“Well, someone did, and I for one would—” She broke off, staring, as the meaning of Susan’s words grew clear in her mind. “You wrote them yourself.” She saw the truth in Susan’s expression and, outraged, demanded, “Why? What possible reason could you have to blacken Deverill’s reputation, or your own?”
“You mustn’t tell,” Susan said as tears spilled down her cheeks again. “Oh, please don’t tell him. Don’t tell anyone.”
Reining in her temper, Daintry said calmly, “Why, Susan?”
“I saw how Geoffrey backed down, and I thought …”
“Backed down? What do you mean?”
“After he fell, when he was going to beat that poor horse, Deverill just stepped in front of him, and he put down the whip. I hoped, if he thought Deverill had an interest … Oh, I see how stupid I was. I never spared a thought for Deverill or for anything but making Geoffrey afraid to hurt me again. Instead, it just made him furious, and … and I knew the second letter was coming, because I’d given it to a housemaid to post after we left, and … Y-you see the r-result.” She burst into tears.
Daintry did what she could to comfort her, assuring her that she would tell no one and that Deverill could take care of himself. At last Susan stopped crying and agreed to go to bed.
She said, “I’ll sleep here with you. Geoffrey will look for me in my old room, but he will not come in here.”
But to their surprise, morning came without a sign of him.
Rising early and partaking of no more breakfast than the rolls and chocolate Nance brought to them, Daintry and Susan donned habits, packed a few necessary items in a pair of bandboxes, collected the little girls, and went to the stables, where Clemons soon had horses saddled and ready for them.
The groom had looked surprised to see Susan heavily veiled, and Daintry realized that his company might prove awkward, so she said firmly, “You need not come with us today, Clemons. Lady Susan and I will look after the girls.”
“His lordship don’t like it much when you go out on your own, my lady,” the groom reminded her.
“Then do not tell him,” she said. She thought of saying that they did not mean to go far, but realized that would only stir his curiosity more, since he had just finished tying two bandboxes to her saddle. Instead, she said nothing, giving him a look that warned him not to pursue the matter.
Despite the fact that both Charley and Daintry had done their best to get their charges out at a very early hour, it was nearly nine o’clock by the time they were ready to mount their horses. Charley, dancing with impatience, kept looking across the stable yard, as if by doing so she could see through the house to the front drive.
Susan, adjusting skirt and whip to her satisfaction once she was seated, noted her niece’s anxiety and said sharply, “Calm yourself, Charlotte. You are making a spectacle of yourself.”
Daintry bit back the sharp words that rose to her tongue, knowing she would not help matters by pointing out that concern for Susan’s safety was making Charley nervous. It was plain to see that Susan cared even more for maintaining an appearance of propriety than for the need to get away before Seacourt arrived.
They rode out of the stable yard at last, avoiding the main road as much as possible, but while it was easy to ride in the shadow of the hedges while they were near the house, once they turned toward the moor and the ground began to rise, Daintry knew the danger of their being seen was greatly increased.
Charley, too, was aware of the danger, for she kept glancing over her shoulder, and it was she who cried, “There he is! He is driving up to the front gates now. Oh, I think he has seen us, for he checked just then, and there is no other cause to do so!”
Daintry looked the moment she cried out and, seeing the curricle, knew at once that Geoffrey must have seen them, too. He seemed to experience momentary indecision but then drove right past the front entrance to the stable yard. It would be no time at all before a horse could be saddled for him to follow them.
Susan reined in her horse. “We had better go back, I suppose,” she said dismally.
“Don’t be absurd,” Daintry snapped. “He can’t catch us in an instant, and if we can be away across the moor before he gets to the top of the road, you can be safe and sound at Warleggan Farm before he has the least idea which way we have gone.”
“But he’ll see us on the moor. There is no place to hide!”
“We need only get beyond the first rise,” Daintry said calmly. “There are granite tors and plenty of scrub. The land is not flat, for heaven’s sake, so collect yourself, Susan, and ride.” Urging her horse to a lope, not daring to go any faster uphill for fear the animals would be blown, she cried, “Come on!”
