Pumpkinnapper

by Linda Banche

  Thirsty in this unusual heat, she drank her fill, and then poured the rest of the water over her handkerchief and wiped her perspiring brow. The plain white linen square in her hand brought Hank’s handkerchief to mind. How she wished she hadn’t returned it. She would have liked to have kept something of his as a remembrance.

  With a weary sigh, she sat at the kitchen table, and slowed her breathing. Why, after all these years, couldn’t she have met Hank some other way? She slumped against the chair back and let her eyelashes drift closed. At first, he hadn’t recognized her. His eyes had gleamed with frank male interest, and his lips had curved into a devastating smile that even now sent a shiver of enjoyment through her.

  But his eyes had dulled when she’d called him pumpkinnapper.

  Although she had enjoyed his initial reaction, his admiration baffled her. She had married young and men never looked at her with appreciation. But today Hank had, and that Mr. Lawson, too. Another very feminine thrill coursed through her, and she again quivered with delight.

  Oh, how wonderful Hank looked. Even after all this time, she had recognized him at once. He was a little taller than she remembered, but the dark brown hair and merry brown eyes were the same. As a lanky boy, he had been good-looking. But now—her mouth dried. The softness of youth had burned away, leaving a face of sharp planes and a firm, sleekly muscled body, which his well-tailored tailcoat and breeches displayed to perfection. What if, all those years ago…

  A flutter of anticipation stirred in her breast. Images of her happy childhood crowded her mind, and her years following in Hank’s wake. He had laughed with her, teased her, and tried to keep The Child, as he called her, from trailing after him like an adoring pet. Although, he never did try too hard.

  But sometime after her fourteenth birthday, her devotion had changed. She had fallen in love with him. Oh, the feeling had probably only been calf love, for what did a young girl know of such emotion? But after the change, his teasing, although never spiteful, had hurt. She had wanted him to view her as a girl, not a playmate. But he never had. Then, he had left for university, and she had never seen him again. Until today.

  She opened her eyes and, with a resigned shrug, sat up straight. Those days were gone. She and Hank had never had a “what if.” And now, he was courting the beautiful Miss Clark, whom the newssheets predicted he would marry.

  Her ears pricked up at the pounding of hoof beats on the road. What? Another traveler after that well-dressed gentleman she’d caught a glimpse of yesterday? Two in one week? Good gracious, her little lane had become quite the thoroughfare.

  The hoof beats stopped, and a few moments later, a knock sounded on the front door. With quick strokes, she dried her hands on a dishtowel and dropped it onto the table. She hurried down the hall to the front door and flung it wide.

  “Hank?”

  Her jaw sagged.

  Hank pressed his lips together to prevent himself from roaring out his laughter. Never in his life had he seen a woman look as flabbergasted as Emily did now. He tipped his top hat. “And good afternoon to you, too, Mrs. Metcalfe.”

  She shut her mouth with a snap. “Good afternoon, Lord Grey. How may I assist you?” She crossed her arms over her chest and tapped her foot. “Are you here to torment me more?”

  “No, I am not. Please, Emily, we are no longer children playing pranks on each other.”

  “The last time we met you were seventeen and I was fourteen. We were not children, and yet you still pulled my plait.”

  “And I regretted it.” No I did not. Pulling your hair was the only way I could touch you. “I had no idea that was the last time I would see you until today.”

  The apology appeared to soften something in her, because her foot stopped, and she lowered her arms to her sides. “I was sorry I never saw you again, either,” she said, her voice quiet. Then she stiffened again. “If only to pay you back.”

  He laughed. Her lips quivered as she attempted to retain her anger, but then she laughed, too. Still smiling, she stepped back into the narrow hall and beckoned him into the parlor. “Sit down while I make tea.”

  “Please do not trouble yourself over me, Emily. I can come to the kitchen.” Hat in hand, he followed her down the hall past the stairway to the upper floor. The kitchen, a large airy room with windows on three sides, spanned the entire back of the house.

