by Cindy Anstey
“Perhaps I could go with you to the search—”
“I should say not!” Matt said forcefully.
Startled, Kate swung around in time to see Matt glance about as if ensuring there were no witnesses to his lack of composure. As if the trees and shrubs would chastise. “I should say not,” he repeated in a calmer, quieter tone.
Kate tipped her head, trying to understand the implication and not liking the direction of her thoughts. “You are not expecting a happy conclusion to your search, are you?”
Matt swallowed, pressed his lips together, and then shook his head, as if he didn’t trust his voice.
“Four nights is not…,” Kate started to say, then amended her statement. “Five nights is not too long to be in the woods.”
Matt sighed. It was a weary, sad sound. “Five nights at the start of winter. If he hasn’t found shelter as yet … well, no, I don’t believe Johnny will have survived.” He dropped his eyes to the ground and proceeded to stare in silence for some moments.
“Johnny and I have been friends since we were in skirts,” he finally said, referring to the loose frocks baby boys wore. “The Grinsteads had a haberdashery two doors down from Harlow Tailor Shop.” He snorted a laugh, lifting his head, but his eyes were still focused in the past. “We got into a great deal of mischief … Well, at least we did until my father passed away. I hardly saw him after I moved in with my aunt and her family. It was better when I began working at Musson House; I would visit the Grinsteads on my half days. Then he started getting into trouble…” Matt snorted again in a poor imitation of a chuckle. “Trouble found him, as Johnny would say. Though he did have a round of bad luck … set him back on his heels for bit. But he came around. His position at Musson House was going to see him through. He had already started talking about being an under-butler … but I don’t imagine…” Matt grew silent again; his gaze fixed somewhere over her shoulder.
Stepping toward him, Kate lifted her mitten—Mrs. Gupta’s mitten—to his cheek; it was a startling contrast, bright red against his pallor.
Matt blinked, shuddered slightly, and shifted his gaze to her eyes. He shrugged in a vain attempt to seem nonchalant. “But you never know…,” he started to say, and then trailed off again. He swallowed visibly.
“Johnny might have found shelter or someone has taken him in or he boarded a coach … or—”
“Or he sprouted wings and flew away.”
Kate clicked her tongue as if admonishing him for his glib remark, but there was no weight to her reproach.
“If he is fine, then he should have returned to Shackleford Park by now or sent a message,” Matt said.
“He might have banged his head and can’t remember who he is.”
“Is that supposed to make me feel better?” Matt stared at her with a quizzical expression.
It was Kate’s turn to snort. “No, indeed not. Still, I can see many a reason why he could be safe and sound but unable to let us know where he is.”
“You, my dearest Kate, have an idealistic nature.”
“And you, my dearest Matt, should emulate such a worthy attribute. If misfortune must pay us a call, the least we can do is hold it at bay for as long as possible.”
“We are now in the realm of fantasy.”
“With unicorns and fairies.”
“Yes.”
“I happen to like unicorns and fairies.”
Shaking his head, Matt smiled—a tiny bit. “Why am I not surprised?”
Turning to link her arm with his, Kate playfully bumped his shoulder and stepped forward, pulling Matt along with her. She knew it was easy enough to talk of hope and speculate about a happy outcome when she had only known Johnny for a short period of time. She liked him very much. She prayed that he was hale and hearty … but it would be Matt who would be devastated should this tale turn into a tragedy. It was Matt who would need her support and caring—for, despite her words, Kate knew the chances of finding Johnny were slim, and those of finding him well were slimmer still.
* * *
BY THE TIME they climbed up the path that lead out of the woods and into Vyse, Matt had once again lapsed into silence. Kate, too, had run out of frivolous dialogue. The weather could only be discussed in so many ways.
Mam’s cottage was tranquil. The chimney pot belched smoke, the curtains were pulled back to allow the gray light to shine in, and the chickens clucked and pecked around the back gate. Nothing seemed amiss—certainly not at first glance. Kate sighed; it sounded more like a growl.
“Trouble?” Matt asked.
