September 11, 2001
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 

Please choose the excerpt you would like to read:
 

 LORD RYBURN'S APPRENTICE        1/06

WHEN HORSES FLY        11/05

DECEIVING MISS DEARBORN          5/04

THE BEST LAID PLANS          11/03

All the best,
Laurie Bishop

LORD RYBURN'S APPRENTICE

CHAPTER 1

      "Aunt Estcott, did you bring me here to tell me you are adopting a ward?"
      Lord Ryburn strode up to his great-aunt's chair, where he stopped, planted his dusty boots firmly on her Aubusson rug, and stared at her in consternation.
      Lord Ryburn was an impressive sight. From his fashionably snug, buff pantaloons to the nice breadth of shoulders beneath his excellently tailored coat, from his crisp, closely-cut tawny curls to the look of steely determination in his golden eyes, he was enough to make a brave man hesitate.
      Lady Estcott, by no means intimidated, gave him a quelling look over her spectacles and scarcely missed a stitch in the seat cover she was embroidering.
      "You sound displeased, Hugh. I seem to recall you urging me to find something to occupy my time—to make me feel useful. And so I have."
      "But to take in a ward! Some unknown girl with no upbringing, no fortune, no family! You cannot know the least thing about her!"
      "Oh, calm yourself and sit down. Do you think I am that foolish? Sit!"
      Hugh reluctantly did as she asked, taking the empty chair on her left. In the other chair sat Aunt Estcott's long time companion and cousin, Miss Marigold Frey, who had stayed intent on her needlework through the whole of the confrontation.
      "My man of affairs located her," Aunt Estcott said. "I required him to check her background, of course."
      "Favington? I do not know why you keep him. I shall have my man look over the girl's—"
      "You shall do no such thing. Favington is perfectly capable. And before you whip yourself into an even greater frenzy, the girl is a family connection—which you would know had you listened to me in the first place—and she does have expectations. I intend to dower her and find her a suitable husband."
      Hugh let out an exasperated sigh. "Aunt—you are acting too hastily. You have not even met her!"
      "I know what I am doing, Hugh." Aunt Estcott continued her embroidery with calm deliberation. "She is Captain Marland's child. I must thank Marigold for thinking of him—I had forgotten him entirely! That was very clever of you, Marigold."
      "Thank you." Marigold blushed a little and stayed bent over her embroidery.
      "He was before your time, of course," Lady Estcott continued to Hugh, "and I doubt you have heard of him. He is connected to me on my mother's side. He died a number of years ago and left a daughter, who has been living at a Miss Silby's Academy for Young Ladies here in town—somewhere on Church Street, I believe. With a little instruction and a small dowry she should be suitable for a gentleman of modest expectations. There is nothing objectionable in my taking her in that I can find, unless you are coveting my fortune."
      "Do not be nonsensical, Aunt. Of course I do not covet your money. I certainly do not object to your helping this girl in a reasonable way. But what of her mother?"
      "Dead. That is what I am given to understand. Miss Marland has been supporting herself by teaching at the academy—and that is the very worst I can discover about her."
      "She is employed? And you do not find that objectionable?" Hugh sighed despondently and sank back in his chair. "Could you not make her a maid or a governess or some such thing? God knows I wish you to be happy, Aunt. But you have been urging me to find a superior young woman to marry for ages, and now that I am doing so, you are intent upon entertaining the gossipmongers. A scandal is something that neither of us like."
      "Bah. You are the son of Earl Wyndgrave. You have nothing to worry about. You have a pretty fortune, a pretty face, and very pretty assets. Do not make silly threats."
      Hugh said nothing.
      "At seven and twenty, you are entirely too young to fancy yourself superior to me, young man. Your sex is but a very small advantage, and in a great many ways, it is a disadvantage—so do not contradict me."
      "I am not contradicting you, Aunt. But I distinctly recall you informing me that I was old for matrimony."
      "That is an entirely different thing. Being old enough to marry has nothing to do with one's wisdom. You have many years yet to grow wiser."
      "That seems to support my posture of waiting to wed. I should not wish to make a mistake."
      "Do not worry. I shall not let you. But I can attend to that and my own interests as well. You shall marry, and within the season, Hugh."
      Hugh did not answer.
      "We shall find you a worthy young woman with good breeding and a good mind. It is extremely important for a wife to have a good mind, Hugh."
      Hugh let out a breath. "That was my very first thought, of course," he murmured wryly.
      Lady Estcott either did not hear him, or she chose to ignore him.
      "I had no children as you know. When my husband was alive I used to keep busy managing him, God knows. If I had not kept appraised of all of his little activities, he would have given a fortune away to his mistresses. I am wise enough to attend to such things, much to my dear departed Lord Estcott's good fortune. But I have become deadly bored now that he is gone."
      "Precisely, Aunt. That is why I suggested—"
      "No more about your suggestions!" Aunt Estcott let her work fall into her lap and fixed her great-nephew with an accusatory stare.
      "I need something that will exercise all of my talents and all of my knowledge. I shan't sponsor suppers to raise money for old knife-grinders or some such foolish thing you think old ladies should like. This young woman is just the challenge I need. You may help me, Hugh—" Here she punctuated her words with her threaded needle, jabbing it fiercely in Hugh's direction. "But if you do not, I shall not see you."
      Hugh sighed again. He was silent for several moments, drumming his fingers lightly on the arm of the chair and staring off in the direction of the oriental fire screen.
      "Very well. I shall be at hand. But I shall not be held responsible when you are overtaken by scandal. And that is my final word!"

#

      March 9, 1810
      I have been the recipient of a most unusual letter. A Lady Estcott, a personage completely unknown to me, and one of some importance, has written to me stating she is some sort of relation to me. I can hardly fathom it. She must be a very fine lady for she wrote on such excellent vellum imprinted with her initials, and Mrs. Snatcher kept the letter a full day before informing me of it, during which time I suppose she tried to read it before a candle, for the seal had fallen off.
      Lady Estcott has invited me to come to her, and if I understand her correctly, I believe there is a promise of a position with her. Mrs. Snatcher said she is considering whether or not I ought to go. Mrs. Snatcher may not be happy, but I am not so foolish as to let such an opportunity pass me by without availing myself of it. I cannot think how it could be worse for me there than it is here at Miss Silby's.
      Georgiana paused over her journal and let her gaze rest unseeing on the candle flame. It was cold in her garret room, and she had wrapped herself in her old woolen shawl. The grate was unlit, as she was given very little coal, but Georgiana felt fortunate to have her own room, small and meanly furnished though it was. She had once been a student residing in one of the large rooms with all the other girls, and her promotion to instructress had brought with it this little haven of privacy. It even had a small window, although it was grimy and never opened; it would let in smoke and the noise from the street otherwise.
      Eight years. She had been at Miss Silby's Academy for Young Ladies for eight years. It had been three years since she last heard from her mother, her last letter saying there would be no more money and that Georgiana had best support herself.
      Georgiana had finally allowed herself to believe that her mother was dead. There would seem no other reason for the long silence.
      Georgiana closed her eyes, and the rosy glow of the candle flame played through her lids. She began to draw forth from memory her mother's pretty, smiling face, her dark and glossy hair, and the rippling sound of her laugh. Why had her mother placed her here and then abandoned her? Had she become ill? Or had she simply tired of having a daughter to care for?
      Georgiana opened her eyes once more. It did not matter any longer. She was a young woman left to win her way by her own wits, and if Lady Estcott wanted her to come, she would go. Her past would not interfere with this new life--she would not let it. To think that she might live in a grand home with warmth and servants and good food! And if she won Lady Estcott's affection, what else might be in store for her? And yet...one could not sup on dreams or fashion a future of promises.
      Georgiana focused on the candle and saw that it was burning very low. Mrs. Snatcher was as frugal with candles as she was with coal; only the teachers had candles for their rooms, and each candle must be made to last or one would be left to seek their bed in the dark.
      Georgiana dipped her quill into the ink, then carefully wrote one final line:
      I am now fully fixed on leaving, and I shall give my notice tomorrow.

