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“You’re wrong, cousin Nigel. He knew it was his papa,” she emphasized the word, “and he understands about death.” True, Parry might not have comprehended the threat to his own position implicit in his stepfather’s demise, a threat that—with good reason, it turned out—Gwen had so feared, but he knew the elderly man who’d treated him with love and gentleness had gone away forever.
“Well, I find him offensive, so something shall certainly be done about it. Edgerton wishes to have you settled in at the Hall between the last of the hunting season and the beginning of spring planting, so the wedding is to be at week’s end, here at Southford. Given the groom’s age and the shortness of time to prepare, I see no need for anything elaborate. A simple ceremony with a small reception immediately after should be sufficient.”
Cheese-paring nip-squeeze, Gwen thought, too furious to respond. The will had not even been read yet, and already the new baron was determined to expend as few funds as possible on the former daughter of the house.
“Congratulations on your good fortune, Gwennor. You may go now to begin the preparations.” He waved an imperious hand toward the door—dismissing her from her own library like a lackey.
Too shocked and angry to reply with a remark her cousin would consider suitable for a gentlewoman, in icy silence she pivoted toward the door.
“By the way,” her cousin’s voice halted her before she reached the doorway, “since I expect your bridegroom sometime tomorrow, I intend to have your stepbrother…taken care of before his arrival. Parry shall be confined to the attics, where he can be restrained but kindly treated, at minimal expense. Oh, and should you suffer from some maidenly excess of nerves before the wedding and attempt to call off your nuptials, remember that I have the power to confine you as well, should you take a sudden notion not to acquiesce willingly in my plans.”
He paused, regarding her thoughtfully. She stared back at him, defiantly mute, not caring that he could probably read on her face the intensity of her dislike.
“I shall warn you only once,” he said softly. “Growing up, you had a deplorable tendency to obstinacy and disobedience, traits I doubt your weak-willed papa ever succeeded in rooting out of you. I am not a man who can be manipulated by a shrewish spinster entirely too accustomed to running things her own way. I am master here now, and the servants will obey me.” He nodded. “That is all.” And looked down to peruse a ledger on the desk.
Her head and heart teeming with a volatile mix of grief, anguish, worry over her brother, fury at her cousin’s threats and fear for the future, Gwen picked up her skirts and half ran through the hall, down the servants’ stairs to the deserted stillroom and out the back door.
Shivering in the late-winter cold, she continued on behind the gardens to the barn surrounded by a collection of sheds and pens where her brother carried out his father’s breeding experiments. She spied Parry’s dark head bent over one of the cages and walked in his direction. His sharp ears no doubt picking up the soft pad of her footsteps, he looked up and smiled at her.
As she drew closer, his smile turned to a frown. “You have no shawl! You’ll be cold, Gwen.” Before she could stop him, he shucked his tattered wool jacket and wrapped it around her shoulders.
She reached up to hug him fiercely, tears seeping now from the corners of her eyes. How she loved her gentle, serene brother. Even did she not, as Nigel had alleged, feel responsible for his injuries, Parry was so unspoiled and utterly pure a soul she must love him, as nearly everyone in the county did, for his healing hands and sweet-tempered kindness.
He had a special touch with animals and young people. Both seemed to respond to his straightforward nature and both seemed to sense how competently he could soothe and help them. Not only had Parry directed her papa’s rabbit-breeding operations, he was sought by neighbors from all over to treat their ailing livestock, providing, despite Nigel’s dismissal of his usefulness, a small income to Southford’s coffers.
The whole county knew if Parry Wakefield could not cure an animal’s ills, the owner might as well prepare to bury it.
What was she to do? Gwen wondered as she held her brother close. She might detest Nigel, but she wouldn’t make the mistake of underestimating him. If he’d said he would put Parry under restraint, he would do it. And he would have no compunction about locking her up too if she tried to stop him. Nor did she wish to put the servants in the untenable position of opposing their new master.