  He hesitated in the doorway as Emily busied herself setting cups and saucers on the table. His eyes narrowed. She shouldn’t be making the tea herself. Where were the servants? She still wore the pink dress she’d had on this morning. Now he noticed her frayed cuffs and several almost invisible mended tears on her sleeves.

  “Is today your servants’ day off?”

  She turned away, but not before he saw the flush on her cheeks. “Oh, this cottage is so small; I can tend to everything alone.” Her voice sounded a little too cheery.

  So, she was poor. Her father had never been plump in the pocket, but she had never worn mended clothes when she was a child. What manner of man was her husband? Anger burned in his stomach at the sight of his Emily reduced to poverty.

  Clasping his hands behind his back in frustration, he sauntered to the window and pushed aside the printed chintz curtains. He forced his words to calmness as he viewed the pumpkin patch. “So these orange vegetables are your famous pumpkins. I saw them yesterday when I passed by, but did not know what they were.” He turned back and extended his hand. “May I have a closer look?”

  She hesitated a moment before taking his hand. Lightning streaked up to his shoulder. Without daring to look at her, he placed her fingers on his arm and they left the house to stroll down the row of pumpkins.

  He cleared his throat. “I had no idea you had returned. How long have you lived here?”

  “Since late winter.”

  Damnation, she had probably arrived soon after he had departed for London and the opening of Parliament. If he had come home, he could have seen her anytime this year. The earl had invited him to the estate several times since spring, but he had always refused. Too busy with something or other. He should have made the time.

  But then, there was her husband. “Why did you plant pumpkins, of all things?”

  “As a favor to my friend, Charlotte. She is the Countess of Lindsell now, although I met her before she wed the earl. She is quite the botanist, and something of an expert on pumpkins. Pumpkins are native to the New World, and John, the earl, lived in America for years. He sent her pumpkin seeds. She developed these varieties in Kew Gardens, and I have acted as her assistant. She wanted to know how they would fare in the country, away from a hothouse.”

  “With such terrible weather this year, how did you grow them so large?”

  “With much difficulty, I assure you. I raised the beds to prevent them from rotting in all the rain we have suffered, and on cold days, I covered them.”

  “You have worked very hard.” He stooped to pick up a fallen pumpkin leaf and rubbed the coarse foliage between his fingers. Anything to distract himself from the tingling in his arm. “Would the countess mind if I cultivated her pumpkins? This year’s harvest will be exceedingly bad. I hope conditions improve next year, but diversifying always helps to avert food shortages.”

  “I am sure she’ll agree.”

  “Good.” He glanced towards the road, half dreading to see a rider approach. “Will I see Mr. Metcalfe today or is he still at sea?”

  A spasm of pain passed over her face, and she angled her head away. “I am a widow.”

  “My condolences.” The words were sympathetic, but his pulse raced with elation. She was free! Then his jaw tensed. “Do you live here alone?”

  “Oh, no, my mother lives here, too.”

  Two women alone? Even worse. Damn Lindsell. What had the earl been thinking, to leave unprotected women alone in the countryside? He would kill the man. Tight-lipped, he said, “Tell me what happened last night.”

  “It was late, after midnight. I saw two figure
s, one tall, one short. At first, I thought your friend Mr. Lawson was your accomplice, but he is too tall. I accused you because I found your handkerchief. Your monogram is unmistakable.”

  “I lost the handkerchief somewhere along here yesterday as I rode home. Obviously, your pumpkinnapers found it and dropped it in your garden.” He stopped and turned her towards him. “Have you had any trouble before?”

  She shook her head. “All the people are neighbors. They know as soon as the pumpkins are ripe, I will share them.”

  “So the pumpkinnappers were probably strangers. Emily, I am happy you were able to drive them away, but two women alone in such an isolated spot are in constant danger.”

  “Oh, Mama isn’t here. She went to London last week to visit a friend. I expect her back any day.”

  He wouldn’t just kill Lindsell; he would draw and quarter him first.

  Emily, evidently oblivious to his rising anger, continued. “But I am not completely alone. I have a watch—”

  Honk!

  He jumped and spun around to face the biggest goose he had ever seen. The white behemoth’s neck stretched straight out, his wings flattened against his body, and his orange webs pawed the ground as if he would charge. His beady blue eyes blazed murderous fire straight at him.

