Spirited Brides

by Amanda McCabe

  Ransome Hall was a pretty place, and she could envision herself happy there. Happy with Lord Ransome, maybe. She could see herself sitting at the foot of the table at supper parties, and looking down to see him at the head, smiling at her. She could see herself dancing with him in the ballroom there, walking with him along the garden paths, working on her writing in the library while he went over estate business.

  She liked Lord Ransome—far too much. She was attracted to his golden looks, his smile, and laugh. She missed the companionship of being married. She especially missed it on long, dark nights like this. If she were sensible, she would chase after the attractive Lord Ransome and secure him as soon as she could, as no doubt her mother would have advised her to do.

  Yet, deep in her heart, even in lonely moments, Sarah knew she could never again be completely happy without her work. It fulfilled a deep yearning within her to learn, to know, as nothing else, not even love, could ever do. And Lord Ransome did not seem the sort of man who would understand that, or be able to share in it.

  No matter how many strange, alluring dreams she might have about him.

  “It was a splendid supper, was it not?” Miles’s mother said. She leaned back in the settee before the library fire, sipping at a last cup of tea before retiring.

  Miles relaxed in his own chair, a glass of port in his hand. “Yes, indeed. All thanks to you, Mother.”

  She laughed. “Not at all. It is your house, and the guests were your neighbors. I merely lent some of my social expertise to the arrangements. As I will be glad to do again—until the happy day when your wife becomes hostess here.”

  “I fear that day may be a long while away. What lady would have a sunburnt officer like me?”

  “Oh, any single lady you wanted, I would imagine. You are a marquis now, remember, my darling, and a wealthy one. A handsome man, too—and that is not just my maternal prejudice! Any woman would count herself fortunate to have you.” She took a sip from her cup, her glance speculative over its china rim. “Lady Iverson is a very interesting lady. I wish I could have had more converse with her. But perhaps she will still be in the neighborhood when next I visit.”

  “She is very interesting indeed,” Miles murmured, thinking of how she had looked over the card game, beautiful and intent.

  “Unusual,” his mother continued. “And, one might say, very pretty.”

  Some hopeful tone in her voice caught his attention away from memories of the evening past. He looked over at her. “Are you trying to dabble in matchmaking, Mother?”

  She smiled mysteriously. “Of course not! I have never been very successful at that sort of thing. But you will have to marry, you know. Lady Iverson, or someone like her, would be far preferable to some silly young miss I could find for you in Bath.” She placed her cup back on the tray, and stood up to come and kiss Miles on the cheek. “Well, I am tired, darling. Shall we breakfast together tomorrow, before I depart?”

  “Of course. Good night, Mother.”

  “Good night, Miles. Do not sit up too late thinking.”

  Miles listened to her soft slipper-steps fade, and the library door click behind her. He did not want to “sit up thinking”; social events were far more exhausting than campaigning had ever been. Yet how could he help it? His mother was right about Lady Iverson—she was interesting, and pretty, and so much more besides. He found himself wanting to spend more time with her, to know more about her, to know everything. What her childhood had been like, what drew her to her work, if she had truly loved her husband—if she still loved him.

  But he had the distinct sense that she did not feel the same way about him. She watched him with caution, and a certain reserve. Except when she had shown him the Viking village. Then her eyes lit up, her entire being became animated and glowing.

  He dreaded the discussion he would have to have with her, and soon. He dreaded it more than any battle or skirmish he had ever faced.

  Chapter Eleven

  “So, are we understood, Mr. Hamilton?” Sarah looked across the tea table in her tiny drawing room at Mr. Hamilton. He smiled at her, calmly, politely, as if completely unruffled by anything she had said.

  Sarah, though, had shaking hands and a dry mouth. She did so hate quarrels and confrontations—they were such a waste of time, when she could be out in the sunny day, digging. But she had to do her duty as a sister and a chaperone, and so she had summoned Mr. Hamilton and talked to him about what had happened in the Ransome garden.

