He had been surprised when Lily Parker showed up in the earl’s old carriage the day before yesterday. She was from a farm outside of Witney, her family in service to the landed gentry that lived in the main house there. When she had gone off to London to take a position in an aristocrat’s home, Billy had thought she would never return to Oxfordshire. Others who had left for London, seeking employment or their fortune, never returned to Bampton-in-the-Bush.
Lily took a deep breath and let it out, her breath a white billow between them. “You cannot say anything to anyone,” she whispered, resigned to having to admit her plan. “I have to meet Thomas near Bampton. We’re going to marry in Scotland,” she added, her bare hands pulled into fists against her coat. It was far colder than she expected; she had no winter gloves, and only a scarf to cover her head.
“You’re gonna marry that prick?” he asked in disgust. “Lily, ya deserve better than him,” he hissed. “I would be better for you than him,” he said under his breath, his comment meant to challenge her assessment of Thomas Babcock. And, perhaps, make her believe he would be better than his former best friend.
“Billy O’Conlin!” Lily admonished him, trying to keep her voice to a hoarse whisper and nearly failing. “How dare you? Thomas has a good position in Bampton, and he’s a year older than me.”
“Which means he’s, what? Eighteen?” he countered quickly. Had there been more than just moonlight to see by, Lily might have seen the hurt in Billy’s eyes. He was seventeen. He had known her from their days helping with the harvest, always thought of Lily as someone he might court once they were of a certain age. And then Lily left for London and her position in Devonville House. Billy thought he would never see her again, and then, wonder of wonders, she had stepped out of the earl’s ancient carriage looking ever so sophisticated, so confident in her crisp maid’s uniform. And he had fallen head over ears in love with her.
“He’s seventeen. He … loves me.” The words were spoken softly, as if she might be trying to convince herself as much as him of her suitor’s conviction to her.
The groom shrugged, suddenly realizing he wouldn’t be able to change her mind. What could he offer her? He might become the head of the stables or a footman someday, but he would always work in service to the earl.
He allowed his gaze to take her all in, from the top of her woolen scarf covering her golden brown hair down to her sturdy shoes. “You won’t be getting far if you freeze ta death,” Billy countered. “Come on,” he said as he stuffed his hands into his pea coat pockets and headed for the stables.
Sighing, Lily followed him, not sure what he had in mind. She passed over the dimly-lit threshold and inhaled the scent of hay and horse manure. At least it was warmer in the stables. She watched as Billy scampered up a wooden ladder to a room above the stalls, surprised to realize it was his room. He disappeared and soon came out carrying a pair of work gloves. Constructed for labor as opposed to fashion, the well-worn gray gloves were at least warm. Lily pulled them on and wiggled her fingers. “I don’t know that I’ll be able to get these back to you,” she spoke quietly.
“S’aright,” Billy replied, his head leaning to one side. “The earl got me a new pair when he promoted me,” he said with a hint of pride, hoping she understood that he was no longer the lowest of servants in the Gisborn household.
Lily regarded the groom. He couldn’t be more than sixteen or seventeen, she thought. “Thank you. Please, Billy, … don’t say anything,” she pleaded, a look of worry appearing on her face.
Billy shook his head. “You did leave a note for Lady Gisborn,” he said more than asked. “Or Mrs. Batey?”
Dipping her head, Lily shook it. “I … cannot write very well,” she said, her eyes not meeting his. Her face reddened at the admission. “And I … I don’t know anyone else on the staff I would tell …”
“Christ.” The word came out in a whisper, Billy obviously not pleased with her decision to leave without so much as a fare thee well. “She’ll think you were kidnapped or something gawd awful,” he countered, becoming a bit incensed that she would just leave. “I’ll keep your secret, Lily, but only until someone asks me directly, and then I’m telling.”
Lily bit her lip but nodded. “Understood,” she agreed. After all, who would ask the groom if he knew the whereabouts of a lady’s maid? She gave Billy a knock on the arm and dipped her head again. “Thank you.” Before she could change her mind, she took up her valise and turned to leave the stables.