“No, none at all,” Kate said, lifting her cheeks. “None at all.” And that, of course, was the problem.
Leading the way, Kate unlatched the gate, careful not to let the chickens out. They could, if they desired, wander farther afield by flapping up and over the stone wall, but they never seemed inclined to do so. At least, the majority didn’t; there was an occasional escapee, chased down by Colby—the antics related to Kate on her next visit.
Without knocking, Kate opened the door and entered, expecting to see her mother standing by the huge fireplace, stirring a pot of porridge. And that was exactly what she saw; however, that was not all she saw.
Sitting on the opposite side, her father’s pipe in his mouth, leg propped up on an overturned bucket, was Johnny Grinstead, errant footman.
Kate screamed. Matt shouted, and they rushed across the room, which, as it was not large, gave Johnny no time to prepare for their onslaught. Kate threw her arms around his shoulders, and Matt grasped his hand, pumping it up and down.
“Here now, here now,” Johnny said. “What’s all the excitement?” Trying to lean away from the effusive display, he tipped his chair back toward the wall. “Watch the foot.” He pointed his chin at the bucket.
Kate straightened, swallowed the lump in her throat, and then jumped to catch the chair as it overbalanced. Matt snatched at the front of Johnny’s shirt, and between them they returned Johnny to the chair, the bucket, and his comfort. Though he was rather out of sorts.
“Well, you took long enough,” Johnny complained.
Kate produced a staccato gurgle and blinked in astonishment. She glanced up to meet Matt’s frown and adopted a similar expression.
“I beg your pardon?” Matt asked. He, too, had straightened and stepped away a pace or two.
“Too much frivolity going on to remember your old friend?” Johnny snarked. He glanced significantly between Matt and Kate. “Two days, I understand … even three. But four days to come fetch me. Really!”
“But … but…,” Kate sputtered.
“We have been looking everywhere for you—” Matt started to say.
“Clearly not everywhere.”
“We did not know where you were,” Kate protested.
Johnny tilted his head slightly. “You didn’t?” His tone was far less combative. His frown disappeared; he blinked at Kate and then turned his head. “Mrs. D.?”
“I sent a message three days ago.” Mam shook her porridge spoon in Kate’s direction, dripping oatmeal on the floor. “And then again yesterday.”
Kate shook her head. “Mam, you didn’t say anything about Johnny. You just told me to come.”
“That should have been enough.” Her mother’s expression was very disgruntled. She glared at Kate.
“It was not enough. Not when I was busy looking for Johnny, Mam. Even as we speak, a score of men are scouring the woods—for nothing. Really! Would it have hurt to offer some reason I was to drop everything and run over here? I asked Colby if there was a problem, and he said there wasn’t!”
“Well, of course there wasn’t a problem. Johnny here is not a problem; good company, a friendly fellow, yes. But a problem, no indeed.” She offered Johnny a broad grin. “’E’s been tellin’ me all about his childhood and his people. Including you, Mr. Harlow.” She nodded in Matt’s direction. “My, you boys have seen your share of mischief.”
Kate lifted her brow at Matt and watch
ed him squirm. “Oh,” she said noncommittally.
“Well, we had to talk of something.” Mam rebutted Kate’s tone. “He needed to be distracted. The poor boy twisted his ankle something fierce crossing a ditch and can’t move about.”
“Then that would be a problem, wouldn’t it?” Kate could not hide her derision and did not want to. She was incensed. All the angst and anxiety, all the suppression of terrible fears, the sleepless nights … the peril she and Matt had dealt with! Kate was so enraged that her thoughts were leaping all over themselves with no rhyme or reason, no attempt at logic.
“No—oh yes. I suppose it is. But by the time I sent Colby ta get ya, Johnny were all cleaned up, warm, and napping by the fire.”
“Mr. Jordan could have brought Johnny to Shackleford Park in his cart, Mam. There was no need to wait on us to fetch him. Johnny could have been returned to his own room and his own bed, slept in comfort.”
“Oh, I was comfortable enough, Kate,” Johnny said most unhelpfully. “Your mam put a pallet in front of the fire with blankets…” He lapsed into silence, finally recognizing that he was treading on dangerous ground.
