That said…he rather thought the orb had been there, caught from the corner of his eye as it sat, apparently innocently, on the dresser’s top shelf.
Yet now it was in Jacqueline’s room, wallowing in moonlight on her dressing table.
Even though no one remembered carrying it upstairs and placing it there.
For several fruitless seconds, he let thoughts whirl and clash in his mind, then he snorted, shook his head, and set about stripping off his clothes.
As he slid once more between the sheets, he recalled Mrs. Patrick’s description of the man she’d seen fleeing into the wood.
The man might have been any tallish, lean-figured gentleman, yet the fact remained that it could have been Wallace.
And Wallace had wanted the orb.
The man’s earlier attempt to lay his hands on the orb, blocked by Jacqueline, replayed in Richard’s mind, including Wallace’s words and, even more, his tone.
Richard closed his eyes. On one point he was entirely clear. Wallace possessed a covetous nature, especially when it came to anything arcane.
Chapter 6
After breakfast the next morning, Richard walked out to the stable to check on Malcolm the Great. The big gray greeted him with a toss of his head and greedily lipped the apples Richard offered on his palm.
Hopkins came ambling up. “So let’s take a look at that hoof, then.”
Ned Ostley arrived as Richard led Malcolm out of the stall. He patted the huge horse’s side. “You’re a right big fellow, but you have a nice nature. Better’n a lot of the nags I tend.”
Richard grinned, then held Malcolm steady while the two older, more experienced men examined the affected hoof.
Ostley nodded and set the hoof down. “It’s coming on nicely—the redness is fading and the swelling’s going down—but it’ll be a few days yet before it’s safe to ride him.”
Richard merely nodded and patted Malcolm’s neck. “No thundering across the sward for you yet.”
Hopkins snorted.
Richard smiled to himself. After the incident in the early hours, he was in no hurry to quit Nimway Hall, and he suspected that, in the matter of him staying, the other men were of like mind.
As if to underscore the likeness of their minds, Jacqueline breezed into the stable, garbed in her riding habit. She glanced down the aisle and saw them. Strolling closer, she asked, “How is he?”
Hopkins explained that it would be a few more days before Richard could chance riding on.
“I see.” She smiled at Richard, then said to Hopkins, “I’ll need the mare again.”
“Yes, miss.” Hopkins moved down the line of stalls. From behind Jacqueline, he directed a potent stare at Richard.
Beside him, Ned Ostley shifted, as if biting back unwise words.
Understanding full well what the men wanted, Richard leaned on Malcolm’s stall door and returned Jacqueline’s smile. “Wither away today?”
Her eyes twinkled as if she was fully aware of the protectiveness in the air. “Today, I’m off on a fact-finding mission. First through the wood to the woodcutters’ cottages, then down and out to the outlying farms—the ones I didn’t get to yesterday.”
He widened his eyes, genuinely surprised. “You have more farms?”
She laughed. “Yes. Several more. And as the market is tomorrow and the wool fair the following day, I need to check with the spinners and the weavers, and the woodworkers, and the farmers and their wives over what items they’ll be offering, especially at the fair. That only comes around twice a year, so I like to make sure that our people can make the most of it.” She hesitated, then asked, “Would you like to accompany me? I fear it won’t be all that different from yesterday.”
He straightened and grinned. “Except there’ll be no cat stuck up an oak tree, waiting to be rescued.”
She laughed again; he decided he truly enjoyed hearing the sound. “True enough.”
“So yes,” he concluded. “If you’ll allow me to trail at your heels, I’ll gladly accompany you.” He glanced out at the summer-blue sky. “I enjoy riding in the country—it’s far better than riding in town.”
Jacqueline confessed that she couldn’t imagine how one rode in town, prompting Richard to describe Hyde Park and how restrictive the area was compared to riding over fields and through woodland.
By then, Hopkins had the mare and her late father’s gelding saddled, and she and Richard mounted, then, as she had the previous day, she led the way out of the stable yard.
This time, she rode around to the front of the house, down the drive, then turned onto a bridle path that led deeper into Balesboro Wood.
Their first stop was the Hammonds, the woodcutter and his wife who had brought Richard to the Hall. Both were glad to see him again, and he chatted easily with Mrs. Hammond while Hammond showed Jacqueline the carved wooden toys he hoped to sell at the market and also at the fair. “I figure if the locals don’t need them all, someone at the fair might be interested in having something to take home to their children.”
