by Farr, Diane
"Well, what else are we to do? Our clothes won’t be dry for hours."
"I shall have to sleep in the shed," said Gil gloomily.
"Oh, Gil, no!"
Exasperated, Gil raked a hand through his hair. "There’s only one bed, Clo. I daresay you see nothing wrong with us sharing it!"
She dimpled. "Well, no. Not in any real sense. But I suppose you are right that we ought not."
Gil spluttered wordlessly. Chloe favored him with a kindly smile. "You worry far too much about the proprieties, Gil. After all, there is no one here to frown at us! I suggest we simply take it in turns to sleep. We must keep the fire going, since we are dressed in Barlow’s only sheets and I haven’t found an extra blanket anywhere. So one of us takes the bed, and the other tends the fire. Then, halfway through the night, we trade places."
Gil attempted to argue the point with Chloe, but her steadfast refusal to listen to reason, coupled with his own natural reluctance to bed down in a cow shed, resulted in his eventual capitulation.
He argued far more hotly over her insistence that she take the first watch. It seemed ungentlemanly to him to go to bed while she sat up, but Chloe finally convinced him that she actually preferred to sleep later, when she supposed she would be more tired. So Gil, grumbling, stretched out on the rickety wooden bed in the corner of the room and disposed himself on its straw mattress as comfortably as he could. He was certain he would not be able to sleep a wink, and said so.
And that was the last he remembered until morning.
Chapter 2
Bright daylight assaulted Gil’s closed eyelids. He flung up a sleepy hand to shield them. It must be morning, he decided, his consciousness struggling slowly toward the surface like a diver fighting a strong current. Then a rough hand shook his shoulder and he opened his eyes, startled.
"Aye, you young varmint! You h’ain’t outgrown yer rascally ways, have yer? Get up!"
Gil blinked, disoriented, at the stern face glowering down at him. "Barlow," he uttered at last, recognizing this individual. His bewildered gaze slid past his childhood’s nemesis to the other persons crowding the tiny room. Wiggins, the Littlefields’ groom, was there, and two or three others from Brookhollow. Also two women Gil did not recognize, and Betty Potter, the gossipy crone who was Barlow’s nearest neighbor. Old Betty was the only person present who had anything approaching a smile on her face, but her creased grin struck him as oddly unpleasant. Malicious, even.
Memory rushed back and Gil sat up, horrified. The modest, if ludicrous, diaper arrangement he had created with the bedsheet last night had come undone. He was in Barlow’s bed with his shirt rucked up and his legs tangled anyhow in the sheet, which he was now wearing more like a long kilt than a baby’s nappy. He hastily tugged his shirt down to cover his bare chest.
He glanced round, dazed. Clothing seemed to be strewn all over the cottage. They had made a rather spectacular mess of Barlow’s spare and tidy home. Chloe’s petticoats and Gil’s breeches were displayed prominently across the dinnertable, her riding habit was thrown across the back of one displaced chair and his jacket across the other, and four stockings—two male, two female—dangled from the mantlepiece like Christmas morning. It looked for all the world as if a pair of lovers had hurled their clothing about with reckless abandon and indulged in guilty pleasures on the hearthrug, which was conspicuous as the only bare spot in the room. Two nearly-full tea mugs, side by side on the floor near the hearthrug, advertised the fact that this was where they had spent the majority of the evening. Miss Littlefield was nowhere to be seen.
"Wh-where’s Chloe?" stammered Gil.
Wiggins’ expression became wooden. He stared stoically at the wall. The others exchanged knowing glances.
Barlow’s gimlet gaze seemed to pin the hapless Gil to the bed. "Where, indeed?" he growled. "What’ve you done with her?"
Betty Potter cackled. "I knew ’twas Miss Littlefield, the instant I seen he had a female wi’ him! Didn’t I say as much? Didn’t I?"
"Save your breath to cool your porridge, you knaggy old Gorgon," ordered Barlow, addressing Betty Potter with the rudeness of long-standing acquaintance. To Gil’s bemused surprise, she accepted the snub without a blink. But Barlow immediately returned his scorching glare to Gil. He wilted beneath it.