At last she released Parry. He held her at arm’s length, his guileless face studying hers. “You’re sad, aren’t you, Gwen? Are you missing Papa? I am, too. Look at these babies.” He opened a wicker cage and indicated some tiny balls of fluff. “Misty had them Sunday past—and they are all browns. Just what he wanted. I think he’s happy, looking down at them from heaven.”
“I’m sure he is.” Happier than any of us this side of heaven are likely to be again, she thought bitterly.
Her brother had been wholly content since his physical recovery from his injuries, wandering the estate at Southford, watched over by family and neighbors who cared for him, collecting and succoring the animals he loved.
He would pine away and die without them, locked up in the attics at Southford Manor.
Well on the shelf at five-and-twenty, Gwennor had no illusions about her beauty or her prospects. She’d taken over the management of the household at age fifteen, upon the death of her stepmother—the only mother she remembered, her own having died at her birth. In her concern for her stepbrother and her grieving papa, she’d easily withstood the baron’s half-hearted attempts to send her away for a Season several years later. If Lord Edgerton were prepared to accept Parry, she would give herself to him, if not enthusiastically, at least with resignation.
But would he?
She’d have little time to plead with him, and no leverage to bargain with. Besides, Nigel was probably correct. Most people shied away from anyone with an impairment, which was often looked upon as God’s judgment upon the unhappy individual and his family. Being Nigel’s friend—indictment enough in Gwen’s opinion—as well as a fanatic on the purity of the bloodlines of his horses and dogs, Edgerton would doubtless agree with Nigel’s solution for dispensing with the embarrassment of his bride’s mentally deficient brother. No, she concluded, Parry would find no champion in Edgerton.
And if he would not accept Parry, she had no reason to wed the man, despite Nigel’s threats. She’d not spent the last ten years, as he’d described her, an obstinate spinster growing accustomed to running things her own way, to meekly succumb to her detestable cousin’s plans for either herself or her beloved stepbrother.
“I must feed the others,” Parry said. “Can you help?”
“No, I must get back to the house. Here, take your jacket back before you catch a chill.”
She held it out. With a smile he waved it away. “I’ll get it later. I have these—” he scooped up a handful of soft rabbit babies “—to keep me warm.”
She turned to walk to the house, her anxiety sharpening. Tomorrow morning was terrifyingly close. She would have to think of some way to rescue them both before then, but to be safe, ’twas better for her brother to remain well away from the house until she decided how she was going to do it.
“Parry!” she called back to him. “Nigel will be down for dinner.”
Her brother’s smile faded. The only person her friendly stepsibling did not like was their father’s cousin. “Must I come eat with him?”
“No. Stay with the animals. I’ll bring you a tray later. No sense both of us having to deal with him.” She made an exaggerated grimace of distaste that set her brother laughing.
“Thank you, Gwen. I’ll find you a surprise for tonight.”
A lovely surprise it would be, too, she knew—a bird’s nest he’d rescued, or a rock crystal of unusual shape and color, or an intricately woven spider’s web as complex and beautiful as a master engraving.
Unlike the surprise his cousin had in mind for Parry tomorrow.
A fate he will never suffer while I draw breath, Gwennor vowed, and walked purposefully back to the house.
Chapter Two
Her mind working furiously, Gwennor paced across the stableyard. They would have to leave tonight, secretly, after her cousin and the rest of the household had retired. She would tell Jenny and Cook when they prepared Parry’s tray that she planned to work with him well into the evening, so not to wait up for her—a fairly frequent occurrence that should protect the servants from potential dismissal for not alerting their new master that she’d left the house. Since her cousin slept until noon, it was quite possible he’d not discover their disappearance until rather late tomorrow. Perhaps not even, she thought with a savage grin of satisfaction, until his dear friend Lord Edgerton arrived and he summoned the blushing bride to greet her eager bridegroom.
She’d need to pack a small bag—something that could be easily and surreptitiously transported. She’d better bring all her mother’s jewelry; she would not put it past her cousin, once he discovered she’d fled, to sell it and keep the money. She’d also need to sneak into the office while cousin Nigel took his nap before dinner. Considering that she’d be saving the estate the expense of her wedding breakfast, she felt justified in removing all the coins currently in the estate’s strongbox.