Jacqueline nodded. “That’s a sound idea. I’ll have a word with the organizers of the fair when I see them at the market tomorrow about where it would be best to set up your table.”
“Thank ye, miss.” Hammond bobbed his great head. “Most helpful that would be.”
From the Hammonds, Jacqueline led Richard on through the wood to the Tricketts’ cottage. Another woodcutting family, the Tricketts specialized in crafting handles for all manner of tools. They, too, would have a stall at the local market as well as at the fair. After inspecting their merchandise and discussing prices, with Richard interestedly listening in, Jacqueline led the way on.
To reach her next destination, they had to swing to the northeast of the Hall, into a part of the wood where the trees grew thickly. She slowed, not wanting to risk the horses’ legs in the more difficult terrain.
Richard urged the chestnut closer. “Who lives out here?”
“Our oldest woodcutter, Symonds. He’s a grouchy old curmudgeon—a longtime bachelor—but he knows more about trees and logging than anyone else around.”
As they plodded on, she felt Richard’s gaze on her face. After a moment, she met it and arched her brows in question.
“You spoke with Hammond about his goods for sale, and with Trickett, you discussed the prices he might charge. With the tenant farmers I know, anything they make by selling crafted goods their manor takes no part of.”
She smiled. “The Hall takes nothing of our tenants’ extra income, either. But from experience, we’ve learned that, if I know what they wish to sell, I can do my best to arrange the most useful places for them at the market and, even more importantly, at the fair.” She met his eyes. “It’s part of our tradition that the guardian of the Hall helps the Hall’s tenants to prosper.” She looked ahead. “The more they make from their crafted goods, the more financially secure they are and the less likely the farms will suffer should we have a bad harvest or some other disaster strikes and reduces our customary income.”
From the corner of her eye, she saw him slowly nod.
“That’s an exemplary—and highly practical—stance.”
She laughed. “Indeed. You’ve put your finger on one of the guardian’s guiding principles. We live by the maxim that our people’s prosperity is ours—indeed, underpins ours.”
He nodded again, his expression stating he both understood and approved.
Symonds was as grumpy as ever, but highly curious about Richard Montague—a curiosity that was returned in full measure when Symonds started talking of the charcoal makers due to visit later in the year. The entire concept clearly fascinated Richard; as he explained when they rode on, they didn’t have such a practice in Essex, at least not on his father’s land.
She was tempted to ask about his father, but reminded herself that Richard was merely a guest and would soon be passing on. An inquisition wasn’t appropriate.
They struck west and circled to another
lookout, one farther north than the one at which they’d stopped the previous day. Today, beyond shooting glances over the landscape, they didn’t pause but continued along the track that led down the escarpment, arriving at the bottom in a rush.
As they let the horses stretch their legs on the even surface of a track that led through wide and open fields, Richard remarked, “Oddly enough, I didn’t feel lost once while riding through the wood.”
The glance Jacqueline threw him suggested that, after hearing Hugh’s tall tales, he really should understand.
He wasn’t sure he did but wasn’t inclined to ask outright for an explanation—one he wasn’t sure he was prepared to hear. The thought reminded him of other tales Hugh had told… “Tell me about your parents.” When she glanced his way, he elaborated, “How they met. Where your mother was born. Who your father was. Did they live all their lives at Nimway Hall or…?”
She smiled, a hint of fond reminiscence in her expression. “Mama wasn’t born here—her father had estates in Ireland—but she and her brothers spent their summers here and some of their Christmases, too. But the Hall passed from Mama’s mother to her, and when Mama was grown, she came to live permanently at the Hall, much as I do now.”
“And your father?”
“He was one of the Tregarths of Truro, but he was the youngest of five sons, so had no estate. When he and Mama married, he was happy to stay here at her side.”
“So they oversaw the Hall together.”
She neither agreed nor disagreed, saying instead, “Papa was Mama’s right hand, her staunchest supporter.” Her voice lowered, more fragile as she said, “They died within hours of each other in the contagion of ’45.” Her tone had grown bleak, then she shook her head as if shaking off the memory. “We—those at the Hall—have, over the centuries, always steered clear of politics, and so we played no part in the rebellion and paid no price on that score. However, that year was one in which we lost…far more than we’d expected.”
He considered uttering the customary trite words, but instead, said, “And you took over.”
She glanced at him, clear-eyed, in control. “I was their only surviving child. My two brothers died as infants, so there was only me.”
