Jack of Hearts

by Marjorie Farrell

  She and Anne had done a little decorating, but the tradition at Heriot Hall was a more austere holiday than Sarah had ever liked, so she woke up on Christmas Eve morning determined to ride over to a small spinney to cut a little holly.

  “Would you tell Patrick that I will be riding this morning?” she told Peters when she came down for breakfast.

  Sarah gazed out the window. It was a gray day, and the sun was only a dim disk hidden behind a veil of clouds. She couldn’t tell if it would succeed in fighting its way through, but it didn’t seem that more snow was imminent.

  When she finished her breakfast, she walked down to the stable yard where Patrick had her mare and his own gelding saddled. She would have liked to ride alone for once, but she’d need his help to bring back the evergreens.

  “I wanted to ride over to the little wood to collect some holly, Patrick. In my family we celebrated Christmas more festively than the Heriots.”

  Patrick fetched clippers and a sack from the stables and gave Sarah a leg up. He kept his horse behind hers, and Sarah felt increasingly uncomfortable. It seemed silly to have him act the groom with her, so she motioned him up beside her.

  “It looks like the sun may come out, Patrick.”

  “Yes, and weren’t we lucky the snow wasn’t as heavy as it looked yesterday, Miss Wheeler.” He hesitated, then continued, encouraged by Sarah’s friendliness. “There is nothing lovelier than the deep green of the holly leaf and the red berries, unless it is a rope of ivy. Me mother and sisters would always try to have a little in the house, especially since the priest wouldn’t let it in the church!”

  “It is not allowed here either,” Sarah told him with a quick smile. “I suppose I can understand why they forbid mistletoe, but holly seems innocent enough.”

  “Ah, but ‘tis a pagan tree, holly. And the bush in which we find the King of All Birds.”

  “The King of All Birds?”

  “The wran.”

  Sarah smiled at the thought of the smallest of the birds being made “king.”

  “In Ireland, we go out on Saint Steven’s Day to hunt the wran out of the holly.”

  “Do you actually kill the poor little thing!”

  Patrick tried to look properly ashamed, but he had a twinkle in his eye when he said, “ ‘Tis an old, old tradition, Miss Wheeler. The wran boys carry around the corpse and go house to house to collect money. Ah, but ‘tis a fine thing, hearin’ the drum and knowin’ they’re on their way,” he added wistfully.

  “When did you leave Ireland, Sergeant Gillen?”

  “When I was sixteen. It’s been twenty years since I was home.”

  “That’s a long time,” Sarah said sympathetically.

  “What about you, Miss Wheeler? How long have you been here?”

  “Since Anne was thirteen. Nine years.”

  “And is any of your family alive?”

  “No, my parents died within six months of each other five years ago.”

  “I have heard that happens, when there is a great love between two people.”

  When they were almost to the wood, Sarah shifted in her saddle to face Patrick, and suddenly she felt it begin to slip sideways beneath her. At first she didn’t know what was happening, and then instinct took over and she just managed to unhook her leg as she went over.

  “Jaysus!” cried Patrick as her mare, terrified by the strange thing bumping at her side, took off at a canter. He jumped off his own horse and ran to Sarah’s side. “Are ye all right?”

  Sarah tried to pull herself up and then fell back with a moan. Her right arm wouldn’t take any pressure. “I think I must have landed on my arm,” she whispered.

  Patrick knelt down beside her, and putting his arm around her, lifted her to a sitting position. “Here, now, let me see it.”

  It was very odd, thought Sarah, who was still too dazed to react, to be sitting on the cold ground while Sergeant Gillen carefully slipped off her cloak and examined her arm. “Can ye straighten it at all, miss?”

  Sarah could only stretch her arm out halfway before she gasped in pain. “It’s the elbow,” she said.

  “Ye’ve jammed it, I think, but nothing seems broken. A bad sprain is all…though sometimes that hurts worse than a break,” Patrick told her. “What about yer legs?’

  “They are fine,” Sarah told him quickly. It was one thing to have Sergeant Gillen feeling down her arm, but quite another to have him examining her ankles. “Just give me your hand, Sergeant.”