#

      A fortnight after the receipt of the letter, Miss Georgiana Marland found herself borne to Lady Estcott's residence. Georgiana was amazed by the lady's carriage, an elegant vehicle painted shiny black with yellow trim and with velvet seats within, but that was nothing compared to what she felt when at last she was let down in Park Lane and stood gazing at the residence that she was to call home.
      Lady Estcott lived in a soaring, bow-fronted townhouse surrounded with wrought iron fencing across from the expansive Hyde Park. Confined to Miss Silby's since age eleven, Georgiana had no exposure to this kind of elegance. It was all she could do not to continually turn her head and goggle at her surroundings. She thought the footman would surely find her amusingly simple if she did. He was conducting her through the gate, and she made an effort to keep her eyes on the path instead of gazing upward to count the many tall windows that fronted each story above her.
      They mounted the front steps, and at the footman's knock, a stern gentleman in neat dark garb opened the door. He examined her dispassionately as the footman announced her.
      "Miss Marland to see Lady Estcott."
      "Her ladyship is expecting you. Follow me, Miss Marland."
      He led Georgiana to a parlor just past the stairs, bade her sit, and then departed.
      Georgiana gazed eagerly about herself as soon as she was alone. The hall was narrow and long, ending in this parlor, which seemed to serve as an elegant little library. There were several richly upholstered chairs, a small reading table, and built-in shelves holding a variety of books. To the rear of the parlor there was a deep window that gave a view of the small kitchen garden, a picturesque planting of shrubbery, and the carriage house beyond them.
      There was a highly polished brass candelabrum on the reading table. Georgiana gazed at it. She saw her own face reflected in the curve of smooth metal, foolishly distorted and mole-like, as though her nose had been stretched to a comical length. She reached out and delicately touched its golden surface.
      "Miss Marland?"
      Georgiana jumped and quickly withdrew her hand, snapping her gaze to the doorway. A maidservant stood there watching her impassively.
      "Yes."
      "Follow me, please."
      Georgiana nervously smoothed her skirts as she stood, straightened her Sunday best shawl and bonnet, and followed the maid. They exited the library and took the stairs. At the second floor the maid turned toward the front of the house and knocked on the first door they faced. At the summons from within, she opened the door and showed Georgiana into the room.
      "Miss Marland, ma'am." The maid curtseyed.
      "Very well, you may go."
      Georgiana stood still. She was in a very large, elegant room that she thought must take up half the upstairs. It was in the front of the house, so one side of the room was made up of two sets of bay windows, each set forming a crescent shaped nook containing several comfortable chairs. The walls were a dark red that contrasted with the creamy white ceiling covered with ornate carving, and gilt-framed paintings hung between the windows and upon the other walls. She saw a fireplace made of carved red marble on the near inside wall, and the floor was covered with an enormous Turkish rug of a red, gold, and black design. Finally, a man and a woman sat gazing at her from the nearest window nook.
      "Come closer, my dear, and let us look at you," came the woman's voice. It was a mature voice, yet strong and clear. As the light behind the two people threw them into silhouette, Georgiana could not make out any more of either of them. She stepped forward slowly, halted, and then curtsied.
      There was a brief silence.
      "What do you think, Hugh?"
      A pause. "She is well enough to look at, if one overlooks her clothes. But it is you whom she must please."
      Georgiana felt her face growing warm.
      "Do not be so blunt, Hugh! Come here and sit down, Miss Marland."
      Georgiana came forward, and as she drew near, the man rose from his chair. He was quite tall, she noted. But it was not until she turned to seat herself that she at last saw her hosts and had her curiosity satisfied.
      Lady Estcott was elderly and dressed completely in black, but there was nothing resigned about her figure or her carriage. Her back was straight and her eyes gleamed with good health. And Hugh—Hugh was the most beautiful man Georgiana had ever seen.
      Georgiana sank into her chair and tried to school her eyes away from the gentleman. He resumed his chair by Lady Estcott and gazed at her with very striking sherry-colored eyes, his long and well-manicured hands resting on his knees.
      "Take off your bonnet, my dear."
      At Lady Estcott's command, Georgiana shakily untied her bonnet and removed it, all the while conscious of the penetrating stares of her ladyship and the gentleman. Beneath her bonnet, her long black hair was tightly confined by pins; she hoped it would stay in place.
      "I am Lady Estcott. Here with me is Lord Ryburn, my great nephew. I asked him to help welcome you to your new home. Are you pleased with it?"
      What could she say? Georgiana had seen nothing with which she could not be pleased. She had never set foot in such a great establishment in all her life. "I think it is very—very pleasing, ma'am."
      "I am very happy that you approve. I had hoped that you would. I want you to be very comfortable and happy here."
      "Yes, Ma'am."
      "Now, I should like to know more about your family. Your father is a distant relation of mine, as you know from my letter. I know that he died young—some sort of accident, I believe."
      "A mast fell on him, ma'am."
      "Mm. Yes. I recall something of the sort. What became of you then?"
      It was painful to remember, and Georgiana was uncertain how much to tell. She and her mother had been alone for a time, but then there had been a gentleman who frequently came calling, and Georgiana had found herself spending more and more days alone with her nurse. She had missed her father's laughter and him taking her upon his lap to tell her stories most of all. She missed his smell, that of faint smoke and brandy and something uniquely his. She missed him sweeping her up into the air and calling her "My princess."
      "I stayed with my mother...until she sent me to Miss Silby's Academy. I was quite young then. I was just eleven."
      "And how old are you now?"
      "I am nineteen, ma'am."
      "What became of your mother?"
      Georgiana felt a twinge of nervousness. What should she say of her mother? She did not know where her mother's path had led her, and it was perhaps best not to know. She guessed that it would not serve her for Lady Estcott to think poorly of Mrs. Marland, and surely Georgiana's last memories of her mother might be viewed with disfavor. Georgiana's chosen belief of her mother's fate would best serve her here.
      "She is dead."
      "As I thought. And this is why you have been teaching at the school?"
      "Yes. I had to make my own way, and fortunately I could. I am able to teach reading, writing, household economics, drawing, music, geography and French, ma'am."
      "Geography and French! How interesting. I had no idea those subjects were taught to girls in such establishments."
      "Miss Silby has an interest in academic subjects, so she teaches some of them."
      "You must have excelled in your lessons, then."
      "Those that I am able to teach I learned well enough."
      "And what of etiquette and dancing?"
      Georgiana swallowed. "We were taught but little of those subjects."
      "Little? Dear me. Those are very important for young girls. What is this Miss Silby thinking?"
      "She is probably thinking," Lord Ryburn said suddenly, "that her students would need to make a living for themselves. Etiquette and dancing are not beneficial to all classes of young ladies."
      Georgiana felt lower and lower, and fastened her gaze on the colorful pattern of the carpet at her feet.
      "You do not need to instruct me, Hugh. I know what kind of establishment Miss Silby's is. I am merely confirming my beliefs. So, Miss Marland, it seems that you have some things to learn. There is no harm in that. I shall see to it all, and Lord Ryburn will assist."
      Georgiana looked up in surprise. "But what am I to do, Lady Estcott? Am I not to have work? I cannot think why I should need to know how to dance!"
      Lady Estcott frowned and leaned forward. "Young woman, you need to learn because I say you will learn. As for work, I do not know how you can think such a thing! You can put that idea right out of your head. I plan on turning you into an elegant young lady of whom I may be proud! And if you do well enough, I shall find you a respectable young man to marry."
      Georgiana was wordless. She could scarcely believe what she had heard and felt she must be dreaming. Surely she was dreaming!
      "A first lesson," came Lord Ryburn's smooth, velvet voice. "Hold your mouth closed in company."
      Georgiana snapped her mouth closed. Angry and frustrated, she felt her eyes dampen. She did not know if she was more upset with herself or with Lord Ryburn--herself, surely, if she could not prevent her emotions from coming to the fore at this particular moment! She blinked, and quickly averted her eyes.
      "I am sorry."
      "Say 'I beg your pardon, Lord Ryburn,'" he said.
      She swallowed. "I beg your pardon, L-lord Ryburn—"
      "Hugh, that is quite enough! She has only just arrived. Can you not see that she is overcome by all of this?"
      "You wished my assistance. I am rendering it."
      "Do not be a— Never mind! We shall speak more at a later time. Let us have some tea." Lady Estcott reached out and tugged the bell cord.
            Georgiana had never wanted a cup of tea more than she did now, and yet when it came, she could barely swallow it. All she could think of was Lord Ryburn's obvious condescension toward her and the words with which his silky voice had wounded her.
            She knew without a doubt she could never become the kind of lady who could earn the regard of someone such as Lord Ryburn. She must school herself now to learn her place. She must never again be distracted for even a moment by the attractions of a handsome gentleman who was so much above her station.
            But what in the world was her place? What, exactly, did Lady Estcott intend for her? Oh, she had such a lot to learn!

