Page 162

T hough Jane disliked keeping company with Millicent, she owned it was a fine day for a drive.

An alchemical haze hung low across the land, creating a golden, gemlike glow.

Everywhere one looked, it was like looking at a different Turner landscape.

There was a magical sense of beauty and unreality in the air, hardly the clouds of darkness Mrs. O'Rourke claimed to be gathering.

Harnessed in the traces, the old mare trotted smartly down the lane as if she, too, were infused with magic.

With her hands lightly on the reins, Jane settled back to enjoy the drive.

Tall spreading trees provided shade, broken only by the occasional dappling of sunlight filtering past the dense leafy growth.

A small contented smile hovered at the corners of Jane’s lips, her thoughts cycling back repeatedly to the earl and their last conversation. Pink touched her cheeks. Did his manner hint at a measure of warm regard for her? Did she dare trust her feelings?

She was forced to admit to an elemental attraction for the man.

But she could not let herself be so vulnerable as to show her feelings.

That would leave her distressingly open for pain.

She did not think she could take that from him.

She feared she was in as much danger of mistranslating his actions as society was wont to do.

How did one judge? How did one separate fact from fiction without visible evidence?

Why was it taught from the cradle that open communication with a member of the opposite sex was impossible?

Her hands tightened on the reins, and the old horse broke into a canter.

“Jane!” protested Millicent, holding onto the carriage side, “what are you about? I thought you could drive!” she accused as Jane brought the horse under control.

“I’m sorry, cousin, my mind wandered. It won’t happen again.”

“See that it doesn’t," her cousin snapped.

Jane thought it interesting to note that now Millicent had achieved her ends of getting Jane to go driving with her, she’d reverted to form.

The question that plagued Jane’s mind was, why?

But that seemed to be only one of several unanswerable questions that plagued everything she did and the actions of everyone she knew.

“Do you know where Royceland is?” Millicent asked a moment later while carefully smoothing her gown.

“Yes.”

“Let’s drive by it. I should love to see it. Is it a dreadful old pile?”

“Not at all. I judge it to be no more than one hundred years old. Penwick Park is much older. I understand there was another house here at an earlier time, but it was torn down to build the current edifice.”

Millicent nodded as if she were filing away the information for further consideration.

“That turn up ahead would take us by the house,” Jane added.

“Gracious, it is not far from Penwick Park, is it?” Millicent asked with a trace of annoyance.

“You’re right. Unless one is intimately familiar with the property boundaries, it is easy to stray from Penwick to Royceland, as the children do with distressing regularity,” she said, laughing.

“There’s no fence or hedge between the two? That is one of the first things I should do.”

Jane smoothly turned the horse down the lane that wound past Royceland. "Why? The families have been on agreeable terms for generations. What purpose would a fence through the wood serve? It’s not as if the boundary were going through a farmer’s field.”

“Jane,” groaned Millicent. "You are incredibly na?ve .”

Jane shrugged, though she did note that Millicent had no answer for her.

"There’s the house,” she said softly, pulling up by the side of the lane where a parting in the trees made the manor house visible in the distance.

Built on classical proportions of yellow-gray brick, its restrained and uncluttered outline stood on the hillside, commanding the land around.

"The gardens were a later improvement by Capability Brown,” Jane added neutrally.

“A fit seat for an Earl,” Millicent commented, well pleased.

Jane looked at her sideways but did not comment. She picked up the reins again and turned the equipage about, heading back down the lane.

“Are we near the parsonage?” Millicent asked.

“Yes. Why do you ask?”

“I thought perhaps you would like to visit Reverend Chitterdean. Mama tells me he’s sick now.”

“Yes, he and Nurse Twinkleham are both sick. No doubt from tending Mrs. Chitterdean during her illness. I should like to stop by. I haven’t been able to for days, and I normally make it a regular habit.”

“Then let’s do,” Millicent said, smiling at her cousin.

Jane pursed her lips but could not think of anything wrong with Millicent’s plans. She just wished she knew what prompted them.

As they approached the parsonage, Millicent groaned.

“What is it, cousin?”

“I fear I am not recovered as I’d hoped. I think I’d best return to my bed,” she answered wanly.

“Of course,” Jane said, turning the carriage about.

“No, wait! There is no reason you should come with me. I am only feeling a little peaked. Why don’t you go ahead and visit the Chitterdeans? I can drive myself back to Penwick.”

