by Sandra Heath
The air was very still as she rode through Polwithiel village, and the sound of her horse seemed to echo more than ever. With the village behind her and the last stretch of woodland ahead, she saw the silhouette of Polwithiel Abbey on its vantage point. Behind it the skies were black now and the next clap of thunder was very loud, echoing through the trees for a long while.
Gazing ahead at the house, she suddenly realized that her ride was almost at an end. She didn’t want it to be over just yet—she was enjoying her few hours of freedom too much. Reining in, she saw that she had almost reached the clearing where the gamekeeper’s cottage lay. All around her the woods were thick and concealing, the tall trees rising out of a profusion of magnificent late rhododendrons. It was not an oak wood like Liskillen, but she was reminded of her home for all that, and with the memory came thoughts of how she had liked to ride bareback.
A moment of madness seized her then. She could ride like that now; there would be no one to see her if she left the track. Glancing up at the sky and seeing that the storm would not break just yet, almost before she knew it she had turned her horse into the cloak of greenery.
After a short while she dismounted and removed the saddle, which she then pushed beneath the low leaves of a rhododendron. Leading the horse to a fallen tree, she managed to remount, sitting astride, the skirts of her riding habit unavoidably pulled askew to reveal rather too much of her legs. But no one could see, she told herself, preparing to urge the horse away.
Suddenly she became aware of the sound of someone weeping. She glanced around, but there was no one to be seen. The sobs came again, from the direction of some rising land where the woods were thicker than ever. It was a child, she realized, a little girl weeping as if her heart would break.
She hesitated, fearing that the child was not alone, but then she could not ignore the despair and heartbreak in those choked sobs and she rode slowly toward the sounds.
Beyond the tangle of shrubs and trees, a stream tumbled down the hillside, splashing and roaring between boulders and then deepening into a large pool before spilling on down to a lower level and disappearing between banks thick with ferns. The gamekeeper’s little daughter was kneeling beside the pool, tears pouring down her cheeks, for there, floating out of reach on the water, was her beloved wooden doll.
The child turned with a start at the sound of the horse, getting swiftly to her feet and preparing to run away, but then she recognized Bryony and hesitated, undecided.
Bryony reined in beside her. “Please don’t be frightened. You remember me, don’t you?”
The little girl nodded, her eyes huge.
“Can’t you reach your doll?”
The kindness in Bryony’s voice made the child relax then. Tears filled her eyes. “Mary’s drowning,” she wailed, her chin puckering and her little hands twisting miserably together.
“No, she’s not,” said Bryony soothingly, “and I think I can rescue her for you.” She glanced at the pool, trusting that she was right in thinking it wasn’t too deep for someone on a horse. Kicking her heels, she urged the reluctant animal toward the water, just as another rumble of thunder stole low across the almost black skies.
The horse tossed its head nervously, shying from both the thunder and the water, but gradually it was coaxed into the pool. Bryony gasped as the water swept up over her knees, soaking her heavy skirts and dragging at them as if it would pull her down into its chilly depths. The doll seemed to bob tantalizingly out of reach, but at last she could stretch to pluck it to safety. With a glad smile she turned to show it to the little girl, but there was no sign of her. Instead there was someone else on the bank now, Sir Sebastian Sheringham, mounted on his gray horse.
Bryony’s heart almost stopped. He looked so perfect in his excellent green riding coat and beige breeches, his top hat tipped back a little on his golden hair. It was a shock to see him again, and a shaft of dull pain seemed to pass through her. She had never felt more at a disadvantage in her life, for he already believed her to be in the wrong; now he must think even more poorly of her. What must she look like? Her skirts were wet and clinging, her legs displayed too much for modesty, and she was astride like a boy!
He removed his hat, running his fingers lightly through his hair and glancing up as a sudden flash of lightning split the dark skies. A warm wind swept from nowhere, bringing with it the smell of dusty earth and pine needles. It began to rain, the heavy drops pattering loudly on the surrounding leaves. “Good morning, Miss St. Charles,” he said softly.
