by Cheryl Bolen
During the day Sally had been too busy to dwell on the savage, violent act that crippled Hornsby, but once she was in the sanctuary of her own bedchamber, she crushed her face into her pillow and wept bitterly. She had vowed not to cry in front of her broken husband. She would be strong for his sake. She would be his helpmate, but in the darkness of her room she would allow herself to weep. She wept for the poor creatures that had been massacred. She wept for the financial blow the disaster had struck. She wept for the unlikelihood that the stock would ever be replenished. Most of all, she wept for George. He had looked forward with unbounded pride to this year's crop, which was to have been the best ever.
She physically ached for George's hurt. Would this tragedy send him back to Bath? Back to the place where he couldn't be hurt because there he was devoid of feeling? She wept even more bitterly.
* * *
The next morning she met George at breakfast. He looked so much better than he had the night before. It was not just that he was clean-shaven and wore a fresh suit of clothing. Everything about him looked rested. A good thing too, she thought, for today would be even harder than yesterday.
"Did you sleep well?" he asked.
She lied. "Yes. You?"
"I was asleep as soon as I hit the bed."
Her thoughts flitted to their bed in Bath. She could almost picture him removing his pantaloons before lying beside her. At the memory of his bare, muscled legs parallel to hers, her breath came a little faster. She poured herself coffee from the silver urn and sat down across from him. "Cook did a fine job of feeding everyone yesterday, especially considering she was unable to use the kitchen hearth."
His green eyes leveled with hers. "All the servants did a commendable job. I'm very proud of them." He took a sip of coffee. "And grateful."
She suddenly remembered something she wanted to share with him. "You know, George, I heard the most extraordinary story from one of the parlor maids yesterday." She stirred the cream she had added to her coffee.
He arched a brow.
"Estelle said she had difficulty sleeping the previous night, so she left her bed and began to pace her chamber. In the middle of the night, she peered from her window and was shocked to see a naked man walking toward Hornsby from the meadowlands."
George's eyes rounded as he whirled at her. "Did she see where he went?"
Sally shrugged. "No. She said she was too embarrassed to look. As soon as she saw his nudity, she began to tremble and spun away from the window."
His fist hammered the table. "Damn!"
"What's the matter?"
"He was the one."
Sally sat stunned for several seconds. "The one who slaughtered the sheep?"
He nodded.
"How do you know?"
"The person who . . . who killed the sheep would have been completely saturated with blood. If he had any sense, he would have taken off his clothes before the crime. The bloody clothes would have been evidence against him. I'm guessing he did strip first, then afterward he took a dip in the lake."
Her hand flew to her mouth and her eyes misted. "Oh my God, you must be right! But who. . ." her voice cracked. "Who would do this awful thing?"
Anger flashed in his eyes. "Someone who hates me very much."
"But you haven't any enemies! You're amiable and well liked by all who know you."
His mouth went taut. "Obviously not all."
Adams entered the chamber. "Mr. Basingstoke begs a word with you, my lord."
"Send him here." George wiped a napkin over his mouth and got up to greet the vicar.
Mr. Basingstoke, wearing fawn breeches and riding boots, stormed into the room, his brow folded like a closed fan. "Sedgewick, I heard about the unspeakable act that's been inflicted upon you!"
George shook his head solemnly. "I seem to have made a dangerous enemy."
Sally winced, then addressed the vicar. "Would you care for coffee, Mr. Basingstoke?"
"No, thank you. I've come to work." His gaze locked with George's. "There are twenty men outside who've offered to help you today."
Unable to hold back her tears and unwilling to allow either man to see her cry, Sally brought her napkin to her face and dabbed at her mouth, then quickly wiped away the tears.
George nodded solemnly. "I don't know what I've ever done to deserve this, but I'm not too proud to accept help. We need every hand we can get. With twenty more men, I believe we'll finish today—and we must. The odor's already overpowering."
"Yes," Basingstoke said, wrinkling his nose. "I can smell it from here at the manor house."
Sally glanced at her napkin and jumped up. "You all need to use napkins around your faces to help stifle the smell. I'll just run upstairs for some perfume."
"Believe it or not, the perfume does help," George said, clapping a hand on Basingstoke's shoulder.
Basingstoke looked at George and solemnly shook his head. "The village folk are nearly as outraged as you. In fact, I've already got pledges from people who want to help you restock. So far, thirty sheep have been donated—and twelve new lambs can be spared by the good farmers of Tottenford."
"Then everyone must know that I've been wiped out," George said in a cracking voice.
The vicar shrugged. "I know because Willingham and I are close. I knew how important this year's crop was to Hornsby's fortunes."
George, his voice still cracking, turned his head away. "I'm moved by everyone's generosity." A pity it took a tragedy to show him that Hornsby and the people who inhabited it clasped his heart as surely as if bound by chains.
"It's your own generosity that's spurred this," Basingstoke said. "Never has anyone in Tottenford been in need that you've not come to their aid. I know that whenever I ask for your help, you'll do anything you can to assist. Now, for the first time, you need help, and it's time for others to help you."
