Time After Time

by Elizabeth Boyce

  Next, she tore through the blankets she’d slept on, hoping against hope to find the necklace tucked in their folds. Nothing again. She traced her steps to the blacksmith’s, through the breeding paddock, inside the granary.

  And then she remembered falling back in the cushioned chair when she visited Hugh in the library. She took a sharp breath. Somehow, some way, I’ve got to get into that room.

  Wracking her brain for a reason a stable hand would have for being admitted to the library, Ellie mounted the stairs to the stone façade of Cowick Hill. Lank stood at the top of the stair, poised to lift the knocker. She tried to back away, but her boots ground on the stone path. He turned and saw her.

  “Toby,” he said. “Ah, no, it’s Lady Ellie. I correct myself.”

  “Mr. Lank.”

  “What are you doing here?”

  “I might ask the same of you, sir.”

  “And what an interesting costume you have on. I wasn’t aware you dressed in Toby’s clothes … off Fairland’s premises.”

  Ellie’s tongue glued itself to her teeth. “Actually, I’m training Manifesto for Lord Davenport,” she blurted. “You know perfectly well the horse can’t be handled by anyone but me. You abused that animal so no man can touch him.”

  “And is his lordship aware of your true sex?”

  Ellie’s cheeks grew hot. “Of course.”

  “Still, he permits you to ride?”

  “He does permit me, Mr. Lank,” she retorted, anger replacing caution, “as any man with common sense would. Manifesto is a better horse with me aboard.”

  “We’ll see about that.”

  “You? You’ll see nothing of the kind. You’ve done enough damage to that stallion already. Papa may have his head stuck in a book, but Lord Davenport will listen. Of that you can be sure.”

  “Since you no longer own the beast, you can be sure of nothing, Miss Ellie.”

  “Good day, Mr. Lank,” she said, pushing past him. She lifted the brass knocker and landed it hard on the door.

  If he exposed her, which she had no doubt he would, what could she say to Hugh? He’d want his expensive new horse trained, and would probably be willing to overlook her sex to do it. But if he learned of her father’s title, he wouldn’t permit her to ride astride. She looked over her shoulder. Lank watched.

  The butler, a solid brick of a man with no neck, not a hair on his head, and shoulders the size of a bull stood in the door. “You wish to see a member of the family, good sirs?” the butler said.

  Ellie nodded curtly. “Yes, I’d like an audience with Lord Davenport, at once.”

  “As would I,” Lank barked.

  “I’m sorry to disappoint you both,” said the butler. “His lordship is not at home this morning.”

  “Oh,” said Ellie. “So sorry. I’ll see him another time.”

  “Would you like to leave a message?”

  “Yes, I would.” She stepped into the front hall.

  “I’ll return later,” Lank told the butler, a greedy smile bending his colorless lips.

  Ellie’s stomach clenched. “I’ll write him right now.”

  The butler gaped in wide-eyed surprise.

  “Well, not every lad wot rides a horse is ignorant as a pauper’s son,” she said in irritable cockney.

  “Hmm,” replied the butler. Keeping a watchful eye, he produced a quill and sheet of paper from a side table drawer.

  “I’d like to write me note in privacy,” she told him, taking a few forceful strides toward the library door. A powerful grip on her jacket collar halted her in her tracks.

  “Stable boys write in the hall,” the butler told her. “The library’s for gentry.”

  “It’s a message for his lordship’s eyes only,” Ellie replied sternly. But the butler wasn’t put off.

  “Have a seat on the bench there, laddie. Those with manure on their boots sit in the hall.”

  “Turn your head then, mate. I’ll not have you spying over me shoulder.” Ellie smacked her piece of paper down on an elegant side table by the library door.

  “Use the bench,” the butler growled.

  She stomped to the bench, plopped down, and tried to focus through her agitation.

  Dear Lord Davenport, she began her note, The Albrights were quite upset when I told them I’d accepted employment elsewhere. Lord James Albright has threatened to sue. They tell me you are having a house party, and the Albright daughters are invited. If it’s all the same, I’d like to stay out of sight while the daughters are here. We can still work with Manifesto, but I think it’s best if we meet only in the early morning. Sincerely, Toby Coopersmith.

