Willowswood Match

by Gayle Buck

  Mary Alice smiled almost pityingly at her. “I understand you, of course. And do understand me. I shall ride roughshod over anyone who impedes me. From that standpoint alone you would do well to put a wide berth between yourself and Viscount Wythe.” She inclined her head in a nod and took her leave of Miranda with all appearance of friendliness.

  “What an unwholesome, arrogant little baggage,” said Miranda indignantly.

  “Who is it that you are castigating so heartily, Miss Wainwright?” asked an amused voice.

  Miranda turned to find the viscount standing nearby. “Oh, it is you, my lord.”

  “Pray, must you sound so matter-of-fact? I must tell you that in the last hour I have gotten quite used to expressions of gratification at my mere existence,” said Lord Townsend with a grin.

  “How diverting for you, my lord!” said Miranda with a touch of asperity.

  Lord Townsend was startled. He raised a well-marked brow. “Who could it have been that has so set up your back? Surely not the exquisite creature who just left your side. She is the only young lady who has not managed to present herself to me.”

  “That is Miss Burton. She informed me of her ambition to become a viscountess,” said Miranda coolly.

  The viscount threw back his head and laughed. When he had sobered, he said with dancing eyes, “Thank you, Miss Wainwright. You have put it quite neatly in perspective for me. I am a cause célèbre not for my wit or charm, but for my person and title. I do not think that thought has crossed only Miss Burton’s mind. I am familiar with the chase and ever since I have set foot in this ballroom I have felt most uncomfortably like the fox.”

  “How silly of you, my lord. As though a knowledgeable, wily gentleman such as yourself could ever be so easily trapped. No, I believe that it will take much more than a few hungry houndish gazes,” said Miranda. “I think that a long run is what will be required to snare such a prize as yourself and there are probably a few ladies here this evening who would be most willing to donate their efforts to the cause.”

  “I appreciate your succinct analysis of my situation, ma’am! I can see that I shall receive no pity from your hands. But perhaps you will indulge me in a turn about the floor? The squire’s three marriageable daughters are bearing down on us, you see,” said Lord Townsend. He swept Miranda onto the floor without waiting for her consent.

  “That was quite cowardly of you, my lord,” said Miranda with mock disapproval.

  “But very expedient of the fox,” said Lord Townsend with a disarming grin. Miranda was laughing as the movement of the country dance separated them. When they came together again, he said, “It occurs to me to wonder why Miss Burton would confide her ambitions to you, Miss Wainwright.”

  “Perhaps I struck her as a particularly sympathetic confidante,” said Miranda with a flippant air.

  Lord Townsend looked down at her with a speculative gleam in his dark eyes. “I do not think that is at all probable. More likely the beauty was testing her powers to intimidate. Were you intimidated, Miss Wainwright?”

  “Not in the least,” said Miranda promptly, and then regretted her hastiness when she saw the look of satisfaction in his eyes. She did not have long to wait before he struck.

  “Then Miss Burton was satisfied that you are a rival for my affections,” said the viscount calmly.

  The dance parted them again before Miranda could react to his outrageous statement. When he took her hand once more, Miranda hissed, “You are the most horridly arrogant man! Let me take leave to tell you, sir, that I would not lower myself to—to compete for a gentleman. Especially one so—so…” Words failed her.

  “Arrogant, conceited, full of myself?” suggested Lord Townsend helpfully.

  Miranda sent him a daggered look. “Yes, yes and yes!” she snapped, and she made up her mind that for the remainder of the dance she would refuse to speak another word to him no matter how provoking he managed to be. She swiftly discovered that Lord Townsend could be very provoking. She could do nothing to stop his outrageous whispers. Nor could she show her displeasure, since there were several people who were taking note of Lord Townsend’s attention toward her. She could only pin a smile to her face and appear to be enjoying herself. For the most part she kept her gaze lowered whenever the dance brought her together with the viscount, but occasionally her lashes flew upward to reveal the flash of impotent fury in her blue-black eyes.

