Spirited Brides

by Amanda McCabe

  “But I cannot just feel, Lady Iverson! I must do something—do whatever I can.”

  Sarah was confused, tangled up in emotions of admiration, attraction, guilt, dread. Her work was slipping away from her somehow, caught up in Lord Ransome’s conscience, and politics she could in no way control or even understand. She felt as if she was hanging on to her life by a tiny thread, and she was desperate to keep all she had in her grasp.

  At the same time, paradoxically, her regard for Lord Ransome, the man who was taking it from her, grew. His passion, his compassion, touched her.

  She pressed her fingers to her throbbing temples. “What—what then do you intend to do, Lord Ransome?”

  “My uncle had many concerns other than his estate, as you know,” he answered, his voice quiet again, taut with his effort at calm coolness. “Ransome Hall is a desperately underused resource, and much farmland is uncultivated. Land that could provide jobs and food.”

  “Including the land my village lies on,” she said, looking away from him. Her gaze landed on the painting resting on Mary Ann’s easel, a half-finished watercolor of what the Viking house would have looked like when it was newly built. She focused on it as if it were her one piece of reality.

  “Yes, I’m afraid so,” Lord Ransome said. His tone was not lacking in understanding, but at the same time it was full of resolve. “I have spoken to Mr. Benson, the bailiff, and to many of the tenants and neighboring farmers. They tell me that the soil in that valley is rich, and ripe for crops.”

  “That is why the Vikings settled there. I am sure that, if we could look further afield, we would find other sites such as farms and homes.” Sarah wanted to cry. She wanted to wail, and beat her heels on the floor, as Mary Ann and Kitty had as children. But those tantrums had never gained them a doll or a new hair ribbon, and it would not save her village now. All she could save really was her dignity, and she held on to that with all her strength. “The land is yours, of course, Lord Ransome. You must do with it as you see fit.”

  Suddenly, much to her shock, he leaned forward and took her hand in his. His clasp was warm and strong.

  Sarah’s fingers curled instinctively around his, and she peeked up at him through her lashes. He looked every bit as surprised as she felt, as if taking her hand had been an irresistible impulse. But he did not move away—and neither did she. He smelled of sunshine and soap, and she wanted to bury her face in that sweet cleanness and cry.

  “I am sorry, Lady Iverson,” he said. “But there is no hurry. Surely there is time for you to finish the work?”

  Sarah shook her head. “If I worked as other antiquarians do, simply digging for valuable objects and tossing the rest away, perhaps. But my husband believed, as I do, that our work has a greater importance. We are learning about the past, and preserving England’s heritage for future generations. My husband’s methods of recording and preserving as much as possible are very time consuming; that is why we have been here so long. We would have to stop and cover everything for the winter months, and resume in the spring. There is so much still to be found, that I am sure we would be here until next fall.” She stared down at their joined hands, just for a second, then pulled hers back and returned it to her lap. “You will need to be preparing the fields for your farm very soon.”

  “Lady Iverson, I wish . . .” he began. His voice faded on the words.

  “Yes.” Sarah did not want to sit there and discuss this any more. If they went on, she would truly start to cry. “Could we perhaps talk about this further at a later time, Lord Ransome? I was expected at the village quite a while ago, and they will wonder where I am.”

  “Yes, certainly.” They rose, and walked back to the front door. There, he turned to her with a strangely wistful expression on his face. “I did so enjoy my afternoon at the village last week, Lady Iverson. I do wish . . .”

  A sudden wild impulse seized Sarah, a crazy idea that maybe she could still make him see, make him know. If he had really enjoyed his time at the village, then maybe, just maybe . . . “Would you care to come with me, Lord Ransome?”

  He gave her a startled look. “You would invite me to your village? Even after what I came here to say today?”

  “You are only acting on your own convictions,” Sarah answered. “I do see that. And I hope that we have become friends of sorts in these last few days—even if we are of conflicting opinions.”

  He smiled at her slowly. “Yes, Lady Iverson, I would like to think we are friends.”