  Chapter Five

  Colors swam before Ellie’s eyes. If only everyone would stand still, she thought, feeling a bit seasick. The glasses blurred all objects more than a few feet away.

  She and her sisters were gathered in the drawing room with the other houseguests for introductions and champagne before dinner.

  Hugh’s face emerged from the miasma. “And you are?” he asked.

  “Miss Ellie Albright. It’s an honor to meet you, my lord.”

  He peered more closely at her. “Have we met before?”

  “At the Mortimers’ ball,” Ellie said. “And you met my sisters Lady Peggity and Miss Claire there as well.” The three white blond, blue-eyed sisters curtseyed together.

  “Yes, now I remember,” replied Hugh, looking baffled.

  “Look, almost a complete set of Albrights, how lovely!” a new voice interrupted. Even with undersea vision, Ellie recognized Poultney Bigalow. All the years she’d known him he’d had the same meager poof of blond hair, vivid pink cheeks, and well-rounded tummy. “Lady Ellie, is that you behind the turtle?” he inquired, inspecting her glasses.

  “My eyes are going through a transitional period, according to the doctor,” Ellie explained.

  “I’d say they’re experiencing a complete metamorphosis. Algie, come see Miss Ellie’s aphid impression,” Poultney said, summoning Algernon Swift.

  Ellie tsked in vexation. “Algie, tell Lord Bigalow to behave.”

  “My dear, have you ever thrown a rock into the sea?”

  “Upon occasion.”

  “Then you understand the nature of futility.”

  “Lord Monroe,” Hugh said, addressing a tall, serious looking young man. “I’d like to introduce Lord Flavian Monroe, Viscount of Bourne. I already have a favor to ask. These are the Albright sisters, Lady Peggity, and Miss Ellie and Claire. Can you rescue them from these ruffians?”

  “Don’t let these louts fret you,” said Flavian, with just a dash of twinkle.

  “We’ve consciously decided not to be offended.” Claire smiled, and Flavian’s grave demeanor cracked for a pleased moment.

  A woman Ellie had mistaken for a window drapery joined the group. “Do you not normally wear glasses?” she asked.

  Hugh gestured toward the young lady. “Miss Rosemarie Philapot is an acquaintance of my mother’s. I believe Mama said she found you in a house of good repute.”

  Miss Philapot tipped her pretty head back and trilled. Her laugh soared up the scale, took a little turn, and dipped back into a delicate dive.

  Offering her hand, Ellie said, “It’s a pleasure to meet you.”

  “Papa owns a factory in Spitalfields,” Miss Philapot explained. “He manufactures wool. Hundreds of yards of it — maybe even thousands.

  “So, you’re the Albright girls,” she continued. “It’s nice to make your acquaintance. You recently came into your uncle’s estate. Is that right?”

  “That’s so,” said Claire.

  “We adore Fairland,” Peggity chimed in. “It’s been the family seat for centuries. Fifteen thousand acres, you can imagine how large a seat that is.”


  Claire blushed and Poultney choked on his champagne.

  “For all its size,” said Algie archly, “I’m sure every hill on your family seat is magnificent.”

  Rosemarie giggled. “Really, you boys are the funniest.”

  Hugh moved next to Ellie in a not-so-subtle attempt to distance himself from Rosemarie. His nervous energy, his power, surprised Ellie, and made her uncomfortable. For her family’s sake, however, she disciplined herself not to move away. “I don’t mean to change the subject from Algie’s attempt at humor, but to change the subject,” Ellie said, “I’ve heard Napoleon Bonaparte is ill on Saint Helena’s Island. He’s complaining bitterly about his treatment by the English.”

  George Pitt, who had been tinkering with the keys of the pianoforte until Ellie mentioned Napoleon, now wedged between Flavian Monroe and Hugh. George’s twin sister, Hester, timidly looked over his shoulder. The pair blinked behind matching spectacles. “I assure you, we feed Napoleon nicely,” George said. “He and his staff daily receive forty kilos of meat, nine chickens, and seventeen bottles of wine.”