  “Down, Henry.” A smile on her face, Emily walked over to the devil bird and patted him on the head. “Lord Grey is a friend.”

  The goose’s rigid stance eased, and he snuggled into her hand with open enjoyment. His angry stare remained fastened on Hank, but still, he deflated.

  Desire speared through Hank. And envy, too. He wanted Emily … and as unreasoning anger flooded him, he also wanted a goose dinner, the main course featuring this particular goose. “Henry? You named that beast of a bird Henry, and you call me ‘Handkerchief’?”

  “No, I call you ‘Hanky’.” A smile teased at her lips. “In any event, Henry was here when I arrived, and I did not name him. But, now that you mention it,” she tapped her finger on her chin as she looked from him to the goose and back, “I do see a resemblance.”

  “Thank you so much.” He put a few paces between himself and the suspicious bird, who still stood poised to attack.

  Emily absently patted the goose’s head as they turned and strolled back to the house.

  Hank gritted his teeth.

  “Henry caught the pumpkinnappers. His honking startled them, and then he chased them away.” She smiled down at the aggravating bird as she petted his head yet again.

  Hank clenched his teeth tighter.

  “Good Henry,” she cooed to the goose, her voice a caress. Hank’s blood surged in his veins. He wanted her to talk to him with that tone, not to a bloody bird.

  She stopped before a medium-sized pumpkin. “I have read a lot about pumpkins since I came here. These pumpkins are for eating, and I found a recipe for pumpkin pie I intend to try. But they can also be used for decoration. In America, people carve faces into the hollowed-out pumpkins and put candles inside them on All Hallows’ Eve, much as we do with turnips and mangelwurzels.”

  The tavern keeper’s tale of the stranger carrying a light popped into Hank’s mind. Emily couldn’t stay here alone.

  “Emily, even with Henry, formidable as he is—” he glared at the goose. The goose glared back. “—you need protection. I will send over some footmen to guard the place.”

  “No. Turnip Cottage belongs to Charlotte’s husband. What will the townspeople think, with Lord Grey’s servants about my house?”

  “Well, then, I will send over Lindsell’s servants.”

  “Again, no. The townspeople will still know who made the arrangements. Besides, the earl’s steward checks on the tenants every week, and I sent him a message about the pumpkinnappers. He was here before you arrived, and I convinced him I was fine. Henry and I can manage quite well by ourselves, thank you. But I apologize for accusing you of stealing the pumpkins.”

  Her refusal increased his fury. The sight of her hand on that damned goose’s head didn’t improve his mood, either. He balled his fists as his patience thinned and something else thickened. “I’ll find you a guard dog. You require protection out here all alone.”

  “But I have Henry.” She patted the goose’s head, and the bird snuggled into her hand. Again.

  “Henry is a very good watch animal. He also crops the grass and eats weeds.” She caught her lower lip in her teeth as, with mischief in her eye, she looked from Henry-the-goose to him. “Although I might consider replacing him.” She fluttered her eyelashes and smiled sweetly. “Do you eat weeds?”

  Heat again swept over Hank, part desire for Emily’s touch, and part desire to murder that damned goose, who was where he wanted to be. His insides groaned. “I might be tempted.” He gave himself a mental shake and admitted defeat. “Very well, then, you leave me no choice. I will help you catch the culprits.” He raised his hand as she opened her mouth to protest. “No, I insist. I worry about you. Please, agree, for old time’s sake.”

  “But—”

  He changed his voice to the voice that either melted a woman or earned him a slap in the face. “Who knows, mayhap we would enjoy ourselves as I lie in wait with you.” I would love to lie with you.

  Her eyes widened. Had she understood the innuendo?

  “I cannot stay alone with you, and you know it,” she said, her voice severe.

  “You are a widow in your own home, and no one will see. I will ensure it.”

  “No.” She marched back into her cottage and slammed the door. Henry smirked and waddled away.

  Hank grinned. He would be back, whether she liked it or not.