“S-sir.”
“Do you intend to remain indefinitely in the water?”
Without a word, her cheeks aflame with embarrassment, she urged her horse to the bank again.
“You do not seem exactly pleased to see me,” he said.
“Would you expect me to, under the circumstances?”
“Perhaps not, for the situation is a little ... er, unusual. One wonders what lessons my aunt has been giving you, for to be sure they must be very novel indeed.” He waited, but she didn’t respond. “Have you nothing to say?”
“I hardly think the moment calls for polite conversation.”
“No, but I’ll warrant no other moment would be quite as honest and illuminating as this one.”
She looked defiantly at him then, for although it was all up with her and had been since the duchess’s letter, she wasn’t going to let him see how wretched this latest episode had made her. “I am surprised you still require illuminating where I am concerned, Sir Sebastian.”
“I’m afraid that you have the advantage of me. Perhaps you could explain—”
“Come now, sir, you do not need telling.”
“But perhaps I do.”
She was angry then. “Very well, if I must spell it out. I was referring to the duchess’s letter.”
“Which one?”
“Don’t toy with me, sir,” she whispered.
“You’ve accused me of similar conduct before, and now, as then, I promise you that I am not. I wish you to tell me what my aunt’s letter said.”
“I will not tell you, for if I do, then I must again vainly protest my innocence, and that is a thankless exercise of which I am growing exceeding tired!”
“Please tell me, Miss St. Charles.”
She stared at him. Surely it couldn’t be that he truly didn’t know? But in spite of her doubt, her chin came up stiffly, for even if he didn’t know, his reaction would still be the same, once he was informed. “I was caught with another letter from my lover in Ireland, Sir Sebastian, an intimate and loving letter which the duchess simply cannot wait to show to you. So you may now with all honor withdraw from a match which has probably been causing you some discomfort. You will then be free to find a more suitable wife, one who does not have a lover she still adores, who doesn’t dance like an abandoned jade, who doesn’t display a taste for riding like a gypsy, and who brings you instead a comfortably acceptable name and probably a fortune to go with it. Oh, how fortunate you will be, sir, for just think of how many fine fat fortunes you will have then!”
He did not smile. “Sarcasm ill becomes you, madam.”
“I do beg your pardon,” she replied stiffly.
“You appear to think that I have been under some illusion about you. Let me assure you that I haven’t,”
“No, for that has been more than seen to, hasn’t it?” She felt suddenly close to tears. She loved him, she loved him so very much ... She managed to meet his gaze. “Let us agree that our match is at an end, Sir Sebastian. I will not attempt to hold you to anything, nor will I make any awkwardness. And now, if you will excuse me, I rather think I wish to ride back to Polwithiel.”
The wind soughed damply through the trees as she gathered the reins and began to turn her horse away into the rain, but he leaned quickly forward, seizing her bridle.
“You aren’t yet ready to ride anywhere, Miss St. Charles,” he said firmly.
“Please let me go.” The tears were bright in
her eyes now and she was afraid that he would see them.
“I cannot imagine that you left Polwithiel riding as you are now, and I therefore suggest that you replace your saddle before continuing. Where did you leave it?”
She stared at him, the tears wending their slow way down her cheeks, but the rain was falling so heavily now that it mingled with them.
He leaned closer, putting his hand momentarily over hers. “Tell me where you left the saddle,” he said more gently.
“Why do you still concern yourself with me, Sir Sebastian?”
Anger leaped into his eyes then. “Because, madam,” he said shortly, “I happen to be a gentleman, although you seem determined to believe that I’m not. Whatever my aunt claims you’ve said or done, I still don’t think it right that you should ride back to Polwithiel in the state you are in at present. Now, then, if you will please tell me where you put the saddle, we can attend to matters and then I will escort you back to Polwithiel.”
