by Sandra Heath
‘All right? My dear, this house is your house, you’re at liberty to do as you please. Of course you may ride. I’d come with you were it not that my riding days are long since over. But you shall not go entirely alone, I’ll send Hengist and Horsa with you, they’ll protect you.’
Hearing their names, the dogs padded over to him, resting their heads on his lap while he stroked them.
An hour later, accompanied by the hounds and with the sun high in the sky, she rode down through the park, her mustard-yellow riding habit – once destined for the Countess of Effingham – a bright splash of color against the fresh green all around her.
She rode toward the cliffs above the private beach, reining in for a moment to look down at the waves breaking on the rocks and shingle. The taste of salt was on her lips, and the breeze fluttered the little plumes springing from her beaver hat. Hengist and Horsa waited beside her.
Something, she didn’t know what, made her look toward the wooded river valley to the south of the park. For the briefest of seconds she thought she saw a man on a large chestnut horse but then he’d gone, melting so quickly back into the trees that she thought she must have imagined him.
She didn’t give him any more thought, remaining on the cliffs for a little longer before turning her horse southward and cantering toward the woods, Hengist and Horsa loping beside her. She little realized the danger that lay ahead as she rode innocently into the cool shade of the trees.
26
As Louisa rode slowly through the woods at Highclare, the Rowe landau was driving smartly out of the villa gates and down the lane toward Cowes, conveying Lord and Lady Rowe to watch the race.
Thea wore a matching pelisse and gown of salmon-pink sprigged muslin, but although the color was cheerful, her face was pale and anxious behind the veil attached to her little hat. A gaily fringed pagoda parasol was held stiffly above her head, and her whole figure was tense. On his return, Rowe had immediately made it plain that he knew all about her infidelity with Kit and was going to punish her severely. Without warning, her position was as precarious as Louisa’s had so recently been, and the specter of ruin was staring her in the face.
Rowe had threatened her with divorce, but for the moment it was a suspended sentence, held over her like the sword of Damocles. Immediately after the regatta she was to be banished to his remote estate in Scotland, a place far removed from any social life, and she was to remain there for an unspecified time to dwell upon the awfulness of her fate should he finally decide to publicly cast her off. It was a dreadful prospect for one who’d always reveled in the luxury and excitement of high society, and for Thea it was a particularly ironic sentence, for too late she was conscious of what she’d willfully thrown away when she turned Kit down. Now the scandal and downfall she’d dreaded so much then were looming ominously before her anyway, and without the prospect of riding out the storm with Kit at her side, for Louisa Cherington was his wife now, a fact upon which Rowe did not hesitate to cruelly play. It gave him savage satisfaction to see how afraid she was of his vengeance, and how bitter at her lover’s unexpected marriage. It also gave him pleasure to see how desperate she’d been when first he’d faced her with her unfaithfulness. She’d wept and begged him to forgive her, promising him eternal fidelity from now on, but he’d laughed coldly in her face, telling her that her fate would remain in the balance until he saw fit to decide.
The first houses of the town appeared ahead, and Thea gazed blindly at them, the parasol now twisting with a bravado she didn’t feel. Fleetingly her thoughts turned from herself to Kit. She knew that Rowe had something dreadful planned for the man who’d dared to make love to her, and that whatever it was was timed to take place very soon, but that was all she knew. She trembled inside, but already Kit had faded from her mind as she thought anew of her new future.
Rowe sat beside her, his face cold and set. His dark-green coat had been placed carefully around his shoulders, because his arm now hurt too much to put it on properly. His legs, encased in cream cord trousers, were stretched out on the seat opposite, and the tassels on his Hessian boots swung to and fro to the motion of the carriage. He’d pulled his top hat forward on his head, so that his face was in shadow, but the thin line of his mouth and the grim set of his jaw were only too plain to see. A pale light shone in his eyes as he contemplated the imminent extinction of Christopher, Lord Highclare; if all went as planned, within twenty-four hours his hated rival would be no more. It had to be twenty-four hours, his own weak physical condition dictated the timing. He needed a day to recover his strength after the rigors of sailing from London. A plague on Tom Cherington’s soul, for it was his fault that Highclare’s consignment to perdition must be put off for another day. The Spindrift and her accursed master had to be allowed a stay of execution before they met the same end as the Mercury and the Eleanor. He smiled as he thought of the Eleanor, for Grantham’s prized yacht was now at the bottom of Cowes Roads, having met with a strange accident in the misty dawn, and so the long-anticipated race would have to be abandoned. But the racing fraternity wouldn’t be denied a race, for the Spindrift was about to acquire a new challenger, one much more lethal than the Eleanor – the Cyclops.