“I wouldna ask the Jordans, Kate. You know that. It would set up an obligation. Then that woman could ask anything she wanted of me. No. I will not be beholdin’.”
“I find that a rather odd stance given that you have no compunction about sending Colby to the big house with a message.”
“Your brothers pay Colby to help out around the house. There is no obligation. He’s not doing me a favor; he’s doin’ a job.”
“I see,” Kate said in a clipped tone, glaring at her mother. She turned back to Johnny, with a quick glance at Matt before she did so. He was still smiling, though not as broadly as a moment ago; he was still caught up in the euphoria of Johnny’s return to life. Kate would be, too, if it hadn’t been her family member who had exacerbated the situation. It was dire enough without her mam … Kate sighed, shook her head, and lifted her brows.
“Johnny, I cannot tell you how overjoyed I am to discover that you are hale and hearty.” Her eyes wandered toward the bucket and then back up to his face. “Well, most parts of you are. And I humbly beg your pardon for the … confusion,” she said, studiously not glancing in her mother’s direction. “And ask your indulgence for a little while longer. There are men out looking for you, and I think it behooves me to inform them of your situation before we arrange a cart or wagon to pick you up. But fear not, you will be back at Shackleford Park before midday.”
Johnny nodded formally and then ruined the effect by grinning. “Lawks, I’m glad of it—that I’m not going off right away, that is. Your mam makes excellent oatmeal.”
“It’s the honey,” her mother said, as Kate knew she would.
With a nod and feigned smile, Kate returned to the door, threw it open without a backward glance, and had every intention of slamming it shut. Unfortunately, something got in the way.
“Not without me, Kate,” Matt said, catching the door and closing it behind him.
“I thought you would want to stay with Johnny.” Kate knew she was not thinking as clearly as she ought—anger had a tendency to do that. She marched to the gate, scooting a large brown hen out of the way. After stepping back onto the lane, she turned into the hamlet.
“We’d best take the road north first and cut into the woods when we hear the dogs getting closer,” she explained even though Matt had not asked. “The men might want to join the search for Rolland or they might want to go home, but there is no need for them to be out in this cold unnecessarily. Really, what if someone had been injured? And for what? Look at you … you have scratches. Yes, needless scratches. Scratches that would not be there had we known that—Good morning.”
Kate waved at the silhouette visible through the Jordan cottage window and continued to chunter. “Uncalled for. If only we had known. If she had sent a clear message…” Kate waved at the remaining two cottages—not that she could see anyone about, but just in case there was and they thought Kate as standoffish as her mother. Really, could the woman be any more exasperating?
“It’s not your fault, you know.” Matt had remained silent until they were well away from Vyse-on-Hill, now hidden by a curve and a stand of larches.
“I know that,” Kate said, stomping, kicking, and marching down the road, pulling ahead of him. “I blame my mam entirely.”
“It’s not your fault,” he said again, as if she hadn’t replied.
Pivoting, Kate rounded on him. “I know that!” she said rather forcefully. She stood akimbo, leaning forward, hands fisted in her mitts.
“No, you don’t, but you should.” Matt had come to a standstill as well.
“I would appreciate it if you would not stare at me with what appears to be sympathy; it is most irritating.”
Matt closed the distance between them, but he left that sympathetic, understanding, kind, irritating expression on his face. “Had you known, you would have acted differently. But think on it this way: While it caused us some … um … difficulty—”
“Difficulty? We were tied to a wagon, soon to be animal fodder, all because we were trying to find someone who was perfectly safe—far safer than we were.”
“True enough. But had we not gone looking for Johnny, we would not have known who our villains were. Belcher and Niven would not have been caught.”
“Yes, they would have. Johnny would have told us. They nabbed him, tied him up, and left him in the barn. He knows full well who the culprits are; that, in fact, is the reason they tried to hightail it out of Tishdale.”
“Lud, I see what you mean,” Matt said dourly as he folded his brow, shook his head, and tut-tutted with gusto. “Indeed, it is all your fault.” His scowl was entirely ruined by the mischief in his eyes.