Susan turned to look back again, then followed. At the top of the rise, Charley looked back, and called out, “He’s got a horse, Aunt Daintry. It’s Grandpapa’s hunter, Celtic Prince.”
Prince was the fastest horse in their stable and so powerful that Daintry feared even the steep rise near the top of the road would not slow him. She could not see Susan’s expression because of the heavy veil, but she could tell she was tired, and she knew that the pace they had set must have been painful for her.
Charley rode up beside them. “There’s plenty of scrub here, Aunt Daintry. I’m going to stay behind for a bit. I know the way, so I can catch up with you. You know I can.”
They were off the road now, but they would not be out of sight of anyone coming over the rise until they had got beyond the next hill. Then there would be any number of directions they might have taken, and Daintry was certain that Geoffrey, with his low opinion of women’s capabilities in the saddle, would assume they had followed the road—at least until he had gone far enough to be sure they had not. But he would only do that if he saw no sign of them when he reached the top of the hill.
The thought of leaving Charley behind was worrisome, but the little girl looked perfectly sure of herself.
“He will see you riding away.”
“No, he won’t. I can slow him down, Aunt Daintry, until he dismounts to see if something is wrong with Prince. He will not dare ride farther until he looks, for Prince is Grandpapa’s favorite horse. I was afraid he would bring one of the grooms with him, but since he has come alone … Let me. Please!”
Susan had ridden ahead but looked back now and cried, “Don’t slow down! We must hurry.” There was panic in her voice now.
Daintry made her decision at once, telling herself that even if something went wrong, Geoffrey would not dare to harm Charley. Nodding at the child, she gave spur to her horse, urging Melissa and Susan to ride as they had never ridden before, and hoping Susan would be too concerned for her own safety to notice that Charley was no longer with them.
Moments later, over the low thunder of the horses’ hooves, she heard in the distance a familiar whistle. Kicking Cloud hard when he tried to slow, and praying Charley’s plan would work, she shouted at the others to use their whips, but not till the ground beneath them began to slope downward and Charley’s faint whistles were lost in the distance did she dare to breathe normally again.
Charley, grinning, caught up with them at the entrance to the farm twenty minutes later. “Had to do it three times,” she said, chuckling. “Poor Prince’s sides must be smarting, and Uncle Geoffrey probably believes there are banshees hiding in the heather, but it worked.”
“What are you talking about, Charlotte?” Susan demanded.
Charley winked at Melissa. “Why, nothing, Aunt Susan, nothing at all.”
Thirteen
DAINTRY AND CHARLEY DID not linger at Warleggan Farm once they were assured that Susan and Melissa were welcome to stay and that Feok Warleggan was not there to object.
“Gone to Truro,” Annie explained, “with a herd of sheep for slaughtering, and won’t be back for two days. Dewy’s not here either. Gone off on some business of his own, but it’s no manner of use thinking I can tell him or Feok that Lady Susan prefers a small room abovestairs in a fa
rmhouse to the comforts of Seacourt Head,” she added bluntly, “and they are no more likely than any other men to want to help a female defy her lawful husband.”
“Less than some,” Granny Popple added tartly.
“Never you mind,” Charley had said cheerfully. “We shall think of a much better plan before Feok gets back.”
Daintry wished she shared Charley’s optimism. Riding back across the moor, she found herself scanning the horizon, hoping to see the figure of a centaurlike horseman, but aside from the occasional twitter of a meadow pipit, the flock of migratory lapwings Charley startled into flight, and a column of smoke in the distance where someone was burning heather to stimulate new growth, the moor appeared uninhabited that morning.
Charley chattered all the way, telling Daintry in detail just how she had hidden behind a small tor at the top of the road and whistled to make Prince slow to a halt, not once but three times, until Seacourt had dismounted to examine the horse’s hooves. “Then I ran and got back on Victor—for I had got down and crept closer so that I could see Uncle Geoffrey to whistle, you know—and then we just galloped off like lightning was after us. I stopped again behind another big pile of rocks to be sure Uncle Geoffrey stayed on the road. He did.”