The landau rattled down through the streets of Cowes, emerging at last onto the quay. The cobbled area was crowded, for every fashionable soul on the island had gathered for the race preparations. The Duke of Gloucester and Princess Sophia had deigned to put in an appearance before being taken out to their corvette, and were seated in an open carriage outside the Mermaid Inn, sipping the hostelry’s very finest coffee, brought deferentially out to them by the landlord himself.
Thea looked at the crowd and then glanced to where the two yachts should have been moored. The Spindrift was in her accustomed place, but of the Eleanor there wasn’t a sign. Thea’s brows drew together in puzzlement.
Rowe’s coachman had instructions to drive as close to the Spindrift as possible, and as he slowly maneuvered the restive team through the crowd, snatches of very strange conversation carried to Thea.
‘Damned peculiar show, eh?’ one gentleman was saying. ‘The whole damned Solent to choose from, and the damned wherryman has to barge into the Eleanor!’
‘She went down without a murmur, just her buoy left to show where she’d been.’
‘Grantham’s in a fine old stew; she cost him a small fortune.’
‘Sank like a stone, dear boy, but then those in the Highclare camp claim she sailed like one.’
‘The wherry’s master looks sick, as well he might; he’s just managed to dispatch one of England’s best yachts to Davy Jones’ locker! The fellow swears he doesn’t know how it happened; he says his vessel was made fast and couldn’t have slipped her moorings like that. But it happened, we’ve the Eleanor’s empty place to prove it.’
Thea listened with growing unease, for one glance at her husband’s face had been enough to tell her that he knew rather more about the mysterious loss of the Eleanor than anyone else on the quay. Her disquiet increased as the landau halted by the Spindrift and Rowe’s icy gaze was directed at Kit, who was on deck talking to Charles Pelham and a very agitated Lord Grantham.
The landau had come to a halt beside the Grantham barouche and Lady Grantham leaned across immediately to speak to Thea above the general buzz of excited conversation. ‘My dear, isn’t it all a terrible tragedy?’
‘What’s happened? Is the Eleanor… ?’
‘Sunk, my dear. Apparently she went down in less than a minute. A wretched wherry came adrift and collided with her.’
‘Oh, dear,’ said Thea lamely, ‘how dreadful.’
Lady Grantham nodded, glancing at her husband. ‘Poor Thomas is quite cut up about it. He treasured that yacht, and he was so looking forward to taking Kit Highclare on. Mais, c’est la vie, n’est-ce pas?’
Thea gave a weak smile, glad of her veil. Her glance slid again to study her husband. He was lounging back on his seat, his good hand resting protectively over the wrist of his wounded
arm, and in that split second she knew beyond a doubt that he was directly responsible for the loss of the Eleanor. But why had he done it? What possible purpose could such an act serve?
At that moment Charles Pelham became aware of the Rowe landau. He removed his hat and sketched a bow. Kit turned quickly, his shrewd glance taking in Thea’s veil before coming to rest on Rowe’s cold visage. He inclined his head briefly before returning his attention to the disconsolate Lord Grantham, who stood with his hands thrust deep into his pockets.
Rowe sat slowly forward, raising his voice so that he could be heard above the crowd. ‘Grantham, I gather the race is off.’
‘It is.’
‘An idiot with a wherry, I believe.’
‘Damn his eyes.’
Rowe tilted his hat back so that the glitter in his eyes was suddenly clearly visible as he looked at Kit. ‘Highclare, I don’t think these good people should be denied their race, so I’ve an interesting proposition to put to you.’