  She was scarcely sure of what she had said—something about impressionable young ladies and reputations and marriages. Now, she had said her part, and she reached for her teacup for a grateful sip.

  “Of course, we are understood, Lady Iverson,” he answered. “I hope you know that I have the greatest respect for you and your sister. I would never do anything to harm Miss Bellweather. Last night was a mere chance encounter, and it will not happen again.”

  “I hope not. What would your wife think?”

  His jaw tightened at the mention of his wife. “Mrs. Hamilton knows the respectful regard I have for you and your family.”

  Sarah nodded. “And I hope you know the respect I have for you, Mr. Hamilton—the respect Sir John also had. He always spoke so highly of your abilities. I would hate to lose your excellent assistance here.”

  For the first time in their conversation, Mr. Hamilton’s composure seemed ruffled. He leaned toward her, frowning. “No more than I would hate to leave! The village is a great find, with much potential for education, and valuable treasure. I know that Sir John wanted me to continue here.”

  Sarah remembered the discussions after her husband’s death, Mr. Hamilton’s assumption that she would leave the village and let him take it over. He had been very unhappy at her insistence on staying. She had wanted Mr. Hamilton to remain, both for his expertise and in memory of his friendship with John, but she had wanted to be in charge. To handle the work as she saw fit—as a methodical quest for knowledge, not just a tearing about for treasure. He had not been happy at her decision; she had seen that, even though he tried to hide it.

  Apparently, he still remembered all that, as well.

  “Of course, I hope you will stay here,” she said. “As long as there are no more—misunderstandings.”

  “Certainly not.” He sat back in his chair and folded his hands, the unperturbed scholar once again. “Though, really, Lady Iverson, how long will any of us still be here?”

  Sarah frowned at the question. “Whatever do you mean?”

  “The new Lord Ransome, as worthy as I’m sure he must be, is not his uncle. He does not seem to understand or appreciate what we are doing here. I have heard rumors that he has other plans for the property.”

  That was exactly what Sarah feared, but she hardly wanted Mr. Hamilton to see her doubts. Keeping her face carefully expressionless, she reached again for her cup and took a sip before replying. “Where did you hear such rumors?”

  Mr. Hamilton shrugged. “Here and there. People do talk, you know, and my wife is a great gossiper. She always knows the latest on dits, no matter where she happens to be.”

  “Lord Ransome has not spoken to me about it. We have not been asked to leave the property. And, until we are, I see no use in worrying about it. We have work to concentrate on.” She was lying, of course—she worried about it all the time. But she couldn’t quite bring herself to talk about that yet. Especially not with Mr. Hamilton.

  “Of course. We should get as much done on the Viking site as we can. Now, Lady Iverson, though this has been a charming meeting, I fear I must depart. I have to fetch my wife, who has gone into Upper Hawton for some shopping.”

  “Yes.” Sarah rose, and walked with him to the front door, where his carriage waited. “Shall we see you at the site this afternoon?”

  “Certainly. I have made some real progress on the bakery; I would hate to leave it now.”

  Sarah watched his carriage drive off down the lane, then went upstairs to her
chamber to change from her good morning gown into a work dress. It was quiet in the house, Mary Ann having already gone to the village and the maids being in the kitchen.

  Too quiet. It left too much time for thinking.

  She hurried to change her gown, then sat down on the edge of the bed to slide off her kid slippers and put on her stout boots. She did not like it that there were rumors abroad about Lord Ransome and his land, she thought as she laced up the boots. She did not like it at all. It seemed to confirm all her fears.

  She reached for her straw hat and the bag that held her notebooks. If those fears were indeed about to be confirmed, she had a great deal of work to do. She had to finish as much as possible before she was forced to leave.

  She hated to rush the work—valuable artifacts and evidence could be destroyed in the haste. Right now, she did not have to hurry; surely, if he asked her to leave, he would give her a few days to pack. Still, that was no reason to waste any time. The morning was already almost gone.

