Love Regency Style

by Samantha Holt

  Mrs. Chambers looked up in surprise at her arrival from the servants’ entrance.

  “Have you seen Harold?” Hannah asked, breathless from her rush from the front of the house.

  The cook wiped her forehead with an arm while she gave Hannah’s question consideration. “No. Well, not since early this morning. I tossed him a hock from the mornin’s bacon right out that door there,” she amended as she waved toward the back door. “I rather think the beastie would be awfully hungry, seeing as how he didn’t eat last night,” she added.

  Furrowing her brows, Hannah remembered the dog’s exhaustion. When they had returned from the river, Harold had barely made it into the house before collapsing onto the floor of the vestibule. Once Sarah and Henry had gone into the parlor, she had finally pulled herself up from the floor and encouraged Harold to follow her to her room. He had done so, but it seemed to take a great deal of effort for him to climb the stairs. Once he was on his rug at the foot of the bed, he had settled down and immediately gone to sleep.

  Meanwhile, since she couldn’t undo the fastenings of her ruined gown, Hannah spent time in the bath, washing off the remnants of mud from her body and the gown as she consid­ered what might have happened to Nathan. She unrolled her dirt-caked stockings and slippers, wondering if Lily would be able to put them to rights. Removing the pins from her hair, she brushed it out, wondering if Henry even liked the scent of honeysuckle that wafted around her.

  Hannah thought to spend the rest of the night in the library reading a book. But then Henry had returned to the house and made love to her in that slow, exquisite … she shook the carnal thoughts from her mind.

  Hurrying to the back door, Hannah opened it and gave the side yard a look, finally calling out Harold’s name. When he didn’t appear, she pulled herself back inside. Damnation! It was getting cold and there were more snowflakes swirl­ing about. Where could he have gone? He wouldn’t be with Henry—the earl was visiting tenants to explain more about the irrigation and flood control channels and the greenhouses that were already fully framed on the fallow land near the sta­bles. There weren’t even any laborers working on the irrigation ditch that day; the cold had kept everyone indoors.

  Nathan! Perhaps he had gone back to Sarah’s house. Hur­rying to her room, she donned another pair of socks and half-boots before pulling on her warmest pelisse. Back in the vesti­bule, she grabbed her gloves and mantle and a muff she found amongst the outer clothing hanging on hooks, silently cursing Harold for having disappeared on such a cold day. Then she was out the door and walking as quickly as she could to Sarah’s.

  The dowager house appeared deserted; a knock at the front door wasn’t answered. She called out Harold’s name, but the dog was nowhere to be found.

  “Lady Gisborn?”

  Hannah whirled to find Sarah on the arm of a man she didn’t recognize. Tall and just a bit on the portly side, he had a friendly face and wore clothing that suggested he was a well-to-do cit. This must be the man who Sarah spoke of—the man who was to ask for her hand in marriage!

  Hannah wasn’t able to give the man more than a slight nod to his generous bow. “Oh, Sarah, I was about to call on you,” she said, her breathless state causing Sarah’s eyebrows to furrow.

  “What’s wrong, milady?” Sarah wondered, aware of Han­nah’s growing distress. She intended to introduce her escort to Hannah, but realized the countess was in no mood for pleas­antries. Sarah gave the key to her house to the gentleman. He moved around Hannah to unlock the door.

  Hannah shook her head. “I … Harold is missing,” she finally got out, realizing at the last second that her concern sounded overwrought even to her own ears. He was a dog. He was covered in thick fur and bred for weather like this. Why am I so worried?

  Sarah’s mouth opened a bit, as if she intended to reply with a platitude. But she was aware of what Harold had done the day before, aware that her son could have been lost to her had the dog not come to his aid and then led rescuers to the poor boy.

  And she saw Hannah’s distress.

  “I have not seen him since last night, milady,” she replied carefully. “And he didn’t come to the house this morning. Nathan is with his tutor,” she added, waving a gloved hand down the lane toward the village. “Surely he’ll come home when he gets hungry?” she half-asked, hoping to assuage the noblewoman’s concern.