The words caused an immediate hush, and Kit turned, his glance suddenly much more guarded.
Rowe gave a chill smile. ‘I challenge you, Highclare. I’ll take you on tomorrow, when my arm has had a chance to recover a little. A race around the island, just as we did before.’
‘Correction, Rowe, just as you did before. I wasn’t racing you when you managed to put the Mercury on those rocks, you did it all by yourself.’
Rowe’s eyes flickered with intense dislike. ‘That’s your version. I prefer the truth. However, we digress. I’ve issued a challenge, Hichclare. Do you accept or not? I don’t think you can refuse, can you? We have so much to settle.’
Everyone assumed he was still referring to the Mercury, and perhaps to Tom Cherington’s untimely death, but Kit knew better. Suddenly he understood why Thea was wearing a veil; Rowe knew about their affair.
Rowe was looking inquiringly at him. ‘What do you say, Highclare? Do we have a race? Or are you too craven to take me on?’
Some gasps and a quiver of anticipation rippled through the crowd, and even the duke and princess sat forward eagerly.
Faced with such a challenge, there was little Kit could do but accept. His honor was at stake. He nodded. ‘We have a race, sir.’
A great cheer went up, for suddenly there was the certain prospect of a race much more exciting and hazardous than the one lost forever with the Eleanor.
Amid the noise, Kit stepped ashore and came over to the landau. ‘What are you up to, Rowe?’ he asked, his voice carrying to those in the carriage, but inaudible to everyone else because of the general hubbub.
Rowe was smoothly sure of himself. ‘Up to? I don’t know what you’re talking about, Highclare. I’ve merely done the spirited thing and challenged you to a race. Don’t tell me that after accepting so very publicly, you’ve had second thoughts and have turned coward.’
‘I haven’t had second thoughts, but I suggest that you do if you’ve any notion of trying anything underhand tomorrow.’
Rowe sat back, a taut smile curving his thin lips. ‘Tell me, where is your charming bride?’
‘I’m sure you don’t really want to know.’
‘On the contrary, I’m very interested. You see, if she’s out at Highclare, she’ll be receiving a visitor. Lawrence has ridden there just to see her, and I’m sure she’ll be delighted. But, then, you know all about that, don’t you?’ Rowe rapped his cane on the floor of the landau. ‘Drive on.’
The landau pulled away, and Thea didn’t dare look back at Kit, although she longed to. She wanted him, but she wanted her high-society life of luxury and plenty still more, and she’d do all that was necessary to keep her place at Rowe’s side.
Kit remained where he was on the quay. His eyes were dark and angry. If he returned to Highclare now, would he find Louisa in Lawrence’s arms?
27
As talk of the new race took over on the quay at Cowes, Louisa was still enjoying her ride at Highclare. With Hengist and Horsa still beside her, she rode slowly along the bank of the river in the wooded valley to the south of the park. Through the trees on the other side of the water, marking the boundary of Highclare, there was a high perimeter wall beyond which she couldn’t see.
The river was clear, with fish darting in the sun-dappled water, and the banks were fringed with ferns that dipped so low they almost trailed in the current. There were ferns everywhere, cool and feathery beneath a canopy of oak trees, and she knew that in the spring it would be a place of bluebells. A blackbird was singing its heart out, and a kingfisher darted over the surface of the water, a vivid speck of bright blue that was gone in a moment.
Louisa gave only a little thought to the horseman she’d glimpsed earlier – if glimpse him she had – although from time to time she glanced around, wondering if maybe he’d been an estate worker, a gamekeeper perhaps.
A rustic bridge spanned the river ahead where the valley ended and the wooded land flattened, and the two pointers suddenly ran toward it, crossing over and vanishing among the oak trees on the far side. She saw them again as she reached the bridge. They were moving along a broad ride that had been cut through the trees, and at the far end of this unexpectedly open area she saw that there were some wrought-iron gates set into the perimeter wall. Through them she could just see a flat expanse of marshy creek, with the Solent itself in the distance.