"Well?" demanded Barlow. "What d’you have to say for yourself? Aye, I know you’re my better, and I ought to keep my place—but if you’ve wronged Miss Littlefield, I’ll see you answer for it or my name’s not Roger Barlow."
Chloe’s clear voice sounded from the doorway. "There is no need for these histrionics. Here I am, safe and sound, as you can all see."
The entire room turned as one to look at her. Gil stared, reluctant admiration causing his lips to twitch in unholy amusement. One had to hand it to her—Chloe Littlefield was full of spunk. She stood serenely in the doorway, regally ignoring the inescapable fact that she was clad in a bedsheet. And only a bedsheet. Her matchless poise also ignored the fact that everyone present must realize where she had been and what undignified errand she had been performing. By Jupiter, she was going to carry this off with a high hand. Good old Chloe! Pluck to the backbone!
"I am very much obliged to all of you for your concern," she said calmly. "Pray step outside now. I would like to dress."
The company seemed stunned to silence. Gil’s shoulders shook as he watched all of them, even Barlow, file out without a word. But then Chloe turned to him and he saw the frantic signal she was sending with her eyes. "Yes, quite right!" he said hastily, scrambling up from the bed. "I’m going."
He scooped up his jacket on his way out the door, holding his linen skirts together with the other hand. It was difficult to walk with the sheet wrapped round his legs. As he shuffled out the door, Chloe closed it firmly on his train. One more step and his makeshift kilt would drop to the floor of Barlow’s tiny porch. Gil halted and stood there foolishly, one hand clutching the linen sheet wound round his legs, the other stuck halfway through one sleeve of his riding jacket. He felt his face flush scarlet.
Wiggins glanced uneasily at him, hesitated, then stepped forward. "Allow me, sir," he said gruffly. He assisted Gil into his jacket, but then walked away without meeting Gil’s eyes or acknowledging his thanks. Well, Gil knew this was serious. He would have to put things right. He cleared his throat self-consciously.
"I daresay you may be wondering what Miss Littlefield and I are doing here," he began.
Another cackle escaped Betty Potter. "No, that we’re not!" She shook with senile mirth at this example of her own wit. Gil eyed her with disfavor.
"Well, whatever you may think, the situation is entirely innocent!" he said hotly. "The only person here to whom I owe an explanation is Barlow. We trespassed on your property, sir, and I knew dashed well it was wrong to do so. We’ll put all to rights, of course—buy you a new set of sheets and all that."
Wiggins blanched. The two women whom Gil had never seen before looked shocked. Barlow actually swore. Gil, suddenly made aware of the unfortunate implications of his offer, was struck speechless with indignation and horror.
"Oh, here, I say!" he gasped. "No, dash it! No! I mean—good God!"
The door opened behind him and Chloe stepped out, chin high, now modestly clad in yesterday’s riding habit. It looked considerably the worse for wear. Gil took the opportunity to duck back into the cottage and scramble into his own clothing. He felt himself to be at a disadvantage, addressing a crowd of disapproving persons while wearing a sheet. On the other hand, leaving Chloe out there to deal with them alone was like throwing her to the lions. Gil was in the habit of spending a great deal of time and thought on his morning dress, but today he made an exception to the rule. He burst back out onto the porch in record time.
The party from Brookhollow was handing Chloe, stocking-footed, into a pony cart. Wager was tied to the back of it. Chloe’s back was ramrod straight, her expression a nice mixture of reproof and hauteur. Her air of outraged martyrdom m
ade her look exactly like an aristocrat stepping into a tumbril for a journey to the guillotine.
Gil hastily snatched up his boots, which were still side-by-side on the porch. "Where are you taking her?" he demanded. "And, I say—that’s my horse!"
"The both of ye are going to Brookhollow, young scamp," Barlow informed him. "Get you in, and not another word!"
Having thus reduced Sylvester Gilliland, that dashing man-about-town, to the status of a naughty schoolboy, Barlow reverted to surly silence. Gil, fuming, hopped into the cart and began pulling on his boots.
"Well, now we have a wolf by the ears!" he grumbled, for Chloe’s ears alone. "Sorry I had to leave you to deal with the howling mob. Couldn’t face ’em down in that dashed toga."
"Pray do not apologize, Gil," said Chloe in a clear and carrying voice. "We have done nothing wrong, and we owe no explanation to these excessively vulgar persons."
