North of the gorge, the river was wider, wending down from the hills through fertile meadowland. It was still deep in the middle, and there it ran swiftly, but the spreading edges flowed more gently.
There was a particular spot where the river rounded a curve, then spread in a wide pool that was especially good for fishing. The men had descended the sloping bank; spreading out in a line along the pool’s edge, casting lures into the stream, they talked only in murmurs as they waited for a bite.
Royce and his male cousins—Gordon, Rohan, Phillip, Arthur, Gregory, and Henry—stood shoulder to shoulder. All tall, dark-haired, and handsome, they were an arresting sight, reducing the other male guests to mere contrast.
The ladies gathered on the bank above. They knew enough to mute their voices; standing in a loose group, they enjoyed the sunshine and the light breeze, chatting quietly.
Minerva joined them. Susannah asked again whether she’d discovered whom Royce had chosen as his bride; Minerva shook her head, then stepped a little away from the group, her eye caught by a flash of color upriver.
From their position, the land rose gently; she could see another party enjoying a pleasant day by the banks two bends upstream.
One of the tenant farmers’ families, plus their laborers’ families as well; squinting, she saw a gaggle of children playing by the water’s edge, laughing and shrieking, or so it seemed, as they played tag. The breeze was blowing northward, so no sound reached her, yet she had to wonder how many fish the men would catch with such a cacophony two hundred yards upstream.
She was about to look away when a girl standing by the stream’s edge suddenly flailed her arms—and fell backward into the stream. The bank had crumbled beneath her heels; she fell with a splash—breath caught, Minerva watched, waiting to see…
The girl’s white cap bobbed to the surface—in the middle of the stream. The current had caught her skirts; even as the adults rushed to the bank, she was whisked downriver, around the next curve.
Minerva looked down at the men. “Royce!”
He looked up, instantly alert.
She pointed upriver. “There’s a girl in the water.” She looked again, spotted the bobbing white cap. “Two bends upstream. She’s in the center and coming down fast.”
Before the last word had left her lips, Royce was giving orders. Rods were dropped; his cousins and the others gathered around him, then the whole group turned and ran downstream.
Royce paused only to call to Minerva, “Yell when she comes around that bend.” He pointed at the last bend before the pool, then raced after the others.
From their vantage point, the ladies watched in horrified fascination. Minerva went as far down the bank as she could without losing sight of the girl. Susannah and two friends joined her, peering after the men. “What are they doing?” Susannah asked.
Minerva spared a quick glance downriver, saw where the men were going—Royce on his own, just beyond the pool, the others still hurrying, leaping over rocks and slipping over wet patches on their way farther down—then looked back at the girl. “Royce is going out on the nearer spit—he’ll catch her. But he’s likely to lose his footing when he does—the current’s running strongly—it’ll take both of them. The others will form a human chain farther down. It’ll be up to them to grab Royce and haul him and the girl in.”
Susannah knew the river; she blanched.
One of her friends frowned. “Why are they trying to catch him? He’s so strong—surely he’ll be able to—”
“It’s the gorge.” Susannah cut her off, her voice harsh. “Oh, God. If they miss him…”
She grabbed up her skirts, climbed the bank, and started running downstream.
“What is it?” Margaret called.
Susannah turned and called something back. Minerva stopped listening. The girl, still weakly struggling, cleared the bend.
She turned and looked downriver. “Royce! She’s coming!”
Standing in the shallows around the next bend, just visible from where she was, he raised a hand in acknowledgment; no longer wearing his coat, he waded deeper into the river.
Minerva hurried down the bank, then along the water’s edge, where the men had stood. Susannah’s other friend, Anne, held her tongue and went with her. Minerva ran, but the current whisked the girl along faster; long braids floating on either side of her small white face, the poor child was almost spent. “Hold on!” Minerva called, and prayed the girl could hear. “He’ll catch you in a minute.”
She slipped and nearly fell; Anne, on her heels, caught her and steadied her, then they both dashed on.