Jane looked doubtful. "I don’t know if that would be wise.”

“Oh, please? I should feel even worse if I knew I were the cause of putting off your visit."

Jane was confused by her cousin’s unusual behavior but could see no flaw in her argument.

She thought a moment, then nodded and pulled up the carriage.

She gave the reins to Millicent. "Go easy on her; she has a tender mouth,” advised Jane.

Then she got down. "Are you sure you feel well enough to drive?”

“Oh, yes. Do not worry so, cuz.”

Jane stepped away from the carriage and turned toward the Chitterdean home.

Behind her she heard Millicent flick the whip and urge the horse into a canter.

Surprised, she turned around to watch. Millicent’s hat ribbons flew out behind her and she looked as if the hounds of hell chased her.

Jane shook her head, bewildered. Perhaps Millicent had suffered sunstroke.

What else could explain such odd behavior?

Still musing over the situation, she approached the house.

She was not more than ten feet from the door, looking more at her feet than at her way, when the front door flew open, and Mrs. O'Rourke's warning echoed ominously in her head.

She turned to flee, but Lord Willoughby came outside like an exploding cannonade.

He grabbed her wrist, dragging her inside.

“Took her long enough,” growled Lord Willoughby in only a vestige of the tones Jane was accustomed to hearing.

He roughly snapped her around and let go of her wrist. Jane fell against a vacant chair. As she struggled for balance, she was surprised to note Sir Helmsdon bound and gagged in a companion chair. Mrs. Chitterdean and the maid were not to be seen. Reverend Chitterdean was also bound but not gagged.

“What’s going on?” Jane demanded, as Willoughby grabbed a length of rope and tied her to the chair.

“Why, your marriage, ducky,” said the supposed Lady Willoughby, her raspy whispering voice gone to reveal a common London street accent.

She laughed harshly. "Caw, it’s a might too bad, it is.

Might fetch a few yeller boys from the London stews, but that Lady Tipton wouldn’t a’ad non’r that.

Said she still ’ad t’call you kin, and that just wouldn’t be fittin’.

Bad Ton, she calls it.” The woman scratched her backside through the material of her dress and laughed again.

“Enough of your confounded chatter, Sophie,” snapped her confederate.

“Eh, none a your high’n mighty airs with me! Just remember who brung you to this lay!”

“It may not be much of a lay if this here parson can’t talk!”

Jane glanced around at Reverend Chitterdean. His face was unnaturally pale, and beads of sweat stood out on his forehead. As she looked at him, he was wracked by a prolonged, congestive cough. Afterward, he shook his head miserably.

“I don’t understand,” Jane said, dragging her eyes away from the pallid complexion of Reverend Chitterdean. "Are you saying my Aunt Serena has gone to this trouble just to see that I wed Sir Helmsdon? That doesn’t make any sense. Why? To lay the field open for Millicent to succeed with Royce?”

Sophie snorted. The supposed Lord Willoughby shot her a glance of abject dislike, then turned to Jane.

"What Lady Tipton’s doin’ you can be sure she’s doin’ for herself.

And, if she can shoot off that featherbrained daughter of hers again, so much the better.

Now shut your trap before I muzzle you like your husband-to-be there. I’ve got to think.”

Sophie jerked her head toward him. "Listen to ’im. Think, ’e says. Might as well git comfy, this could tike awhile,” she advised with a cheeky grin.

He moved to backhand her mouth angrily, then stopped, a sulky frown on his face. "Aw—you’re not worth the bother.” He sat heavily on the edge of a wooden settle, his chin in his hands.

Sophie threw up her hands in disgust. "If it weren’t for your talkin’ fancy, I’d a done better with one o’the boys in the troupe.

Can’t you see, if this ’ere parson can’t talk, we just bundles ’em into the carriage and tikes ’em to one who can.

That license Lady Tipton gave us is good with any autem bawler,” she said.

“I know that, but that’s goin’ to take time, and time isn’t somethin’ we have! We got to have’m wed afore anyone comes lookin’ for her. Furthermore, we got this Chitterdean’s wife and maid as hostage to his good behavior. We don’t have that club with another.”

“So we gets ’em,” Sophie said with exaggerated patience. He rolled his eyes. "Easy for you to say.”

An uneasy silence fell between them. Sophie hitched her hip onto the edge of the table, then slid back, swinging her feet off the floor, a frown of concentration on her strangely ageless features.