when she thought visiting the village would be safe again, a new stranger should happen along. What if he was a spy for Lord Pratt? What should she do? Should she warn the Kirbys? Or would Mr. Kirby think her a little goose for getting carried away?

  She was just about to ascend the carriage when, as if summoned by her thoughts, she spied the figure of Mr. Kirby coming towards her. She placed her packages inside then called for the driver to wait a few minutes more.

  “Good morning, Mr. Kirby.”

  “Miss Hatherleigh, hello.” He glanced at the carriage then back at her, a questioning lift to one brow. “I trust I am not delaying you?”

  “Oh no. Not at all. I … I had hoped to talk with you.” Oh dear. That made her sound desperately bold and improper!

  His brows rose, and he assumed a look of polite interest.

  She bit her lip. How could she ask about the mysterious man? Was this urge to speak with him borne from concern or was she simply being too forward in wanting his attention? Was she too quick to assume he wished to speak with her? Still, she could make enquiry about his sister. “How is Emma today?”

  His face suddenly closed in something akin to pain.

  “Mr. Kirby?” Her heart hammered in fear. “Whatever is the matter?”

  He shook his head. “Forgive me, I cannot talk about it. It is too—” His words broke away as he cast her a look of such desperation she was obliged by all that was kind and good to step closer and lay a hand on his arm.

  “Please, sir. Is there anything I can do?”

  His gaze returned to her, and for a moment she could feel the nervous tension riding through his body, the pain communicated with his eyes. “We cannot talk about it here.”

  Conscious of the villagers observing them most strangely—after all, wasn’t Mr. Kirby still supposed by some to be a married man?—she stepped away, dropped her hand, dropped her gaze, breaking the connection. “Forgive me.”

  “I’m sorry, Miss Hatherleigh. I should not put you in such an awkward position.”

  Her lips pushed to one side. “Rather, it is I who have made things appear awkward for you.” She looked up, studied him closely, saw the strain of care around his eyes. “But you do need to talk with someone, do you not?”

  “I … perhaps.”

  “Would it help to speak with Reverend Holmes?”

  His lips twisted. “No.”

  “Is there someone else to whom you could speak?”

  Again, she felt that mute appeal like a tangible thing. You, his eyes seemed to say. Her pulse increased.

  “Would … would it help if we spoke?” she finally dared. “You must know I care about Emma,” and you, she added silently, “and if I can offer nothing but a sympathetic ear then I would be pleased to do so. We could meet somewhere if you wish.”

  She cringed as her words hung in the air. How unseemly was such an offer! He would think her completely lost to propriety. She ducked her head. “I am sorry. Please forgive my presumption. I have no desire to intrude in private matters.” She half turned to leave.

  “Miss Hatherleigh.” His raspy voice drew her attention back to his face, to the misery there.

  “Would it help to talk?”

  “Yes. Perhaps. I do not know.”

  “I do,” she said, feeling a strange and urgent sense of decisiveness. “You should come to the beach where we first met. I will tell Grandmama I am going to sketch. Then we can talk and not be observed.”

  “Oh, but—”

  “I know such things are not very proper, but some things are more important than propriety, would you not agree? And if there is something I can do to help you and your sister, I would be honored. Now, I shall return to Saltings, and expect to see you in an hour.”

  His lips tweaked into a rueful smile as he bowed. “Your most obedient.”

  A chuckle escaped. “I do sound a little bit too much like my grandmother, don’t I? You will have to forgive me; I’m afraid such presumption comes with being an oldest child. I shall expect to see you there soon.”

  He inclined his head, she made a short curtsy, and instructed the driver to return to Saltings without delay. As the carriage swept around the bend, she saw the large man she now knew as Browne, standing at the corner of the London Hotel. But he did not seem to be doing anything, save looking at her, and observing Mr. Kirby, leaving her to wonder and shudder again.

  Within the hour, she was in the garden at Saltings, in the section overlooking the beach. From this vantage point she could see the various approaches as people moved along the shore. Fortunately, she had seen nobody in the past minutes. Would Mr. Kirby come? Had her instructions been too high-handed? Or had she, once again, misinterpreted things, and did he not wish to come in order to save her from further improper behavior?

  “Excuse me, miss? Would you like me to fetch you a shawl? It is growing quite cool and the breeze here holds a nasty bite.”

  “Yes, please, Mary.”

