“Madam?” Rhea asked softly, noticing with concern Kate’s tightly clenched hands. “Are you quite all right?”
“Yes. Yes, I am just fine, now,” Kate said thickly, her eyes wandering with glazed intensity to the countryside rolling past the coach windows. “We should be there any minute now,” she commented vaguely. “I remember how long it used to seem to climb to the top of this hill. Yet now, why, we’re here in no time,” she exclaimed as the old stone house came into view.
Rocco had jumped down from the box and was opening the coach door before they had even come to a complete standstill. His eyes searched out Rhea and her foundling pups, and she handed the bundle to him. She didn’t seem the least worried that he might drop them as he cradled them against his heart with one large, encompassing arm, while he helped her climb down with his other arm.
Stone House-on-the-Hill had always stood on top of the hill, or so it seemed to each generation of villagers. It had dug its roots in deep, long before the first golden stone of Camareigh had been carved. And the Tabers of Stone House-on-the-Hill had farmed the land around Camareigh for a hundred years before the first Dominick had sailed across the Channel from Normandy. Through the centuries the allegiances of people had shifted, crowned heads had come and gone as thrones were won and lost, and the blood of countless Englishmen had been shed on the field of battle. But two things always remained the same—the Tabers farmed the lands of Stone House-on-the-Hill and remained loyal to the Dukes of Camareigh.
The elder Mr. Taber, a wizened old gentleman with a shock of white hair, was standing in the shelter of the wide stone archway, his shriveled body hunched against the winds that were beginning to howl around the corner of the house. Even though his tired eyes were failing, he had seen the carriage climbing up the hill and had come out to greet his unexpected guests. His once spry gait had slowed considerably, but his family and the villagers claimed he was nearing ninety, and he was fortunate to be alive at all. No one had ever heard the old man complain about the aches and pains which must constantly plague him, and now, as he shuffled with painful slowness across the seemingly endless stretch of land between house and barn, he looked every year of his ninety and some years. He seemed as fragile as fine bone china, but his son and daughter-in-law, grandchildren, and great-children could attest to just the opposite: the old man still rambled around the farmlands and Stone House-on-the-Hill, rapping authoritatively with his knobby cane when he saw something he disapproved of and, more often than not, the family paid attention to him, for his mind was just as sharp, and his advice just as sensible as it always had been. With the great distinction of having outlived almost everyone in the village, including three of his own sons and grandsons, the elder Mr. Taber was much sought after for his near-century-old store of tales and gossip. Seldom did he forget a face or name and, with his colorful reminiscences of times past, he could conjure up the dead and their deeds, or misdeeds, as the case might be. Always, there was a chair held vacant for him before the hearth in the local tavern and a glass of ale kept brimming at his elbow, courtesy of his avid listeners.
Francis and his cousins had arrived at the old stone farmhouse hardly a horse’s breath before the carriage pulled into the yard. The elder Mr. Taber knew good horseflesh when he saw it, and he’d reckoned these were no common travelers. However, upon recognizing the spirited chestnut of Lord Chardinall and the white-stockinged mare of his sister, Lady Rhea Claire, his weathered face split wide with a welcoming smile, for he’d always had a soft spot in his heart for the present duke’s children, especially young Lord Robin.
“And a good noontime t’ye, Lord Chardinall,” he greeted the young lord as Francis jumped down from his mount’s back and hurried over to pay his respects to the old man.
“Mr. Taber, sir, ’tis a pleasure to see you up and around again,” Francis replied, for the old man had been laid up for a fortnight with an attack of rheumatism and looked none too well today. “How are you faring?”
“Can’t complain, Lord Chardinall, my lord,” Mr. Taber responded in a quavering voice, his toothless grin widening. “Now where is that young Lord Robin? Don’t see him there with t’others,” he said, his faded eyes searching the Fletcher brothers for a curly, black head.
“He’s at Camareigh, and probably up to no good,” Francis said matter-of-factly, well used to his young brother’s penchant for mischief. “And when he finds out what we’ve brought to you, without his assistance, he’ll be so put out that I’ll have to watch my step around him for at least a month.”