  Patrick grasped Sarah by her left arm and pulled her up. She swayed and for one embarrassing moment found herself leaning on his chest, waiting for the ground to stop spinning.

  It was a wide, solid chest, she realized, and smelled faintly of pipe tobacco and Patrick. It would be very nice to rest there, she thought, her mind still confused, her guard down.

  Miss Wheeler’s head reached his shoulder, Patrick realized, and he could just rest the top of his chin on her hair. It felt very sweet to have her there against him, clinging for balance. He wanted to put his arms around her and hold her closer. He wanted to brush the grass out of her hair. He wanted to…

  He stepped back. “How is yer head?”

  “Spinning. Or the world is. I am not sure which. But it is getting a little slower.” Sarah looked up at Patrick and gave him a dazed smile.

  “Take my arm and we’ll walk a few steps and see how ye feel.”

  Sarah was shaken, but aside from the pain in her arm, she was all right. Her head cleared quickly. “I am fine, Patrick—I mean, Sergeant Gillen,” she told him after a few steps.

  “Ye can call me Patrick, Miss Wheeler.”

  “Then you must call me Sarah.”

  “All right, Miss…Sarah.” Patrick grinned. “Whatever happened? One minute I was talkin’ to ye, the next, ye’re on the ground.”

  “I don’t know. I felt the saddle give a little and then begin to slide. I got my foot free just in time,” said Sarah with a little shudder.

  “Thank God ye’ve got good instincts, for yer mare would have taken off with ye, and I hate to think what could have happened.”

  Sarah started to shake again as the whole thing hit her. If she had not unhooked her leg, she would have been dragged upside down, her head hitting the rocks. “Dear God,” she whispered.

  “Here, now, let me get yer cloak around ye and have ye up on my gelding. Ye need to be gettin’ something strong into ye, and I don’t mean tea!”

  Patrick brought his horse over and grasping her waist, started to lift her into the saddle.

  “I’d rather ride astride, Patrick. I’d feel more secure.”

  “All right, then.” Patrick tried not to look at Sarah’s ankles as she mounted. He let her get settled in the saddle and then mounted behind her.

  * * * *

  It was a short ride back, but both Sarah and Patrick were conscious of every minute of closeness. His arms had to encircle her to hold the reins, and it was impossible for her not to lean back for support. By the time they got to the house, Sarah was no longer shaking. In fact, her temperature was very much warmer than when they had set out, and she was certain it was not the result of a sudden fever!

  Patrick handed her over to the housekeeper. “Get her some brandy, Mrs. Collins. No, ye must,” he added firmly when Sarah protested that hot tea with a lot of sugar would be fine. “Ye’re in shock, whether ye realize it or not, and I’ll not have it on my conscience if ye get ill! I must be out after yer mare. I’ll come and check on ye later.”

  * * * *

  Sarah choked on the brandy, but Mrs. Collins stood over her and made sure she got it down. “Tha must swallow all of it, lass. T’sergeant is right. And then I’ll see to yer arm.”

  Patrick was right. The warmth of the liquor flooded through Sarah, replacing the warmth of his arms. Surely she shouldn’t be thinking of his arms. And what about her own arm? She winced as Mrs. Collins took it gently and straightened it. “Don’t worry, lass, I won’t take it farther than t
hat,” the housekeeper reassured her. “I’ll fix tha a sling to support it.”

  * * * *

  When Patrick returned an hour later, he found Sarah dozing by the morning-room fire, her arm supported in a sling that had been fashioned from a challis scarf. She was a very beautiful woman, Miss Sarah Wheeler, he thought, not for the first time. He watched her for a few minutes and was about to turn and go when her eyes opened and he felt himself drown in their intense blue.

  “Patrick! I tried to stay awake, but all that brandy you had Mrs. Collins pouring down my throat made me sleepy.”

  “Ye were glad of it while she examined yer arm, I’ll wager.”

  “I was,” admitted Sarah. Then she realized that he was standing there holding a few holly branches, with a rope of ivy vines hanging from his arm.

  “Why, Patrick, you went to the wood!”

  “ ‘Twas where the damned—I beg yer pardon—the mare ended up. It seemed silly to let our outing go to waste. I’ll give them to Mrs. Collins, and ye can tell her where to put them.”