She would also have to go through the motions of planning a wedding. Though she didn’t need to seem enthusiastic—that would certainly be suspect—Nigel might well inquire about the progress of her preparations at dinner and would find it suspicious if she had not set the servants to beginning the arrangements. They would have to be warned of Lord Edgerton’s imminent arrival in any event.
Having dispensed with the details of getting away, she turned her thoughts to the thornier problem of where they would go and how they would get there.
By now she’d reached the house. Gwennor paused before the stillroom door. ’Twas still too early to risk entering the estate office. Best to slip unnoticed up to her chamber and finish planning.
She crept up the servants’ stairs to her room and paced to the window. Hands clasped in concentration, she stared unseeing over the rose and herb gardens.
If only her first cousin Harry weren’t away with Wellington in the Peninsula! First in each other’s affections, they’d always joked. They’d been boon companions throughout the time she was growing up. Were he at home, Gwennor knew he would assist her escape. But though his mama, her aunt Frances, resided an easy two days’ ride from Southford, that widowed lady would be no match for a determined cousin Nigel, should he decide to pursue his disobedient kinswoman.
Would he pursue her? Or simply wash his hands of her, glad to be rid of the burden of a cousin he’d never liked?
Were it not for the plans he’d set in train to marry her off to his crony, she might well think the latter. But she did not believe his kindly-elder-cousin talk of arranging her marriage to insure she had a permanent position worthy of her breeding. She suspected there was far more to the agreement, and given her cousin’s proclivities, probably something involving money.
Ever since her father had declined to remarry after her stepmother’s death, her cousin had been living on the expectation of one day taking control of Southford and all its resources. His self-professed “refined” tastes in clothes and furnishings were expensive, as were his gaming habits, and she would not be at all surprised to learn he was heavily in debt. Perhaps he owed Edgerton, and had decided to use Gwen and her dowry as a means to repay the baron, at no cost to himself.
Yes, that would appeal to Nigel: not only getting rid of his detested cousin, but using her money to pay off his obligations.
If her suspicions were correct, he would not view with equanimity the double insult of being embarrassed in front of his friend and losing his free means of repayment. She’d also had a glimpse this afternoon of Nigel’s relish for exercising his power as Baron Southford. Even were there in actuality no financial considerations involved, having Gwennor flout his new authority before his friend and her former household was certain to enrage him. He’d probably be angry enough to pursue her, if only to drag her back and impose an equally public punishment.
So, how to make a swift and clean break? Were they to make haste to the nearest posting inn, Nigel would likely catch them either while they awaited the next mail coach or once they’d transferred to that slower conveyance. If they traveled by horseback and she used precious coin to hire new mounts at each stage, as a single lady traveling with no maid in attendance, she would be singular enough that most innkeepers or stablemasters would remember her, making them all too easy to trace.
It was imperative they get far enough away for Nigel’s anger to cool and to make further pursuit sufficiently expensive and bothersome that he might choose to simply let them go. Of equal importance was finding a haven that offered some unimpeachable reason for her to withstand his efforts to force her back to Southford, if he did succeed in tracking her.
Harrogate! the answer suddenly occurred to her. They could make their way to her stepmother’s Aunt Alice in Harrogate. Gwen had not seen the lady since her stepmama’s funeral a number of years previously, but they still corresponded, and she had no doubt the sweet, frivolous Lady Alice would be delighted to receive her.
Not only was the mineral spa in which she resided fortuitously distant, many of its residents and visitors were elderly widowers come to take the waters. Among them, perhaps Gwennor could find a kindly gentleman who’d be willing to wed a young, strong, hardworking lady of good family prepared to run his household and care for him in his declining years—at the negligible cost of also housing her brother.