He glanced at her apprehensively. The light of battle was flashing in her eyes, and he recognized the stubborn tilt of her chin and the two spots of angry color flaming on her porcelain cheeks. Storm signals.
"Now, Chloe, don’t fly up into the boughs!" he begged her. "We can’t blame these people for jumping to conclusions. Anyone would. But as soon as we’re given half a chance to explain—"
"I see no need to explain! What business is it of theirs, I should like to know? What business is it of anyone’s?"
"Keep your voice down, for God’s sake! You need not answer to the lot that waylaid us at the cottage—"
"No, certainly not!"
"— but your father is another kettle of fish. He’s owed an explanation, Clo, and an apology. From me, at least!" he added hastily, seeing the fury in Chloe’s gaze.
"I do not desire you to apologize! Not to me, and certainly not to Father! Why, Gil, you rescued me! The only shocking thing about this situation is that you are being treated like a—like an abductor! Nothing could be further from the truth! You are my best friend, and anyone acquainted with us ought to know that."
"Aye. But some of those people who ambushed us ain’t acquainted with us. At least, I never saw them before in my life. Who were those two platter-faced women hanging on Barlow’s sleeve?"
"His sister, I believe, and a cousin of some kind."
"I thought you told me his sister was ill?"
"I was mistaken!"
"Well, don’t comb my hair! I imagine we’ll come about. As you say, it’s not likely I’d do you a mischief. And even less likely that you’d let me! If you don’t wish me to apologize, I won’t. As soon as everyone comes down off their high ropes, I daresay they’ll apologize to us."
But this sanguine expectation was not destined to be fulfilled. Waiting for them at Brookhollow were Chloe’s father and Gil’s mother. Both of them had suffered some degree of anxiety when their children failed to return from yesterday’s riding expeditions, and Mr. Littlefield had experienced an exacerbation of alarm when Thunder had returned to Brookhollow bearing an empty saddle. Discovering that his daughter was, in fact, safe and sound had naturally transformed his anxiety into rage.Neither Mr. Littlefield nor Lady Gilliland was prone to vehement expressions of emotion. Nevertheless, there was no doubt in the minds of either Chloe or Gil that their respective parents were profoundly moved. Mr. Littlefield delivered himself of a blistering scold, rendered somehow more terrible through understatement. Chloe visibly wilted under the bite of her father’s sarcasm. This fired Gil’s protective insincts and even roused him to anger, but his spirited defense of Chloe failed. Mr. Littlefield was deaf to all Gil’s arguments, and Chloe was ignominiously banished to her room.
Then it was Gil’s turn. He stood, mutely fuming, as his mother rose majestically to express her extreme displeasure with the conduct of her sole surviving son. She was far more compelling than Mr. Littlefield, especially since her affection for Gil was consistent and strong, whereas Mr. Littlefield’s affection for Chloe was erratic at best. Addressing him as "Sylvester," a name to which he had not voluntarily answered since the day he was old enough to throw a tantrum, Lady Gilliland favored Gil with several home truths, very pithily expressed. He was reduced to speechless chagrin, since he was perfectly aware of the aptness of her remarks. In fact, he agreed with them. He had let the informality of his relationship with Chloe lead him into inappropriate conduct. He had known better. He ought to have made allowance for Chloe’s innocence, and not permitted her to indulge in behavior that would paint a false picture to the world. And it mattered not a jot that he and Chloe had confidently expected their night alone to remain secret.
By the time Gil bowed and left the room, he was scarlet-faced and greatly chastened. Lady Gilliland waited until her son had departed before sending an indulgent smile after him.
"He really is a very good boy," she remarked. "Although it is high time, of course, that he became a man."
She shot an amused glance at Mr. Littlefield. "And Chloe is an excellent young woman. I think they will suit admirably. Do not you?"
She saw the startled uplift of her neighbor’s brows and laughed gently. "My dear Horace, I hope you do not mean to accept the children’s explanation?"
Mr. Littlefield gazed hard at Lady Gilliland, an arrested expression on his aquiline face. "It seemed honest enough."
"Oh, yes! I daresay it is perfectly true. That is the danger, my friend, of rearing them together as playmates. Their relationship has always been completely innocent. I am sure it remains so. I daresay Gil would no more think of ravishing Chloe than he would Tish."