  “Thank you, Patrick.”

  “ ‘Twas nothing…Sarah.”

  “Why don’t you sit down and have a glass of brandy? You must be cold.”

  Patrick laid the greens on a side table and sat in the chair opposite.

  “Did you find my saddle?”

  “Halfway up the hill. But it wasn’t yer saddle.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “ ‘Twas Miss Heriot’s saddle ye used this morning because Jacob hadn’t cleaned yers yet.”

  “I didn’t notice. But Anne’s is not much older than mine,” mused Sarah. “And Jacob has always kept things in excellent condition.”

  “The girth wasn’t worn out—it was cut.”

  “Cut! What if Anne had been riding!”

  “And what if she hadn’t been as quick to react as ye were? Even if she had, she could have been hurt. You were.”

  “Not badly.”

  “But ye were lucky, Sarah.”

  “Are you saying someone was deliberately trying to hurt Anne?”

  Patrick sighed and leaned forward, his hands on his knees. “I don’t know. I’d guess whoever did it would have been happy either way. But one thing’s fer sure—he meant harm.”

  “But who on earth would want to do such a thing?”

  Patrick sat back and looked over at Sarah. “There’s that young hothead at the mill. He wasn’t very happy after his visit to Miss Heriot, was he?”

  “No, he went away very dissatisfied,” Sarah agreed reluctantly. “I wish Anne wasn’t so attached to the memory of her father and how he did things. Their only way of making an affectionate connection was over the factory, and I think she needs everything to stay the same in order to hold on to him. But under Joseph…”

  “It’s Mr. Heriot’s rules that are posted,” Patrick pointed out, trying to keep the anger out of his voice.

  “Oh, Mr. Heriot was no radical, Patrick. But unless it hindered production or threatened someone’s safety he often overlooked his own rules. Joseph Trantor, on the other hand, is a cruel man. No, maybe that is not fair to him.” Sarah was quiet for a moment. “And Anne’s refusal didn’t soften him any.”

  “Does he care for Miss Heriot or does he just want to marry her for her fortune?”

  “Both, I think. But I would guess his greed is stronger than his love. But again, maybe I am being unfair, for I have never liked him.”

  “He knows that Miss Heriot aims to find a husband in London,” mused Patrick. “If she does—well, his hopes are finally dashed. But if she died, he would inherit everything, wouldn’t he?”

  “I think so. Anne has no other relatives that I know of.”

  “Sure, and that’s a strong motive, isn’t it?”

  Sarah shuddered. “Much as I dislike Joseph Trantor, I don’t know that I can see him as a murderer. But his motive is stronger than Ned Gibson’s.”

  “Well, I’d like to be investigatin’ that young man a little further myself, just to make sure,” said Patrick.

  “What will we tell Anne?”

  “The truth,” said Patrick. “And with no delay. I don’t want to ruin her Christmas, but I will be ridin’ over to Ripley on Saint Stephen’s Day.”

  “I am sure all the wrens in the vicinity will be relieved that you will be too busy for hunting,” Sarah teased him.

  “So ye remember my story?’

  “Of course.” She hesitated. “I am glad that you will be here tomorrow, Patrick. I wonder… I was not planning to have anything elaborate, but would you care to join me for Christmas dinner?”

  Sarah couldn’t tell whether Patrick’s face was flushed with embarrassment, pleasure, or the heat of the fire. “Of course, if you had other plans…” she hastened to add.

  “ ‘Twould be lovely, Sarah. When were ye planning dinner?”

  “At about one.”

  “Then that would give us time to walk into Wetherby and see the mummers. That is, if ye’re feeling up to it.”

  Sarah smiled. “I would like that. Anne and I always go, but since she wasn’t here this year, I wasn’t sure what I would do.”

  “Well, if ye’d accept my escort?”

  “I would be delighted, Patrick.”

  * * * *

  Sarah had a hard time sleeping that night. It was difficult to find a comfortable position. She had taken the sling off and kept the arm close to her side, but she would relax in her sleep and stretch it and then wake from the sudden pain. When she would try to get back to sleep, she would start worrying about Anne. Surely whoever had cut the saddle girth would not attempt anything else, she told herself. Ned Gibson might be furious at Anne’s unsympathetic response, but a young man would not risk his freedom just for revenge. And Joseph? Joseph did worry her, for he had something to gain besides simple revenge.

