by Jane Ashford
With no time for family connections, Daniel thought. Scarcely even a letter. But he didn’t wish to be reminded of that. Or of anything else, really. If the earl had come to talk more about grief, he’d be disappointed. “We’re in mourning here. I haven’t been entertaining guests.”
The earl waved this aside. “Oh, you needn’t bother entertaining me. I can look after myself. Perhaps I can even be of use to you.” Before Daniel could think of another excuse, he added, “Have you learned any more about the mysterious legacy you wrote me about? It did make me curious.”
“A woman has arrived and moved into Rose Cottage.”
“A woman?”
“A young lady.” When Lord Macklin raised his eyebrows, Daniel added, “Not like that.”
“Like?”
“I had thought…as one would, perhaps a mistress or some such thing. Though Papa never…and how would he have had the time when he was scarcely ever home? Anyway, she isn’t. Not that sort at all. She claims she doesn’t know why the house was left to her.”
“Really? And you believe her?”
“I do.” Miss Pendleton’s bewilderment on that subject had been unmistakable.
“How very strange.”
“Indeed.”
“We must go over and see her tomorrow and look into this matter further.”
“What? No!” It was out of the question. Even if Daniel hadn’t had a thousand other things to do, he didn’t intend to call on Miss Penelope Pendleton again. She’d made it clear he wasn’t welcome. And he would soon forget the touch of her lips brushing across his palms. Of course he would. A man could accomplish anything with decisive action and mental fortitude.
Three
But his fortitude proved insufficient. Somehow, Daniel found himself riding out with Lord Macklin the following afternoon to call on Miss Pendleton. There’d been no dispute about the expedition, which he’d been resolved not to make. The earl was invariably cordial and kind. He suggested rather than demanded. And yet his plan for the day had prevailed.
Equally puzzling, they were attended on the ride by a gangly lad named Tom, who apparently had no last name. Perhaps fifteen years old and said to be from Bristol, Tom had a homely, round face, bright blue eyes, and prominent front teeth. His smile, a near constant, was carefree and friendly. Though he wore a fine new coat, his appearance and manner suggested that he was a servant—more than a groom or footman and certainly less than a private secretary—yet he seemed to have no particular duties. He spoke of being on an adventure. Daniel wasn’t clear who or what he was, but it seemed churlish to object to such a sunny presence.
Today, Rose Cottage looked prettily peaceful in the June sunshine. Ruddy blossoms hung from the twining briars that engulfed one end of the house, filling the air with a sweet scent. They dismounted by the front garden wall, and Tom took all three horses’ reins. Daniel strode up to the front door to knock. A moment later, it was opened by the young maid Kitty. The girl turned toward the stairs and called, “It’s his lordship come back.” She stepped aside to let them enter, indicating the room on the left of the entry.
Daniel hesitated. “The horses.” It hadn’t been a long or strenuous ride, but their mounts could use watering.
“Mr. Foyle’ll take them,” said the maid.
As if conjured, an elderly man in an old-fashioned tricorn hat, dun coat, and buckskin breeches came around the side of the house and muttered, “Barn’s this way.” The fellow had the wind-roughened face of a countryman and hands twisted by years of hard work. This must be the manservant Miss Pendleton had mentioned, Daniel thought. He and Tom went off with the horses. Daniel led Lord Macklin inside.
He found the interior of the house transformed. The dust and echoing emptiness was gone, replaced by cozy elegance. Obviously, Miss Pendleton’s furniture had arrived, and it included a number of fine pieces that had certainly come from a far grander dwelling. The brocade of the draperies looked quite expensive as well.
“Good afternoon.”
Daniel turned to find the young lady he’d met in this place a few days ago. She also looked much better, more rested and less pale. Or perhaps that was just a reflection of the crisp, pink cambric gown she wore. Her blue eyes met his evenly. “Miss Pendleton,” he said with a bow. “May I introduce Lord Macklin, who is visiting me? We came over to see how you are getting on.”