"I daresay the old George would have been too proud to accept, but I have a family to consider now. You know, Charles, I had decided to stay at Hornsby. I wanted to make it a place my children would look to with pride." He laughed bitterly. "How in the hell I'll do that now without any money, I don't know."
There was pity on Basingstoke's face when he nodded.
* * *
By noon the wool that had been washed the day before was ready to be bagged, and new, wet wool replaced it in crooked, ever-lengthening lines across Hornsby's lawn. Those facts were conveyed to George via the maids who came throughout the day with empty baskets and left with full ones.
Not that George stood around talking. He spent the day bending already sore muscles over death-stiffened sheep. He had even mustered enough strength to single-handedly turn over a beast in order to shear its other side. Sweat clung to the napkin that was tied around his head to mask the foul odor. He worked without a break. He worked even when every limb cried out to be rested. He worked until the sunlight faded, then abandoned him altogether.
After shearing the last of the sheep, George winced in pain as he raised himself up from his bent-over stance and began to walk across the grim pastures. Now that his hands were free, he was at liberty to press the perfumed napkin to his face. He had inhaled the putrid stench for so long and his lungs were so permeated with the odor, he wondered if his breath would ever be free of it.
He heard voices and saw the forms of other men, but it was too dark to recognize anyone. He was almost too tired to walk, but he forced himself to climb the hill. With each step, he craved a ride upon a horse, but no such relief was available.
As he rounded the hill, he heard Willingham's voice and followed the sound.
When they met in the darkness, Willingham spoke in a weary voice. "We'll have to begin the trenches tomorrow."
"No," George said firmly. "We'll burn them. These men have worked hard enough."
"Burn the sheep?"
"Yes. With ropes and horses it shouldn't be too difficult to put them into piles for the bonfires."
"I wish I'd thought of that. It w
ill be a lot less work—but a damn foul odor."
"The odor can't be any worse than it is now," George said.
For dinner that night George had invited to Hornsby as many men as could sit around the long dining room table, and he insisted that no man need dress for dinner this night.
"But we'll stink up your house," Willingham protested.
George shook his head. "The house already stinks. I daresay the wretched odor has reached as far as Tottenford."
Willingham shrugged. "I daresay you're right."
Sally saw to it their best wine was served to these loyal friends. Being the only woman at the table kept her silent throughout the dinner.
With the lion's share of their work now behind them, the men's thoughts turned to speculation over who could be responsible for the senseless slaughter.
George related the maid's tale about the naked man, and they all agreed that he must be the man responsible for killing the sheep.
"At least we know he was walking toward Hornsby—and thus, the village," Basingstoke said. "That should eliminate anyone to the north."
George's eyes narrowed, his voice lowered. "I would very much like to get my hands upon him."
"George!" Sally shrieked.
He spun toward her, his eyes wide with worry over the terror he heard in her voice.
All color drained from her face. "What about the children? If someone hates you that much . . ." Her voice broke.
A hush fell over the long table.
Dear God! He felt as if a giant had kicked him in the gut. His hand began to tremble so badly, he had to set down his fork. Could any pain be greater than seeing your child die? He spoke with barely controlled anger. "They are never, ever to be left alone. You will convey that order to the nurse and to all who serve at Hornsby."
Her eyes misted as she nodded solemnly.
* * *
Sally knew she would sleep well this night. She had been even more exhausted today than yesterday because of her lack of sleep the night before.
After dinner, when the men drank their port and smoked their cigars, Sally excused herself. "I'll run up and tuck in the children," she said. "Then I believe I'll go to bed."
As she went to leave the room, George took her hand. "Thank you for all you've done. You've made me very proud." He pressed a kiss into her palm.
That he acted and spoke so sweetly in front of all those men made his words even more appreciated. Sally favored him with a wan smile and left the room. Despite her fatigue, she felt feather light as she climbed the stairs. She could still feel the warmth of George's lips upon her hand.
After she read to the children and tucked them in—and honestly answered Georgette's question about the foul odor—Sally spoke privately with Miss Primble, instructing her to never leave the children unattended for even a moment. The young nurse was quick witted enough to connect the vicious slaughter to fears for the safety of his lordship's children.
Before Sally went to her own chambers, she brought her maid to Georgette's room and explained that Hettie was never to leave Georgette alone at night. Hettie was a good girl. Sally felt confident knowing she was with Georgette.
As tired as she was, Sally wished to draft a letter to Glee to inform her of the wretched thing that had occurred at Hornsby. Then she climbed on her bed and immediately fell into a deep slumber.
Chapter 22
The stench went away. Not overnight, but gradually, as a person's hair grays—almost imperceptibly until one day the transformation is startlingly complete. Sally woke up this morning and realized the smell was gone. It was that morning she vowed to think on the tragedy no more. She had once told George she did not want him to ever go backward, only forward. Now she needed to heed her own advice.
