What she wanted to say was I’ve been doing more than that since I was sixteen.
“Are you angry about something?” he asked in bewilderment.
“Of course I’m angry. There was a shortage of peacock feathers that year, and because I was late to town, I had to settle for diamond pins instead.”
He frowned at her. “Did I say something wrong?”
It was a form of kindness he practiced. She’d felt one like it most of her life. No doubt her father had intended to keep her as every woman ought to be kept, safe and out of harm’s way. Women were supposed to plan parties, after all, not escapes. Ned wouldn’t understand that she wanted more than that. She imagined herself trying to tell him anyway.
I wanted more responsibility, and so I started stealing wives. Did you know Louisa is number seven?
No. That clearly wouldn’t work.
“I did say something,” he said, staring at her. “You are angry.”
“I’m furious just thinking about those diamonds,” Kate said with a sigh. “Remember, if you love a woman—buy her sapphires.”
Ned simply stared at her, as if she’d announced her intention to give birth to kittens.
“I will never,” he finally said slowly, “never, in my entire life, ever understand women.”
No, he wouldn’t. And Kate wasn’t sure whether she should thank the Lord for that, or burst into tears.
NED HAD NO MORE OPPORTUNITY to talk to his wife that evening, and in any event, he very much doubted she would say anything he comprehended.
After the evening meal, Kate had cheerfully asked if anyone wanted to play at hide-and-seek. She’d spoken with a bright smile, her hair glinting in the lamplight. If it had been a real house party, her suggestion might not have been taken amiss.
As it was, Harcroft had stared at her for a very long time before shaking his head and leaving the brightly lit dining room without a word. Jenny had made polite excuses for herself and her husband. And when they’d all left, Ned had caught that look on her face again—that curious combination of self-satisfaction and hurt, all mixed into one.
He couldn’t shake the feeling that she was already hiding. He wasn’t sure what role she’d assigned him in the game, but he felt uneasy. Nobody else seemed to notice, and Ned was left to his own devices.
There was more to all of this than appeared on the surface.
He had gone in search of Jenny, who had a keen eye for seeing hidden things. He’d stopped at the downstairs study. A little sullen light shone from beneath the door, which stood ajar.
Ned eased it open.
Harcroft turned as he entered. “Ah, Ned. Your wife told me I could sit in this room. I hope you’re not accustomed to making use of it.”
“No, no. I have a desk in an alcove in my upstairs chambers.”
Harcroft had laid a heavy sheet of paper on the wooden table. As Ned drew nearer, he realized it was a rough hand-drawn map of the area, roads and villages sketched in by the wavering marks of pencil. Wood shavings—and the aforementioned pencil—decorated the edge of the table.
A single spot of red ink in the center marked the point where gossip had placed the woman who looked like Louisa. Two straight-pins pierced the villages Ned had conducted Harcroft to earlier in the day.
“You’re being quite thorough,” Ned said. For some reason, those two pins, bristling out of the map like the spines of a hedgehog, made him feel uneasy.
“I dare not let anything slip by. Not so much as a single cottager, who might otherwise have useful knowledge.”
The man’s hair shone almost copper in the orange lamplight; he frowned and shifted, staring at those pins until Ned thought they might reduce to slag in the heat of his gaze.
Ned had known Harcroft for years. The ferocity of his expression was nothing new. Harcroft looked like a ruffled angel, with his gold hair and his tired slouch. He had always seemed perfect—so damned perfect. But for his confession on that long-ago night, Ned would have believed him to be truly without fault.
Harcroft had poured himself a finger’s breadth of sherry, but as usual, the liquid sat untouched in a tumbler by his map. He leaned back and sighed, scrubbing his hands through his hair.