  Even bundled up against the growing chill, Gisborn’s lady was beautiful, Sarah considered. Beautiful in appearance and in spirit. She had been more generous and tolerant than Sarah could ever imagine of a lady of the ton to be. She behaved as if Sarah, as Henry’s first love, had first rights to the man. Did the woman not realize how much Gisborn had grown to care for his wife? He might have required a push in the right direction, but certainly Lady Gisborn was perceptive enough to realize Gisborn felt affection for her.

  Hannah shook her head. “I suppose,” she finally answered, feeling suddenly ridiculous for overreacting to a missing dog. “I apologize. I am keeping you from warmth and tea. Please excuse me,” she begged as she curtsied and hurried off down the lane.

  Sarah watched the countess take her leave as the inn­keeper moved to take her arm and lead her into the dower house. “Do you suppose she loves the dog more than she loves her husband?” Tad McDonald asked in a whisper, a tinge of teasing in his voice.

  His future bride shook her head. “Equally, I should think,” Sarah replied with an arched eyebrow. Realizing Tad was standing aside to allow her to enter the house before him, she stole a glance back at the retreating figure of Lady Gisborn one more time before hurrying into the warm house.

  A young boy, loading bricks into a wooden cart, paused as he saw Lady Gisborn approach him. He bowed rather prop­erly considering his dirty face and muddy breeches. Hannah afforded him a quick curtsy before asking about Harold. “Yeah, I seen him.” The boy pointed in the direction of Gisborn Hall. “Just after luncheon. He was walking out that way. Into that field along the new ir’gation ditch,” he said before returning his attention to the bricks.

  Hannah turned to follow the direction his finger had indicated. “Thank you,” she replied with a nod, feeling a bit of relief in knowing the dog wasn’t headed toward Bampton. That village was nearly two miles away! Trudging back toward Gisborn Hall, Hannah followed the footpath that bordered the eastern irrigation ditch. Dead plants crunched beneath her half-boots as she made her way. Her gaze occasionally scanned the horizon in search of the brown and white hairy beast.

  Her alarm had long since turned to growing annoyance at the missing dog. How could he? He had proven his worth only the afternoon before, and now he had gone and run off and made her worry to the point of nearly being sick. Snow was suddenly falling in large, wet flakes. Unaware of the cold until the moment she noticed the larger snowflakes, Hannah real­ized the sun would soon set and twilight would cause all the colors to turn gray. If she didn’t find Harold before nightfall, she would … what would she do? Cry, certainly. I seem to be doing far too much of that lately, she admonished herself.

  Harold was her best friend, her only friend here at Gis­born Hall. Her girlfriends were married now. In love with their husbands, she thought suddenly, her mind going back to last night when Henry had been so … loving. Her heart clutched just then. Would he ever feel for her what he felt for Sarah? Would he ever only think of her when they made love? Only think of her in the morning when they were in the breakfast room? Only think of her when they were having tea, when he would reach out and give her a quick kiss on the cheek while she poured? He had done that just the day before yesterday. And then Harold had to lift his big, hairy head and regard her poor husband with that look that suggested he had best leave his mistress alone.

  Harold!

  Was that him? She hurried toward a brown and white mass nestled against a small hillock at the far end of the field. Sounds of flowing water came from beyond the hill. The river? she wondered, surprised she had come so far. The river marked the back bord
er of the earl’s lands! This was very close to the place they had found Nathan. Nearly running, she called out Harold’s name. A puff of white cleared from in front of her face when she finally knelt next to the hairy beast. “Oh, Harold, is this where you’ve been all day?” she asked in exasperation, her gloved hand stroking the long hair. “Nathan knows better than to come back here alone,” she chided him.

  When Harold didn’t move, she crawled to where his head rested on the ground. There was no evidence of trauma, no sign he had been hurt. But his body didn’t move. No white puffs appeared near his head. “Oh, Harold, no,” she whispered, tears welling up even before she fully realized what had hap­pened. Why didn’t he move? Why did he come here? He was old, of course. Far older than any dog his size had a right to be. But here? Now? She could not bear to believe Harold was … gone.