Billy’s hand reached out and ensnared her elbow, forcing her to spin around and face him. He suddenly had one arm around her waist and another at her face. “Oh, Lily,” he whispered, his face filled with pain. And then his lips were covering hers, his kiss as urgent as it was filled with passion.
Startled but unable to push Billy away, Lily allowed the assault, a series of sharp, bright stars stunning her vision. She closed her eyes and allowed him to do his worst, her own lips responding to his before she was even aware she was doing so. A moan escaped her throat as warmth surrounded her entire body, filling her from the inside.
The sound spurred him on as he readjusted how he held her against him. Suddenly, the fronts of their bodies were fitted together as if they belonged that way, her curves filling his voids, and his sharp angles and muscles nestling into the softness of her body.
A slight movement of his hand on her back, and she was pressing into him harder, not sure if she was doing the pushing or if he was simply pulling her closer. A shiver of pleasure passed through her entire body, followed by a tenseness that signaled danger. And then, just as quick as it had begun, Billy pulled his lips away from hers.
“Do not go, Lily,” he whispered, his forehead pressed against hers.
Lily’s eyes flew open. What have I done? This was Billy O’Conlin! This wasn’t Thomas Babcock, the boy who she had fallen in love with so many years ago. Pressing her palms against Billy’s chest, she pushed hard, grabbed her valise and hurried out of the stables, barely aware of her surroundings or of the sudden chill that infused her body as she made her way to the lane and the village beyond.
The walk proved invigorating; the chill deepened as she passed between the scattered farmhouses that made up the earl’s village. She tried in vain not to think of Billy’s kiss, not to think of how warm she had felt, of how their bodies had fitted together, of how truly bereft he had seemed on learning she was leaving the Gisborn household.
But she couldn’t think of him now. She was on her way to meet her true love. Thomas. He would be waiting with a horse and carriage somewhere close to Bampton.
Only one animal, or rather, a whole lot of the same kind of animal, took exception to her midnight stroll when she passed in front of the Cavenaugh’s house. The dogs whimpered and whined and one barked, its low ‘woof ’ more of a warning than a threat. She increased her pace until the sound of the dogs no longer reached her ears.
She was almost to Bampton when she spotted a small conveyance parked alongside the road, an old bay in the yoke. At the sound of her approach, the huddled form atop the box turned and exhaled a cloud of white. ”Lily?“ she heard before she saw the form straighten. The movement startled the horse, but he had been hobbled and gave a snort.
“Thomas?” she countered, hurrying to reach the gig. And then Thomas was down from the box and wrapping his arms around her, his nose buried into the space between her shoulder and neck while her face pressed against his chest. “Oh,
Thomas, I have missed you so much,” she murmured, glad for the warmth of his body and the blanket he had draped across his back.
“Finally,” he replied, a hint of annoyance in his voice. “Is that all you have?” the boy asked, motioning to her valise.
“Yes,” she replied with a shrug. “Everything I own,” she added, moving a gloved hand to his face. He was older than she remembered, the planes of his face straighter, his cheeks a bit more hollow, his eyebrows slashes on his forehead; she had to c
hide herself for thinking he would look exactly the same as he did when she had left Bampton over two years ago.
Thomas took the valise from her and lifted it into the gig. Then he turned and lifted her up, one arm behind her knees and one behind her shoulders. She let out a squeak of surprise, but gamely allowed him the impropriety. He saw to the horse before taking the reins, and once settled with the blanket wrapped around both their backs, they huddled close as they set off for the northern counties.
Chapter 13
Hannah Meets a Frog
Having spent the late morning on a trek around the farmlands, Henry and Nathan picked their way back to the house. Nathan chattered about how he had managed to get almost to the river before hearing his mother’s call for dinner the night before. Giving his son a sideways glance, Henry thought to correct him. The boy had been nowhere close to the river and had strict instructions not to go anywhere near the water unless Henry was with him. “What can be so fascinating about the river that you would wish to walk all the way there?” he asked, giving his son’s hair a quick ruffle.