Old Mr. Taber chuckled in appreciation, then glanced around expectantly. “Since I’m seein’ Lady Rhea Claire’s mare, and ye’ve brought me a surprise,” he reasoned aloud, “I’m wonderin’ what ’tis yer sister’s found that’s in need of mendin’ and fixin’ up good and proper.”
Francis grinned and pointed toward the coach from which Rhea was being helped by a solicitous Rocco. The Fletcher brothers were grouped around her, but they were giving the large footman plenty of room as he continued to stand like a grotesque shadow at her shoulder.
“Lady Rhea Claire!” Mr. Taber called out, hobbling over to the coach, his blinking eyes not missing anything as they settled on the bundle she was holding protectively in her arms. As the old man neared her, Rocco moved forward almost menacingly, his dark eyes shifting between the old man, the puppies, and the fair-haired girl.
The elder Mr. Taber halted abruptly as he instinctively felt the mistrust and confusion in the enormous footman who was standing guard over Lady Rhea and the puppies. His rheumy eyes met Rocco’s eyes and, with the same gift he had for gentling wild beasts and quieting those which were abandoned, the old man slowly reached out a gnarled hand and patted the big footman’s tensed arm. His touch had an extraordinary effect on Rocco, who seemed to shrink inside himself as he felt his own hostilities fade.
“Oh, these are wee ones to be on their own, Lady Rhea,” Mr. Taber said, making clucking noises with his tongue as he handled the squirming pups. “And where did ye find them?”
“Someone had put them in this bag, then dumped them in a ditch along the High Road,” Rhea told him, relinquishing her hold on them and giving them over to his loving care.
“A little bit of warm milk will do wonders, so don’t ye be worrying that pretty little head of yours, Lady Rhea Claire, for old man Taber won’t be letting ye down,” he reassured her. Then, glancing up, he became aware of the carriage and its occupant. “Oh, good gracious me,” he groaned as he shuffled closer and peered up at the indistinct figure watching from the opened door. “My apologies, Your Grace,” he said in a deeply mortified tone of voice. “I don’t know where my manners have run off to.”
“I’m sorry, Mr. Taber,” Rhea broke in quickly, “but this isn’t the duchess. This woman very kindly gave me a ride to Stone House-on-the-Hill.”
“Oh, well, I thought I hadn’t recognized Her Grace’s carriage,” he said, not in the least embarrassed by his mistake; in fact, had it indeed been Her Grace he would have been far more embarrassed. “But am I knowing ye, then? ’Tis a kindness ye did in giving the young lady a ride to Stone House-on-the-Hill. I hope ’twasn’t out of your way.”
“No,” Kate replied shortly. “’Twasn’t out of my way, and I do not believe we have ever met. I am merely passing through the valley and chanced upon these riders in the lane. As you can see, the young lady suffered a fall, injuring herself slightly, and so I did the only proper thing and offered her a ride in my carriage.”
“Ah,” Mr. Taber murmured, continuing to stare with fascination into the coach, his weathered brow furrowed in puzzlement. “Are ye sure we’ve never met? I may be an old man, and my eyesight isn’t what it once was, but I’ve never forgotten a body once I’ve made their acquaintance, and by that I’ll swear. I’m sure I’ve heard your voice before. But where?” he persisted.
Kate glared down at the nosy old goat in disbelief. How
could he still be alive after all of these years? He’d been ancient even when she’d been a girl living at Camareigh. He must be pushing a hundred, she thought in amazement, and yet here he was poking his busybody nose into affairs that did not concern him.
“Aye, well, I’ll remember soon enough,” he was saying very matter-of-factly. “Pride myself on never forgetting a thing that’s happened in this valley. Remember ye soon enough, I will,” he promised.
“How very nice,” Kate muttered. “I hope you will not be too disappointed when you fail.”
He chuckled, somehow finding her remark amusing. “Aye, with each word ye say, I’m coming closer to remembering ye, that I am. But now,” he added, turning back to Rhea Claire, “I’m going to take these wee ones inside. ’Tis too damp and cold out here for them any longer. By tomorrow, or perhaps the next day, ye won’t even be recognizing them, Lady Rhea Claire,” the old man said, clucking to the pups as he stumbled off.