#

  WHEN HORSES FLY

CHAPTER 1

       
       For a young woman who had lived the whole of her life in the Yorkshire dales, the long coach trip south was daunting in the best of circumstances. But Cora MacLaren was alone, and the fact that she would no longer be alone upon her arrival in Beachy Head was of no real reassurance. She was going to live with an elderly distant cousin whom she had never seen--and he was, from all she had heard, and eccentric recluse.
       She had it from her late great aunt and patient, Mrs. Leyburn, that Lord Wintercroft was a cross old miser who lived in a stone pile of an old castle in Sussex, had been widowed many years, and had never remarried. This, however, had not dissuaded Great Aunt Leyburn from writing Lord Wintercroft when it seemed that shortly Cora would be requiring a new position.
       Great Aunt Leyburn, her frail old body propped up by pillows in her bed, had dictated while Cora wrote, and Cora had uttered not one word of objection. Cora had already stayed with several relatives who were known to her, practicing her levelheaded resourcefulness and her medical arts until they no longer had need of her. Cora did not know anyone she might go to after Aunt Leyburn; and after all, as Aunt pointed out, Lord Wintercroft was head of the family.
       Still, it was a surprise when Lord Wintercroft replied with the offer of a home for Cora--rather than the offer of a position. It seemed particularly odd from a man reputed as being so tightfisted, enough so that refusal crossed her mind; but with her poor Great Aunt Leyburn on her deathbed expressing such satisfaction at the outcome of her last act in this life, Cora consented. Besides, Cora reasoned that Lord Wintercroft was in probable need of good nursing care, and his object was likely to avoid engaging her services for pay, although she had never expected any. Cora was a country doctor's daughter and she was an excellent nurse.
       Therefore, as the coach rumbled to a stop at the tiny hamlet of Croft's Corners, Cora had no illusions about what she was to expect at the old man's home. I might be swallowed up by the pile of ancient rock and never see the light of day again.
       Pricked by the humor of the thought, Cora smiled, picturing her unromantic self as the heroine of The Castle of Otranto, which she had read aloud to her Great Aunt Leyburn. She was hardly Walpole's Isabella. On the other hand, her new home might prove an interesting sort of challenge. Her father, God rest his soul, had taught her to appreciate challenges; he had taught her courage as well.
       "Step lively! Step lively!" The old woman with whom she had shared her inside bench jabbed her in the arm. "They dunna' hold here. You make haste an' get down."
       Cora grabbed her satchel and her precious bundle of books. Standing at a half crouch, struggling by the woman's knees and those of the farmer opposite, she made it to the coach door just as the guard was picking up the step.
       "Oh, wait!" She gestured desperately and the guard gave her a grim look. He then said something completely unintelligible to her, and she stared at him.
       A man--she thought the coachman--cursed. The guard shouted a reply, then looked back at her and let the step down.
       "Oh, thank you--"
       The guard snapped a retort and strode away. She had no idea what he said, except that she took by his tone that she had best hurry. She struggled to get down, clinging to her satchel and books, and her toe caught. She pitched face first into a solid male chest.
       She heard the whoosh of his breath as his hard arms locked around her, steadying her as her feet made purchase on the ground. For a moment she was dazed and felt the earth float away from her feet; but then, she felt substance beneath her boots once more.
       She drew in a difficult breath through the rough stuff of his coat and smelled wool and leather and wood smoke--a much better kind of scent than she had been forced to endure in the coach. She had the impression of a very large man, for he made her feel small and she was no small woman. She, her father had said, was built upon practical lines.
       The man's arms loosened, and she leaned back. "Oh, thank you, sir, I…" she paused and gazed up. The man staring down at her face looked so angry and forbidding that she choked off her words.
       His hair was dark and pulled back in an archaic queue; he wore a common low-crowned hat...and dark bristle showed on a jaw and chin that were customarily clean-shaven. His face was square, his brows thick and dark, and his skin was swarthy from the sun. A simple neckerchief was knotted above his rough country coat collar; it appeared to have been tied there as a necessity…with careless efficiency and no thought to fashion.
       Not that this was a fashionable gentleman. He was perhaps some country squire, and one not so very happy to have a full-grown woman flung into his arms.
       She swallowed and spoke again. "I am so sorry." She pulled back, and his hands dropped away as if burned. "I--"
       It was then she heard the coach. She whirled and saw it rolling--with her trunk lashed to the boot. "Oh, no! Stop! Stop! Someone please stop that coach!" She picked up her skirts and ran pell-mell after it, waving a hand, crying out. The coach gathered speed, and surged out onto the narrow dirt road.
       Cora stumbled to a stop, heaving for breath, staring after the coach in dismay. Then, despairing, she turned around.
       The large countryman was standing there, watching her. She seized upon the chance.
       "My trunk..." she said. Her voice came out weak and breathless. She tried again. "My luggage is on that coach." She paused, staring at the man. The man stared back. She realized that no one who heard her would care, and certainly the staring rustic would not.
       Her eyes teared, and she was mortified. She never wept. But the lost trunk contained her most precious possessions in the world--Father's medical instruments and Father's journals.
       The man suddenly bent and straightened with a satchel and a small bundle. Belatedly, she recognized her own things. In a surge of panic, she realized she could lose everything.
       "Sir, those are my...things." She picked up her skirts and started boldly toward him, feeling as if she were approaching a wild boar or something worse, but she continued nevertheless. It was odd, but in her skewed frame of mind, her remaining possessions were worth her life.
       "Sir, those are my things," came a high-pitched mocking voice. An urchin skipped in front of her, grinning a gap-toothed smile. She stopped. Another urchin appeared on the other side of her, laughing, and snatched at her gown.