Daintry was afraid they would see him all too soon, but they reached Tuscombe Park without encountering him, and she sent Charley at once to Miss Parish, warning her that if her mama or papa were to ask where she had been, she must be truthful without revealing their precise destination.
“They won’t ask,” Charley said with a sigh. “I’ve scarcely laid eyes on them since you all returned from Mount Edgcumbe, and they are getting ready now, if you can call it that, to go to Cothele. They were shouting at each other the last I saw. Would they pay me more heed if I were a boy, Aunt Daintry?”
Daintry touched the child’s flushed cheek and smiled at her. “If you were a boy,” she said gently, “they would have packed you off to Eton or Harrow two years ago to have a grand education flogged into you. In my opinion, miss, you are much better off here with me and Aunt Ophelia.”
Charley grinned at her. “I am glad you are my aunt.”
Daintry watched her run off, and wished her own spirits might be lifted so easily. She wondered once again what was amiss between Davina and Charles, but with Seacourt likely to descend upon them at any moment, she did not spare them more than a brief thought, hurrying instead to find Lady Ophelia.
That worthy dame was sitting placidly in the drawing room, her journal, pen, and inkwell pushed to one side while she gave her attention to Cousin Ethelinda, who, when Daintry entered the room, was explaining in tedious detail, just how it was that Lady St. Merryn had not yet chosen to come downstairs.
“I am really quite concerned about your mama,” she added, seeing Daintry. “She is that vexed over Susan that she seems to have no spirit at all today. Why, she did not even want me to read her a chapter from her Bible this morning, which she generally likes, for it makes her feel as if she had had enough energy to attend morning prayers with the servants, which, of course, she never has. But today she just wanted to sleep.”
Lady Ophelia made an unladylike noise. “All Letitia needs is some responsibility. She is like a plant with no one to water it. She droops.”
Cousin Ethelinda stiffened. “I am sure I water her … that is to say, if she were a plant, which she is not, I am sure I should take just as good care of her as I do now. There is nothing at all she needs that I do not provide for her.”
“Oh, my dear,” Lady Ophelia said, shaking her head, “if only that were possible. But though you do your best for her, every woman has needs that cannot be met by another woman, or by a man, for that matter. One must have inner resources as well, and I fear Letitia has none. I have given orders,” she added, looking significantly at Daintry, “for any visitors to be directed to us here. There have been none.”
“I see,” Daintry replied, meeting her gaze.
Cousin Ethelinda said brightly, “I hope Susan got away early this morning and that she will quickly make amends with Seacourt. A woman ought not to be at odds with her husband.”
Daintry, having been taken aback by the first part of the statement, realized what was meant and was briefly at a loss for something to say. Glancing at Lady Ophelia, she said, “Susan left at nine, Cousin. Is that a new bit of tapestry you are working?” she added, sitting down beside her on the sofa.
“Oh, yes, is it not a pretty pattern?”
Daintry was able to keep Cousin Ethelinda’s mind occupied with matters other than Susan until they heard the unmistakable sounds of male voices on the gallery. Stiffening, she looked again at her great-aunt to see that Lady Ophelia had picked up her pen and appeared to be concentrating on her journal.
The door was thrown open, and St. Merryn entered, followed by a furious Seacourt.
“Where the devil is Susan?” St. Merryn demanded.
Daintry got to her feet, striving for calm. “She is not here, Papa. Since you would not help her, she has gone away.”
Seacourt took two steps toward her. “Damn it, you young—”
“Language, Seacourt,” St. Merryn snapped. “Ladies present.”
“Sorry, sir, but this is enough to make anyone forget his manners. Susan came here, prating of abuse because she is a trifle put out with me at the moment, and Daintry, if I am not much mistaken, has assisted her to do something very naughty.”
Daintry glared at Seacourt. “I daresay Papa told you he refused to see Susan. You would not be pretending it was no more than a foolish little squabble if you knew he had seen her face.”