A laugh burst from Kate, and she grinned for a moment before the smile slowly faded. “Well, perhaps not. Still, I beg your pardon. While you are right, my mother and I did not willfully obstruct, it amounted to the same thing. Johnny was … is your friend, and his disappearance was a sore trial to you.”
“Apology accepted.” Matt bobbed his head and then looked up, tilting his head to listen. “I believe the dogs have turned in our direction.”
Kate paused to listen as well. She was surprised by how much closer they were when her inattention could not have lasted more than a minute or two.
“Should we meander into the woods and suggest an end to this particular search?” Matt said, gesturing with a wide swoop of his arm.
“Excellent notion,” Kate said airily, feeling much better for no reason at all. And with that she crossed the ditch and stepped into the woods.
* * *
THERE WAS NO doubt that at some time this stand of forest had been cut down. The trees and scrub were not ancient, but they were still old and gnarled and jumbled. There was no path to follow, and so Matt tried to lead, to take the brunt of the hanging skeletal branches. Kate would have none of it, wending among the trees beside him.
She was no longer a bundle of repressed rage, walking instead with a rolling gait and relaxed shoulders; her jaw was no longer taut. Matt could unwind now, as well. He glanced to his side, only to find Kate looking back. They shared a grin that lasted several steps—several blind steps. His heart pounded in his ears; he forgot to breathe, and he decided that one of his favorite pastimes, ever, was hiking through the woods with someone who had stolen his heart—one Miss Kate Darby, lady’s maid extraordinaire.
Then he walked into a tree, bounced back, and nearly took a tumble.
“I’m fine,” he said, correcting his balance, and then dusted the detritus off his shoulders.
Kate laughed lightly—prettily—and grabbed his hand, giving it a squeeze. “Best come this way,” she said, tugging him to the right. “There is a fast-moving stream up ahead; it hasn’t been quite cold enough to freeze as yet, and I am not enamored with the idea of wet feet. The plank bridge upstream would mean a large detour; better we use the f
allen log downstream. It’s just over here.”
Just over here didn’t prove to be as close as it sounded, and yet upon reaching the stream, Matt could see the wisdom of altering their route. The stream was fairly wide and rather deep. The banks had eroded; tree limbs drooped and dragged across the water’s surface, and large rocks channeled the water around them in splashing, roaring torrents. Beautiful and dangerous to cross.
And yet Kate made it seem easy. She jumped up on a log that lay diagonally across the stream, resting on the top of the banks a foot above the swirling water. It had been worn flat, no doubt the result of many pounding feet over the years; it was clear that the tree had not fallen recently.
Matt offered his arm as support until she reached the water’s edge, where she let go, found her balance, and skipped—not literally—to the other side in lithe, well-practiced strides. Matt’s crossing was somewhat slower, but as long as he stared at the log and not Kate, he could think clearly enough. Clearly enough to put one foot in front of the other and not tip into the water.
Once back on terra firma, they stood staring into the woods with hands once again clasped—mitten to glove. Four paths branched out ahead of them … well, more like spaces between the trees, because there seemed to be no true path. As the sound of the approaching dogs grew louder, the echoes reverberated from the north and they turned accordingly, slipping through and under the branches until the terrain eventually forced them to unclasp their hands.
Matt sighed deeply … but silently.
“I hope the team is being led by someone I know.” Kate frowned as she wiggled past a scraggly alder and a beech. She likely realized the upcoming difficulty of convincing a stranger to call off the search for Johnny on their say-so. “Mr. Snowdon, Squire Fleming’s huntsman, knows me well enough, but I believe he is conducting the search for Rolland.”
“I’m sure there will be someone that you can—”
A loud twig snap cut Matt’s sentence short. He wheeled to the left, just in time to see a figure leap at them from behind a tree. Matt fell hard to the ground, receiving a kick to the ribs as he did so—right where Rolland had hit him not two days earlier. He twisted, reaching out for Kate, knowing that she had fallen, too, trying to cushion her, trying to reach her, to protect her. But his fingers came up empty.