The bobbing rag doll the girl had become was swept around the bend, out of their sight. Gasping, Minerva ran faster; she and Anne rounded the bend in time to see Royce, sunk chest-deep even though he stood on a spit in the streambed, lean far to his right, then launch himself across, into the swiftly running current; it caught him in the same moment he caught the girl, hoisting her up onto his chest, then onto his right shoulder where her head was at least partly clear of the increasingly turbulent water.
Minerva slowed, her fingers rising to her lips as she took in what lay beyond the pair. The river started narrowing, funneling toward the gorge, the water tumbling and churning as it battered its way on.
There was only one spot, another spit, where the pair, whisked along, could be caught, one chance before the building pressure of the water swept them into the gorge and almost certain death. On the spit, Royce’s Varisey and Debraigh cousins were linking arms, forming a human chain, anchored by Henry and Arthur, the lightest, together on the bank. Each held on to one of Gregory’s arms. Gregory had his other arm linked with Rohan’s, who in turn was waiting for Gordon to link his arm with his, leaving Phillip at the end.
Minerva halted, put her hands about her mouth. “Quickly!” she screamed. “They’re almost there!”
Phillip looked, then shoved Gordon toward Rohan, grabbed one of Gordon’s arms, and waded into the stream.
The current swung away, around the spit, carrying Royce and his burden along the other side of the riverbed. Rohan yelled and the men all stretched…Phillip yelled to Gordon to hang on to his coat. As soon as he had, Phillip lunged out, stretching as far as he could, reaching out.
Just as it seemed the pair would be lost, Royce’s arm lashed out of the water—and connected with Phillip’s. They both gripped.
“Hold hard!” Phillip yelled.
The dragging weight—not just of Royce and the girl, but now Phillip as well, all drenched and sodden—tested the other men. Muscles bunched, locked. Henry’s and Arthur’s feet shifted; they both leaned back, faces grim and set as they hauled their kinsmen in.
Then it was over. Royce and Phillip, swung downstream and in toward the bank, got their feet under them.
Royce stood, breathing hard, then, shaking his head like a dog, he hoisted the girl free of the water, and holding her to his chest, walked, slowly and carefully, across the rocky riverbed. Phillip staggered up, then followed alongside. He reached over and lifted the girl’s hair from her face, tapped her cheek—and she coughed. Weakly at first, but when Royce reached the bank and laid her on her side, she retched, coughed hard, then started to cry.
Minerva fell to her knees beside her. “It’s all right. Your mother and father are coming—they’ll be here soon.” She glanced at Royce; his chest was rising and falling like a bellows, and water ran off him in streams, but he was unharmed, unhurt. Alive.
She looked up at the other ladies, gathering in an anxious, exclaiming knot on the bank above. Anne had come to stand beside her. Minerva pointed at the shawls some of the others carried. “Shawls—the woolen ones.”
“Yes, of course.” Anne climbed the bank partway and reached up, beckoning.
Two ladies surrendered their shawls readily, but Aurelia sniffed. “Not mine.”
Royce had bent over, hands braced on his knees. He didn’t bother looking up. “Aurelia.”
His voice cut l
ike a whip; Aurelia all but flinched. She paled. Her face set in sour lines, but she shrugged off her shawl and tossed it at Anne—who caught it, turned, and hurried back to Minerva.
She’d stripped off the girl’s hat and sodden pinafore, and had been chafing her small icy hands. She stopped to take one of the shawls—Aurelia’s large warm one. Shaking it out, with Anne’s help she wrapped the girl tightly, then wound the other shawls about her hands and feet.
Then the girls’ parents and the rest of the farmer’s party arrived; they’d had to backtrack to cross the river by a wooden bridge higher up.
“She’s all right,” Minerva called as soon as she saw the parents’ distraught faces.
Both rushed down the riverbank, eyes only for their child.
“Mary!” The mother dropped to her knees opposite Minerva. She placed a gentle hand on the girl’s cheek. “Sweetheart?”
The girl’s lashes fluttered; she tried to move her hands. “Ma?”