“I can help with your sojourns,” Ned said. “I spent enough time hereabouts in my youth that I know the environs quite well.” He reached for the pencil and sketched a little X between two hills. “There are five farmers’ cottages in this valley. Not truly a village, but the houses are built within shouting range of each other, the lands radiating out from that point. And here…”
Harcroft nodded as Ned talked. It was good to feel useful, to know that someone was willing to speak with him. Ned discussed the area within a day’s ride from Berkswift slowly, starting from the north and then filling in details in a clockwise sweep. It was only until they got to the southeast quadrant of the map that Ned paused to sharpen the pencil with a penknife.
“There’s very little out west,” he said. “It’s all sheep pasture now.” He tapped the map at the old Leary place, remembering Kate’s words that afternoon. “Mrs. Alcot, apparently, lives alone here.” He sketched in an obligatory squiggle. “The house she is staying in is rather out of the way.”
Now that he was looking at the rough map, he was reminded of precisely how out of the way the house was—a good thirty minutes on horseback. On foot? Kate’s trek must have taken considerably longer. Over an hour. Another two or three to come back, by the roundabout route she’d taken. She could have made it back to the point where he’d met her in the time allotted. If she’d walked very quickly, and spent no time visiting with Mrs. Alcot.
“Something doesn’t add up,” he said aloud.
“I know that feeling.” Harcroft rubbed his eyes. “I feel as if I’m missing something right in front of my nose, and if I could only draw back, I would see it.”
“There’s another cottage.” Ned moved his pencil a few inches north. “It should be abandoned—the shepherds use it in spring and summer. It’s right here, along the ridge. We passed it this morning. But it’s empty this time of year.”
“Perhaps I’ll go knock these two dots off, tomorrow morning,” Harcroft said, watching as Ned inscribed a second squiggle to represent the shepherd’s cottage.
Ned had scared Kate this afternoon. By the tempo of her breath and the pallor of her skin, she’d seemed terrified to see him at first. And it hadn’t just been his abrupt appearance. His questions had discomfited her enough that she’d thrown herself at him in that frightened parody of a kiss. And he hadn’t even done anything—just asked after Mrs. Alcot.
“Kate spoke with Mrs. Alcot this afternoon,” Ned said slowly. “She would have spoken up if the woman had seen anything.” He reached for a straight-pin, to puncture that dot on the map.
Harcroft reached forward and blocked his hand. “No. I think not.”
“Kate is friends with Lady Harcroft. I know she wants to help.”
“She’s a woman. She’ll be rather too kind in her questioning. I’ve seen your wife with mine for three years, Ned. If there’s a thought in her head beyond the latest fashions in head gear, I’ve yet to see evidence of it.”
That seemed too much an echo of Kate’s own words this afternoon. Ned felt another prickle of unease travel through him. He was definitely missing something.
“Well,” he said, “then I’ll do it myself tomorrow. I know Mrs. Alcot, and if what Kate said is true, she’ll be more likely to talk to me than a stranger. You go here.” Ned tapped east on the map. “Concentrate on the towns with significant populations—it’s the best use of your time, in any event. I’ll handle these two.”
That sense that something was eluding him intensified.
Harcroft shook his head. “Well. That decides that. I suppose I should turn in if I’m to have an early start tomorrow.” He stood and stretched.
Ned stared at the map a while longer. “I was just wondering one thing, Harcroft. Jenny and Gareth spent all their time today searching ou
t news of any ruffians who might have absconded with your wife. But this afternoon, you asked after gossip about a woman and child alone. Do you think she left of her own free will?”
Harcroft froze, his arms still above his head. “I cannot afford to discount any possibility.”
“But why might she have done that?”
“Why does any woman do anything?” He shrugged, as if all feminine foibles could be reduced to whim. “Honestly, I simply cannot comprehend those women who claim that they should be granted the right to vote or own property. If they could vote, they would choose the fellow with the prettiest moustache. Or the one who promised to usher in a new fashion.”
“That’s a rather harsh assessment.”
“Hardly. In my experience, if a woman thinks she is capable of deciding an issue of importance, it should be taken as presumptive evidence of her incapacity. Too foolish to know what she cannot do.”
Ned shut his mouth. Harcroft was overset. Unhappy. It was inevitable that he feel a bit embittered toward womankind, under the circumstances.