       She wrenched back, and heard the tearing of fabric. "Get away! Stop it!"
       "That is enough. Go. Now."
       Cora jerked her gaze to the source of the voice--the very frigid, dark voice that reverberated up her backbone. She was in time to see the rustic stranger, now suddenly close, wearing an expression that could freeze blood. The expression was not for her, however. It was focused toward the sound of rapidly retreating little feet.
       He still held her satchel and books. "Oh." She took a deep breath and let it go. This man had rescued her. She understood now. He wasn't a thief or a half-witted mute; he was being chivalrous, no matter how unwillingly. "Thank you, sir, again."
       He looked at her. This time she noticed his eyes were very dark, the color of evening shadows.
       "I am expecting someone," she said. Heaven help her, eventide was falling. Her cousin was to send someone to meet the coach, but what if she had been forgotten? What would she do in this God forsaken place? She spared a quick glance around. Beyond a pair of small stone cottages and a neglected stable, she saw endless fields rising and falling gently, cut by the path of a meandering stream. The air was cooling and the sun was dipping low. No one, save the stranger, was in sight.
       "You are going to Wintercroft?"
       She snapped her gaze to his harsh face. His speech was surprisingly understandable. "Yes."
       "Then you are expecting me."
       He turned with her things and began to walk. She had no choice but to follow. Even without her bags she hurried to keep up with his long strides. How very peculiar this was. What an odd, curt, ill-mannered man.
       His rig proved to be the vintage dogcart on the far side of the stable yard, drawn by a beast of uncertain pedigree and age. No one attended the dogcart, but it was clear that the horse had no inclination to wander. It stood with head hanging low, one hind foot cocked and resting, with no sign of life save the twitch of an ear at a trespassing fly.
       The man strode up to the cart and tossed her bags lightly in the back. Then he turned to her.
       "Quickly, then."
       "I beg your pardon, sir, but I have just lost my trunk--"
       "We must hurry if we are to catch the coach before the crossroads."
       Her heart leapt in hope.
       "But, sir...surely with...this conveyance--"
       She never completed her objection, for her cart driver seized her around her waist and, quick as a cat could wink, whisked her up and deposited her in the seat. In another blink of time, he was beside her, the reins in his hands. He gave a sharp command and slapped the reins against the beast's back. And the beast, which looked to be so much raw-boned laziness, snapped to action. They rolled out of the inn yard at the speed of the beast's shambling trot, which proved to be reasonably rapid if not graceful.
       It was also exceedingly uncomfortable. Cora had driven a dogcart herself, but never over a rapid walking pace on such a rutted road. At their present speed she felt as though she were bouncing down a stony hill on her bottom.
       "Sir..." She clutched her bonnet to her head with one hand, clung to the seat with the other, and managed to turn her head to view the driver's harsh profile. "Should we go more slowly?"
       The cart hit a bump that snapped her teeth together, luckily missing her tongue.
       "No," he barked.
       Well, she thought. Perhaps he believes I am a new kitchen maid. But Great Aunt's old lap dog was a great deal more polite.
       The mystery of the man's identity was rapidly becoming unimportant, however, for as she looked past the rollicking behind of the horse to the curve ahead, she saw she would need to grab hold with both hands. She only hoped that when she released her bonnet it would stay on her head. Her only other hat was in her trunk, and who knew what would become of it?
       "I think we--should slow down," she said. "I am not-- cream, and I do not--need churning."
       He answered her by guiding the horse off the road and then, into the field.
       "What! Are you deranged?" Cora cried, seizing the seat.
       "Quite likely," he snapped. He slapped the reins on the horse's rump and the horse lunged ahead through thigh- high grass.
       Cora's heart lurched in her throat, and she considered the dire fate that might await her. There was some mistake. Surely this man was not Lord Wintercroft's man!
       Moments passed and the Mad Cart Driver kept urging the horse on. It occurred to Cora that he was in too much of a hurry to be seeking a secluded spot to have his way with her...he had simply chosen to drive through the field. This of course meant that she was still at risk of being thrown headlong to the ground.
       "Where are you going?" she gasped at last.
       "Where do you think I am going?" he answered.
       "I cannot tell--your thoughts, but I am sure--that any place I wish--to go may be reached--by means of a road."
       "Apparently you are wrong."
       "I--" Here Cora lost her voice as the cart hit a tremendous bump. Quick as a cat, his hand was around her wrist.
       "Hold tight!" he barked.
       She felt a sickly flutter in the pit of her stomach. Breathless, bouncing, she caught sight of his large gloved hand encompassing her wrist, and she felt the steely strength of it. But they were not slowing.
       "I--am trying--to do so."
       A bank rose before them. He released her wrist and took the reins in two hands once more. Cora held on for all she was worth, and they tipped up...and up...and skidded...and slowed. At the last possible moment, the homely horse gave one more mighty pull and the cart came up level upon the road.
       Her rude driver turned the cart northward, and she saw a small collection of rustic buildings not so very distant. An inn.
       He turned them expertly into the inn yard, brought them to a stop, and jumped down from the cart. Then he turned to her with outstretched arms.
       "Come along."
       "But I don't--"
       "Come."
       Reluctantly, she allowed him to lift her down. Once upon the ground, she found it not as solid as she liked. It was as though she were a boat on water.
       "There is the coach now. Follow me."
       She heard the rumble and crunch of wheels on stone and looked up, but the world began to turn around her. Grasping the side of the cart, she bent her head down once more.
       "The coach will not wait. Moreover, I have no desire to dangle about!"
       "I am sorry," she whispered. She was not well. Not well at all. "I cannot come."
       "I do not know which trunk is yours," he snapped.
       He reached for her. And just as his hand slipped beneath her elbow, she lost her breakfast upon his boots.