  “Good. Because I need as many laborers as possible right now, and if you come with me today, I will be sure to put you to work.” Sarah tried to speak in a light tone, even though she felt like her heart was broken in her chest. Tears and pleadings would avail her nothing, and would be tiring besides. She might as well be amiable.

  “Of course, Lady Iverson. I hope that you will let me assist you in any way I can.”

  “May I be of assistance, Miss Bellweather?”

  Mary Ann looked up from the object she was prying from the ground at the sound of a lilting voice. Mr. O’Riley stood behind her, a pleasant, inquiring smile on his gauntly good-looking face. His green eyes shone like twin emeralds—or the hills of Ireland.

  She suddenly had the oddest sensation that she couldn’t feel her fingers, and the trowel fell from them onto the ground. She opened her mouth to answer, but no sound emerged.

  Oh, dear! she thought. Was Sarah right? Had reading romantic novels so affected her mind that she would swoon away over any handsome man who looked her way? To be fair, Sarah had not said exactly that, but Mary Ann had the feeling that was what she had thought. And Mary Ann feared it might be correct.

  She couldn’t become infatuated with Mr. O’Riley, just because he was good looking and tragically sad. Not after her embarrassing silliness over Mr. Hamilton.

  He picked her trowel up off the ground, and handed it to her.

  Mary Ann smiled, and clutched at the tool as if it was a lifeline. “Good morning, Mr. O’Riley. You are looking much . . .” She hesitated. She had been about to say “much better,” but perhaps that sounded rude. Even though it was true. Some of the haunted look had faded from the edges of his eyes, and the sun was adding color to his thin cheeks.

  His smile widened. “I am feeling much, too. Ransome Hall is far more comfortable lodgings than I am accustomed to.”

  Mary Ann ached to ask what sort of lodgings he was accustomed to, what he had done before he came here, what his life in Ireland had been like. Instead, she just nodded, and said, “Indeed, Ransome Hall is a very lovely house.”

  How perfectly idiotic she sounded. Could she not think of anything more original to say than that? She looked down at the trowel in her hands, unable to bear the amusement she was sure she would see in his eyes.

  He stepped up next to her, and knelt to peer at the dirt where she was digging. “So, what are you working on here, Miss Bellweather?”

  Grateful to speak of something she actually knew about, something impersonal, Mary Ann slid off her stool and knelt beside him to point to the object with the tip of her trowel. “I am trying to pry this out without breaking anything. I think it may be a drinking horn, but it is trapped under a stone or something.”

  “May I?’ he said, holding out his hand for the trowel. “My cousins and I sometimes dug about at ancient sites when I was a child. I prided myself on never breaking a single object.”

  Mary Ann handed him the tool, and watched closely as he slid it into the dirt and dug around the horn. The lean muscles of his back lengthened and bunched with the effort of his labors, and he sat down in the dirt, unmindful of his clothes, to get closer to it.

  Mary Ann lowered herself onto the low stool she had been sitting on. “You mustn’t let my sister hear you say that you used to dig for artifacts! There is nothing that makes her angrier than amateur fortune hunters.” She remembered the look on Sarah’s face, pale and furious, when that wicked farmer had pushed herself down. “Well, almost nothi
ng.”

  Mr. O’Riley laughed. “It will be our secret then, eh, Miss Bellweather?” He made one last jab with the trowel, and said, “Have you a handkerchief, or something to brush this dirt off with?”

  Mary Ann pulled a large paintbrush from her apron pocket and handed it to him. “I use this.”

  “Perfect.” He carefully pushed all the dirt from the edges of the object, and finally pulled it up gently from the earth. Taking a handkerchief from inside his coat, he used it to wipe the worst of the soil from it, and handed it to her.

  Mary Ann turned the ivory drinking horn over in her hands, marveling at the intricate etchings. “It is beautiful.”

  “Beautiful,” agreed Mr. O’Riley. “It should be called the ‘Bellweather Horn.’ ”

  Mary Ann peeked up at him. “Why?”

  “Because you found it, of course.”

  “Only with your help.” She wrapped the horn in Mr. O’Riley’s handkerchief, and placed it carefully in the basket with the other items she had found that morning.