  Hannah pulled a glove off her hand, burying her fingers into the downy fur at his neck. He couldn’t have been dead long, she thought. He was still warm. Collapsing onto his body, one hand stroking his ear, she burst into tears. “No,” she cried, a hiccup interrupting her plea. She continued to weep as sobs shook her entire body.

  How could her only friend in the entire world die? Never had she felt so alone. Never had she felt so bereft. She couldn’t remember feeling this much despair when her mother died, but she must have, she thought. Even when a modicum of sense told her she was a countess and shouldn’t be prone on the body of her deceased dog, Hannah continued to cry until exhaustion and cold took their toll. Before long, she fell into a fitful sleep.

  “Pray it doesn’t rain tomorrow, Mrs. Batey,” Henry said with a grin as he allowed his valet to help him remove his greatcoat. “With any luck, we’ll get a better start on the center irrigation ditch.” His nose was a bit red from the chilly air, but he was obviously happy at the progress the team of laborers had made that day on the greenhouses.

  The earl seemed in such good spirits, the housekeeper wondered if she should keep her concern for the countess to herself. But Henry Forster knew something was wrong even before she answered his greeting. “What is it? What’s hap­pened?” he asked, a bit of urgency in his voice.

  Mrs. Batey rung her hands together. “May be nuthin’, milord,” she replied with a shake of her head. “But … Lady Gis­born hasn’t returned. And from the looks of your coat, it’s got­ten even colder out there.” A flurry of snowflakes had sailed off Henry’s coat as Murphy removed it from his shoulders.

  Henry eyed the housekeeper with an arched eyebrow. “Hasn’t returned from … where?” he wondered. Hannah hadn’t said anything about making calls. She didn’t yet know many people in the area. And it was far too cold to be out delivering food to the two infirm women she had made deliveries to just a few days ago.

  “I don’t know,” Mrs. Batey replied, her hands now held out on either side of her plump body. “She was looking for the dog, you see, and when she couldn’t find him in the house, she got dressed for the weather and left. And no one has seen her come back.” The old woman looked as if she was about to cry.

  Panic gripped Henry. If she was with Harold, he wouldn’t be overly concerned about Hannah, but if she was out looking for the dog … where would Harold have gone?

  Sarah’s.

  Henry took his greatcoat from a surprised Murphy and tossed it over his shoulders, the capes swirling as they settled onto his frame. “I think I may know where they’ve gone. Tell Billy to keep my horse saddled, though,” he ordered before hurrying through the vestibule and out the front doors. It would be twilight shortly. Surely Hannah would know enough to come home before darkness settled over the estate, before the cold and snowfall worsened.

  Forcing himself to remain calm, Henry merely walked to Sarah’s house, his strides a bit longer than normal. The win­dows were lit with lamplight, and the chimney emitted a curl of smoke laced with the scent of herbs. Although it was his right to simply enter the dower house, he knocked, calling out Sarah’s name. When she opened the door, a hint of surprise showing on her face, she curtsied. “You haven’t found the dog yet?” she wondered, saying the words before waving him to enter.

  Henry shook his head, realizing just then that Hannah’s search for the dog probably started at the dower house. “Actu­ally, I was looking for Lady Gisborn. Is she here?” he asked, suddenly thinking he sounded like a jealous husband who didn’t want his wife and his lover to socialize.

  Sarah’s eyes widened in alarm. “Oh, Gisborn,” she breathed, one hand going to her chest. Nathan appeared next to her, his face lighting up when he realized his father had come to call.

  “Hello, son,” Henry said as he held out his right hand. The boy took it and shook it firmly.

  “Did Lady Gisborn find Harold?” the boy asked. “Andrew said she was real worried when she asked where he went off to.” There was a hint of excitement in his voice. “I thought he might be here when I got home from my tutor’s, but mum says he didn’t pay us a visit today.”

  “Shush, Nathan,” Sarah said, her hand reaching out to hold onto her son’s shoulder.

  “Where did Harold go off to?” Henry queried, the sensa­tion of panic gripping him again. It would be dark soon. It was getting colder, and more snow was falling.

  “Andrew said he was heading through the field. Like he was going to where I was playing yesterday,” he added with a guilty grin. “Can I come with you?”