“No!” she cried quickly. “Please don’t escort me.”
“Why not? Dammit, woman, I can hardly let you ride back through this storm on your own!” As if to emphasize his words, another roll of thunder cracked overhead and the wind swept through the trees, driving the rain against leaves and ground so that for a moment the noise of the rushing stream could not be heard.
Tears brimmed in her eyes. “Sir Sebastian, I need a little time. I must face everyone at Polwithiel now that all thought of our match is definitely ended, and the moment you enter the house you will inform my aunt of your decision. All I ask is time to compose myself.”
He was silent for a moment, anger still bright in his eyes. “Very well,” he said abruptly, “very well, I won’t go to Polwithiel until tomorrow, but I will not allow you to ride all the way back there on your own. I’ll accompany you to the edge of the woods and watch you safely across the open park. If you won’t accept that compromise, then I will insist upon accompanying you right to the door. Do I make myself clear?”
“Yes,” she whispered.
He searched her pale face. “One thing I will say of you, Miss St. Charles, and that is that you somehow manage to make me behave very perversely indeed.”
“I don’t understand—”
“No, I don’t suppose you damn well do!” he snapped. “Now, then, can we please retrieve that saddle? You may find it desirable to exist in wet clothes, I most certainly do not! Please lead the way.”
She stared at him for a moment and then slowly turned her horse. They rode back through the trees to where the saddle lay hidden beneath the rhododendrons. Thunder rumbled overhead and the mauve-pink clusters of flowers swayed wetly in the wind as he dismounted and then lifted her down. He felt the softness of her body through the damp stuff of her riding habit, but he said nothing, bending to pick up the sidesaddle and putting it deftly into position, tightening the girth. Another loud clap of thunder rolled across the sky and the horses tossed their heads, but he steadied them, waiting until they were calm again before lifting Bryony back up and handing her the reins.
They rode on toward the clearing and the gamekeeper’s cottage, and not a word passed between them. As they passed the cottage gate, Bryony realized that she still held the little girl’s doll, but as she reined in, Sebastian took the doll from her, leaning down to prop it carefully upon the top of the gate, and then he rode on along the track, Bryony following a little way behind.
Puddles had collected in the ruts in the track and leaves were snatched from the branches overhead, spinning wildly through the air. Polwithiel Abbey stretched across the crest of the hill ahead now as they reached the edge of the encircling trees, and Sebastian reined in.
“You may ride on alone now, Miss St. Charles,” he said, leaning over to slap her horse on the rump so that it started forward, carrying her swiftly across the open park toward the house.
Chapter Nineteen
She could hear the rain on the conservatory as she rode into the quadrangle. The enclosing walls seemed to accentuate the noise of the storm, making the wind’s noise howl around the battlements and through the ruined stones of the old abbey. She hadn’t noticed Felix’s traveling carriage preceding her, but now she saw it as it drew to a weary standstill by the porch. She reined in in dismay, for Felix was one person she had no desire to see.
The steward emerged from the porch, a large umbrella in readiness, and the bedraggled footmen, their livery soaked by the rain, climbed down from their perch to open the carriage doors. In the second before they did so, they exchanged wary glances which caught Bryony’s attention, and as Felix at last alighted she saw that his face was dark with brooding anger.
He stood there for a moment by the carriage, the rain spattering his excellent coat in the second before the umbrella was raised above him. He looked very elegant and handsome, but his appearance was marred by the dissatisfaction twisting his mouth and by the angry coldness of his eyes.
One of the footmen stepped unwisely close to him, splashing his boots, and with a furious oath Felix rounded on him. “You clumsy oaf!” he cried. “I’ll ... !” He broke off then as he suddenly noticed Bryony. For a long moment he stared at her, a mixture of emotions crossing his face, but then, quite unexpectedly, he smiled. Suddenly careless of the effect of the rain upon his clothes, he stepped from the shelter of the umbrella and strode through the gathering puddles toward her. “Good morning, Miss St. Charles, how very good it is to see you again.”