  Miranda was never more glad for a set to end. She returned to her seat with almost unseemly haste and she was not best pleased to find that Lord Townsend followed her. “Do go away,” she begged. She was unaware that one or two of the matrons nearby heard her and that their faces expressed startled incredulity.

  The viscount was aware of the ladies’ riveted attention, however. As it was not his intent that he and Miss Wainwright become the subject of speculative gossip, he smoothed over the moment as best he could. “Certainly I shall. Thank you for informing me of Anne’s request. I shall attend to it immediately,” he said, and bowed. He smiled at Miranda’s took of bewilderment and walked away.

  One of the matrons leaned over in her chair toward Miranda. “My dear Miss Wainwright, his lordship is such a handsome gentleman, do you not agree? My heart palpitates in quite an unseemly manner whenever his glance chances my way,” she said.

  Miranda was startled. She knew the lady, but it took her several seconds to place her as one of those who had called at Willowswood not many days before. She had been amused at the time by the lady’s frosty eyes and measuring questions and she had dealt with the starchy dame in her most gracious manner. Mrs. Heatherton had unbent enough to give her a sharp nod of approval as she was taking leave of her and Anne, and had promised them invitations to a small rout that she was planning for later in the season.

  Miranda had stared at Mrs. Heatherton for such a long moment that the lady began to wonder if Miss Wainwright had gone into some sort of trance. Miranda collected herself and smiled. “Oh, you mean Viscount Wythe. Yes, I suppose that he is. Pray excuse me, ma’am. I should like a lemonade, I think.” She rose and made her way sedately to the refreshment table.

  Mrs. Heatherton turned to her companion to exchange an expressive glance. “These colonials. I had always heard that they were an odd lot. Now I understand what was meant. To think that the young woman did not realize that I was speaking of the viscount! As though any other gentleman here could hold a candle to him!” The ladies shook their heads and pitied Miss Wainwright for her lack of appreciation for the manly qualities.

  * * *

  Chapter 13

  Robert kicked a stone in the drive discontentedly. Ever since the sparrow incident and his uncle’s quiet stricture on the matter, he had not really been able to find much to amuse him. At first it had been great fun to hang about the stables, but Uncle Andrew’s groom had taken on some of the exercising of the horses so that his friend Jenkins had less time for him. In addition, Uncle Andrew had specifically forbidden such amusements as climbing out of windows, wandering the estate without permission, teasing the bull, or setting snares for Mrs. Crumpet’s chickens. Uncle Andrew had also been very plain on what he considered other evils and reluctantly Robert saw that his days were to become grossly unexciting. It was really not fair. And though he would have felt no compunction about disobeying Crumpet or Constance or even his mother, there was something about the expression in Viscount Wythe’s eyes that warned him to abide by his uncle’s new set of rules.

  As for Cousin Miranda, she was of no use to him. Robert had observed that Uncle Andrew often listened to Cousin Miranda, though he pretended not to. He had hoped that Cousin Miranda might intervene with his uncle on his behalf. But she, too, had read him a short lecture and her tone had been decisive. He could not look for leniency there.

  Robert’s restless eyes roved over the grove of trees alongside the drive. He had that terrible feeling of aloneness that he so often got. He did not know or understand why, but it drove him to do things that normally
he might not conceive of, if only to escape that awful feeling for a time. It always came back, though, whenever he was alone but especially at night. At night was when he thought about his father, his jolly papa who played with him and quietly talked with him as though he was much older. One day Papa had put on his soldier’s uniform and gone far away. He used to think about his mother at night, too, but she was getting better and better and he saw more of her. But though he loved his mother, it was not the same as being with his papa.

  Robert’s eyes blurred. He swiped away the tears with the back of his hand. That awful hollowness seized him and he began to run, heedless of direction or obstacles.

  When at last he stopped, his lungs hurt with the great gulps of air that he pulled in and his legs trembled. He was sweaty and his face and hands were scratched and stinging from the whip of branches and grass. His short coat was ripped at the shoulder and his trousers were streaked with dirt, but he spared not a thought for his clothes.