Flushing, he kept his gaze pinned to hers. “You will regret it if you have tried to come between me and my wife, my girl.”
“I am not your girl, thank heaven,” Daintry said, “nor am I much impressed by your threats, Geoffrey. Papa, please,” she added, turning to face him, “you must not listen to him.”
St. Merryn returned her look angrily. “What are you doing in here, anyway? I distinctly remember ordering you to stay in your bedchamber until I gave you leave to come out of it.”
“Well, yes, you did, but I knew Geoffrey would come, and—”
“She was out on the road with Susan, sir,” Seacourt said.
“Upon my word,” St. Merryn growled, “I ought to take you across my knee to teach you obedience, girl.”
“Not,” Lady Ophelia said evenly, “if I have anything to say about it.” She looked him in the eye, and St. Merryn was the first to look away, glancing at Seacourt, then balefully at Daintry before muttering, “Anyone who thinks it’s easy for a man to command a houseful of women has never done it, that’s all.”
Lady Ophelia said quietly, “Daintry, you did not tell me you had been confined to your room. You ought not to have left it. Apologize to your papa at once, if you please.”
“I do apologize,” she said. “Truly, Papa, I did not really mean to disobey, but Susan needed me, and I just did not think.”
“Never mind that,” Seacourt snapped, clearly disgusted. “Where the devil have you taken Susan? And do not bother denying that you took her somewhere, for I saw you, all four of you, and if that damned horse I took from the stables here had not suddenly taken it into his head to slow to a walk—not once, mind you, but three times—I’d have caught up with you on the road.”
“What horse is that?” St. Merryn demanded, diverted.
“The one they call Prince, sir. A big bay hunter.”
“Upon my word, Seacourt, if you’ve hurt that horse—”
“I haven’t He was startled by some wild birds, I think. At all events, he recovered and was fine when I brought him in.”
Not daring to look at Lady Ophelia, who had often heard Charley describe her training, Daintry said, “I have sworn to say nothing, Geoffrey, so do not ask me. I always keep my word.”
Seacourt, still watching St. Merryn, said, “Order her to tell me, sir, or send for young Charlotte, and I’ll soon have
the truth out of her if I have to shake it out.”
“Careful, Geoffrey,” Daintry said. “You will reveal rather more of your delightful personality than you mean to reveal.”
He shot a furious look at her but kept his attention focused on St. Merryn. “Well, sir?”
“Tell him where Susan is, Daintry.”
“No, sir.”
“What’s that you say?” St. Merryn’s mouth dropped open.
“I won’t tell him. You may lock me in my room, or beat me, Papa, but I will still refuse to tell you. I promised Susan I would not betray her, and I mean to honor that promise.”
“Then get Charlotte,” Seacourt said. “I’ll talk to her.”
St. Merryn frowned, and Daintry held her breath, fearing he would send for Charley; but before he could speak, Lady Ophelia said in the same even tone she had employed before, “You may ask Charlotte, of course, but if I know her—and I daresay I know her very well—she too will refuse to tell you, and she will enjoy the scene she creates by refusing very much more than you will.”
“Get Charles,” Seacourt snapped. “Surely, he is not so cowed by you that he will refuse to force his daughter to speak.”
Daintry sighed. “You really do not know Charles very well, do you, Geoffrey? Davina might help you if she wanted to do so, but I daresay she might have more sympathy for Susan than for you, and at all events, she would not try to beat an answer out of Charley. Nor, to his credit, would Charles ever do so.”
St. Merryn shrugged. “Daresay there ain’t much you can do, lad, if they refuse to speak. Take my advice and just wait a day or two for the chit to go home. She will, you know. They always do, and you can teach her then to mind you better.”
“She has taken my daughter from my house,” Seacourt said, his voice tight. “I will not simply sit and wait for her to decide what to do next.”
St. Merryn shook his head. “Now that was wrong of her, very wrong. Man’s child belongs at home. So does his wife, for that matter. Susan’s done wrong, Ophelia. Even you must see that.”
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