“I’ll be back to see them, Mr. Taber,” Rhea called after him, and the old man nodded absentmindedly as his bent figure disappeared around the corner of the house.
“There’s a break in the storm,” Ewan said, drawing their attention to the pale light filtering through the clouds. “If we hurry, we can make Camareigh before it opens up again.”
“I’m so wet now, it doesn’t much matter,” George grumbled, shivering in his soaked coat. “But I’d sure like to get warm.”
“Francis?” Ewan inquired, but Francis was unusually quiet as he stared at the woman in the coach. “Shall we go, Francis? Rhea isn’t soaked yet, and we can probably just make it to the stables before it rains again.”
“I think you would do well to follow his suggestion,” Kate quietly advised as she gestured for Rocco to slam shut the coach door. “Personally, I’m beginning to feel the damp. But I would be more than happy to offer you a ride, my dear, if you are not feeling well,” she offered politely.
“No, but thank you anyway,” Rhea said.
“Very well,” Kate said. Then she bid them a good afternoon and sat back against the cushions, disappearing from view as the coach pulled away from the farm. But Rocco turned around on the box to catch one last glimpse of the golden-haired creature who had smiled at him.
“You’ve made a conquest there,” Francis commented as he helped his sister to mount. “Strange pair, those two.”
“I felt rather sorry for both of them,” Rhea said as they rode away in the opposite direction from the carriage. “They seemed to be so unhappy.”
“You wouldn’t expect a woman in mourning to be full of mirth,” Ewan said as he rode alongside them, his horse’s hooves splashing more mud onto Rhea’s skirts.
“No, I would not, Ewan,” Rhea agreed. “But it seemed to me to go deeper than the present. There was such a feeling of melancholy about them. ’Tis hard to explain, but there it is. Oh,” she added, suddenly remembering something, “do you know, there was the strangest fragrance of roses about the woman.”
“What’s strange in that?” Ewan demanded. “Women always wear scent.”
“Yes, but hopefully not that much. I felt I was going to suffocate under the fragrance. It was so cloying in that carriage that…” Rhea paused, looking uncomfortable.
“That?” Francis urged her, curious to hear her feelings about the woman whom he too had found strange.
“Well, it might sound crazed to you,” Rhea continued, “but I felt almost as if I were in a coffin draped in roses. Now, you may laugh,” she told them defensively, already feeling silly now that she’d voiced her thoughts.
“I’m not laughing, Rhea,” Francis replied with equal seriousness.
“I must admit, it does seem odd,” Ewan contributed. “Camareigh isn’t exactly sitting in the middle of Charing Cross. This is a quiet valley, so what the devil is she doing here?”
“Well, I for one don’t like the looks of that big fellow acting as footman for her,” James piped in, feeling his first stirrings of jealousy as he remembered the spoony looks the large footman had cast at Rhea.
“Well, since we’re all airing our grievances,” said George, the ever-practical, “I’m for home. I’ve just about ruined my best riding coat, and I don’t look forward to explaining any of this to Father!”
With that disagreeable reminder, the five cousins quickened their pace, arriving at the gates of Camareigh some twenty minutes later, just as the heavens opened up above their heads. The centuries-old gatekeeper’s cottage looked snug against the blowing gusts of rain that spattered against its leaded windows. It had witnessed many a visitor to the stately halls of Camareigh, but perhaps none so cold and bedraggled as the five hurrying past at that moment.
The chestnut-lined drive had never seemed so endless as they rode against the wind and rain toward the great house. The low stone buildings of the stables were a welcome sight, the doors swinging wide as the group of riders were spotted entering through the stone-arched gates of the stable yard. The long straight rows of stalls, accommodations for the duke’s prized stock, were redolent of sweet meadow hay, molasses and oats, saddle soap and leathers, linseed oil, newly made poultices, and the ever-present horse droppings.