  Robert leaned against the rough bark of a wide oak, his chest heaving. The feeling was gone. As he blinked the perspiration out of his eyes, he became aware of the sound of water running over rocks. He stumbled forward to the edge of a tranquil and sun-dappled stream. Throwing himself to the ground he ducked his head into the cool water. When he raised his head he was spluttering. Droplets sprayed as he shook his wet hair. Robert cupped his hand and drank deeply before rolling over on his back. He rested on the bank for a time, staring up into the branches of oak and willow and birch. Through the leaves he could see the clouds moving majestically across the blue sky and his thoughts moved slowly with them.

  He must have slept because when he next became aware of his surroundings the position of the sun had changed and his hair was dry. Robert sat up. He spied a squirrel and he watched as the small creature scurried up the trunk of a slender birch. Just as the squirrel’s weight threatened to collapse the thin branches, it leaped across to a second tree, leaving the first tree dipping and swaying. Robert laughed. The squirrel, startled by the alien sound, chirruped agitatedly and whisked its golden-brown tail up and down.

  Robert looked thoughtfully at the still swaying tree. His knowledgeable eyes measured the trunk. The tree would bear his weight up to a point. He rose, dusting off his hands, and shinnied up the tree. The higher he went the more he felt the trunk sway. His heart pounded with each dip of the trunk but he only climbed higher. The top of the supple tree suddenly dipped down in a dizzying fast arc. The boy’s legs flew free but he still held tightly to the trunk with his hands. Just feet above the ground Robert lost his grip. The tree snapped upright and he tumbled to the grassy ground. He lay stunned a moment, his heart racing, as he caught his breath. Then he leaped up and raced again to the tree.

  Time and again the boy climbed the tree to experience the crazy descent. He became ever bolder and climbed higher before letting go with his legs. Delighted laughter burst from him with each frightening ride. At first he did not hear and then he did not pay attention to the ominous groan that began to grow a bit louder with his continued play. He noticed only that the tree seemed to lean a little more than it had.

  Suddenly the slender trunk snapped in two, the broken half of it gripped futilely between Robert’s hands as he fell. His eyes flew open to their widest extent. His mouth opened in a soundless scream. The sky tipped madly, green rushed past him. The iron ground drove pain into him and Robert’s world disappeared.

  The sun was nearly set when the boy at last sighed and stirred. White-hot pain shot through his body with the slight movement. He cried out and became fully conscious. Slowly, carefully, Robert raised his head to look down at himself. His left leg lay at an awkward angle. Even as his mind coolly took note of the fact, he tested his arms one at a time. Bruised and shaken though he was, the boy gripped his lower lip between his teeth and raised himself to a sitting position. He already knew from the way his left leg felt that it was the center of the pain. But it was not until he could see his ripped, bloodied trousers and the bone jutting out of the stretched skin that the pain truly hit him. His face blanched. It hurt so badly that he could barely keep from crying out. His fingers clenched in the grass on either side of his thin shanks. He bit his lip hard, tasting blood. “Papa would not cry. He would not ever cry,” he said manfully. A desolation washed over him. “Papa!” He choked on a sob and tears slipped down his dirty face. An owl called softly on the breeze as the sun slipped further behind the trees.

  * * * *

  Miranda took a restless turn about the drawing room. She did not know how long she had paced. She threw another glance at the clock on the mantel and smacked her hands together. The drawing room door opened and she turned quickly. “There you are at last, my lord!” she exclaimed.

  Lord Townsend caught her out held hands in his. “My dear Miss Wainwright, if I had but known of your strong attachment to me, I would never have absented myself from the estate,” he said jestingly. Then her expression registered with him and his fingers tightened on hers. “What has happened, Miranda?”

  She did not even notice his use of her Christian name. “It’s Robert. He has been gone for hours and now it is growing dark. No one has seen him and he is not to be found anywhere about the house or stables. My lord, you know that I am not a female given to vague fears. I know that something dreadful has befallen him.”

  Lord Townsend stared down into her anxious eyes. He was too well used to Miss Wainwright’s steady nature to believe other than that she spoke the truth. “Has the copse been scoured and the meadow across the hedgerows?”