Nathan pulled away. “I just wanna see it,” he countered, tilting his head up. “Last time I was there, it was frozen over.” The sun made his dark hair glint with red highlights, very much like Henry’s was displaying. It was at times like this he understood why so many in the village thought his son resembled him. At some point, he wondered if they wouldn’t look even more alike. “Would it be okay for me to go to the river if someone else was with me?” he wondered then, pausing for a second to pick up a multicolored rock. He held it up for Henry to look at, the earl turning it in his hand several times to determine if it might be worth anything.
He tossed the rock back to Nathan. “As long as someone is with you, then I suppose you can go to the river,” Henry agreed, a hint of reluctance in his voice. Had he not been so busy with work on the irrigation system, he would have taken his son earlier that afternoon.
They mounted the steps to the house. The front door opened even before they reached the landing at the top. “Luncheon is served in the dining room, my lord,” Parkerhouse stated as he shut the door behind Nathan. “Will Miss Inglenook be joining us?”
Henry shook his head. “Not today.” He gave Nathan a slight nudge in the shoulder. “Come. Let’s wash our hands …”
A positively blood curdling scream came from somewhere near the top of the stairs following by an “Oh!” that gave absolutely no indication as to the state of the person who had just screamed.
“Hannah!” Henry was already on the stairs, taking them two at a time as Nathan scrambled behind him. Wondering only for a second if he should first knock on the countess’ bedchamber door, he instead simply opened it, thinking Hannah was in some kind of mortal danger. He pulled up short, though, Nathan barreling into him from behind and then repositioning himself at his father’s side as the earl stared at his wife.
Hannah stood quite tall, and quite beautiful, Henry thought as he took in the sight of her with one arm bent at the waist and holding what appeared to be a moss green lump in her outstretched hand. “My lady,” he managed to get out before Hannah’s attention turned to him and to Nathan, her eyes hinting at amusement. “Are you … well?” he wondered, staring at her hand.
“Ribbit!”
The sound came from the green lump, which seemed to pulse as Hannah held it in her hand. “I am quite fine, my lord,” she answered with a nod, still holding the frog in front of her. Then her other hand reached out so a finger could stroke the frog down its back. Nathan’s eyes boggled at the sight of Hannah holding his prized frog. “However, this poor frog was in my sewing basket,” Hannah continued, pulling the creature closer to her body so that it was nearly nestled between her breasts.
For a moment, Henry found himself quite jealous of the little amphibian. I could be a frog. Kiss me, Hannah, and I’ll turn into a prince. He shook his head at the odd thought.
“I cannot fathom how he would have gotten in there,” her expression quite innocent as she glanced in Nathan’s direction. “I would never allow any of my frogs to get into my sewing basket. I would be quite bereft should one impale themselves on a pin … or a needle!” she reasoned with a shake of her head.
Nathan’s eyes widened. “You have frogs?” he questioned, the awe in his voice unmistakable.
Hannah gave him a look that suggested his question could hardly warrant a response. “Well, of course. Doesn’t everyone?” she asked with a shake of her head. “Well, I should amend that claim, of course,” she said as she moved forward, still carrying the frog at her bosom. “I didn’t bring mine with me from London,” she explained as she looked up at Henry and gave him a wink. She handed the frog out to a still-awestruck Nathan. “It’s not really … proper for a countess to keep frogs as pets,” she whispered.
Nathan reached out to take back his prized frog. “His name is Mr. Snotball, on account as he looks like …”
“Nathan!” Henry interrupted his son, his eyes rolling heavenward as he realized what had happened. Of all the underhanded, cruel and unusual pranks the boy could pull on his new stepmother …
“A snotball!” Hannah finished for him, her enthusiasm far too accommodating. “So, then he must be yours then,” she said with some humor, handing out the frog so that Nathan could retrieve it.
“Yes, my lady.” And, then, as if he realized his mistake in having admitted ownership of the errant frog, Nathan added, “He must have escaped and thought your sewing basket was the basket I keep him in at home.”