“Oh, thank God.” The mother swept the girl up against her bosom. She looked at Minerva, then up at Royce. “Thank you—thank you, Your Grace. I don’t know how we can ever repay you.”
Her husband laid a shaking hand on his daughter’s dark head. “Nor I. I thought she were—” He cut himself off, blinked rapidly. Shook his head and looked at Royce. Gruffly said, “Can’t thank you enough, Your Grace.”
One of his cousins had fetched Royce’s coat; he’d been using it to mop his face. “If you want to thank me, take her home and get her warm—after hauling her out, I don’t want her to take a chill.”
“Yes—yes, we will.” The mother struggled to her feet, lifting the girl. Her husband quickly took the child.
“And you may be sure,” the mother said, tugging her damp clothes straight, “that none of that lot will ever play too close to the riverbanks again.” Her severe look directed their gazes to the gaggle of children, watching round-eyed from up along the bank, their parents and the other adults at their backs.
“You might like to remind them,” Royce said, “that if they do, there’s unlikely to be a group of us here, in the right spot at the right time, to pull them out.”
“Aye. We’ll tell them, you may be sure.” The father ducked his head as low as he could. “With your permission, Your Grace, we’ll get her home.”
Royce waved him up the slope.
The mother sighed and shook her head. She exchanged a glance with Minerva. “You tell them and tell them, but they never listen, do they?” With that, she followed her husband up the bank.
Royce watched them go, watched as the other farmers and their wives gathered around, offering comfort and support as they closed around the couple and their nearly lost daughter.
Beside him, Minerva slowly got to her feet. He waited while she thanked Anne for her help, then asked, “Who were they?”
“The Honeymans. They hold the farm up around Green Side.” She paused, then added, “They would have seen you at church, but I don’t think you’ve met them before.”
He hadn’t. He nodded. “Let’s get back.” He was chilled to the bone, and there was no earthly way to get his coat—expertly fitted by Shultz—on over his wet clothes.
Anne had joined the others, but now she came back. She touched Minerva’s arm. “Susannah and some of the other ladies have started back with Phillip—his teeth are chattering. I thought I’d run ahead and warn the household.” Although in her thirties, Anne was slim, fit, and swift on her feet.
“Thank you.” Minerva lightly grasped Anne’s fingers. “If you could tell Retford we need hot baths for His Grace, and for Phillip, and hot water for the others, too.”
“I’ll do that.” Anne glanced at Royce, inclined her head, then turned and climbed swiftly up the slope.
With Minerva beside him, Royce followed more slowly.
Minerva humphed. Looking ahead to where certain of the ladies were still milling inconsequentially, some, with hands clutched to their breasts, exclaiming as if the incident had overset their delicate nerves, she muttered, “At least some people keep their heads in a crisis.”
She meant Anne. Royce looked at her, felt his lips curve. “Indeed.”
Arthur and Henry, together with the other male guests not in some degree soaked, had gone back to fetch the discarded rods and tackle.
As Royce and Minerva crested the slope, the remaining ladies, apparently deciding that the excitement was now entirely over, regrouped and started back to the castle.
With Minerva walking alongside, Royce found himself nearing the rear of the group, and wished they’d walk faster. He needed to keep moving, or he’d start shivering as badly as Phillip. His skin was already icy, and the chill was sinking deeper into his bones.
Margaret looked back at him a few times; he presumed she was assuring herself he wasn’t about to collapse.
He wasn’t entirely surprised when she stepped sideways out of the group and waited until he and Minerva drew level.
But it was Minerva to whom Margaret spoke. “If I could have a word?”
“Yes. Of course.” Minerva halted.
Royce walked on, but slowed. He didn’t like the look in Margaret’s eyes, or her expression, and even less her tone. Minerva was no servant, not even to the family. She wasn’t a penniless relative, or anything of the sort.
She was his chatelaine, and rather more, even if Margaret didn’t yet know it.
“Yes?”
That was Minerva prompting Margaret, who had thus far remained silent.