  Mr. O’Riley sat back, gazing out over the site. “What is this area? A tavern of some sort?”

  “A tavern?”

  He gestured towards the basket. “You said this was a drinking horn.”

  “This place is a house,” said Mary Ann. “The only house we have found so far, though Sarah—my sister—is certain there are others about. See that sunken area over there? That is the central hearth, where all the cooking would be done, and where everyone in the family would gather on cold winter nights.”

  He stared at the hearth she pointed to, and around at the ropes that marked off where the walls would have been. “Your sister seems a most formidable woman,” he said musingly.

  “She is certainly that. And very clever,” Mary Ann answered.

  Mr. O’Riley looked at her, the force of his green gaze taking the breath from her. “As clever as you are, Miss Bellweather?”

  Mary Ann giggled. No one had ever called her “clever” before. “Oh, I am scarcely that. I only follow Sarah’s instructions, or I am sure I would make a great bungle of it.”

  “You seem to know a great deal about this place, about the Vikings.”

  “It is just what I’ve read in books.”

  “A stupid person wouldn’t bother reading books, now would they? No. So you must be intelligent.”

  Mary Ann felt absurdly pleased. People had complimented her on her looks before, and on things such as her gowns and her hats. But no one had ever complimented her on her intelligence. Sarah was the smart one in her family. No one but Sarah had ever so much as suggested that Mary Ann might possess even some intelligence.

  She was certain she must be blushing, and her cheeks felt even warmer when he grinned at her.

  Over Mr. O’Riley’s shoulder she saw Sarah appear on the pathway, Lord Ransome at her side. Sarah’s face was cold and expressionless; she stared straight ahead, with no indication of noticing what was about her.

  Mary Ann wondered, with a little twinge of panic, what could have caused her sister to look like that. Was someone in their family ill? Had she seen Mary Ann with Mr. O’Riley and been angered by it?

  Mary Ann leaped to her feet, feeling unaccountably guilty. She had been doing nothing but sitting here with him, talking about the Vikings. No one could be angry about that.

  She hurried down the path toward her sister, followed by Mr. O’Riley. Only when she got near them did she see that Lord Ransome looked as tense and expressionless as her sister. Mary Ann felt her hopes for a happy match between Sarah and Lord Ransome sink as she glanced from one to the other. What could they have quarreled about?

  “Sarah! I found the loveliest ivory drinking horn, very nearly intact,” she called, hoping to cheer her sister up just a bit.

  Sarah gave her a small smile. “That is wonderful, dear. I cannot wait to see it.” Her gaze slid past Mary Ann to Mr. O’Riley. “Was Mr. O’Riley assisting you?”

  Mary Ann heard no suspicion or anger in the simple question. There wasn’t even much curiosity. “Yes. He is an excellent excavator. He helped me dig out the horn.”

  “That was very kind of you, Mr. O’Riley,” Sarah said.

  “I enjoyed it very much,” answered Mr. O’Riley. “You have a fascinating place here. I would love to see more of it.”

  Sarah gave a faint smile. “Yes, it is indeed—fascinating.”

  “You possess hidden talents, then, Patrick?” Lord Ransome said, in an obviously strained attempt at joviality.

  Mr. O’Riley grinned. “I suppose I must.”

  Sarah gave Lord Ransome the merest flicker of a glance. “Perhaps you could deliver the luncheon hamper to the stable, Lord Ransome, while Mary Ann shows me the drinking horn?”

  Lord Ransome bowed. “Of course, Lady Iverson.”

  “And I hope both you and Mr. O’Riley will join us for the meal,” Sarah said.

  Lord Ransome gazed at her steadily. “If you are certain about that, Lady Iverson.”

  “Of course, I am. Please, do join us.” Then Sarah took Mary Ann’s arm and led her back down the path toward the Viking house. “Now, Mary Ann dear, show me all that you have found this morning.”

  “Certainly, Sarah.” Mary Ann glanced back over her shoulder at the two men, Lord Ransome and Mr. O’Riley. Even though she burned with curiosity to know what had happened between her sister and Lord Ransome, one thought floated, unbidden, to the forefront of her mind.