  Mary Ann and the workers were not alone at the village when Sarah arrived. The first thing she saw as she came down the pathway was a horse tethered to a tree. A familiar horse.

  “Lord Ransome,” she whispered. She froze in her tracks, staring at the horse she had ridden on the day she got her phaeton stuck in the stream. It looked placidly back at her.

  There could be only one reason he was here today—to have the promised conversation with her about her continued residency on his land.

  Sarah glanced back over her shoulder, but there was no escape. She had no excuse whatsoever for running back to the hunting box. So she continued forward, her back straight and chin up, as if marching into battle.

  He was with Mary Ann at the edge of House A; she held an object in her palm, and was pointing to it as she talked. Lord Ransome nodded solemnly, looking down at the item. He asked one short question, and Mary Ann laughed and answered him.

  Sarah smiled, despite her trepidation. Mary Ann had the makings of a real antiquarian, and it was wonderful that he listened to her, took her seriously.

  Then she frowned. How could he even think of taking this away from Mary Ann, away from her?

  Mary Ann looked up, and Sarah wiped the frown quickly from her lips. It would never do for anyone to see her doubts, and fears, written across her face.

  Lord Ransome turned, too, and smiled when he saw her. She was reminded sharply of her dream, of their almost-kiss there that had so stirred her emotions. “Good morning, Lady Iverson!” he called.

  “Good morning, Lord Ransome,” she answered, moving forward to greet him. She forced the memory of that dream, of the Viking Miles, to the back of her mind, and shuffled her bag of papers and the lunch hamper to hold her hand out to him. “I am very sorry I wasn’t here to greet you when you arrived.”

  “Miss Bellweather and I were having a very interesting discussion. She was showing me this—this . . .”

  “Spindle,” Mary Ann said. “A soapstone spindle, probably from Norway.”

  He smiled at her. “Yes. And she was most kindly explaining to me how it was used.”

  “Mary Ann has been reading a great deal about this time period,” Sarah said. “She’s become quite invaluable to me here.”

  Mary Ann’s cheeks became rose-pink with pleasure, and she turned away to place the spindle back on the pile of objects she was accumulating from the house. “I’m going to take these down to the stream and rinse them off,” she said, gathering them carefully into a basket.

  “I should take the hamper into the stable,” Sarah said. “The workers will be wanting their luncheon soon. Would you care to walk with me, Lord Ransome?” She would have to listen to what he had to say, and would have to decide how to deal with it, eventually. So she might as well do it now, she decided.

  “Certainly, Lady Iverson. Here, allow me to carry that.” He took the large hamper from her and tucked it beneath one arm, as if the heavy container was a mere bauble. It was certainly obvious that, unlike many officers returning from the Peninsula, he had not let himself grow soft.

  His other arm he offered to Sarah, and she slid her hand into the crook of his elbow.

  As they walked to the stable, Sarah cast about for something, anything, to say. The silence seemed to press down on her in the warm air, and she did not want Lord Ransome to fill it.

  “Your supper party was lovely,” she said. “My sister and I had a most pleasant time.”

  “Thank you, Lady Iverson,” he said, his voice full of some amusement. “But you really should be thanking my mother—she was the one who saved me. I have never had any experience in planning soirees, and I’m sure everyone would have had a most dull evening if I had been left to my own devices.”

  “Well, I am certain that you will have many opportunities to gain experience now.” Sarah paused, and realized how odd her words sounded. “Experience in planning parties, that is.”

  “Of course,” he said with a laugh. “What other experience could you possibly have meant, Lady Iverson?”

  Sarah laughed ruefully. “No other experience, of course.” She pushed open the doors to the stable, and hurried ahead with great relief. It seemed that every time she opened her mouth to speak around Lord Ransome, something ridiculous came out.

  The stable was dim and warm, all the objects in their neat rows gleaming in welcome. She felt some of her apprehension lift when she saw them, the fruits of all her labors. Seeing them there, all perfectly labeled and cleaned, items that someone had used and cherished so long ago, never failed to give her the deepest sense of satisfaction.