Mr. Littlefield looked shocked. Lady Gilliland smiled. "Come now, Horace! Sir Walter and I have always thought as one on this matter. And we need have no secrets from you, I am sure. May we speak frankly, you and I?"
"By all means." He bowed, and indicated a chair.
Lady Gilliland seated herself gracefully. "Very well. First, let me assure you that Sir Walter and I have a great fondness for your little Chloe. It has always been the dearest wish of my heart that we might, someday, welcome her into our family."
"Aurelia, you surprise me."
"Do I? Not unpleasantly, I hope."
A short silence fell while Mr. Littlefield frowned, unseeing, at Lady Gilliland’s serene smile. "No," he said at last.
"I thought not." She smoothed her gloves delicately, not meeting his eyes. "I am aware that you once had different designs for Chloe’s future, but it seemed to me that you had abandoned those plans in recent years."
Her voice contained a question. She glanced at Mr. Littlefield and received a curt nod in answer to it.
"Yes," he said gruffly. There was bitterness in his expression. "I still believe Chloe might have married as high as she chose. But we won’t speak of that. I was very displeased with her. Very."
Lady Gilliland adopted what she hoped was a sympathetic expression. She had strong opinions on the subject of Horace Littlefield’s gross mismanagement of his marriage, his property, and his daughter, but expressing them now would hardly serve her ends.
"You are well aware of Gil’s circumstances, Horace, so I see no need to enumerate them for you. His birth is not noble, of course, but the baronetcy will one day be his, and his fortune is far from contemptible. There can be no doubt that he holds Chloe in considerable affection. I feel sure he would make her an admirable husband."
Mr. Littlefield rose and took a turn about the room, his hands clasped tightly behind his back. "Pray do not take it amiss, Aurelia, if I seem a trifle—astonished. The notion of an alliance between our families has simply never occurred to me."
"Well, now that we have broached the idea, I hope you will give it your serious consideration. It’s my belief there are advantages to the match on both sides. But I must say, I never expected such an opportunity to—er—fall into our laps. I think we ought not to let it slip past us. Chloe and Gil have such a strongly established friendship, you know, that such a moment might never arise again."
She waited, covertly watching her neigh
bor’s face. He was thinking furiously, and she could guess the direction of his thoughts. After a moment, she added softly: "Naturally, Sir Walter is prepared to discuss a handsome settlement."
Mr. Littlefield’s eyes focused keenly on hers. He uttered a short, mirthless laugh. "Is he? Well, that’s fair. That’s only fair."
It seemed to her that Mr. Littlefield’s breath quickened. He even licked his lips. She looked away in distaste. Horace Littlefield had always been a mercenary creature. One felt for him, of course, left dependent on Chloe by the terms of his late wife’s will—really, a shocking arrangement!—but Aurelia was much inclined to think that a man who so blatantly married for money deserved his fate.
Still, Chloe was a very dear girl and it would be a pleasure to rescue her from the oppressive life she led at Brookhollow. And the Littlefield property would round out Gil’s estate nicely. If Sir Walter had to pay through the nose to purchase an independence for Horace Littlefield, so be it. Chloe would bring ample funds into the family coffers to replace whatever they had to give Horace. Aurelia made a mental note: they must give Horace enough money to enable him to leave the neighborhood entirely. Otherwise he would doubtless set up a local mistress and continue to make Chloe miserable. Chloe had borne enough.
"I shall ask Sir Walter to call on you," she announced, gathering up her reticule and tippet and preparing to depart.
Mr. Littlefield, still frowning slightly, clasped her hand briefly in farewell. It was difficult, Lady Gilliland supposed, for him to discard his dreams of a noble marriage for his only child. But unless Chloe’s hand were forced, it was quite possible she would never marry at all. She had certainly been adamant on the issue, the only other time it had arisen.
At the door, Aurelia offered her host a gracious smile. "If the three of us—you, my husband, and myself—act in concert, I have every hope that we can turn this situation to good account."
She recognized the avaricious gleam in Mr. Littlefield’s eyes and the rather obsequious bow he gave her. Horace’s greed would always trump his lesser emotions, she thought cynically.