Kicking her heel, she urged her mount across the bridge toward the gates. She only meant to peep through, thinking that such gates were bound to be kept locked, but as she reached them, Hengist and Horsa began to dance around excitedly, as if waiting to be let through, and she realized that simply by sliding a bolt across, she could open the gates and go out onto the marsh.
As the gates swung open, the two dogs dashed out into the wide openness beyond, immediately picking up a scent and setting off along a narrow spit of land between two withy-edged fingers of water creeping in from the sea. The flocks of seabirds on the marsh were startled by the hounds’ sudden appearance, and rose as one into the sky, filling the air with their noise.
For a moment Louisa hesitated by the gates, something again making her glance back into the woods, but there wasn’t anything to be seen, only the gentle motion of the oak leaves as they stirred in the light breeze. She rode out then, watching the dogs until they vanished from sight among the withies. If she’d glanced down at the ground, she’d have seen fresh hoofprints that showed she hadn’t been the first that morning to open and close the gates; she’d also have seen that the other horse had entered Highclare, not left it.
She followed a barely perceptible path that told of firm, safe land. It led down toward a wider expanse of creek, where an isthmus of land reached out into the water, ending at an ancient medieval chapel by a landing stage. The tide was in, so there weren’t any disfiguring mud banks, just the inlets of water and the reeds and flowers of the marsh.
The seabirds continued to wheel and twist noisily in the air. Hengist and Horsa were giving voice somewhere in the distance, but she couldn’t see them. She reached the chapel and dismounted, tethering the horse to the tamarisks that had been planted there in times gone by as a windbreak, then she went to sit on the landing stage, to rest for a while before riding back to the house.
The marsh was colorful. Bright-yellow purslane was washed by the high tide, and blue-purple sea asters nodded in the breeze. The startled birds were beginning to settle again now, their noise dying away so that she could just hear the dogs, invisible on the marsh as they still followed the scent. She gazed at the glittering water where it lapped among the reeds, each gentle surge of the tide making a bed of pink sea lavender sway in unison.
How long she’d been sitting there she didn’t know. It was all so peaceful and beautiful that she felt quite relaxed, able to think about all that had happened to her. But even as she reflected on her feelings for Kit and how she could possibly emerge victorious against a rival like Thea, the birds suddenly rose in another alarmed cloud, their wings flapping and
their cries splitting the quiet. Something had frightened them again. But what? She hadn’t heard Hengist or Horsa returning; indeed, they’d been silent for several minutes.
Slowly she got up. Something was wrong. Suddenly she sensed that there was someone behind her, and she turned with a sharp gasp. The horseman she’d seen earlier was by the chapel, an unpleasant smile on his lips as he savored the fact that he had her alone and trapped. It was Geoffrey Lawrence.
He dismounted, tethering his horse next to hers and then coming toward her, the braiding on his uniform gleaming in the sunlight. Halting at the beginning of the landing stage and thus blocking her escape, he sketched a mocking bow. ‘We meet again, Miss Cherington. Ah, forgive me, I keep forgetting that it’s Lady Highclare now.’
‘Please leave me alone.’ Her heart was racing with fear.
‘I’m merely passing the time of day, my lady,’ he replied.
‘Wh-why have you come here?’
‘To see you.’
‘I don’t want to see you, sir. I don’t want to have anything more to do with you. Please allow me to pass.’ Her riding crop clutched tightly in her hand, she went slowly toward him, her glance moving nervously toward her tethered horse. It seemed so very far away. He stood squarely in her path, and she had no hope of passing him. ‘Please stand aside, sir,’ she demanded.
‘Ah, the voice of authority. My, my, so recently a mere governess, but now a lady of quality. How the pendulum doth swing.’
‘Please stand aside,’ she said again. Her fingers clenched over the riding crop, although she knew it was a very feeble weapon against a man like him. But it was all she had.…
He toyed with her. ‘By all means,’ he murmured, pretending to stand to one side.
It was a chance she had to take. Gathering her cumbersome skirt, she made to dash by, but he seized her wrist, throwing her roughly on the springy grass just beyond the landing stage and then pinning her down bodily by flinging himself on top of her.