She could claim Aunt Alice’s assistance in her matrimonial quest—what lady could resist the chance to play matchmaker? With luck, she might find an acceptable candidate quickly, perhaps even be wed before Nigel could trace her.
If the new baron found her still single and insisted she marry the suitor he’d chosen, Lord Edgerton could just as easily travel to Harrogate to claim her.
Gwen would wager her mother’s entire collection of jewelry that Edgerton would not.
So she now had a destination, but there remained the problem of how to traverse that long distance undetected.
She had reviewed the alternatives over and over, unable to decide which one offered the best chance of successfully evading pursuit, when suddenly another idea occurred, so far-fetched and outrageous she nearly rejected it out of hand.
But, she decided, the advantage lay in its very outrageousness. Cousin Nigel might scour the roads, make a sweep of the posting inns, and question every innkeeper and livery stableman within a hundred miles of Southford and never locate them.
She scrambled to her desk, jerked open the top drawer, and began tossing out the objects in a disordered heap on the desktop. After rooting through each of the drawers in turn, she’d accumulated a trove of small coins and one golden guinea.
Hardly a fortune, but, she hoped, enough to tempt a king.
Quickly she changed into her riding habit and stuffed her findings into a small leather pouch. Tying the strings around her wrist, she tucked it under her sleeve and summoned her maid.
Jenny arrived so speedily Gwennor suspected the woman had been anxiously awaiting a chance to learn the results of Gwen’s interview. Sure enough, with the familiarity of one who had been first her nurse and then her maid practically since Gwen’s birth, as soon as she hurried in, Jenny asked, “So what was it the new master be wantin’?”
“Cousin Nigel feels it is time for me to marry.”
“Saints be praised!” Jenny replied. “’Tis the very thing I’ve wished for ever since your papa took so sick. Now that the new baron’s here, and being how he is, ’tis best ye git a household of yer own, with a husband to protect you. So, when be we goin’ to London?”
“We are not going to London. Cousin Nigel has already chosen my husband. In fact, he arrives tomorrow.”
Jenny’s enthusiasm chilled abruptly. “Already chosen? Who…who is it to be, my lady?”
“Lord Edgerton.”
Consternation extinguished the remaining traces of Jenny’s gladness. “Lord Edgerton! Why, that gentleman is twice your age or more! With a pack of unruly brats as would try the patience of the Virgin Mother herself, so the story goes! Surely your cousin—”
“My cousin is fixed upon it, Jenny, and will brook no opposition. Indeed, he’s threatened to lock me away if I resist. So there’s no purpose to be served in repining. Lord Edgerton arrives tomorrow and the wedding is to be the end of the week. A simple affair, cousin Nigel said. Given the circumstances,” she finished dryly, “you may dispense with the traditional wishes for my happiness.”
“My poor chick,” Jenny said, distress on her face. “’Tis a dastardly thing for the new baron to do, and I can’t help if I think it!”
Gwennor gave the maid a quick hug. “Bless you, Jenny. But you and the rest of the staff must be circumspect in what you say. I’m not sure who among you, if any, I’ll be able to take with me when I wed, and those who remain will have to work for my cousin.”
“Probably turn us all off without a character and fetch in some jumped-up London toffs,” Jenny muttered.
“I hope he will value you all as he ought. Now, would you tell Cook and Hopkins to make a room ready for Lord Edgerton and ask them to begin considering preparations for a wedding breakfast? I shall consult with them tomorrow about the details, but for now…” Gwen let her sentence trail off and tried to look mournful, not a difficult task. “I believe I shall ride.”
“Well, and I don’t wonder at it!” Jenny said. “Settin’ you up with a man old enough to be your papa, and marryin’ you off all havey-cavey, without even time to buy bride clothes! You go on, Miss Gwen. A ride will do your spirits good, and I’ll get Hopkins movin’ on the preparations.”
“Oh, and Parry will not be joining us for dinner. I told him I’d bring him a tray later…and I—I think I shall stay out late, helping him with the animals. I shall not be able to do so much longer, after all.”