  “Why is he sick then?” asked Claire.

  “It’s not England’s doing, I assure you,” George stated.

  “George would know.” Lord Monroe explained to Rosemarie. “He and Hester are cousins of our former prime ministers, William Pitt the Older and Younger.”

  George nodded at Rosemarie but continued his tale. “A man acting as Napoleon’s secretary is suspected of adding arsenic to his wine. We can’t prove anything, and Napoleon won’t hear of the man’s dismissal. No one else will stay with him in exile — not his wife, not his mistress, Josephine, and no one in his family. He’s the most unpleasant man on Earth.”

  “God bless England for putting him in harm’s way,” Poultney exclaimed.

  “Hear, hear!” cried Algie.

  “Oh, I hope they’re not planning to bring him to England,” Rosemarie chimed in, dipping her red curls toward Poultney. “I’m sure I would be frightened to death to see Napoleon in person.”

  “If he’s under guard, I can’t imagine that he could do any harm,” Ellie said.

  “Oh, Miss Ellie, you’ve got that masculine trait that makes you so much braver than I. Seeing a ruthless dictator like Napoleon, I’m sure, would still come as a shock to my system.”

  Determined not to be outdone by Rosemary’s feminine wiles, Ellie gushed, “Well, my system would be shocked at seeing Joseph Fouché, Napoleon’s infamous minister of police. I’ve heard he was personally responsible for the execution of thousands.”

  “We have a Devon connection to that devil Fouché,” George said.

  Poultney’s brows shot up. “Do tell.”

  “Our own Baron Wadsworth was one of Fouché’s spies.”

  A look of fear passed between Ellie and her sisters.

  “By Jove, I just saw that rascal at the auction the other day,” Hugh interjected. “I thought he’d been banished for murdering someone.”

  George nodded. “He was, but he escaped to France where he and Fouché struck up an acquaintance. Fouché turned against Napoleon and asked Wadsworth to get in touch with his British cronies. It was Wadsworth who fed us information that helped defeat Napoleon at Waterloo.”

  “By gad.” Poultney whistled.

  Claire clutched her throat. “So Baron Wadsworth has the backing of the Prince Regent?”

  “Most assuredly,” George confirmed. “The prince just gave him fifty thousand acres of prime hunting grounds here in Devon. Wadsworth is building twenty-three miles of stone wall around it for a new horse farm.”

  “Then I shall reserve my screams for Baron Wadsworth,” Ellie said, trying to sound flippant, though her throat tightened.

  Hugh folded his arms and grimaced. “Well bred women startle easily. They’re the opposite of horses.”

  Detecting scorn in his voice, Ellie said, “Are you implying that ladies fake their emotions?”

  “Generally women of the lower classes are more honest with their feelings,” Hugh continued, looking with barely disguised disapproval at Ellie, her sisters, and finally Rosemarie. “In society, a woman’s arsenal of weapons is limited. So she is constantly resorting to fluttering eyelashes, giddy conversation, and faked crises.”

  About to argue the point, Ellie’s thoughts scattered when she heard someone behind her clear their throat. Hugh turned and gasped. The rest of the company followed his glance. Ellie, seeing only a moving blob of color, forgot herself and whipped off her glasses.

  Lady Davenport stood dramatically in the door, her right hand clutching the doorframe. She’d had her hair elaborately knotted, and girlish ringlets framed her wrinkled face. Her more than generous breasts, exposed by a plunging neckline and enhanced by diamonds, dominated her domineering presence. “Honored guests,” she said, aiming the mounds of flesh at the company, “I’d like you all to meet Captain Chase Hart.”

  A compactly built man stepped into the doorframe. His shoulders and arms bulged against the expensive fabric of a blue waistcoat. Thick, black Byronesque curls cascaded down his forehead, and his eyes, a piercing hazel, sized up the company like an arrogant collector appraising merchandise.

  “Hugh, you remember Chase from Oxford, don’t you? He’s Baron Wadsworth’s nephew.” The hair rose on the back of Ellie’s neck. Peggity touched her hand.

  “How are you doing, old chap?” said Chase. “I remember you and I indulging ourselves on a few interesting evenings.”