  Hank blew on his gloved hands. He lay on his stomach and forearms under a bush at the forest edge behind Emily’s cottage, the pumpkin patch at his left. How many hours had passed? He couldn’t read his pocket watch in the dark, but constellation after constellation had sunk beneath the western horizon since his arrival.

  Before moonset he had left a grumbling Philip at his manor and hiked through the woods to Emily’s house. Since he had settled himself in this hiding place, nothing had disturbed the nighttime calm. With only a few stars peppering the midnight sky, the darkness was almost total, a perfect setting for pumpkin thieves—but still no sign of intruders. Perhaps they weren’t coming back. He stretched and yearned for a blazing fire, hot tea, and cold brandy. He smiled. Or even better, Emily’s warm bed.

  He shifted onto his side to remove yet another pebble that was gouging into his stomach, and then he froze. Two figures, one tall, one short, rounded the bend in the road and stopped at the fence in front of the pumpkins. They looked to the dark house, then from side to side and behind them. The taller one, who carried a dim light, set the lantern behind a fence post, cutting the glow from Hank’s sight. Then, the villain climbed over the fence followed by the shorter one who ducked under.

  Careful to make no sound, Hank pushed to a crouch, unbuttoned his greatcoat and peeled it off, pulling his pistol from the pocket. He stole sideways in the woods until the house blocked him from the culprits’ view, and then ran to the back of the cottage. He slid to the corner, flattened himself against the wall and peered around. They were moving closer to the house. A little nearer and he could leap out and…

  “Ow!” Pain lanced through his backside and he spun on his heel, almost colliding with Henry. He whirled back to the pumpkins, but the two figures, alerted by his outcry, had already reached the fence. He ran forward a few steps, but the taller one grabbed the lantern, and the blackguards pelted down the road.

  “Devil take you, Henry!” he hissed, in a belated attempt to keep his voice down. “You are supposed to bite them—” he flung an arm in the direction of the two fleeing figures “—not me.” He could have sworn the goose laughed in his face. With an absent motion, he rubbed his backside as the would-be thieves disappeared into the distance.

  “Don’t move!”

  He stiffened. Then, forcing his movements to slowness, he turned aro
und. Emily, clad in a voluminous nightdress, her braid over her shoulder, stood at the back door, a pocket pistol in her hand.

  He raised his hands. Bloody hell, she looked like she knew how to use that pistol. “Emily, it is I, Hank.”

  “Hank?” She said, shock in her voice. Her eyes narrowed. “Why are you here? I told you not to come.”

  “When did I ever do what you told me?”

  “True.” She lowered the pistol, and he sagged in relief. She glanced at the pumpkins. “I heard a shout. What happened?”

  “Your two prowlers returned. This blasted goose chased me instead of them.”

  “Bad goose,” she scolded Henry. “I told you Hank is a friend.”

  The goose cast Hank an unrepentant glare, then stuck his bill in the air and stomped away.

  “I’ll get you for this, you walking featherbed,” Hank called after the goose.

  Shaking her head, Emily gathered up her skirt and turned back to the door. “Well, come inside and have something hot to drink. You must be frozen.”

  His backside wasn’t. It burned. He rubbed it gingerly and his fingers slipped into a hole. Blast, he couldn’t stay here with ripped breeches. Better that he say goodnight, retrieve his greatcoat and flee. He paused inside the doorway.

  “Hank?” Emily called, unaware of his predicament. “Come and sit by the fire.” She patted the wooden bench before the kitchen hearth.

  Sit? On that unpadded bench? His beleaguered backside wouldn’t survive the hard wood. “I will stand.”

  A furrow formed between her eyebrows as she hung the kettle on a hook over the fire. “What happened?” She pulled a large apron off a chair back and wrapped it around her. Hank scowled. Seeing her in that nightdress had been the only redeeming feature in this otherwise sorry adventure.

  He pivoted so she couldn’t see his backside. “Henry bit me.”

  “Henry bit you?” She sputtered a laugh, then, her face reddened. “Er, sorry. How bad is it?”

  He refused to feel his posterior while she looked on. “Nothing much. He tore the material.” He backed to the door. “I will find my greatcoat—”