#       

THE BEST LAID PLANS
CHAPTER 1

      "Stop! Stop the carriage this instant!" Miss Catherine Prescott D'Eauville lurched up from her seat, grabbed the handhold, and stood as upright as she could in the bouncing vehicle—which wasn't a great deal, given Miss Catherine's imposing height. She was, however, as strong and as graceful as her nickname, and kept her feet.

      "Cat, you'll fall and do yourself an injury."
      "Pshaw," Cat said to her placid companion, her American cousin Rebecca Prescott. Miss Prescott was close to Cat in age, but short and delicately plump, rather like a nesting hen. "I am in perfect command of myself, Becky." Cat reached up as she spoke and knocked firmly on the roof. "I must see this countryside. Lovely! Does that little man hear me? Do you think he understands American knocks, or is it done differently in England?"
      "I am sure we are to find out. I do believe we are slowing."
      Miss Catherine stuck her elegant head out of the door as soon as it opened, hat plumes aflutter. "Yes—thank you, sir! I shall get down right here. I wish to walk about."
      "Yes, mum."
      In a matter of a moment Cat was down on the road, standing tall in her stylish bronze traveling gown with the black frog closures and the majestic hat—both purchased in Philadelphia expressly for her journey to her father's homeland. The hat was of velvety brown beaver with enthusiastic black and bronze plumes, and she quite liked it—when she was not riding in a confining carriage. She reached up and established that the beautiful plumes were undamaged, all the while gazing at the lovely vista that had caught her eye. 
Without turning her head, she knew her cousin Becky had followed her.
      "Marvelous," Cat breathed. "Lovely—almost as lovely as Virginia. Not that I have a great love of Virginia, mind you, but it is a pretty place, and cousin Martha does live there. Now, Becky, look there! Beyond those pretty rolling fields, and those trees along that very picturesque stone wall. Poplars. I believe they look like our poplars. But over there—on the rise, almost hidden by greenery—a castle. Or is it? It is looks rather like one. And I don't think it is all fallen down."
      "An advantage, I am sure," Becky murmured.
      "What shire is this? This is still Hertfordshire, is it not? I must live in this county. I must marry a lord with property here. Becky, consult The List."
      Cat whirled on her cousin, who, standing by the carriage in her no-nonsense gray traveling suit and her serviceable straw bonnet, was calmly opening a small leather bound notebook. Frowning in concentration through her little gold spectacles, Becky studied it. 
      "These are not arranged by county, Cat."
      "Oh, bother! Keep looking."
      Cat turned back to the landscape, a sublime smile spreading over her face. She felt honeyed happiness in her bones. This was it, and her intuition had never guided her wrongly. Lifting her skirts, she began down the incline to the field, intent on exploring all she could of this new heaven.
      "Sheep," she noted out loud, but to herself. Cat had extensive conversations with herself, and never found the company wearisome. "Very nice green grass. Very healthy grazing. And is that a stream, I wonder? I dearly love a nice trout dinner!"
She came to the bottom of the incline and began upward into the field proper, having less difficulty than she might have because of her thick-soled boots. Fashion was all very well, and she quite adored it when in the mood; but one never sacrificed practicality for it. When traveling, one wore sturdy boots.
      She stopped and lifted her face, catching a scent. She stood that way a time, sorting it out. It was sweet and yet pungent, and she could not quite catch hold of it. It was a field flower, of that she was quite sure, possibly the bluish ones she saw in the distance.
      "Cat!"
      She heard Becky's summons and turned. Another carriage had stopped a little way behind theirs—a smaller one, a gig of some sort pulled by a single horse. A tall gentleman was making his way down the incline and coming toward her. Becky, pink-faced and clutching her skirts, was now rather desperately following him.
      Cat studied the gentleman a moment, then smiled grandly and waved from her vantage point some ten yards into the field. The man, observing her wave, waved back.
      Catching up her skirt once more, she walked toward him. "Hello, sir! I hope I have not committed some offense. I have no sort of weapon, as you can see."
      "Please pardon me," he said. "I thought that perhaps you had difficulties."
      "Why, none whatsoever! I am merely admiring this beautiful property. Do you live here?"
      They met a short way from the road. Cat came to a stop before him and regarded him with cheerful amusement. He was typically English, all properly got up in a conservative dark coat, trousers and boots for traveling, a striped kerchief knotted about his throat and a top hat upon his head. He was well shaped, though, and that his refined clothes did not hide; he had shoulders as broad as a laborer's in her father's shipyard and thighs fully as sturdy. But he also held himself with perfect presence and grace, and as an added attraction, he was as tall as she was. Perhaps, he was taller. Yes, she was certain of it.
      "Actually, yes. I live quite near here," he said.
      He had a pleasant, well-modulated voice, she thought. Not precisely low, but in that very masculine range that made it notable—a comfortably soothing, velvety voice for a woman to hear, making one feel as though she had been given a warm cloak to wear on a cold day. He had an appealing face as well; a quiet, intelligent looking face; a self-confident face.
      "How pleasant for you. I suppose you know the owner, then?"
      He raised his tawny brows slightly. At that moment, he reminded her very much of her dashing cousin Tom, with his droll expression and the laugh but partially hidden in his gray eyes. "I know him intimately. He happens to be I."
      "Oh." Cat eyed him with new interest. "And who might you be?"
      "I am Lord Weyland."
      Cat glanced over his shoulder at Becky, who waited patiently behind Lord Weyland, her breast moving visibly with her recent exertion.
      "Becky, consult the list!"
      Cat then looked back at Lord Weyland, who now regarded her with a mild but rather peculiar expression. She disregarded it.
      "Oh, and you own all of this? How lovely! Your family must be very happy to be so very nicely settled."
      "I myself am quite satisfied," he said. "My parents have passed on, and my sister is married and elsewhere. The park is rather extensive, and I quite like it."
      Ah! Matters were fortuitous, indeed. "You are not married?"
      "I am not."
      "Engaged?"
      "Not at present."
      "Might you be an earl?"
      His expression did not waiver. "I fear I am but a baron."
      This was a disappointment. "Well, it must be a very old title, then."
      "Well, no. My grandfather was an Admiral in the navy. It was bestowed upon him. I am the third baron."
      "Oh! Well, then I'm certain the property has been in your family for years."
      "I am afraid it has not. It was a purchase made by my father when Lord Durstan, the former owner, was on the rocks."
      "Oh! Well then...umm...."
      "Would you care to know my fortune?" he asked.
      "Oh, no! Heavens, no. Why, I have plenty of money. That is not important at all."
      Lord Weyland blinked. "I see."
      In spite of the curious light in his eyes, he had such a controlled, calm, such an English look on his face that Cat grinned.
      "Do you, then? Well, I am Catherine Prescott D'Eauville, and I have come from Boston to find myself a proper lord to marry. Or perhaps I should put it differently? I suppose that sounds a trifle brazen to English ears." She extended her hand with an enthusiastic flourish.
She meant to give him a suitable American handshake, but Lord Weyland reached out and took her gloved hand in his. Then he bowed over it—and grazed her knuckles lightly with his lips.
      He raised his head and met her gaze. "A trifle brazen, perhaps," he murmured. "Here we say 'I am seeking an eligible parti.'"
      Cat barely noticed the twinkle in his eyes. She was too much taken up with the fascinating sensation of having had her hand kissed, just so, by an agreeable gentleman. In the space of an instant she realized what she had missed among the young men of Boston, who had wonderful manners, to be sure—but there was a certain difference.
      Yes, my girl, there surely is.
      "Well!" She said at last. "I am staying at present with my English cousin and his wife, I believe a very short way from here—I am a bit turned around, I fear. They are situated in Shallcross. My American cousin Miss Prescott and I arrived these several days past, were rested by breakfast the next morning, and are having the grandest time exploring! Now Charl—um, my cousin, our host—shall set about inviting the neighborhood to visit, I daresay. I do believe all have been apprised of my arrival, so some little party or other should not take long to arrange. In any event, you should come by, Lord Weyland, and we need not even confess we have met and not been properly introduced." She smiled again.
      Lord Weyland's lips, to this moment disciplined into a firm line, curved upward ever so slightly. "We need not, that is true."
      "Then you shall come."
      "I presume your cousin is Lord Ralston."
      "Oh—yes. Did I not say so?"
      "You did not," Lord Weyland said, "But I understand Lord Ralston to be entertaining an American cousin at home."
      She smiled. "Yes, you are quite right."
      "Then I shall happen by." He stepped back. "Perhaps I should follow your carriage as far as the turning."
      "Absolutely not. Miss Prescott and I are quite the independent women! Besides, my driver knows the way." She stepped past Lord Weyland to join her patient cousin, who stood waiting like a handmaiden to royalty. "Good day, Lord Weyland!"
      "Good day."
      They reached the road, and Cat climbed into the carriage beside Becky. All in all Cat was satisfied with her adventure so far, but sorely regretful of one thing.
      "There is no Lord Weyland on the list," Becky murmured. The most agreeable Lord Weyland did not fit her criteria.
      The carriage began to roll, and Cat gazed out the window at the lovely field they left behind. She could no longer see the tall gentleman with the smile in his eyes.
 