For some peculiar reason, her husband had been better able than she to look to the future and refuse to dwell on the past that could not be changed. He rarely spoke of the tremendous setback, only of its perpetrator, upon whom he vowed to take vengeance. Some of the credit for George's remarkable recovery came courtesy of his two wealthy brothers-in-law, each of whom had pledged a hundred head of sheep from the herds on their respective estates. But most of George's endurance could be attributed to his own toughness and determination.
When she went downstairs for breakfast, Sally did not expect to find her husband still at home. He was given to rising early and working long hours on the estate. But as she entered the chamber, he rose to greet her.
"Why are you still here?" she asked, her hand flying self-consciously to smooth her hair.
A sardonic look tilted his rugged face. "My presence offends you?"
She laughed. "Of course not. I'm glad you're here." She poured herself coffee and sat down across from him at a cloth-covered table that was placed beside a tall window looking out over her kitchen garden.
"I've decided to spend the morning with you and the children," he said.
She arched a brow.
"The pony should be here shortly."
A smile wiped across her face. "Today?"
"The groom was to get it from Ilswitch this morning."
"The children will be so excited! We shall allow them to name him."
His lips puckered into a smile. "He's a filly, and I doubt that son of mine will have a hand in the naming." His brows folded, pinching the bridge of his nose. "I really think the boy should be talking. How old is he now?"
He knew very well how old Sam was! She frowned. "He's eight and twenty months."
"I'm sure something's wrong with him."
She scowled even deeper. "There's nothing whatsoever wrong with him! Surely you've been able to observe that he's possessed of a very keen mind."
George shrugged. "He does seem to be quick-witted enough."
"More than enough," she said through gritted teeth. "For one thing, he knows all his colors. I have only to tell him to bring me the green cap, and he knows exactly which one it is—and the red, and the blue. Miss Primble has affirmed that there's not a color he doesn't know. Mrs. Howell's four-year-old daughter still doesn't know her colors."
He grinned. "Then your Sunday-morning conversations on the church steps are of some value."
"Don't be such an ogre. You know you wish for me to be accepted by Mrs. Howell—and everyone in the community."
"Oh, I don't have to worry about that. You've duly been approved by anyone who's within shouting distance of Hornsby."
She plopped a scone on her gilded porcelain plate and proceeded to slather it with soft butter. "You know, there may be a bit of a problem with having the pony."
"I know." He frowned. "I should have gotten two."
She nodded. "Sam is not likely to want to share."
"He'll have to learn that if he wants to ride the creature, he must be willing to share," George said in a stern voice.
* * *
After breakfast, they gathered up the children and began to walk with them to the stables. "Do you remember how the stables were in your childhood?" George asked Sally.
She was mildly piqued that he said your childhood—as if he wished to accentuate their age difference—and possibly the many other differences between them. She nodded solemnly and tried not to think of the sorrow she heard in his voice. The stable had once held racehorses and stallions and ponies and four matched bays for the carriage. Every stall had been filled. She hurt for George. "A pity your father changed so in the last years of his life and squandered away your birthright."
He gave a bitter laugh. "He did become rather a scoundrel after Mama died." His eyes met hers, and he reached to take her hand. "If it weren't for you, I would have done exactly as he did. I would have continued on my wayward path until there was nothing left for the children. There's not much now, but I vow to rebuild Hornsby."
She squeezed his hand. "Pray, do not credit me for turning you around! 'Twas your own decision to put your children first. When I realized you wished to . . ." Finishing her thought would be difficult, but she needed t
o wedge the truth between them. ". . .to sacrifice yourself, I've never been more proud of you."
He came to an abrupt stop and took both her hands in his. "Don't ever say that my marrying you was a sacrifice on my part. It was the best thing I've ever done."
Her heart expanded. Of course, he meant to say for the children. Still. . . he had no regrets. She met his gaze with watery eyes and reached up to stroke his chiseled cheek.
He covered her hand and brought it to his lips. "Thank you for everything," he said in a throaty voice.
The children's laughing voices and the happy yelp of their dog rang out as they ran across the sloping, verdant parkland, their parents hastening to catch up with them. It was a joy to watch Sam's little legs churning as fast as they could go. He knew as well as his father did the direction of the stables, and he was determined to be the first to see his new pony.
When they got to the stables, Ebenezer was rubbing down the gray pony.
"It shouldn't be too much for the beast to gently trot close by with a child on his back," George said for the benefit of the groom. He came and took the pony's lead line and began to walk it toward the open door.
Sam, anxious to come close to his wondrous new possession, nearly got stepped on by the pony.
George swung around to face the errant child and spoke angrily. "Don't ever come up behind a horse! You could have been hurt!" He bent to pick up the startled child.
His voice softened when he addressed his daughter. "Tell you what, love, I shall allow Sam to ride first, but I'll allow you to select a name for the pony. Remember, it's a girl."
Sally smiled at her husband's cleverness—and self- preservation. Of course Sam would have to ride first—and most likely longest—or his foul temper would make them all miserable. Georgette's lovely little face brightened as she watched Sam being hoisted upon the mount. Sally took her hand, and they followed the males from the stable and continued to walk behind them as George patiently instructed Sam on how to sit a horse.