“Bless me, Miss Gwen, whatever is to become of that poor boy with you gone? I worry about it, I do!”
“You know I would never allow anyone to harm Parry—no matter what I must do to prevent it. I shall think of something, Jenny.”
“You bein’ so clever and all, I suppose you will. Now, get you off ridin’, and leave the rest to Jenny.”
Gwennor gave one last hug to the woman who’d been more mother than servant to her for the last ten years. “Thank you, Jenny. You’re an angel!”
“If’n I was, I’d be spreadin’ out my wings and carryin’ you off to London,” the maid declared, still shaking her head in disapproval as she walked away.
Gwennor picked up her pace and sped to the stables. She must complete her mission and return with enough time to rifle the strongbox before cousin Nigel rose to dress for dinner.
Firefly, her ginger mare, whinnied a greeting as she approached the hay-fragrant stall, and Gwen felt a pang of regret and anger. Another dear friend, along with her home, she’d soon be forced to abandon.
Sending the stable boy back to his other chores, she saddled the mare and headed off at a trot, letting the horse stretch her legs in a gallop once they reached the open fields near the Home Woods, and then continuing on at a canter to the far south meadow.
“Please,” she prayed. “Let them still be there.”
When at last she saw the gaily-painted wagons beside the stream that formed the border of Southford land, she let out a gusty breath of relief.
Slowing Firefly to a walk, she proceeded to the end wagon. Before she’d even dismounted, a dark-eyed urchin with a thatch of black hair ran over to catch her bridle.
“A copper for you if you’ll take her to drink at the stream—but not too much water, now!”
Gwennor smiled as the lad trotted off, Firefly in tow, and turned to the old woman who sat by her campfire regarding her gravely.
“So, you come to have your fortune read, now that the Evil One descends upon your home?”
“No, Jacquinita. I’m afraid I know what you’d find in my palm,” Gwen replied with a grimace, not at all surprised the most revered of the gypsy soothsayers already knew of her cousin’s arrival. “I came to ask a favor.”
With a jangle of her many bracelets, the gypsy motioned her to sit. “What favor?”
“Parry and I must leave Southford immediately, but we must depart in a way that my cousin cannot trace. I want to ask Remolo to allow us to travel in your train, disguised as Rom. I will pay in coin and in jewels for this boon. Will you plead my case for me?”
The woman fingered a pleat of her full red skirt. “He means to harm you, your cousin, yes?”
“He wishes to marry me to his friend, but that is not why we flee. He intends to lock Parry in the attics and not allow him to roam free. The Rom, of all people, should understand what this would do to my brother.”
The old woman nodded. “He has the gift, your brother. Such a spirit should not be caged. Your father was a good man, for a gadjo. Every year he allowed us to camp in his fields. That one—” she spat in the direction of Southford Manor, then made a sign of protection against the evil eye “—will call the magistrates on us soon, so have I warned the people. Therefore we leave at dusk. I will speak with Remolo.”
“Dusk!” Gwennor cried with alarm. “If I am to depart undetected, I cannot leave the manor until near on midnight. Please, tell Remolo I will pay him well if he will wait and take us!”
The old woman stood, adjusting her full skirts and the multicolored head scarf. “I will tell him. You follow.”
Gwennor removed the small leather pouch and held it out. “Take him this. ’Tis a token and pledge. Tell him I will bring twenty more gold pieces when we come tonight.”
The old woman snatched the leather pouch from her fingers. “So will I say.”
Gwennor followed as instructed, praying a merciful God would intercede with the gypsy overlord. Swarthy, handsome, mercurial and unquestioned master over his band, Remolo’s decision—like her cousin’s, she thought with irony—would be final and irrevocable.
As she had only a very basic knowledge of the Romany language, Gwennor could not follow much of the conversation that ensued. The old woman offered the money pouch, which the gypsy lord accepted with a short bow in her direction. But after Jacquinita spoke for several minutes, with gestures and dark looks toward Southford Manor, Remolo’s face creased in a frown and he shook his head in vehement negative.