 

#
 
 

DECEIVING MISS DEARBORN
CHAPTER 1

       From what he could make out, staring up from the bottom of the deep ditch, it was daylight. It also looked like rain.
      It looked like rain and he lay in the roadside ditch as naked as the day he was born.      He couldn't remember anything. Not where he was, not why he was there…and not who he was.
      He was a mystery to himself.
      Naked!
      He knew just one thing. Whoever he was, he knew he wouldn't ordinarily be naked in a public ditch…or a private ditch, for that matter.
      He wondered if he'd had a cup too much. Slowly he began to search his mouth for a hint of aftertaste. He only encountered two things:  pain, and blood.
      He had either had a bad accident, or someone had beaten him senseless. 
      He drew in a breath, slowly, and experienced the motley stabs and aches as the air filled his lungs. There were so many tender and painful spots they ran together and blurred into one, making him one hurting and sorry fellow. 
      He blinked his swollen eyelids and stared at the strip of sky. Damme. He doubted hell was this good—or purgatory this bad—so he was still living the life he hadn't the faintest memory of.
      He must be a man of a practical, stubborn disposition, for he recognized the need to move…to get up…to go somewhere else. It was not good to lie in a ditch ass-bare and stare at what one supposed to be the sky, which became grayer as he watched, while one decided if one were a drunk or a fool.
      Sitting up was a challenge, and a truly agonizing experience that he wished would go the way of the rest of his memories. When he had accomplished this, he found next to him a gray shapeless lump—some kind of primitive cloth. No, it was wool, roughly spun and loomed. Carefully he reached for it, and when he was able to balance his upper body without the support of his other arm, he grasped the cloth in two hands and held it open. 
      It was a homespun coat; worn, punctuated with holes, and smelling like all the filthy unwashed beggars he had ever had the misfortune to pass on the street.
      What street? Where? He didn't seem to be in a city. This was a country road, he was sure, and no carriage or cart or rider or person had passed since he had forced his eyes open.
      It was gone then, the smoky image he grappled for. The only faint surety he retained was that when he had encountered the beggars somewhere in his past, he had been fully clothed, and he had…scorned them. Scorned them? Pitied them? He wasn't sure, but for the fact that he had not been a beggar himself.
      That left a very wide field of possibilities.
      Alternately wincing, stiffening with pain, and holding his breath to squelch a gasp or a yelp, he slipped his arms into the smelly coat. It was more than big enough, and since he was no small man, it had previously been worn by one well-fed beggar. He was thankful for that, for he could wrap it securely around himself. If he could find something that could serve as a belt, he could walk—or stumble—without concern that he would provide an impromptu peep show to an unsuspecting passerby. 
      The light was fading and a damp wind began to stir. He shuddered. He could delay it no longer. By painful inches, he crawled up the bank to the edge of the rolling field beside the road and collapsed.
      A few moments passed. He felt the cooling of the breeze. At last he forced himself up on his hands and knees.
      He saw no one in his limited field of vision, as his neck was too stiff to turn very far, and his eyelids too swollen to decipher much if he could. Using all his will, he found his feet. Hunched with pain, stiff and befuddled, he turned slowly, gazing around himself.
      English countryside. He was certain of that. Thank God there was another thing he was certain of! The next thing he was equally sure of was that he needed shelter, and he needed food. Instinct told him that neither would be his for the asking, although his gut told him this was wrong. He should not feel so helpless. He should not feel so alone. 
      Matters, however, were not normal. He would follow his instincts, for they seemed better tuned to the strange world he found himself inhabiting.
The nameless man began to walk, having not the slightest idea where he was going, or what he might find beyond the next rise. #       She would have to sell Father's ruby ring. She had not wanted to; she had refrained from doing so for too long already. But heavens, what could she do when there was nothing left to sell?
      Miss Annabelle Dearborn slumped in the big oak chair and planted her elbow on the scattered bills and letters of account that littered her desk. Then she rested her chin in the palm of her hand and gazed unseeingly between the faded damask curtains to the gently rolling landscape of Leicestershire. Before her on the mat of bills lay the ring, its red eye glinting in the morning light.
      She would have to tell Mother, of course, and Mother would raise a lament, although Mother did not care so very much for the ring—of that, Annabelle was convinced. But Mother would be equally convinced that she ought to, and therefore would present an appearance of it.
      Joseph remained silent. Annabelle felt him behind her standing in patient attention, knowing she would respond to his voiced concern in her time. She must respond—for she was the sole mistress of Hartleigh. Joseph, who in his day had been groom, coachman, her father's butler, and now her concierge—in reality, her right hand and advisor for her pretty country inn—knew this. And he also knew the importance of his post, in spite of being called by the familiar "Joseph," as the family had always done. Annabelle depended upon him to manage all the things that her sex and station prevented her from doing--she was in effect the mistress of Hartleigh, but she clung to appearances still.
      Admittedly, appearances were getting near impossible to maintain. She'd had her one and only season before her father had managed to lose all, including her portion and her mother's. Now he was in the hereafter and past worry, while Joseph calmly informed her that the hen house had been raided again.
      "It might be a fox," Annabelle said.
      "I am afraid a fox who takes only eggs would be almost as unusual as a fox milking our cows."
      "Oh, that is right. You did say that no hens were lost this time." Annabelle sighed. "Perhaps Lizzie made a mistake with the milk yesterday morning. Might she have spilled it? She is such a flighty creature."
      "She was very certain that she had not spilled any."
      Joseph was convinced that the raider was of the very clever two-legged variety. Annabelle was beginning to believe this herself. She remembered the tearful milkmaid Lizzie asserting that the cows had been partially milked again, before she had touched them.
