Briggs leaned back and expansively confirmed what she’d heard elsewhere, that a bumper crop was quite possibly in their cards.
Making a mental note to look into the situation of their storehouses—whether they might need more space to accommodate a bumper harvest—she took her leave of the Briggses and their sons and their wives. Leaving Richard exchanging farewells with the group, she seized the mare’s reins and quickly made use of the mounting block to scramble to her saddle.
When Richard followed and saw her already perched high, he met her eyes, then smiled that easy smile she was coming to recognize as quietly smug and overly understanding. Then he caught the gelding’s reins and fluidly mounted.
Not waiting to see more, with a brisk salute to the Briggses, she led the way out.
Richard followed, content and curiously satisfied. He’d been more than entertained and amused by the events of Jacqueline’s day.
To his surprise, her last stop, just short of them rejoining the trail up the escarpment, proved to be vegetable fields. Fields and fields of various types of vegetables. The plots were clustered around and spread out from the spot where the stream tumbled down the last stretch of the escarpment and onto the relative flat of the Levels.
Obviously, these fields more than any others would have been at great risk had the stream dried up.
Luckily, it was running again, bubbling and burbling along its bed, which, obviously by design, led through the middle of the vegetable fields.
In scope and in intent, he’d never seen the like, not on any of the numerous estates he’d visited up and down the country.
When he said as much, Jacqueline smiled. Eventually, she said, “We have the climate to grow virtually everything we need, so we do. Not just for the house but for the entire estate.”
He considered that, then clarified, “Who farms these fields?”
“The estate as a whole, not any one farmer. We’re all responsible, and the work is done by everyone, including those at the Hall.” She walked her mare along the track that bordered the fields, raising her head to scan the crops. “We sell whatever excess we have, and that gives us the money for buying more of the few things we can’t grow here.” She glanced at him. “Like oranges.”
He arched his brows. “You could grow oranges in an orangery.” His mother did.
She thought, then dipped her head. “Perhaps we should consider that now we have the lake filling again. We could build an orangery behind the house.”
Richard trailed her as she walked her horse up and down the aisles between the various plots of vegetables, stopping to chat to the few workers—all older women—who were working the plots that day. From the exchanges, he gathered everyone on the estate worked on some sort of rota; it was, he had to admit, quite ingenious, especially if one wanted to ensure the health of the estate’s workers.
Finally, presumably having learned all she wished for the day, Jacqueline turned the mare’s head for the trail and the escarpment.
He followed. As they climbed, the horses slow on the upward slog, he glanced back and out—over the acres of fields and farms they’d visited that day.
When he’d first laid eyes on Jacqueline Tregarth, he’d been surprised to learn that she ran the estate. She’d seemed too delicate; he hadn’t seen how steel of sufficient caliber could possibly reside inside her. Yet through all she’d said and done that day—not just her words and actions but also her bearing and her attitude while interacting with her farmers and their families—he’d been impressed by her firm grip on the estate’s reins and, even more, by her sure touch in dealing with her farmers, all established men who he wouldn’t have expected to readily take to having a female at the estate’s helm.
Now that he’d seen more of her, that those farmers, to a man, accepted her as their overlord no longer surprised him. Unlike many of his ilk, he knew very well that women—even ladies—were more than capable of managing land as productive acreage and handling all the challenges that entailed. For many years, his mother had been his father’s right hand in managing the marquessate’s lands. With his father so often absent on or engrossed with political affairs—called to court or dispatched on some political errand for the king—if it hadn’t been for his mother’s steel trap of a mind and rock-solid hand on the reins, the marquessate’s estates would have declined rather than thrived as they had.
As his gaze traveled over the Nimway Hall farms, Richard acknowledged that the day had dramatically altered his view of Miss Jacqueline Tregarth.
They reached the lip of the escarpment and paused to allow the horses to regroup. His gaze again scanning her outer fields, he couldn’t resist murmuring, “I can now understand why would-be suitors are tempted by your lands.”
She snorted and tapped the mare’s side and started the beast ambling back toward the stable. “Indeed, but they only want the farmlands and the social standing of holding the diocese’s wood right. They aren’t actually interested in the wood per se, much less in the Hall and the household. They don’t view the estate as a functioning whole—all would happily carve out the wealth-producing farms and leave the rest to decay or, worse, sell off the Hall and the wood.”
After a moment, he admitted, “I can understand the logic. Many of those who aren’t born to it but who seek to acquire the financial security well-managed land affords would regard Nimway Hall itself and the wood, being so isolated, as encumbrances better sold off.”
She nodded. “That’s exactly what they think, but the reality is that the Hall is the heart of the estate, and the wood…I suppose you might say it’s the lungs. Regardless, both are vital to the continued good health of the estate.”
He arched his brows. “The stream comes through the wood, and from what I saw today, it’s very much the lifeblood of the estate.”
She tipped her head. “Just so.”
The stable loomed before them, and they guided their mounts into the yard.
Hopkins came out, asking about their ride.
Richard swung down and waited to see if Jacqueline would hurry to slide from her saddle.
But whether she was distracted by Hopkins and then sunk in thought or had simply forgotten, she was still sitting atop the mare when he reached the horse’s side.