  She ran her fingertip lightly over a carved chess figure, before going to pull the table they used for eating away from the wall. “I would like to thank your mother, then. Is she still in residence at Ransome Hall?”

  He helped her situate the table, and stood back to watch as she took a white cloth out of the hamper and spread it across the smooth wood before he placed the hamper there. “She is packing today. She so hates to be away from a town!”

  “My mother is the same,” Sarah said, bending to take food out of the hamper. “When Mary Ann, Kitty, and I were children, we only saw the country from carriage windows! We thought trees, real trees, were just something that appeared in parks.”

  “Did you move around a great deal, Lady Iverson?”

  Sarah paused in taking bowls of cold ham and salads out of the hamper, thinking back to those restless years. She did not often think, much less speak, about the days of her childhood and youth. The past was gone, finished, and she didn’t want to live it again.

  But something in Lord Ransome’s expression, in his eyes, told her he would understand.

  “Oh, yes. My father died when I was just ten, and the girls were even younger. He left us a fortune, and a lovely house in Devonshire—my childhood home. But my mother had always hated the country, hated the time we spent there. As soon as she could, she took us off. We went to London, Bath, Brighton, Wycombe-on-Sea—anyplace there would be people, society. It was always interesting, of course, and I met a great many fascinating individuals. But . . .” Sarah’s voice trailed away, and she looked down at the bowl she held in her hands. How could she put into words the feelings she had had back then, the loneliness, the longings?

  They were pushed down so far into her heart that she didn’t even think she could feel them anymore, let alone speak about them.

  Lord Ransome stepped up next to her. “But what, Lady Iverson?”

  She looked at him. “It was hard to feel as if I belonged anywhere, except with my sisters. Until I married, I never had a true home.”

  “I understand entirely,” he said quietly. “My father died when I was very young, as well. After that, I was at school, or at my mother’s house in Bath for holidays. My mother has always been an excellent parent, but her house there did not feel like a home. I only found a true sense of belonging when I was in the Army.”

  Sarah swallowed hard, and looked at him. “Did you—lik
e the Army, then?”

  “Very much indeed.” He reached one hand towards hers, then stopped, balling that hand into a fist. But the atmosphere of new sympathy and understanding, of regret, still hovered about them like the dust that floated in the air. “Lady Iverson, you must have some idea of what—”

  His words were cut off by a distant, but sharp and urgent, scream. Sarah stood up, her heart leaping in a skipping beat. The jump from one dread to another was almost too much, and she pressed her hand to her throat, looking about frantically as if the solution lay somewhere in the stable.

  The scream came again, even more piercing.

  “That is Mary Ann!” Sarah cried. She ran for the door, yanking it open and stumbling out into the world. She blinked at the sudden rush of bright light into her eyes, and turned blindly toward the stream where Mary Ann had been going to rinse off the newly found artifacts.

  Lord Ransome was right beside her as she dashed away from the stable, down a muddy slope. Some of the workers had also heard the scream, and dropped their tools to follow them.

  Mary Ann stood by the stream with some man Sarah had never seen before, a farmer to judge by his rough, dirt-splattered clothes. He was a big man, tall and broad shouldered, and his florid face was suffused with anger as he pulled on Mary Ann’s arm.

  Mary Ann radiated an equal amount of rage, a hectic red spreading across her cheekbones down to her throat. She yanked back on her arm, and shouted, “How could you! You heartless and wicked man! Give them to me right now.”

  “They be my property, girl, and none of your affair!” the man growled. “Now go away and tend your own business.”

  “I will not!”

  “That man is assaulting my sister!” Sarah cried, a white-hot fury rising up in her, choking her. She lifted her skirts above her ankles, and ran down the bank toward Mary Ann, Lord Ransome close at her heels. “Release her this instant, you villain!”

  As they came closer, the man let go of Mary Ann, and she fell back a step, rubbing at her upper arm. She latched on to Sarah’s hand an instant before Sarah could slap the man heartily across his face.