Carla Kelly (18 page)

She followed him to one of the loose boxes and rested her arms across the top rail, her eyes dancing with delight, her miseries shoved to one side for a moment. “Oh, Tunley!”

A wisp of hay in its mouth, the horse looked up when she spoke. The mare was small and delicate-boned, a deep chestnut that fairly glowed with good health. Libby reached out slowly and let it smell her hand and then she touched its neck. The animal whinnied and moved closer as she patted it.

“Oh, you’re practically a house pet,” Libby praised. “Tunley wherever did you get this little beauty? I don’t remember this one.”

The groom scratched his head and then tipped some more oats in the manger. “She was here when I came down from the loft this morning, just as sweet as you please, in that very box.” He reached in his pockets and fumbled through the nails, bits of wire, scraps of paper and lint until he found a piece of bark. He held it out to her. “This was twisted in her mane.”

“Why, I do believe it is my name,” Libby said as she ran her finger under the crude letters that spelled LIBE. She smudged a letter with her finger. “It must be charcoal from a camp fire. Oh, Tunley, do you think it is from the gypsies? And how do they know my name?”

“Witchcraft, miss,” he said seriously. “Potions and charms and such like that a Kentsman never mentions.”

Libby stoked the animal again, noting the little chips of shining beads that someone had taken great care to lace into the mane. “I am amazed. It must have been the gypsies,” she said, “or perhaps that gypsy mother. I would not have thought it possible. Tunley, what should I do?”

The groom grinned at her. “I don’t suppose you have any choice but to ride her, miss, and a sweet goer she looks.”

“I wouldn’t, Miss Ames, I really wouldn’t. This could be a matter for the law.”

Libby jumped in surprise and whirled about, moving closer to Tunley. His legs planted wide apart, a riding crop in his hand, Squire Cook stood in the doorway. He tapped the crop in his gloved hand and Libby pressed her lips tight together. It was the same crop he had used on Joseph the other day. And now he has come for me, she thought irrationally, more angry than fearful.

She swallowed her irritation and forced herself to walk toward him with a smile on her face, her hand extended. She marveled how little Anthony Cook resembled his light-haired, blue-eyed father, except in height. Father and son could have been strangers jumbled together on the planet, so little did they resemble each other.

To her amazement, he took her hand, his fingers surprisingly gentle. “Good day, Miss Ames,” he said as he released her hand. “I did not mean to startle you, but I heard voices and thought to investigate, considering that this was my destination.”

“Sir?”

The mare whinnied and the squire peered over her shoulder. He came closer to the loose box, his face without expression except for his lively eyes, which even now were frowning at the horse Libby found so beautiful.

“I—I think it is from the gypsies,” she began. “It appears to be a gift to me.”

The squire let out a crack of laughter that startled Libby and caused the horse to sidestep to the other side of the box. “I wouldn’t have thought a gypsy brat to be worth so much,” he said. “Remind me to tell my son that he has been cheated through countless country visits.”

Libby said nothing, but she did not back away as the squire came closer and she repeated her earlier pose, draping her arms on the rail.

“I am missing two of my best hunters, Miss Ames,” he said, his words casual, as though he discussed this year’s price for hops.

His voice was not loud; he did not accuse, but as he pursed his lips and peered at her out of the corner of his eye, she felt a little chill travel up her spine.

“I am sure I know nothing about them, sir,” she said, wishing that her voice was more steady. “I don’t make a habit of horse knavery.” Her chin came up. “And neither does my brother.”

He put the riding crop under her chin gently, but there was a threat in his eyes as he forced her to turn in his direction. “I do not accuse you of thievery, ma’am, or your simple brother. I merely came by as a friendly warning.”

Tunley started forward. “See here now, sir,” he said.

The squire lowered his crop. “My cousin in Wilverham is missing a horse something like this one.” He sighed and peered into the gloom. “But it is a mare with a blaze on its forehead and two white stockings. A beautiful animal, trained to a sidesaddle for his wife.”

Before she could protest, the squire vaulted the railing and moved toward the animal, which had retreated against the far wall.