  As soon as Mary disappeared from view, Caroline hurried across the back lawn to the gate, walking fast, in an almost half crouch when the bushes were low, until she finally made it to the path that led down to the beach. She stifled a giggle. Oh, how lost to propriety was she, escaping like this, going to meet a man? What ever would Mama say if sh
e knew her proper daughter was acting in this way? A smile twitched; she suspected Verity would approve.

  A few steps, a few more, and she was on the beach.

  And Mr. Kirby was drawing near, wearing that same rueful expression as before.

  “Hello.”

  “Hello, Miss Hatherleigh.”

  “I am glad you came.”

  “I scarcely know why I am here. I really don’t know what to say.”

  She waited, working to ignore the niggle of disappointment at his obvious noninterest. She was here for Emma’s sake, she reminded herself.

  “Does your grandmother know you are here?”

  “Well, no, because she wouldn’t have let me come.”

  “Then I should go. I cannot like meeting in a way that feels clandestine.”

  She stilled, heart cramping with hurt, her good intentions fading away. “Then I do not know why you have come.”

  He lifted his hands. Dropped them.

  “And I truly did not think you could ever be more missish than I.”

  His anxious features smoothed into a smile, then he chuckled. “You, Miss Hatherleigh, say the most surprising things sometimes. Just when I think I know who you are …” The amusement faded as his gaze grew intent, dropping to her lips.

  Her heart fluttered. Well, perhaps he wasn’t so unhappy to meet her here, after all.

  “Mr. Kirby, I fear that if you do not tell me what is the matter with Emma then our meeting will be construed as something more clandestine than it is.”

  He blinked, and collected himself. “Forgive me. I … I just don’t know where to begin.”

  Perhaps she should help him out. “Emma is not well, is she?”

  “No,” he said, and then with the air of relief at finally being able to unburden himself, he began to share. “She is a private person, but I do not think she will mind you knowing.”

  “You do not know what is wrong with her?”

  “She has seen doctor after doctor, specialist upon specialist, and none of them quite know.” He sighed. “For the past five years she has been prone to episodes of weakness and tremors. Not every day, but enough to give rise to concern, and when they occur she feels a debilitating kind of weakness so that all she can do is rest. Some doctors have mentioned the palsy, but her symptoms are not consistent enough for all specialists to concur.”

  “Has she been to any of the spa towns? My grandmother vows that Bath’s waters have done her a world of good.”

  He offered a small smile. “We have taken her to every spa town of note in the land, and she has drunk more waters than might be found in the North Sea. No, I’m afraid her infirmity is of a more enduring nature.”

  And he told her how Emma’s mysterious condition had worsened in past weeks with the recent news that she was expecting.

  “Oh my!”

  “And now it seems the worst will happen all the sooner, due to this child she has no wish for, all because of the actions of that evil man.”

  Her eyes blurred, her throat grew tight. “I’m so terribly sorry.”

  “I have no wish to upset you, but I could not have you in ignorance, not when she considers you her friend.”

  Her lip was trembling; she bit it.

  “Dear Miss Hatherleigh. I feel like I’m a scoundrel, upsetting you like this. Please, forgive me.”

  “Forgive you?” she said, dashing at her eyes. “There is nothing to forgive you for. You have done everything that is noble and good, sacrificing yourself for dear Emma’s sake. I … oh, I wish there were something I could do to help.”

  “Thank you, but there is nothing, save, if you would pray for her, and if you could pay her the occasional visit to lift her spirits. I’m afraid she seems to struggle with maintaining a positive frame of mind these days.”

  “Something that is completely understandable. It must be so very hard for you both.”

  He cleared his throat, then gruffly thanked her and looked away.

  Sensing his withdrawal, she quickly said, “I will endeavor to visit her each day, if Grandmama permits. Oh, and may I bring my little pug with me?”

  “You have a dog?”

  “Mittens is the sweetest thing. She was my only friend here for quite some time, before I met Emma.”

  “I’m sure Emma will be very pleased to have a visit from you and … Mittens, did you say?”

  She nodded. “Excellent. I shall call later this afternoon.” She turned to go, then swiveled to face him again. “Before I go, may I ask if you have heard anything more about Lord Pratt?”

  “I received a letter from my brother just this morning. It seems our ruse has worked and our decoys have been followed on their journey to the far north of England.”

  “Oh, that is good. I just wondered you see.”

  His brow knit in a way that suggested he did not see.