  “Yes, yes! I have been out myself with Crumpet and Constance. Your valet and the grooms have searched as well and have found no sign of him. I don’t know what to tell Anne. She will have to know, but I have put it off until she comes down to dinner,” said Miranda.

  “No, there is no need for Anne to know just yet.” The viscount’s expression was hard. “The rascal has gone far afield, then. When I find him I will have something to say to him about it. Miranda, ring for Crumpet and request lanterns. And we need something of Robert’s for the hounds.”

  “Hounds!?” exclaimed Miranda, staring at him. She pulled on the bell rope hanging beside the sofa.

  The viscount favored her with a faint grin, though the amusement did not quite reach his eyes. “My groom and I brought back a few hounds from the squire’s place. I wanted to try the hunter I bought two weeks ago from Bertram Burton to see how it would go with a pack,” he said. “Now it seems that the hounds must be put to quite another use. Damn the boy! I spoke to him about his escapades only days ago.”

  “He is not a boy one can effectively hem in,” said Miranda.

  Lord Townsend caught her gaze, recalling how grim he had been with her over the sparrow incident, and he laughed. “Your point is well-taken, Miss Wainwright. Ah, Crumpet! I am informed that Master Robert has gotten himself lost. We will require lanterns and one of the boy’s jackets or shirts at once. Bring them to the stables. I will be readying the mounts and the hounds.”

  The butler’s face did not change expression. “Very good, my lord.” He left on his errands.

  The viscount was about to leave the drawing room when Miranda caught his sleeve. “Pray have a horse saddled for me, my lord. I shall be going with you,” she said.

  “The devil you say! You shall remain here and soothe Anne,’ said Lord Townsend.

  “That can be left far better to Anne’s maid, who has a way with her mistress that cannot be excelled. I shall inform Grace at once of the matter and then I shall join you in the stables,” said Miranda, sweeping past him through the door. On the stairs she paused. “And I would take grave exception to your going without me, my lord.”

  Lord Townsend looked startled, then he grinned. “You know my mind too well, Miranda. Very well, I shall wait on you. But only a few minutes, mind. I wish to begin the search as swiftly as possible.”

  “That is all I ask,” said Miranda. She had at last noticed that he had t
aken liberty with her Christian name and her face was warm with color. She found that his familiarity was not at all offensive to her. Without another glance back at him she ran lightly up the stairs.

  The party that set out from Willowswood consisted of Lord Townsend, his groom, and Miss Wainwright. The hounds had quickly gotten the scent of the boy from one of his shirts and nosed about for the trail. One of the dogs bayed suddenly and loped off, the rest of the pack surging after it. The riders spurred after the hounds, their lanterns bobbing crazily over the ground.

  It began to drizzle. The viscount cast a glance up at the dark sky, his face carved in grim lines. He knew that if the boy were too far afield the scent would be washed away in the rain before he was found. Fear rode him and he urged on the hounds with harsh shouts.

  Robert was found closer than expected. He lay curled in an awkward ball in a small clearing. The hounds circled him excitedly. Lord Townsend jumped off his horse and waded through the dogs, cursing fluently. Miranda and the groom also dismounted and came quickly across the wet grass. The viscount set his lantern down beside the boy’s head. Its light illuminated Robert’s whitened cheek, streaked with dirt and tears. Lord Townsend knelt and gently turned his nephew over.

  The boy was breathing shallowly, rapidly, and he shuddered convulsively with cold. His eyes remained closed. “Robert? Robert!” The boy’s lashes fluttered but did not open. Lord Townsend bent to raise him from the ground.

  “Wait, my lord!” The groom held his lantern high. “His leg is broke, my lord. Best tie it afore lifting him onto your brute.”

  Lord Townsend’s mouth tightened as he gazed on the ugly wound, now swollen and black with bruising. He nodded abruptly. “Find some suitable branches, Hawkins.” Gently he lowered his nephew’s shoulders back onto the ground. The viscount unclasped the stickpin that secured his voluminous neckcloth and stripped off the length of silk.