Hannah had to suppress a knowing smile, her eyes occasionally glancing in Henry’s direction. “Well, let’s hope he doesn’t make that mistake again. I should hate for him to become a pin cushion,” she said with a arched eyebrow.
“Oh, no, my lady,” Nathan said with a quick shake of his head. “He knows better now.”
Henry regarded Hannah with a roll of his eyes and a newfound respect for her way with children. “Luncheon is served in the dining room,” he said by way of invitation. “We were …. we were just on our way to wash our hands, weren’t we?” he asked as he looked down at his rather happy son. “And Mr. Snotball is not invited to join us for luncheon,” he stated in a rather firm voice.
Nathan looked suitably chastised, but then his brows furrowed, an expression that perfectly matched his father’s. “Wait. If you have frogs, my lady, then why did you … scream just then?” he asked, his brows furrowing even deeper.
Henry nearly gave Nathan a swat for his impertinence, but Hannah gave him a quick shake of her head.
“He asked me to kiss him!” she answered with an expression that suggested she was quite insulted. “Claimed he would turn into a prince if I did!” This last bit was delivered with enough disbelief that Nathan turned his expression of awe onto his frog.
Henry merely rolled his own eyes, not quite sure if he should admonish his wife for her fib or take her into his arms and kiss her senseless for showing such perfect grace in the face of an assault by a frog. Deciding he could kiss her senseless sometime before dinner that night, he placed his hands on his hips. “You both need to wash your hands before we can go down to eat,” he announced, his voice very businesslike.
Hannah’s bearing, suddenly returned to that of a lady, motioned to Nathan and they hurried off to her bath. “You can leave the frog in my bathtub,” Henry heard Hannah suggesting as his wife and son disappeared behind the door. “Just be sure to come get him after luncheon. Harold quite likes frogs, and I shouldn’t want Mr. Snotball to become his next meal,” she was explaining quite calmly.
“Ewww!” he heard Nathan respond. Henry put his hands to either side of his head, shaking it in disbelief.
Nathan’s visit and the clear skies prompted Hannah to take a walk. Harold lumbered along beside her as she made her way down the lane toward the village. Deep in thought over Nathan’s episode with the frog and wondering about Lily— she hadn’t come to her room to help her dress tha
t morning— Hannah was quite surprised when Sarah was suddenly beside her.
“May I join, you?” the older woman wondered, a shawl pulled around her shoulders.
Hannah beamed at her husband’s … former lover. “Of course. I thought to walk a ways.”
“No particular destination?” Sarah asked, reaching a hand up to brush some stray hairs from her face. Her tightly wound hair was covered by a serviceable bonnet.
Shaking her head, Hannah regarded the woman who walked alongside her. “None. I am feeling a bit sorry for myself.” At Sarah’s arched eyebrow, she continued, “My maid has gone missing without so much as a word or a note.”
Sarah seemed startled by the comment. “Did she come with you from London?” she wondered, her brows suddenly furrowing. Why would a maid make the trip from London to Oxfordshire and then disappear?
“She did, but she was originally from Witney. I think she may have relatives there, and I have reason to believe there is a boy—someone named Thomas Babcock, perhaps?” Hannah heard Sarah’s inhalation of breath and turned to regard her. “Do you know him?” she wondered.
Placing a hand over her mouth, Sarah sighed. “Your maid must be Lily Parker.” At Hannah’s surprised nod, she sighed again. “Those two have wanted to wed for years. Mr. Babcock is employed by Mr. McDonald at his posting inn near Bampton. The boy was just promoted to oversee the taproom. I imagine his promotion makes it possible for him to afford to take a wife.”
Hannah sighed, realizing her almost worst fear had come to pass. Her worst had been that something dastardly had happened to Lily, that she was spirited away in the night by a highwayman or someone determined to do her harm. “I will miss her. She was always able to manage my hair,” she said with a wave toward her head. “And she was a good laundress.”
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