  “I wondered about the new visitor in town, a rather large man who looks and walks a bit like a bear. I believe he is called Mr. Browne, or so Mrs. Baker said today.”

  A smile flitted across his features. “What about him?”

  “Well, I thought I saw him following you, or at least,” for that wasn’t quite accurate, “or at least watching you. This morning he was, anyway.”

  Had her lessons in elocution and deportment at Haverstock’s been for naught? Why could she not speak and make sense? Perhaps it had something to do with the way Mr. Kirby was looking at her kindly, albeit—she frowned—in a way an uncle might regard a foolish child?

  “I should not worry about any bear-type men if I were you.”

  “But Mrs. Baker and Mrs. Belcher seemed to think there was something suspicious about him.”

  “And I certainly would not concern myself with what Mrs. Baker and Mrs. Belcher think. I have a handy notion they would find anyone they did not know suspicious.”

  “Why do you say that?”

  He smiled. “Because I happen to know that both their husbands are deeply involved in the local free-traders movement.”

  The wind nipped at his face as the view of Lyme’s harbor opened up before him. Gideon thought back to yesterday, his lips lifting in a smile, at the moment on the shore when Miss Hatherleigh’s face had dropped in surprise. He supposed a well-brought-up young lady would not have even thought smugglers could be encountered in the village shops or in the churchyard after services. She was truly a sweet innocent. So her shock, and compassionate concern, had brought much-needed respite from the general feeling of hopelessness that so often swamped his days.

  The cart clattered down the steep hill into Lyme Regis. True to her word, Miss Hatherleigh had visited Emma yesterday, and once again he was plunged further into indebtedness. For she seemed to know exactly what to say to lift Emma’s spirits, and thus his own. Her kindly interest never veered too close to personal matters that might embarrass, and her amusing stories of self-deprecation far from the proper young lady she had first appeared, engendered even warmer feelings towards her.

  Today Miss Hatherleigh had provided another period of respite, with her offer for Emma to spend the day at Saltings, thus releasing him to continue his explorations. He had protested, but Emma eagerly accepted. From the way he had left them, he gathered the day would be spent drawing, in the gardens, with the pug—quite simply the ugliest, laziest dog he had ever seen—and engaging in all manner of frivolities, activities he believed Miss Hatherleigh had specifically designed to provide distraction and amusement.

  His heart glowed at her thoughtfulness. She truly was a blessing in their lives, her kindness soothing the tension forever lining his heart. “God, bless her.”

  The cart driver turned around with an enquiring eye, to which Gideon was forced to shake his head.

  He had today at least. They would have to leave soon. Even with Mr. Browne standing guard, he knew it would only be a matter of time before Pratt learned the truth and returned again. He would make the most of each opportunity to scavenge the beach, for such opportunities would li
kely not exist in his future, when they were forced to go into hiding again somewhere.

  “God, help me,” he prayed aloud again.

  This time the cart driver did not turn around. Perhaps he was used to the strange ways of some of the visitors in town.

  Within a few minutes, he had paid the man and was making his way to the beach, his hunger for discovery rising as he inhaled the tang of brine and as seawater droplets stung his cheeks. He hitched his satchel over his shoulder, gripping the spade and sack more firmly as his feet slithered over the cool wet of mossy rocks.

  Ahead on the sand, he saw a group clustered at the base of the ominous dark cliff known as the Black Fen. His pulse increased. Someone had found something?

  A man, younger than he by at least half a decade, sprinted past. Gideon hailed him to stop.

  “What is that ahead?”

  “Did ye not hear? Young Wilmont found hisself a fossil …”

  Gideon’s heart sank, even as he contrived to look enthused. “Really?”

  “Aye, they think it be like the crocodile that young Anning found years back.”

  Gideon refrained from correcting the man’s assumption about the Annings’ discovery. If people chose to believe it a crocodile, he could not stop them. And initially that appeared to be what the find had suggested, for who had ever thought a world existed, far removed from what was known?

  He listened as the man continued, conscious of a great weight dogging his footsteps. He knew he should not be jealous, but Wilmont already had financial backing, and could well afford to spend his days searching without finding. Was it so very wrong to feel such envy?

  Ahead, he could see a cluster of men and some ladies gathered around a rock that seemed to have been split in two. His lip curled in disgust. What—people were now resorting to carving up all the rocks in the hopes of discovering fossils? What would be next—employing a small army with pickaxes to slice up the cliffs? Could they not rely on God’s good timing and nature’s forces to do so?