She glanced at him, held his gaze for an instant, then she slid her boots from the stirrups. She held her breath when he reached up and fastened his hands about her waist, and she caught her lower lip between her teeth as he lifted her and swung her down.
As he set her on her feet before him, she looked up and met his gaze…then she drew in a shallow breath and stepped back, out of his hold.
Her eyes had widened, but she didn’t look away. “I’m going to walk around the lake to see if there’s any possibility of us setting up some sort of tunnel system to channel water from the lake directly into the stream.” Her tone was low, the words almost breathless.
He nodded and, as she turned, stepped forward to walk by her side.
And forced his lungs to inflate as if he hadn’t been struck by scintillating awareness any more than she had. He looked ahead, albeit unseeing. “Let’s survey the ground—we should at least be able to determine if the notion is viable.”
She inclined her head. “Indeed.”
Side by side, they walked out of the stable yard and, clinging to façades of bland normality, turned their feet toward the lake.
Chapter 5
Over the dinner table that evening, the atmosphere was relaxed and comfortable. Just how comfortable, how accepted Richard now felt within the Nimway Hall fold, was another of the many elements that continued to amaze him; it was as if he’d known these people all his life. Although he had, indeed, known people like them, given all at Nimway Hall struck him as particularly individual, his ease in their company—the remarkable degree of that—continued to strike him as strange.
He’d met them only two days before, yet they seemed as close as family.
Seated between Jacquel
ine and Hugh and opposite Elinor, Richard ate and drank and listened to Jacqueline’s recounting of their day.
When appealed to, he contributed his observations, which Hugh—who Richard understood had been confined to his Bath chair for the past five years—apparently found enlightening.
“Always good fishing in that millpond, no matter the hour. The boys were right about that.” Hugh sat back, a reminiscing smile on his lips. “Another one of those curious things that happen here.”
Richard glanced at Hugh. Given the comment and Hugh’s tone, Richard felt able to venture, “I admit I find it curious that, if I understood correctly”—he swung his gaze briefly Jacqueline’s way—“Nimway Hall passes in the female line.” Returning his gaze to Hugh, he said, “Jacqueline mentioned it was a very old tradition.”
“Oh, indeed.” Hugh’s eyes, his whole countenance, lit with a scholar’s enthusiasm. “Over the years, I’ve made quite a study of the Hall’s legends, all the old stories the locals tell of this place. Had to do something to fill my time, heh?” He fixed Richard with a level look. “Did you know the Hall is said to derive its name directly from the sorceress?”
Richard frowned. “Sorceress…? Oh. You mean Nimue—Merlin’s…companion?”
Jacqueline laughed softly. “Merlin’s lover, yes.”
“The story goes,” Hugh continued, “that the Hall was built over Nimue’s cottage by her descendants, and naturally, being the sort of lady she was, Nimue laid down the tradition that ownership of the place—or as we speak of it, guardianship of the hall and its lands—passes through the female line.” He humphed. “Given the time period, that’s not as odd as it now appears. Boadicea and all that. Many of the old tribes used that system. Women were the center of the tribes—the holders of their future as well as their past—while the men were all warriors, so in many ways, entrusting the protection of hearth and home to the females made excellent sense.”
Richard arched his brows. Entrusting females to defend and protect people still made excellent sense.
“They changed the spelling, of course.” Across the table, Elinor caught Richard’s eye. “N-i-m-w-a-y instead of N-i-m-u-e.” She smiled in her soft, vague fashion. “But that’s just our English way, isn’t it? Like b-o-r-o-u-g-h instead of b-o-r-o.”
Hugh snorted. “Old spellings give way to the new, but how you spell a name doesn’t change anything, including our wood.” He skewered Richard with his gaze. “The tales of people getting lost in Balesboro Wood are quite interesting.”
Before Richard could ask for more on that point, Jacqueline said, “That’s true, but you haven’t finished telling Richard what you’ve learned about the Hall itself.”
“Indeed, indeed.” Hugh met Richard’s eyes. “The locals say…”
Richard listened, fascinated by the wealth of tales, mostly from local folklore, that Hugh had collected. Taken together, the stories wove a tapestry of strange events that suggested the presence of inexplicable forces centered on the Hall and permeating Balesboro Wood. After his personal experience of the wood, he was disinclined to scoff or even smile dismissively.
All the signs said there was something there, even if, in their modern wisdom, they couldn’t grasp or understand it.
The lore of Nimway Hall was patently a subject close to Hugh’s heart; he held forth at length, his deep voice rumbling pleasantly around the room.
As the courses came and went, Richard noted that both Elinor and Jacqueline seemed entirely content to allow Hugh the floor. Of greater note, despite some of Hugh’s seemingly outlandish statements, neither woman sought to correct or contradict him…presumably because, to them, Hugh’s conclusions weren’t all that outlandish.
“Why, there’s even tales of the lake—I must look up my notes about those.” Hugh looked at Jacqueline. “I should add the latest chapter of you finding that orb blocking the spring.”
Richard glanced at Jacqueline. When she merely nodded and said nothing, Richard turned back to Hugh. “Are there any stories about the orb?”