  Sarah held onto her son’s shoulder more tightly, her knuckles whitening with the pressure. “You’re staying here, Nathan. I’ll not have you out there in this weather,” she said more to Henry than to her son.

  Before Sarah even finished her statement, Henry took his leave of the dower house and was off at a run, heading back toward the stables. How long had Hannah been gone? If she had found Harold, why wasn’t he back at the house? Or had she stumbled? Hurt her ankle in a rabbit hole? Was she lying in the field somewhere, covered with snow and freezing to death?

  Billy stood holding the reins of his horse, his slight body shivering in the growing gloom. “Good evenin’, guv’nor,” the groom said as Henry acknowledged him with a nod, grabbed the reins and mounted Thunder all in one smooth move. And then he was off, spurring his horse into the field. Despite the grayness of twilight and the slight covering of snow, he could make out the path they had followed through the newly plowed field the day before.

  Occasionally pausing to call out Hannah’s name and scan the horizon for signs of her or Harold, Henry felt his panic turn to fear. What could have happened? He was almost to the river. Certainly she wouldn’t have gone to the river.

  Unless she was running away.

  No, she couldn’t. She wouldn’t leave him. He was sure of that. Not after last night. Not after the night they had spent together. Not after the way she had responded to his kisses, to the way he had made love to her, to the way he had held her afterwards as if she were the most important thing in his world.

  Which she was.

  Barely aware of his last thought, Henry caught sight of an arc of jet black against the stark white of snow that covered the side of the hillock separating the field from the trees at the river’s edge. He slowed his mount, allowing the horse to pick his way carefully to the mound.

  Good, God! He was off his horse and kneeling next to Han­nah even before he was quite sure it was her. One of her hands seemed embedded in something; in the growing darkness, it took him a moment to realize Harold was under her. He pulled her body up and against his, a bit relieved to feel warmth on the front side of her body but aware that her back had been exposed to the cold for some time. “Hannah, my love,” he whispered, his lips seeking her throat. He felt the pulse there and breathed in relief.

  “Harold,” he heard in a faint whisper. Hannah’s eyelids were wet, as if she had been crying. Henry regarded the mass of fur for a moment. Too still to be asleep, Harold lay on his side with his eyes closed. Henry was aware of what must have happened even before he felt the dog for any signs of life. Har­old had
come back to the mound to die. Back to the place very near to where he had rescued Nathan. Where Nathan had nearly died.

  Realizing he could do nothing for the dog, Henry cradled Hannah in his arms. Her eyes were still closed, her body too chilled and her breathing so slight she seemed lifeless. Holding her tightly against the front of his body, he carefully mounted his horse. He wrapped his coat around her as best he could before digging his heels into the horse. The stallion set off at a run, following the path through the field and back to the sta­bles. Without waiting for Billy to claim his horse’s reins, Henry dismounted, clutching Hannah against the front of his body as he did so. And then he was running, running into the house and through the vestibule. He didn’t hear Mrs. Batey gasp or Parkerhouse’s “Dear God” as he passed them.

  “Where’s the largest fire?” Henry demanded, barely slow­ing down as he made his way to the stairs.

  “Lady Gisborn’s room, milord,” Parkerhouse replied as he watched his master take the steps two at a time.

  “I’ll speak with you later,” Henry called down, disappear­ing into Hannah’s room with his wife still bundled in his coat, the hem of her mantle floating beneath. He settled himself into the largest chair in front of the crackling fire, positioning Han­nah so her back was to the flames and her front was nestled against his body. Her arms were encased in his greatcoat, the garment still wrapped tightly around her body. Henry cupped one of her cheeks with his hand, placing it so it rested against his shoulder.

  “Is she ill, my lord?”

  Henry knew he should have expected the housekeeper, but he was still startled at the sound of her voice. “She’s alive,” he answered, surprised at the relief he heard in his voice. “Harold is not, though. Can you have cook make some tea and … and chocolate, please? And have Murphy bring the brandy from the library.” A list of tasks was forming in his mind, but at that moment, he wanted to get Hannah warm and awake. He could find out what had happened later.