“Quite well, thank you.” Miss Pendleton sat down in an upholstered armchair and gestured toward the settee like a grand lady perfectly accustomed to calls from noblemen. Daniel was more than ever convinced that she had grown up in far different circumstances. They sat. “It was kind of you to send over the cleaners,” she added.
Daniel had been poised to fend off effusive gratitude, but she offered no more than that. For some reason, it irritated him.
Murmurs from the kitchen, which was after all only a few feet away, suggested that Tom had come in through the back door. And indeed when the maid returned with refreshment, he was carrying the tray.
“This is Tom,” said Daniel. He left it at that. Let Macklin offer more information, if he had any.
He said nothing. Tom went out with the maid, a giggle drifting back in their wake.
Miss Pendleton poured tea into cups of fine china and served them slices of chocolate cake that was as good as any Daniel’s cook could produce. He acknowledged that he was surprised at all she’d accomplished in such a short time.
“Miss Penelope,” said the earl. “Was your father fond of Homer?”
“No, I was named after a great-aunt.”
She sipped her tea and didn’t ask who Homer might be—another sign that she came from a cultured household. It was maddening to know so little about this woman who had intruded into his life. Indeed, Daniel was suddenly sick to death of the muddles and mysteries his heedless parents had left behind. “Where are you from?” he asked. “Where did you grow up?”
Macklin shot him a sidelong glance. Daniel silently admitted ineptitude. His question had been abrupt, rude. But he was impatient. He wanted to know who she was and why she’d inherited a house that should by rights have been his. Not that he needed Rose Cottage. It was just the principle of the thing. Once he knew, he could forget the whole matter and get on with his many duties.
“North of Manchester,” Miss Pendleton replied.
Daniel hadn’t realized that a tone of voice could be aggressively vague. Her eyes were as steely as a gauntlet thrown down. Why must she be so prickly? he wondered. What did she have to hide?
“Why is your man staring at us?” asked the earl.
Daniel followed Macklin’s gaze and saw the old fellow who’d taken their horses. He was stationed outside the window by the fireplace glaring in at them. Did he see himself as a chaperone? There was no sign of any other, unless one counted the gormless young maid.
Their hostess leaned over to look. “Oh, that’s Foyle. He fancies himself as a kind of household guardian.”
“Rather like a gargoyle,” said Macklin.
They both turned to look at him, startled, and the usually imperturbable earl grimaced. “I beg your pardon. That was impolite. It’s just that his face is so…full of character.”
A short laugh escaped Miss Pendleton. “Foyle wouldn’t even mind the comparison. He always said he was craggy as a mountain. He used to make faces to amuse us when I was small.”
So she had a family retainer, on top of everything else, Daniel thought. He was formulating more searching questions when Foyle turned to look at something behind the house. The man scowled, raised a fist, shook it as he shouted something inaudible, and ran off.
The sound of more running feet and raised voices followed. It sounded like a riot.
“What in the world?” said Miss Pendleton.
They rose and went out to discover the source of the uproar.
The back of her p
roperty was full of goats, Penelope saw when they rounded the side of the house. White goats, brown goats, multicolored goats. Several clattered over the cobbles of the yard. One stood on the roof of the privy, staring down at them with bright-yellow eyes. How had it gotten up there? A small black goat capered before the open doors of the barn, hopping as if it had springs in its legs, to the obvious consternation of the horses tied up there. More goats were in the kitchen garden plot, eating the vegetables. Penelope saw one take a careful mouthful of a carrot top, pull the root from the ground, and eat it with gusto. Foyle was down there, looming over a small boy and yelling. Kitty and the lad Tom stood on the kitchen stoop observing the show.
Penelope wove her way across the yard, avoiding goats, conscious of two noblemen on her heels.
“Nobody’s been living here,” the goatherd was saying. “So it seemed a shame to waste the turnips, y’see.”
“Well, somebody lives here now,” Foyle answered. “So take your animals away and keep them off.”