Hugh frowned. “I’m sure there must be—well, look at the thing. Never seen an object more likely to be the stuff of legends, what? But I hadn’t seen it before, so I never thought to ask, and I’m fairly sure I’ve nothing jotted down…” After a moment, still frowning, he nodded. “I’ll have to ask around.”
They’d finished the last course—a creamy gooseberry fool. Jacqueline grasped the moment and Hugh’s pause to push back her chair. “Do you gentlemen intend to dally over the port or…?”
Richard looked to Hugh, but her great-uncle had never been one for the custom.
“No, no.” Hugh set down his napkin. “We’ll take refuge with you in the drawing room, m’dears.”
They quit the table. Richard, she was pleased to note, waved away the footman, grasped the handles of Hugh’s chair, and wheeled the older man in Jacqueline and Elinor’s wake through the great hall and into the drawing room.
There, they settled, Jacqueline in her favorite chair angled to one side of the wide window where the slanting evening light afforded sufficient illumination for her to work on her stitchery. Elinor, meanwhile, sank onto the high-backed settle that was positioned perpendicular to the huge stone-manteled fireplace and picked up her embroidery hoop; Cruickshank, knowing Elinor would sit there, had already lit the candelabra that sat on the small side table at Elinor’s elbow.
Under Hugh’s direction, Richard halted Hugh’s chair so that Jacqueline’s erstwhile guardian faced the empty hearth across the expanse of the large Turkey carpet. That done, at Hugh’s request, Richard went off to the back parlor and returned several moments later with the book Hugh was currently reading, along with a volume on local history Hugh had suggested Richard might appreciate.
From beneath her lashes, Jacqueline watched Richard sit on the nearer end of the settle and open the thick, leather-bound tome. He studied the early pages, then leafed further into the book before spreading his long fingers over a particular page and starting to read.
She looked down at the fine stitches she was setting in a new altar cloth for the chapel. The household and, indeed, all those on the estate had always worshipped religiously, although their loyalties did not, in truth, lie with any church. That lack of specific allegiance to either Rome or Canterbury had, through the Reformation and the upheavals that followed, kept estate and household safe.
Major battles had been fought not far away—indeed, within sight of the lookout on the escarpment—but no one had considered Nimway Hall and its lands important enough to bother with. To disturb.
Nimue had chosen well.
Jacqueline glanced at Richard. She’d been intrigued by his reaction to Hugh’s tales. Most men she’d met would have sneered or, at the very least, scoffed dismissively—even while their nerves twitched.
No one could live at Nimway Hall or even spend time within its purlieu without feeling—sensing—the reality of what still lingered there.
Impossible to put it into words, of course; mere words could never do it justice.
But it was there. Still there. Hovering in the air, breathed in and thus a part of all who lived on the estate.
She’d observed Richard closely, not just over the past hours but throughout the time he’d been at the Hall. She’d seen no sign of dismissiveness in him—only a strongly curious nature and a wish to understand.
When she looked at him…her senses told her he wasn’t an enemy but rather could be an ally. Someone who was at home in the wider world, yet who did not hold against—attempt to resist—Nimue’s legacy.
Lips firming, she studiously kept her gaze on her cloth and set another stitch.
Having a man like Richard Montague trapped by the wood and sent to the Hall—to her…
Despite all the signs, despite his attractiveness, she wasn’t yet sure what she should make of that. Or of him.
Richard read through one long-ago tale—that of a family of travelers lost in Balesboro Wood who had sought refuge
at the Hall, only later to discover that, in doing so, they had slipped from the net of soldiers sent to arrest them. With the aid of the household and estate workers, the family had fled to Bristol and escaped to France.
He turned the page and paused, his gaze resting on the next page, unseeing, as he let his senses stretch…and peace sank in.
A flow of soothing serenity wrapped about him, warm, enfolding—including.
Claiming.
It was the most curious yet richly alluring sensation, as if the house as well as the household accepted and embraced him.
As if he belonged.
As ephemeral as a sigh, the ambiance sank through him to his bones.
He raised his head and looked—at Jacqueline, industriously stitching in her chair across the room, the evening light falling over her, burnishing her hair to a warm gold and etching her fine features with feminine mystery. He glanced to his left, where Elinor, too, was stitching, quiet and absorbed. Turning his head to the right, he saw Hugh engrossed in his book.
Comfort, peace, belonging—all were palpable entities in that place, as if the house embodied such sensations and gave them life.
In that moment, he could almost feel that curious peace reaching into him, nurturing and tethering, setting its roots in his soul.
Protectively, not restrictively.
Welcoming and claiming.
For long moments, he stared unseeing, then he lowered his gaze and refocused on the pages of the book he held.
Entertaining fanciful thoughts—such highly fanciful thoughts—wasn’t like him. The sudden susceptibility must have been provoked by the tale he’d read…
Frowning slightly, he turned the page and started reading the next story, one of strange lights that, after dark, appeared to travelers lost and far from home and led them to safety through Balesboro Wood.
Richard jerked awake—instantly alert, his eyes searching the shadows, seeking the threat.