Margaret waited until he’d taken two more steps before saying—hissing—“How dare you?” There was a wealth of furious, frightened venom in her voice; it shook as she went on, “How dare you put the entire dukedom at risk for a crofter’s brat!”
Royce halted.
“The Honeymans are your brother’s tenants, but regardless, saving that girl was the right thing to do.”
He turned.
Saw Margaret draw in a breath. Her color high, eyes locked on Minerva, she all but shrieked, “For some stupid, silly girl, you risked—”
“Margaret.” Royce walked back toward her.
She spun to face him. “And you! You’re no better! Did you spare so much as a thought for us—for me, Aurelia, and Susannah, your sisters!—before you—”
“Enough.”
His tone was all cold steel; it had her clenching her fists and swallowing the rest of her tirade. He halted before her, close enough so she had to look up into his face—close enough that she was just a touch intimidated, as well she should be.
“No, I didn’t think of you, Aurelia, or Susannah—you all have wealthy husbands to support you, regardless of my continuing health. I didn’t put you in danger by saving that girl. Her life was in the balance, and I would have been greatly disappointed had Minerva not warned me. I was in a position to save her—a girl who was born on my lands.”
He looked down into his sister’s mulish face. “What Minerva did was right. What I did was right. What you appear to have forgotten is that my people—even silly young girls—are my responsibility.”
Margaret drew in a long, tight breath. “Papa would never—”
“Indeed.” This time his voice cut. “But I am not Papa.”
For a moment, he held Margaret silent with his gaze, then, unhurriedly and deliberately, turned toward the castle. “Come, Minerva.”
She quickly caught up to him, walking alongside.
He lengthened his stride; the other ladies were now far ahead. “I need to get out of these wet clothes.” He spoke conversationally, signaling he intended to leave Margaret’s little scene behind, metaphorically as well as physically.
Minerva nodded, tight-lipped. “Precisely.” A heartbeat passed, then she went on, “I really don’t know why Margaret couldn’t have waited until later to rail at me—it’s not as if I won’t be around. If she was really worried about your health, she’d have done better not to delay us.” She glanced sharply his way. “Can you go faster? Perha
ps you ought to run?”
“Why?”
“So you’ll warm up.” They were nearing the mill. Raising a hand, she pushed his shoulder. “Go that way—through the mill and over the race. It’s faster than going down to the bridge and across.”
She usually avoided touching him, yet now she kept pushing, so he diverted onto the paved path leading into the mill. “Minerva—”
“We need to get you to the castle, out of those wet clothes and into a hot bath as soon as possible.” She prodded him toward the gangplank. “So move!”
He almost saluted, but did as she ordered. From Margaret, who thought of no one but herself, to Minerva, who was totally focused…on him.
On his well-being.
It took an instant for that to fully sink in.
He glanced at her as, her hands now locked about one of his elbows, she hurried him out of the mill. Her focus was on the castle, on getting him—all but propelling him—as fast as possible inside. Her intensity wasn’t just that of a chatelaine doing her duty; it was a great deal more.
“I’m not likely to take a fatal chill from a dip in the river.” He tried to slow to a fast walk.
She set her jaw and all but hauled him on. “You’re not a doctor—you can’t know that. The prescribed treatment for immersion in an icy river is a hot bath, and that’s what you have to have. Your mother would never forgive me if I let you expire because you wouldn’t treat the risk with due seriousness.”
His mother, who had never wasted a moment worrying about his health. Male Variseys were supposed to be tough, and, indeed, were. But he bowed to Minerva’s tugging and resumed his faster pace. “I am taking this seriously.”
Just not as seriously as she was.
Or, as it transpired, any of his staff were.
The instant Minerva pushed him through the door into the north wing, Trevor pounced.
“No!” His valet was literally aghast. “That’s another pair of Hobys ruined—two pairs in three days. And, oh, my heavens! You’re drenched!”
He refrained from saying he knew. “Is my bath ready?”
“It better be.” Trevor exchanged a look with Minerva, still by Royce’s side, still hurrying him along. “I’ll go up and make sure.” Trevor turned and all but fled before them, his footsteps clattering up the turret stairs.