But Harcroft was looking at him with a disbelieving glower. “Surely you don’t believe that women deserve more rights? That they are competent to handle men’s affairs?”
Ned’s father had died in a hunting accident. His mother had raised him practically on her own—choosing his tutors, making sure that he learned the fundamentals of hunting and boxing from uncles and cousins, and the principles of estate management from his grandfather. In his later youth, he’d watched Jenny, the marchioness, handle situations that would have brought lesser men to their knees. Ned knew the prevailing sentiment was that women needed to be protected from the world, but in his personal life, the women he’d known most closely hadn’t had much male protection. They’d still triumphed.
Perhaps that was why he found it difficult to become exercised, as many of his compatriots did, at the thought of women gaining traditionally male prerogatives. In his life, women had always had those prerogatives.
“If you’re worried about how Lady Harcroft will fare on her own,” he suggested gently, “it’s been my experience that women are capable of more than we give them credit for. I am sure she might surprise you with what she has done.”
But Harcroft appeared not to hear what Ned said. Instead, he smacked his fist into his hand. “In fact,” he said, “we should just declare them incompetent as a rule—incompetent to own property, to divest themselves of it, to testify in court against the men who protect them, to avail themselves of any sort of divorce.”
“Married women already can’t own property at law,” Ned said. “They already can’t testify in court against their husbands. And divorce is available to married women only in extreme cases of spousal cruelty.”
Harcroft coughed gently. “Listen to yourself. Don’t tell me you’re a follower of Bentham. How is it that you can recite that pale litany of female complaints?”
Those same points had all been listed in the newspapers, the subject of a handful of political discussions. Ned shook his head wearily.
“Yes,” Harcroft said bitterly. “I should like to see all women declared feeble-minded, as a matter of principle. Then they wouldn’t even be able to dispose of property. They wouldn’t be able to threaten to testify in court at all. They wouldn’t ever leave their husbands, because there would be no recourse for them if they did.”
Ned couldn’t take the sentiment seriously. That spiteful mouthful was just bitter emotion. Harcroft would have warmer feelings, no doubt, once he’d recovered his wife.
He’d met Lady Harcroft shortly after her marriage. She’d been married on the young side of things—at fifteen, if he recalled correctly. She had always seemed a small, timid soul—ready to jump at a single word uttered by her husband, devoted to his comfort—except for the days when she took to her bed with whatever illness afflicted her.
She had often been ill.
But when she had been well, she had fawned over her husband. Harcroft had only to think of crooking his finger, and she would respond. Once her husband had her safely back, he would remember how well his wife looked after his comfort.
But looking at the man—sitting in a chair, staring at the map as if he could flush his wife from her hiding spot with the intensity of his gaze—Ned couldn’t quite make himself believe it. No, he was missing something. He felt as if he’d added columns and columns of numbers, and come up with an answer that he knew must be incorrect.
If only he could ferret out the error.
“Have you had the honor of meeting my mother?” Ned asked gently. “Or the Marchioness of Blakely?” Ned would have added his own wife, if he hadn’t already known that Harcroft was set against the woman. “Neither of them are precisely examples of feeble-mindedness.”
“Perhaps.” Harcroft waved this attempt at reason away. “Perhaps. Well. I’m to bed.”
Ned waved him off and studied the map in front of him. That sense of unease remained even after Harcroft had taken himself off. In the dim light, the pencil marks seemed child’s sketches, failing to capture some basic truth of reality. The numbers still didn’t cast up into a proper sum in his head. Two and two came together, but they only managed to whisper dark intimations amongst themselves, hinting at the possibility of a distant four.
He gave up trying to make sense of it all when his head began to ache.
NED HAD GONE PAST the small shepherd’s cottage on the ridge—a tidy construction of stone and mortar—a thousand times without ever attaching any particular significance to it. There had never been any reason to do so, after all. Sometimes shepherds were in residence. Often they were not. When he was twelve, he’d once crept inside on a wager and found himself disappointed by the tidy, prosaic interior. He’d had no reason to think about the structure since.