“I’ll try, mister,” the boy whined. “But they’re used to coming here now, y’see. And I can’t always make them mind me. You’d best get a fence.”
“I’ll get a shotgun,” growled Foyle. “It’s up to you to keep the creatures away from our property.”
“You can’t be shooting master’s goats!” the boy wailed. “They ain’t like sheep. I can’t make ’em do what I want.”
“Is that Sam Jensen?” said Lord Whitfield.
Penelope started. She hadn’t realized he was so close behind her.
The boy spotted him and ran over. “My lord! It ain’t my fault, sir. There was nobody here, and the goats found the garden all on their own.”
A shriek from Kitty indicated that a goat had run into the kitchen. Tom dashed in and returned with the small animal in his arms. He grinned, not looking at all apprehensive. “Did you see their eyes?” he asked. “Right odd, they are.” He showed the animal to Kitty. She backed up a step.
A sound made Penelope turn. There was a goat teetering on top of the woodpile and seeming to leer at her. The pupils of its yellow eyes were dark horizontal slashes rather than circles. They were rather odd.
“Perhaps it will eat the spiders,” said Lord Whitfield.
She turned to look at him. His dark eyes were gleaming with humor. His face had lost all trace of pomposity. “Goats are vegetarian,” she said. “I think.”
“They are,” said the stately Lord Macklin. “Although they will taste all sorts of rubbish to see if it’s palatable.”
Lord Whitfield smiled. Penelope was shaken, and then overtaken, by laughter, and he joined in. Her neighbor seemed a different person, laughing. His blunt features were transformed, as if a curtain had been drawn back to expose a lively, engaging personality. She got the notion that, like her, he hadn’t laughed so heartily in a while. She felt intimations of an old lightness and freedom that had been absent from her life for such a long time.
And then Penelope realized that her older visitor was watching them with more interest than their brief acquaintance warranted. Her laughter faltered, and degenerated into a cough. Struggling to control the spasm, she wondered who Lord Macklin was. Why would such an obviously superior person call at Rose Cottage? Had he come here looking for her? The Manchester matter had been declared closed. She had no more to say; that had been made perfectly clear. She’d been left to gather the tatters of her life around her and move on. Her new circles would not include noblemen who were clearly powers in the land. Coughing, she turned her back on him. Penelope had been visited by too many authorities over the last year to welcome any sort of inquiries.
Lord Whitfield had walked away. Now he returned with a cup of water. “Here.”
Penelope took it, drank, and assuaged her cough. Fatigue, only partly physical, descended on her.
“We must gather up these goats and take them…somewhere,” Lord Whitfield added.
“How do you propose to do that?” asked Lord Macklin. He sounded amused and interested rather than toplofty.
“They are herd animals. We will herd them.” He turned to the boy in the garden. “How do you move your goats about, Sam?”
“It’s more like I follow them, my lord. They go where they like.”
“But you have to get them home at the end of the day.”
“Oh.” Sam wiped his nose on his sleeve. “I try to catch hold of Nanny. They’ll follow her. Mostly. Usually.”
“Which one is Nanny?” Penelope asked. She moved toward the garden.
“No,” said Lord Whitfield. “You go and sit down. We’ll gather them up.”
Penelope stiffened. She didn’t like being ordered about, and she couldn’t allow a viscount and whatever exalted rank Lord Macklin held to chase goats around her cottage.
“Tom,” said Lord Whitfield, beckoning.
The lad hurried to his side.
“And, er, Foyle.” He crooked a finger at her manservant. “We will execute an encircling maneuver. Sam, you will capture Nanny.”
“What about me?” asked Lord Macklin. He was definitely amused.
“Rear guard,” replied the younger visitor. “Head off stragglers.”
The campaign began, and Penelope’s property descended into chaos.
Goats were in fact nothing like sheep. They didn’t clump up and stare apprehensively when people ran in a circle around them. They scattered, hopped like rabbits, and took the opportunity to butt if anyone turned his back. Young Tom was knocked into a heap by the largest goat, which he appeared to find hilarious. The goats also seemed to be enjoying themselves.