Of all things Annabelle did not want to believe right now was that Hartleigh had a thief to add to its growing pile of problems. 
      "But at least no milk was taken this morning," Annabelle said.
      "I am only assuming the cows were untouched. I have heard nothing yet this morning of milk."
      "As we are now confining the cows at night, I should think they are safe. No thief would be so brazen as to enter the stable to milk them! Yet entering the henhouse is a bold move indeed. Perhaps Lizzie told the truth yesterday."
      "Yes. My thoughts exactly." 
      Annabelle paused in thought, searching for a remedy, but nothing new occurred to her.
"We cannot spare Angus to be on guard all night," Annabelle said, "and we cannot afford to hire another manservant."
      "It is indeed a predicament, Miss Dearborn."
      "To think I must pay for flour and tea while someone steals my eggs and milk!" Annabelle made a fist on the pile of bills, but was too much the lady to pound it on the desktop. "And then there is the expense of wax candles, and the need of new linens, and Mother's constant use of the apothecary…and I must not forget Madame la Comtesse. Regardless of how foolish you believe I am, I cannot bring myself to turn her out. I am sure she has no where else to go."
      "I would never think you foolish, Miss Dearborn. You state our financial situation very well." Joseph cleared his throat. "It is unfortunate that our Madame has misplaced her fortune under the circumstances."
      She turned her head at last and viewed Joseph, who stood tall and stately in his perennial black suit coat and breeches, his gray hair tied in a neat queue at the back of his neck, his weathered face set in an expression of watchfulness.  
      "Oh, Joseph! It is an imaginary fortune, as is her title. What difference do the imaginings of an old woman make? They make her content, and she eats very little, after all."
     "No difference whatsoever, except when she cannot pay her bed and board. But I do not question your decision, Miss Dearborn. You have always given all matters diligent thought and care."
      Annabelle sighed again. "Very well, Joseph. All things being as they may…I suppose what must be addressed at this moment is breakfast. Captain Morgan never says a word, but the others will fuss. Mr. Goodfellow will threaten to take his leave again, I suspect."
She wanted a solution; and she knew very well that Joseph wanted one, too. The fact that he advocated financial discretion confirmed her worst fears. Joseph believed their plight to be as impossible as she did.
     "This is so irksome!" She said. "If the stable protects the cows no more than the henhouse protects the hens, the cows might just as well be at pasture all night. I simply cannot think what else to do." 
     "If  I may suggest something, Miss Dearborn."
     "Please do."
     "I feel we need to employ someone in the capacity of guard, regardless of how impossible that may seem. He need not be expensive; no skill need be expected of him, other than he watches by night. We seem to be at an uncomfortable disadvantage, and it is not only our stock that is at stake. Safety is an issue, and so, of course, is our reputation as an establishment."
     Annabelle studied Joseph's quiet face for a moment. "Perhaps you are right." She sighed again. "It is becoming very difficult, Joseph."
     "I understand. I shall put my mind to the task."
     "Thank you. You are very good."
     Joseph bowed and let himself out of her small office, leaving Annabelle to stare out the window at the back garden, deep in thought. Closing her hand around  the ruby ring, she caressed its familiar shape with her thumb.
     It was Annabelle who cared for the ring. Father had been a failure as a provider, but she had loved him, and he had told her the day he had placed the ring in her hand, as he lay in his sickbed, that this was one thing that would be hers forever.
     Oh, he had been fantasizing again. As if one ruby ring could make all right! But she had thanked God for his belief then for it had comforted him, and he had followed his ancestors a fortnight later.
     She had found a way, in spite of Mother's protests. She had shepherded their small finances carefully and had converted their family manor into a genteel boarding house, in hopes of capturing the trade of the more fastidious travelers. Situated as they were in Leicestershire off the road north, it seemed possible. But hopes had not been fulfilled. Instead, she had only Captain Morgan, Mr. Goodfellow, Madame la Comtesse, and this ring.
     "Father," she said then aloud to herself, "if you see any hope for us now, send me a sign." Perhaps from beyond the grave he had gained wisdom.
     However, it all must wait. She really did need to go speak to the cook.
      Mrs. Bottom, her cook, met her in the hall, apparently intent on seeking her out. Annabelle saw, with growing hopelessness, that Mrs. Bottom was distressed.
      "Miss Dearborn, I shall tear my hair out, by the grace of the Lord above! Lizzie will not go to the stable this morning. Look at the hour, and the cows are not milked yet! She is convinced the thief is hiding there, waiting to leap upon her! That girl!" Mrs. Bottom waved her wooden spoon demonstrably. "I need cream for butter! I cannot be getting it myself!"
      Annabelle straightened her shoulders. "No, of course not. You are not expected to."
      "That is good," sputtered Mrs. Bottom. "Because it isn't worth my wage! Or what I have coming to me, at least!"
      Annabelle quelled a shiver of alarm. If Mrs. Bottom were to leave, to be sure, the rest of her small staff would follow…except Joseph. But even Joseph had a future to provide for.
      Annabelle stiffened her back and brushed by Mrs. Bottom, heading for the service stair. "Do not worry. I shall have matters in hand in very short order. And I shall get your milk."
      "Miss?" Mrs. Bottom sounded bewildered. Annabelle started down the narrow stair, and heard Mrs. Bottom's determined step behind her. 
      "Miss, wait!"
      Resolved, Annabelle marched into the kitchen, followed by the now protesting Mrs. Bottom. 
      "It isn't seemly, Miss! For either you or I, it isn't right! You can not be going to the stable to milk!"
      Annabelle strode through the cavernous kitchen and into the pantry without breaking stride. She swept the pail off the pantry hook. "Oh, but I am. It has to be done. And you are needed right here, while I am not, so it is settled."
      Annabelle turned her back on Mrs. Bottom, and continuing her march through the kitchen, snatched a stained apron off the peg by garden door and stepped out. The fresh breeze of morning swept over her, with its lulling sounds and smells.