Libby thought to object, but she watched the squire, surprised at his agility in the same way that Anthony Cook, for all his clumsy ways, always brought out her admiration when he rode by on horseback.

Tunley took exception. He began to sputter and protest with dire mutterings about “his stable,” and “wait until Sir William returns.”

Libby touched his sleeve and shook her head. “Let us see what he is about, Tunley,” she said. “I don’t know that we could eject him anyway.”

“I can try, miss,” Tunley returned in a fierce whisper.

“And end up in jail,” she reminded him. “Let us be discreet here.”

They watched as the squire moved closer to the horse, his voice gentle now and coaxing. The mare came toward him and he stroked her nose, talking softly, crooning to the skittish animal.

He reminds me of Joseph, Libby thought, and then put her brother from her mind. It would never do for the squire to know that Joseph had bolted from here in a pelter and was roaming the countryside.

“Miss Ames, toss me a rag, please?”

She wadded up a bit of sacking and threw it in a slow, gentle arc, so as not to upset the animal, which by now nuzzled the squire’s hunting jacket. Traitor horse, she thought mildly.

Still talking in gentle tones to the mare, the squire smoothed out the sacking and began to rub the animal’s forehead. In a moment, a white streak appeared.

“God love us,” Tunley murmured.

Libby sucked in her breath. The squire looked at her and raised his eyebrows. He turned back to the business at hand and ran the sacking down the horse’s forelegs, exposing the perfectly matched stockings there.

“This animal appears to have suffered a sea change,” he declared.

As Libby stared at the horse, her mouth wide open, the squire sauntered across the loose box, rested his arms on the railing, and bent down, his face just inches from hers.

“Never trust a gift from a gypsy, Miss Ames,” he said. “Lesson Number One for the day.”

Lesson Number Two for the day, she thought as she stood her ground and smiled back at him. I am becoming so well-educated that I will astound myself. “Thank you, sir,” she said. “I will remember this lesson.”

“See that you do.” With a light hand, he vaulted back over the railing. “I do hate to see a woman cheated.”

Tunley shook his head. “Well, sir, better send your groom over, or I can return the horse to your cousin, whichever you please, sir.”

“I sacked my groom.”

“Gor, you never did,” exclaimed Tunley in surprise, forgetting himself so far as to add, “And high time, I say.”

“Gor, I did,” said the squire as amusement flickered in his eyes. “It was rather forcefully brought home to me the other day that I had been suffering a fool gladly. If you know of anyone about in the neighborhood, Tunley, do drop a bee in his bonnet.”

As she watched the squire, Libby smiled in spite of herself. That was likely as close as the squire would ever come to an apology for his treatment of Joseph. She stepped up to him boldly. “Squire Cook, you could hire my brother. He would suit you right down to the ground.”

The squire threw back his head and laughed, and then chucked her under the chin again with the crop. “Miss Ames, you are not only a beautiful baggage; you are also a cheeky one. I’d see you in hell first before I’d hire a simpleton to tend blood stock. Tunley, loan me a halter for that animal. I’ll take her to my cousin now. Lord, Miss Ames, that was a rich one.”

He was still chuckling to himself as he mounted his own horse outside the stable and led the little mare away.

Libby let out her breath slowly.

“You can relax, miss.”

She followed the direction of Tunley’s glance and saw to her surprise that she had doubled her hands into fists. She dropped her arms to her sides. “He gets my back up. What a strange man!”

“Stranger than we know, more like, miss.” Tunley turned back to the stable and pitched up the pitchfork and stabbed it into the old straw. “If you see Joseph, tell him to hurry in here with Sir William’s horse, and I’ll overlook it this time.”

She nodded and walked slowly toward the house, pausing once or twice to shade her eyes with her hand and scan the fields again. Where was Joseph?

There was still no answer to her question by the time the maid removed the luncheon tray that Libby had taken into the library with every intention of eating. As she maneuvered the food about from one flowery design to another on her plate. Libby considered all the places Joseph could have taken himself to. She was none the wiser when she gave up on her cold meal and pushed it aside.

He had never been gone this long before. She could only assume that he was even now sitting somewhere, wondering why he had ridden so far and wondering when his sister would come for him. He will be too shy to ask anyone for directions, she decided. He always went to some length to avoid strangers who might make fun of his stilted way of talking.