The stable block was the dominion of Butterick, a man in whose capable hands the Duke of Camareigh had entrusted the welfare and breeding of his thoroughbreds, as well as the maintenance of Camareigh’s fleet of carriages. Butterick took his job very seriously and performed his duties as regally as any sovereign in his kingdom. Because he used so much pomp and ceremony as accompaniment to the everyday routine of the stables he was fondly and respectfully known as His Highness. Some, however, who were mostly stable hands and lesser menials, referred to him, beyond his hearing, less respectfully, as Old King Butt. Since their jobs were mostly concerned with the shoveling of manure and daily scrubbing down of floors, and since Butterick was considered a tyrant when it came to the spotlessness of his stables, their resentment could be well understood. Not that Butterick was a man who demanded of others what he was not willing to do himself. He had not always been the master of the stables and, in fact, had started out in the Camareigh stables as a lowly stable boy who spent many an arduous hour on hands and knees.
He was proud of his stables and honored to be in the service of so fine a gentleman as the Duke of Camareigh. In Butterick’s book there could be no finer man than one who knew his horses, and if ever there was a man who knew his horses, it was His Grace. He had never been fooled yet by a horse, and it was because of His Grace’s eye that they had a stable full of fine-blooded animals that had made them the envy of every groom, ostler, coachman, and lord in England.
But His Grace’s eye hadn’t been limited solely to horseflesh, for he’d picked himself a mighty fine little duchess, who had more than proven herself to be of good stock. Butterick had to admit that he had misjudged her when His Grace had first brought her to Camareigh as its new mistress. He’d forgotten that size wasn’t necessarily indicative of spirit or intelligence—both of which Her Grace had in plentiful supply. He’d also thought she wouldn’t breed well, and then she up and gave His Grace twins! He ought to have his head examined, Butterick thought, disgusted with his own temporary disloyalty to Her Grace, or he should keep his nose out of affairs that were no concern of his.
But even as he silently voiced that thought, he was watching with an almost fatherly eye the five riders who’d raced the wind and rain into the dry warmth of the stables. Despite their shivering wetness they found something to joke about as they dismounted, their young voices filling the cavernous room with a brief breath of spring.
Young Lord Chardinall had turned into a fine horseman and would do His Grace proud one day. It was fortunate for Camareigh that he was the elder, and heir to the title, for Lord Robin, bless his heart, was a mischievous little imp who could always be found in the center of a ruckus. Now on the other hand, there could be no finer a young lady
than the Lady Rhea Claire. In his prejudiced eye there could be no little filly to match her, although now she looked hardly better than a milkmaid who’d just had a tussle with a cantankerous cow, and lost.
With a quick professional eye, Butterick looked over the horses, sighing in satisfaction when he found that none of his beauties had sustained an injury. With that discovery he allowed a slight smile to sneak across his florid features.
“Ye took a fall, did ye, Lady Rhea Claire?” Butterick greeted her, while he ordered in almost the same breath that the horses be led away, unsaddled, brushed, fed, and watered. His booming voice carried to the far end of the stables, reaching any laggards idling away a few minutes in a quiet corner. “’Twas the privet hedge, was it,” he said, making it more of a statement than a question.
Rhea and Francis smiled, knowing Butterick’s eagle eye well enough by now not to be surprised. James didn’t know the man, though, and whistled in amazed admiration at this apparent magician’s trick.
“How did you ever know that, Mr. Butterick?” he demanded.
“’Twas simple, lad, if you use your eyes,” Butterick told him, enjoying his little joke as the youngster glanced over at Rhea’s mount. A puzzled frown was on his brow as he stared stupidly at the mud-splashed flank and thigh.
Butterick marched over to the horse and patted the little mare on the rump; then he carefully and gently removed a small branch of hedge that had been stuck in her tail. “Privet,” Butterick said, eyeing Skylark’s chest and forelegs for a serious moment. “Been to Stone House-on-the-Hill, have ye? And how is the elder Mr. Taber?”
Even Francis was impressed by this piece of knowledge and stared openmouthed at the man. “How did you know that?” he demanded, running his own eye over the mare’s form as he searched for clues.
Butterick’s barrel-chested laugh filled the stables. “One of the footmen was coming back from the village and saw ye headed up the hill,” he replied, his shoulders still shaking with mirth.
Chance the Winds of Fortune Page 13