  “Ah, yes,” Hugh said. “Some of those nights were gone from memory by morning.”

  “We did get a tad bosky in the pubs then, didn’t we?”

  “We were just talking about your uncle,” Poultney interrupted genially. “It appears he’s taking up permanent residence in Devon.”

  “My uncle,” Chase replied, rolling the words in his mouth like a sour piece of candy, “is back in spades.”

  A pall settled over the company. Lady Davenport emitted a strained chuckle.

  The butler appeared. “Dinner is served,” he said, much to Ellie’s relief.

  “Shall we all go in now?” Lady Davenport cooed. “Captain Hart, you may accompany me.”

  “I’ll accompany you, too,” Hugh said, pivoting his mother toward the door. But Lady Davenport brushed him off.

  “It’s quite all right,” she said, “I’m sure Captain Hart and I will do just fine on our own.” She took Chase’s arm and swung her chest like a loose gate toward the dining room. As if commanded by a hand gesture, Ellie and the rest of the guests filed from the drawing room.

  • • •

  At dinner Lady Davenport sat Ellie next to Hugh. Ellie hoped she could make up for the disaster of their first conversation, but after all that business about women faking emotions, she hardly felt up to the task.

  Silently she cursed Claire for making her promise to marry the blackguard. Then resolving to be brave, she cleared her throat and asked, “Have you been part of the negotiations in London concerning future trade with France?”

  “I was there and I did participate,” Hugh replied, deliberately putting a fork full of food into his mouth and chewing.

  “Are our merchants concerned about French competition?”

  Before answering her, Hugh took a gulp of wine. “I will say that the women who care about such things are very eager to access French fashions once again.”

  “They do make lovely things,” Ellie said.

  “So I’ve learned.” Hugh turned back to his meal and raised a forkful of turbot to his lips.

  Ellie hoped he would say something more. Instead, he moved his attention toward his mother and Chase Hart, feigning interest in their chatter.

  What an insufferable bore, Ellie thought. She envied Rosemarie Philapot, who sat between Algie and Poultney. At least they
were amusing.

  Steeling her courage, Ellie decided to make another attempt at conversation. “Those are magnificent diamonds your mother is wearing.”

  Hugh looked at her in horror. Turning away, he said, “Miss Hester, are you enjoying the Yorkshire pudding?”

  Hester turned red as a beet. “Am I eating too much?”

  “Not at all,” Hugh responded, looking more uncomfortable than ever.

  “The partridge is excellent as well,” Ellie added. But Hugh continued to avert his gaze. “Miss Hester, may I pass you some ham?”

  Hester’s frightened eyes traveled to her brother.

  “Thank you, Lord Davenport,” George said, “I believe my sister would like a bite of ham.”

  A footman raced to the table and sliced a hunk off the suckling pig lying on a silver platter in the center.

  “I’m glad you offered ham to Miss Hester,” Ellie said to Hugh’s back. “It’s quite delicious.”

  His large shoulders shrugged sullenly, and he went back to eating.

  Ellie gave up trying to talk to him. It was easier to tame Old Nell than coax a word from the brute.

  The cooked head of the pig attracted her attention. Its vacant eye sockets seemed to stare at her. Ellie picked up a forkful of pork and purposefully chewed. At least the conversation is more interesting than with the man sitting next to me, she silently told the pig.

  A servant padded into the dining room and whispered into Hugh’s ear.

  “What is it, dear?” said Lady Davenport.

  “Just some business with the horses,” Hugh said, pushing back his chair and excusing himself.

  Cold flushed through Ellie’s veins. It had to be Lank. She prayed she could keep her guilty cheeks from turning pink. Concentrating all her attention on the pig, she tried to remember how to breathe.

  • • •

  “Beg pardon, your lordship,” Lank said, standing in the front hallway. “I’ve come on a bit of business I think you’ll find interesting.”

  “If it’s about Baron Wadsworth’s preoccupation with Manifesto, the answer remains, no, I will not sell.”

  “Well, the Baron is feeling a bit put out. If it hadn’t been for that surly lout interrupting the proceedings, you two would still be bidding.”