  When she wasn’t worrying about Anne, she was thinking about Patrick. She had not approved of Anne’s hiring him so quickly, and at first she had not liked him very much. Maybe just because he was Irish. Anne had accused her of snobbery, and perhaps she’d been right. But his devotion to Anne and his job was impressive, and the shock of this morning’s accident had awakened her to other things, like his strong arms. It had felt so good to be enfolded in them, to be able to relax in a way she hadn’t in years. To give over all responsibility to someone else.

  It probably wasn’t proper to invite him to dine with her. But he was the head groom, and she was a companion, so perhaps it wouldn’t look odd. Mrs. Collins found him charming, so perhaps she wouldn’t think too much of it. And if the footmen and maids gossiped—well, why should she care?

  Chapter Eleven

  When Patrick arrived at the kitchen door early the next afternoon, the cook sent him into the morning room. He stood in the doorway, reluctant to enter as a guest. He wondered whether Sarah regretted her invitation to him. He was standing by the fire when she entered, and as she came toward him, her hand outstretched in welcome, he carefully released the breath he had been holding.

  “Good afternoon, Patrick. You look splendid in your uniform.”

  “Good afternoon, Sarah. And ye look lovely.”

  It was no empty compliment. She did look lovely in her dark blue wool, her blond hair pulled up, revealing a long white neck. She was wearing what looked like sapphire and diamond earbobs. She looked too fine for an old soldier like him to be having dinner with. His nervousness made him brusque when he asked her about the absence of her sling.

  “My arm is feeling much better, so I thought I’d try to do without it for a while,” she told him. Actually, she’d thought the sling ruined the effect of her gown, so she’d dispensed with it, despite the twinges of pain that occurred whenever she let her arm relax. Seeing the approval in Patrick’s eyes, she was glad she had.

  * * * *

  “Dinner is ready, Miss Wheeler,” announced Peters.

  “Would you like some wine, Patrick?” Sarah asked once they were seated at the dinin
g room table.

  “No, thank ye, Sarah.”

  As dinner was served, they were both uncomfortably silent, except for occasional commonplaces like how good the soup was. Sarah was finally driven to say, “I am sure the rest of Mrs. White’s meal will be equally delicious, Patrick. If we agree on that now, perhaps we can find another topic for conversation?”

  Patrick looked over at her, and his face relaxed. “ ‘Tis just that I am not used to sitting at a gentleman’s table, Sarah.”

  “And I am not used to playing hostess, so we are both a little out of our element.”

  “Oh, not you, miss. Ye’re a lady, all right.”

  “I admit my father was the son of a viscount. But he was only a country vicar. He married beneath him, so his family made sure he received only a second-rate living. I did not grow up in a house like this, I assure you. And I have been supporting myself for years.”

  “Where did ye work before coming here?”

  “I had spent some years as governess for Lord and Lady Beresford’s children.”

  “So ye were used to moving with the quality.”

  “I was used to avoiding Lord Beresford’s oldest son,” Sarah said caustically. “I was very grateful to find a position here. For all his faults, Mr. Heriot never once treated me with anything but respect. And Anne has always been generous and loving. Why, look at her present to me. They are really too fine for a companion, but she knew I would love them,” Sarah added as she fingered the diamond-and-sapphire earrings.

  “They have a lovely sparkle,” agreed Patrick. His eyes held hers for a moment, and Sarah wasn’t sure if he was talking about her earrings or her eyes. She looked down in confusion.

  * * * *

  By the time they finished their meal, Sarah and Patrick had relaxed enough to share memories of their childhood Christmases. After dessert and a small glass of port, which made Patrick feel that he had joined the decadent aristocracy, they walked down to the village with the rest of the servants to see the mummers perform.

  Wetherby was a village that had its own band of mummers, and Patrick enjoyed trying to guess who it was beneath the costumes. Was that Timothy, the butcher, dressed up as the buxom older woman? And Dr. Carter as the fool?