      From the distance she heard the bells from their flock of sheep going to pasture, a tinkle here, a clink there. The wind brought the faint whistle of the boy who herded them, and the joyful yip of his dog. Her horse, Molly, snorted softly from within her stall. From the distant wood she heard the harsh single call of a raven. And in the wind also came the scent of fresh grass and clover, the sweetness of honeysuckle. It was early still, and the morning light was sharp and clear, tinged with a hint of gold.
      Annabelle followed the flagstone path past the kitchen garden and came around the back of the stable, a barren looking building in sad disrepair. 
      Only a week ago Annabelle had decided that the cows must be brought in at night when Lizzie reported that the animals were coming dry to the byre. Fortunately there had been room for them. Besides the cows, the stable housed her mare and mother's plus the team of stalwart farm horses, the only remaining of the full stable that had been Father's pride.
      It also had space in the loft for the boy Johnny and Angus to sleep. She had been putting them up in the attic still, however, because the nights were cool, Johnny was young, and Angus was less likely to discover a bottle when he slept in the house.
      Sleeping in the house did not make Angus more prompt, however. If it did, he would have done the stable chores already this morning and allayed Lizzie's fears. 
      Annabelle paused as she always did by Molly's stall. She cooed softly to her mare, and a friendly bay muzzle extended itself over the half-door. Annabelle stroked the velvet muzzle and gazed into Molly's beautiful brown eyes.
      "Molly, my lovely, did Angus exercise you yesterday? And did you get your fill of clover? How neglectful I have been. I promise we shall ride together soon."
Molly answered with her soft phut-phut-phut sound, then gently lipped Annabelle's hand.
      "I forgot," Annabelle said mournfully. "I shall come back tonight with a treat. Now I must milk Elizabeth, Mary and Therese, and then you shall all be let out to pasture for some very nice grass."
      Annabelle went to the first stall and slipped inside, secured a rope to Elizabeth's halter and led her out onto the brick floor of the stable where it was clean. In a moment she had Elizabeth tied securely, then pulled up the small milking stool. Lastly, she hitched up her long skirt and secured it with her apron so it would not trail in the straw.
      "Behave, now. I know you are not used to me, but neither am I used to you." 
      It was odd to consider that she had any experience at all in milking a cow. She had not had until after her father's death when the influenza had gone through the household, and the first time had been both intimidating and distressing. To think that I have come come to this, she had thought then. She'd had her come-out at eighteen, but was a milkmaid at twenty! Now she was twenty-two, and her fortune had not changed.
      Annabelle closed the door on the painful thoughts that battered against it. One did as one must.
      She sat on the stool, leaned close to the cow's udder, grasped Elizabeth's near teats and began the task, smelling the pungent aroma of cow and fresh milk. The streams of milk played a rhythmic tune on the bottom of the empty pail.
     A sharp grunt interrupted her concentration. She paused her milking, and looked toward the horses.
     The workhorses were motionless. Likewise, Molly was standing calmly, her nose to one corner, serenely swishing her tail. Next to Molly, Jezebel held her head at alert, gazing at her. 
      Odd. It must have been Jezebel, but something was not quite right about that sound. There had been something rather unhorse-like about it.
      Annabelle began again, and this time continued without interruption. She removed a pail one third full of milk, untied Elizabeth and put her back in her stall. She went on to Mary, who was a very sedate old cow, and led her out to the passage.
      Something moaned.
      Annabelle stopped in her tracks. Standing silently, gripping the cow's halter, she listened. Her heart pounded in her ears and beat painfully in her neck.
      Something was in here.
      She heard Nothing…nothing…and nothing. She began to breathe again. She had been mistaken….
      No, she had not. The moan was soft this time…and it was above her. Her breath stilled, Annabelle raised her eyes to the loft.
      There was nothing to see. Whatever was there was back out of sight. Good lord, what should she do? She should get Joseph…or Angus. But suppose they found nothing? She would appear silly, plus Lizzie's fears would be confirmed. 
      Fear running through her like a dose of salts, Annabelle released Mary and crept quietly to the loft ladder. Beside it was a hayfork, and she took it. For one moment she stood silently and stared at the ladder, dread, duty, and common sense locked in a hopeless mêlée. Then, with her hitched-up skirts secured by her apron and the hayfork clutched awkwardly in one hand, she climbed the ladder as silently as a whisper.
      At the top, she raised her head very, very slowly and peered over the straw-strewn floor. It was dimly lit, save for the pale light coming from the small window cut at the gable.
At first she saw nothing. Silently, she advanced another rung, then another. At last, slowly and carefully, she set foot upon the loft floor and drew herself up. Standing tall, she took a last survey.
      The pile of straw in the corner shifted. Before her shocked eyes it grew, forming a massive shaggy head and coarse wooly shoulders, quivering, shuddering and lurching in its attempt to rise.
      Heaven preserve me. The creature appeared to be a man—the most horrifying, wretched thing she had seen in her life!
      She watched like a dumb thing until the man-creature found its feet. Her own were useless, and her limbs felt made of lead. As the ghastly man-creature straightened, she suddenly realized the wooly skin was a loose robe—just as the robe fell open, revealing all that a maiden of good standing should never view before her wedding night. 
      Shock—and proof that the creature was indeed very human—spurred her to action. She snatched up the hayfork and thrust it out in front of her, the sharp wooden tines directed straight at the man's midsection.
      "Halt there! Come no closer, or I—or I will run you through!"
      He made no advance, but stood there, swaying on his feet, staring at her dumbly. Then, he looked down and caught sight of himself. He hesitated, as if confused.
      "I—I beg your—"
      It was more a croak than a voice. Then, he fell face first into the straw.

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