Penelope recruited Kitty, and they set themselves to block the way to the front of the house. Kitty shrank back when a trio of the animals ran at them, but Penelope flapped her skirts, shouted, and turned them away. She had nearly despaired, however, when Sam pounced on a large white goat and threw his arms around her neck. She turned to bite him, but he evaded her teeth.
“Nanny?” called Lord Whitfield.
Sam gave a muffled affirmative. Penelope saw that his captive wore a collar with a small bell.
Lord Whitfield pulled a handful of turnips from the earth, strode over, and held them under Nanny’s nose. She sniffed, interested. He took a step. She followed. He took another. She came along. “Form a perimeter,” he told his troops. “Offer this sort of lure if you can find it.”
The others snatched up more turnips or carrots and held them out. Most of the goats seemed to appreciate the help with excavation. With Nanny in the lead, they moved in the same direction. Slowly, the men led the herd away. Penelope heard Lord Whitfield ask the goatherd about the nearest corral, and then the cavalcade disappeared behind the barn.
“Gor,” said Kitty. “I had no notion the country was such a terrible place.”
“No one was hurt,” said Penelope. “It was just a few goats.”
“But they have devil eyes!”
“Different eyes.”
Kitty shuddered. “I’m going to dream about demons with yellow eyes coming after me.” She made clawing motions with both hands.
“Oh come, Kitty. Look at cats. Their eyes aren’t like ours.”
“Yes they are.”
“They have vertical pupils. And some of their eyes are yellow.”
Kitty frowned at her. “Cats are on our side.”
“Our—”
“They sit in laps and catch mice and purr. Goats rampage about and trample gardens. Didn’t you see that big one sneak up behind Tom and knock him down?”
“She tried it on Foyle, too,” Penelope replied.
Kitty nodded as if this clinched her argument. “I’ll heat the big kettle of water, miss, in case the gentlemen want to wash up after those goats drag them through the mud.”
There’d been no sign of dragging. Or of mud, for that matter. But hot water was
a good idea. She should have thought of it.
It was more than an hour before the men returned—disheveled and laughing. The sudden influx of masculine energy was like a rush of wind through the house. They ought to have mugs of ale to toast their victory, Penelope thought, but she had none to offer. A household included so many items that she’d taken for granted in the past. Would a local inn sell her a keg of beer? Foyle would be happy to ask about that. Not that she would be entertaining parties such as this in future. A viscount wasn’t going to be a frequent caller at humble Rose Cottage. Penelope sat in the armchair with folded hands and told herself this was all to the good.
The impromptu goatherds made noisy use of the hot water. Lord Whitfield was the first back in the front room. “Thank you for repelling the invasion,” she said, standing.
“It was actually rather fun.” He grinned. “If anyone had told me that Macklin could sweep the legs from under a goat and chuck it over a fence… Well, I wouldn’t have believed them.”
Penelope saw the boy he’d been in that grin—carefree, adventurous, full of laughter.
“I don’t mean he threw the creature,” Whitfield added. “He snatched it up and…placed it. But Macklin! The arbiter of polite society and model of elegance. With his arms full of goat.” His smile urged Penelope to enjoy his amazement.
She was conscious of a deep yearning to join him in simple laughter. She suspected, imagined, that they would find the same things amusing, and it would be pure joy to share them. But that was ridiculous. She had no basis for such an idea. And more importantly, her life was no longer simple. Spare, secluded, yes, but not simple. She fell back on commonplaces. “Lord Macklin is a relative of yours?”
Whitfield’s laughter died. Penelope felt its departure like a new bereavement. “He was a friend of my father. More than I realized.”
Her visitor’s father was a sore subject. Talking of him would lead to questions about her legacy, and then on to arguments. She didn’t want to fight with him. What else to say? “I don’t suppose you know where I could get a dog?”
“A dog?”