Now he eyed the thing warily. His gray mare sensed his unease and shifted beneath him. This visit should have required a matter-of-fact glance inside, prerequisite to ticking an item off of Harcroft’s list. The hut itself looked preposterously harmless in the morning light. Picturesque vines crept halfway up the doorframe, and a tiny wisp of smoke slipped out the chimney, before being smudged by the wind into insubstantiality. The cottage seemed small, cozy and eminently unworthy of his attention.
Except for one small thing. The place was supposed to be unoccupied, and someone had lit a fire. That, coupled with Kate’s behavior last afternoon, Harcroft’s strangeness in the evening…
Well. He dismounted and looped his mare’s reins on a post near the entry. It was inconceivable that Harcroft’s fancies might have come true, that his wife might be here, on Ned’s property. But there was that smudge of smoke. Maybe it had been taken over by ruffians, after all.
In the cold light of an autumn day, last night’s fears seemed truly ridiculous.
Ned shook his head. His imagination, always fertile, had a tendency to run amok, if he let it. There were a few points to keep in mind. One, it was a drafty shepherd’s cottage; ruffians generally preferred easy access to ale. And women. And future victims. Two, it was on Ned’s property. Ned was not precisely an expert on the subject, but he suspected madwomen were more likely to wander the moors, tearing their hair out, than they were to build boring little fires in tiny buildings.
It was probably just one of the shepherds, come to inspect the land in preparation for winter. No doubt they intended to do some final cleaning before winter set in. To patch the roof. There was undoubtedly a simple explanation. Anything was more likely than the possibility that he would encounter a band of unknown brigands stealing Harcroft’s wife and secreting themselves in a shepherd’s hut on Harcroft’s friend’s property.
He strode to the door and knocked loudly.
Inside he heard nothing. No footsteps. No hasty, frightened shouts. No bugle, sounding a piratical call to arms.
Even the wind seemed to hold its breath.
He glanced up, to make sure he hadn’t imagined that sign of habitation. That stream of smoke
still purled from the chimney; waves of heat distorted the air above the capstones. There had to be someone inside; no shepherd would leave a fire alone and untended, not during these dry days of autumn.
“Draven?” he tried.
No answer.
“Stevens? Darrow?” He cudgeled his brain, trying to remember more of the shepherds who worked this land. “Dobbin?” he tried at last. Desperation, that; Dobbin was a sheep dog. Still no answer, neither from canine nor human compatriot. Whoever had once been inside had undoubtedly wandered off for a few minutes. Ned would have sharp words for the fellow, leaving a fire burning with the fields so dry.
But there was no reason not to have fun until the man returned.
Ned set his fingers on the handle of the door.
“Well, then, Lady Harcroft.” He spoke loudly, pitching his voice to deepness, a grin on his face. It helped to mock his own fancies, to show how ridiculous they were. “You are exposed. I have found you all. Ruffians, prepare to be brought to justice! Ha!”
If this had been a story, and Ned a Bow Street Runner—or a knight of old—he would have kicked the door in dramatically. Of course, that would have necessitated an embarrassing explanation, when he shamefacedly asked his estate manager to repair the damage. Ned settled for swinging the door inward.
He expected to see the tiny front room of the cottage—barely large enough to contain a trestle table and the fireplace. He was a little taken aback to find the floor of the room piled with lumpy sacks that might have been potatoes or turnips, and another smaller sack of flour. The only reason he knew he wasn’t dreaming was the rope, strung from one side of the room to another. A multitude of damp cloths had been strung to dry. He never would have dreamed of anything so prosaic.
And when he moved his eyes from that curiosity, he was astonished to see Lady Harcroft herself, standing as far from the door as she could. Her auburn hair was braided and pinned to her head; she wore a deep brown gown, bereft of embellishment. He was so surprised to see her, after all his self-mockery, that it took him a moment to comprehend what she held in her hands.
The Carhart Series Page 47