Astonished at this sudden change, she gazed down at him. “Is it?”
“Is it a good morning? Or is it good to see you?” He was all charm and good humor, as if they had parted the best of friends.
She didn’t trust him. “I would hardly have expected such a warm greeting from you, not after the way you spoke to me when last we met.”
His smile became a little rueful. “My conscience weighs heavily, Miss St. Charles. I’ve suffered considerably from the knowledge that I behaved quite despicably toward you before I left. I must ask you to forgive me.”
“And if I do, will you then turn upon me again?”
“No, Miss St. Charles, I will not, although I can hardly blame you for not believing that.”
“Good, sir, for I do not.”
He raised an eyebrow, his expression thoughtful then. “How very changed you are, something momentous has evidently happened during my absence.”
“You are getting very wet, sir. Should you not be going inside?”
He smiled again. “Now I know something has been going on. Will you not tell me?”
“Oh, I think not, sir, for I rather imagine the duchess would like to tell you everything herself.” She slipped down from the horse before he had time to assist her.
He caught her hand suddenly. “Miss St. Charles, I am truly repentant and I would very much like to forget how I behaved before.”
“So would I, your grace.” Oh, how winning his smile was and how easy his charm, but she thought him as false as ever. What would he say if he knew that her match was at an end? Would he then be as sweet and amenable? She doubted it very much.
But what did it matter anyway? Let him behave as he chose, for within a day she was almost certain to be on her way home to Liskillen. Salt-sharp tears came into her eyes again and she thrust the reins into the hands of a waiting groom, who immediately led the horse away.
Felix looked curiously at her, and then took her hand, raising it gently to his lips. “If I have yet again said something out of place ...” His voice died away on a note of calculated sympathy.
She snatched her hand away. “I assure you that my tears have nothing whatsoever to do with you!” Gathering her skirts, she hurried away toward the porch, where an anxious Sally was waiting.
Felix’s face became still as he watched her go. For a moment he remained where he was; then he returned to the carriage, where the footmen were unloading his baggage. He beckoned to the waiting steward, indicating the footman who had splashed him.
“That fellow’s services are no longer required. He goes without recommendation.” Then he strolled on toward the house, his coat soaked through and his boots muddied almost beyond redemption.
* * *
Bryony felt strangely calm as she dressed for dinner that night. Outside, the storm still raged, although there was no thunder now, but the dressing room was warm and still, illuminated by several candles because the daylight had faded so early. She did not know why she decided to wear Madame Colbert’s organdy muslin gown, she only knew that if she did not wear it tonight then she might never have another chance. Tomorrow was another day, but tonight she was still the future Lady Sheringham and she would show them they had been wrong about her.
She sat at the dressing table while Sally pinned up her hair, adorning it with pearls and little white satin bows. The maid caught her eye in the mirror. “I don’t think dinner will be very easy tonight, Miss Bryony.”
“Oh? Why?”
“His grace is in a very bad mood. He dismissed Tom Penmarrion’s brother earlier for splashing his boots.”
Bryony stared at her. “He dismissed him? Merely for that?”
“Yes, Miss Bryony. His valet, Frederick, says that when he was up in London he lost very heavily at the gaming tables. That always puts him in an ill humor, and things are very bad here when he’s like that. He and the duchess have had words since he returned and he seems to be very angry with her.” The maid paused. “I think it was about the letter her grace wrote to Sir Sebastian.”
Bryony nodded. “Yes, it probably was.”
Sally put down the comb. “There, Miss Bryony, you look lovely.”
“Thanks to your efforts.”
“No, Miss Bryony, you look lovely because you are lovely.”
“Will I hold my own tonight with Lady Delphine?”
“Oh, yes, in fact you’ll outshine her.”
Bryony smiled. “You are good for my morale, Sally Anderson.”