She admitted to herself that there was a certain relief in having to worry about Joseph. It kept her from thinking about the other man who had ridden out of her life only that morning.

“Candlow, what do I do?” she asked the butler when he let himself into the library to bully her for her neglect of luncheon. “I am afraid Joseph is lost.”

Candlow looked at her inquiringly and she gave him leave to sit. “None of us knows his habits as well as you, Miss Ames, else we could go searching.”

She shook her head. “I’ll have to find him, Candlow, if I can.”

“By yourself? What a pity, miss, that the Duke of Copley’s Chocolatier is not here to help us,” he said, permitting himself a little smile over his joke.

Libby smiled too, because she knew he expected it. “He doesn’t know the country any better than I do, really.”

They sat in silence for a moment, and then the butler leaned forward. “Miss Ames, I recommend the doctor.”

“Oh, I could never,” she exclaimed. “I could not be such a bother, Candlow. The man never sleeps as it is.”

They sat in silence for another moment and then Libby rose. “I’ll go for the doctor,” she said quietly. “I don’t see that I have any choice.”

“He won’t mind, Miss Ames,” said Candlow, another smile in his eyes.

“Well, he should!”

She walked across the field to the Cooks’ estate, looking about her for the squire. It was eight miles and more to Wilverham; likely he had not returned yet from his cousin’s house. She didn’t relish the thought of his crop across her back for trespassing, even as she scolded herself and knew he would never strike her. “It is always easiest to expect the worst of someone,” she said out loud as she strode along, arms swinging, hat dangling down her back. “Wasn’t that another of your little bits of wisdom, my lord duke?”

She hurried faster the farther she went, and by the time she arrived at the door, she was breathless. She leaned against the door frame to gather herself together before ringing the bell.

Libby looked about her with interest. She had never been to the squire’s house before, although she had often admired the stone building from the road. She examined it up close with a critical eye, noting the limp curtains inside the windows that wanted washing. I think this looks like a house that has been tenanted too long by men only, she thought. I would replace those old-fashioned tapestry draperies with something more modern. White lace would look so nice and airy. And that trim! What can they have been thinking to paint it that unbecoming gray? White would be so much more the thing. How well it would set off the honey color of the stones.

Libby rang the bell and straightened her bonnet back on her disheveled hair, tying the strings more firmly. She waited for the butler to appear, wondering what he would look like. He will likely be an apparition, beanpole-thin and funereal, with baggy stockings and hair growing out of his ears.

The woman who opened the door was none of those things. She was round and short, with dancing black eyes and an apron covered with flour. As Libby stared in fascination, she dusted her hands off over the open doorway and onto roses that looked as though they had suffered this indignity before.

“Come in, Miss . . . Miss Ames, is it?” She grinned into Libby’s surprised face. “God love us, Doctor said that you were pretty, but he were mistaken, he were.” She searched about in her brain for the right word. “You’re a regular Adonis, Miss Ames!”

Libby coughed and turned her head to hide the twinkle in her own eyes. “Well, yes, ma’am—er, no, ma’am,” she stammered. “I need to see the doctor. Is he about?”

The woman—she could only be the cook—clucked her tongue. “And hasn’t he only just got himself from bed, his eyes looking like bits of liver, so red they are?” She leaned closer in conspiratorial fashion until Libby could smell the yeast on her. “Farrell Frink tumbled down a well, he did, and wasn’t Doctor up until all hours, putting him back together like Humpty-Dumpty?”

She giggled behind her hands, dusting flour across her face. “‘Can’t but be an improvement on the original,’ says I to Doctor.”

Libby laughed out loud. “Farrel Frink! I doubt the doctor will get a ha’penny for all his stitching.”

The cook joined in the laughter. “More like he’ll get a poached deer, dumped at the back door in the dead of night, and then won’t we all be in trouble? When Doctor heard who had fallen down the well, Lord love us, he rolled his eyes and muttered something about ‘damn that old Hippocrates anyway!’”

Libby heard heavy footsteps in the hall. She looked behind the housekeeper to see Dr. Cook standing there.