  Mr. O’Riley’s given name was Patrick.

  Chapter Fifteen

  “He did what?” Mr. Hamilton cried. He jumped out of his chair and paced the length of the hunting box’s tiny drawing room.

  Sarah watched him from her seat behind her desk, feeling strangely removed from the whole scene. Her own anger had burned away, leaving her tired and sad. She looked from Mr. Hamilton’s reddened face to Mary Ann, who sat in the corner with her kittens on her lap. She looked as tearful as Sarah herself felt.

  “It is his own land,” Sarah said. “He has the right to do what he likes with it.”

  “Even if what he likes is to destroy all our work? He will just plow the village under, and it will never be seen again. You must know that.”

  Sarah closed her eyes against the appalling images his words conjured up. Of course, she knew that! The knowledge of it, of all that would be lost, twisted her heart into a painful knot.

  But she had heard Lord Ransome’s reasoning for his actions, and they were hard to argue against. Certainly jobs and crops were important, especially in these difficult times. Sarah might be absorbed in a distant past much of the time, but she was not blind, and she hoped that she was not hard-hearted.

  Yet wasn’t what she was doing important, as well? Wouldn’t her work benefit people, too?

  Sarah rubbed at her aching temples. She simply did not know any longer.

  “I know that, Mr. Hamilton,” she answered quietly. “As I said, though, it is . . .”

  “His land,” he finished, his shoulders slumping with defeat. “So it is.”

  “We were fortunate to be allowed to stay for as long as we have.”

  Mr. Hamilton dropped into a chair next to her desk, and leaned toward her. “You know, Lady Iverson, if you had followed my advice we would have been finished by now, and this would not be a concern.”

  If she had followed his advice, to dig quickly and salvage only valuable artifacts, more would have been lost than was going to be now. She looked at him coolly. “I had to do what I felt was right. What John would have wanted.”

  Mr. Hamilton opened his mouth, as if to make an angry retort. He snapped his mouth shut, and said tightly, “When do we have to leave?”

  “I do not know. Lord Ransome has not said. Will you stay and help me to finish the site?” Sarah felt it was the very least she could do, in memory of John’s friendship with Mr. Hamilton. Then she could part peacefully from him and his silly wife.

  He shrugged. “I have been corresponding with other antiquari
ans, and many of them have interesting work they would like me to share. But I am not one to begin something only to abandon it, so I will stay.” He paused, then went on. “Emmeline will be very disappointed to leave this place.”

  Sarah very much doubted that. Mrs. Hamilton seemed bored and restless here, her only joy in talking about her home in Bath and meeting titled people—like the Marquis of Ransome. “As we all will. But, as you said, there is other work to be found.”

  “Of course.” He stood up, and gave her a stiff little bow. “I must be going—Emmeline will be wondering where I am. I shall see you tomorrow at the village.”

  “Good night, Mr. Hamilton.”

  The silence in the room was thick and sad after he departed, broken only by the sound of the papers Sarah shuffled around aimlessly on her desk. Then she heard a soft sob, and looked up at Mary Ann.

  Her sister was bent over the kittens in her lap, tears trailing down her cheeks. “Oh, Sarah! This is terrible.”

  Sarah went to kneel beside her sister. “Mary Ann, dear, it is not terrible! It is disappointing, to be sure, but not terrible. There will always be other work out there.” She had to convince herself of this as much as Mary Ann.

  “I will have to go home to Mother now.”

  “Not if you don’t want to. You can stay with me, and we will go to . . .” Sarah thought quickly. “To London! I will take a house there, and we’ll go to the British Museum, and meet all sorts of interesting people.”

  Mary Ann sniffled mournfully, and hugged the kittens close to her. “But you will never marry Lord Ransome now.”

  Sarah almost laughed at the sorrow on her sister’s face, despite the sadness in her own heart. “My dear, I never was going to marry Lord Ransome. That was just a romantic idea you conjured up in your own mind, and it was not realistic.”

  “I only want you to be happy. You are the very best person in the world, Sarah, and this is all so unfair!”