He nodded. Keeping his tone even and matter-of-fact, he stated, “And from all I’ve seen, you’ve done and continue to do an excellent job of managing the estate.”
Her lips quirked, and she inclined her head. “Thank you kindly, sir.”
Her prim tone made him laugh.
“Come on.” She tapped her heels to the mare’s side. “We can go faster along here.”
They galloped for a while, both patently enjoying the wind in their faces, then she slowed and turned down a track leading to a farmhouse.
As he brought the gelding alongside her mare, he asked, “The orb. Did your parents ever mention it? Or was it buried above the spring from before their time?”
She blinked. Her brows slowly rose as she thought, then she shook her head. “I don’t know. I can’t recall them ever mentioning it, yet I do know the lake was full—the spring flowing—during their lifetime.”
“So the orb must have been buried at some point during their lives.”
Jacqueline frowned. “So it would seem.”
They reached the farmyard to discover a harassed-looking Farmer Higgs and his two sons battling to separate three ewes from their yearling lambs.
Jacqueline swallowed her amazement when, after halting the gelding alongside her mare at the mouth of the track, effectively blocking that route of escape, Richard tossed her his reins with a “Here—hold these,” fluidly dismounted, and waded directly into the melee.
Within seconds, she realized he’d done this before, that whatever else his father’s lands held, they definitely carried sheep. Richard confidently directed Higgs and his boys, then together, Richard and Higgs held back one ewe, and after the boys corralled her lambs, Richard and Higgs released the bleating mother, moved on to the next ewe, and repeated the process.
In ten minutes, the deed was done and the ewes had been returned to the flock, somewhat forlornly bleating, while the boys guided the curious lambs around the side of the farmhouse and into a holding pen.
“You’ve done that before,” Jacqueline observed when Richard came to take his reins. She’d already slid down from her saddle; she didn’t need her wits and senses cast into a fluster, not when she had Higgs and Mrs. Higgs to deal with.
Richard grinned, triumph in his face. “It’s been quite a while, but yes—I’ve done that many times before.”
“Well, I thank ye for your help, sir.” Higgs was still trying to catch his breath. He nodded respectfully to Jacqueline. “The missus was thinking you might call around—come in and take a look at what she’s put by for the fair.”
Mrs. Higgs was a weaver of very fine wool cloth. Although produced only in small quantities on the loom that stood in one corner of the farmhouse’s main room, the cloth was of such exquisite quality that the household of the Bishop of Bath and Wells frequently sent to Mrs. Higgs for material for their clergy’s undershirts.
Jacqueline ran her fingertips across the smooth surface of one of the swaths Mrs. Higgs had laid out on a bench, then smiled at the older woman. “As always, you’ll get a pretty penny for these. Will you be sharing a stall with Martha as usual?” Martha Mullins, an experienced spinner, was Mrs. Higgs’s sister and lived on a neighboring smallholding. Higgs produced the fleece, Martha spun it into yarn, and Mrs. Higgs wove the yarn into fine cloth.
“Aye—Martha has a good-sized basket of yarn to sell.” Mrs. Higgs clasped her hands before her and somewhat hesitantly said, “We was wondering, miss, me and Martha, whether you might have a word with the fair’s organizers to make sure we have our usual stall. Helps if we’re closer to the gate and easier for fairgoers to find.”
“I’m sure there’ll be no trouble there—yours and Martha’s work is always so popular. I expect to see the alderman at the market tomorrow—I’ll speak with him then.”
“Thank you, miss.” Mrs. Higgs’s lined face lit with a smile.
Jacqueline exchanged several more comments with Mrs. Higgs, then questioned Higgs as to his opinion of how his herd was faring and his expectations for the coming year. After taking her leave—and after Higgs again thanked Richard for his help—Jacqueline led the way back to the horses.
There was no help for it but to allow Richard to lift her to her saddle. She steeled herself—trying to lock her nerves against reacting to the feel of his hands gripping her waist, trying to stop her wits from noticing the flex of his powerful arms as he lifted her smoothly up. Or the gentleness with which he set her down and the way his fingers lingered at her waist before he drew his hands away.
Her only saving grace, or so she fervently hoped, was that she managed to keep her expression impassive and at least appear unaffected, despite her breathless state.
They rode on, and along the wider lane, he kept the chestnut level with the mare. After a moment, he remarked, “These farms—am I right in thinking they form an outer ring about the farms we visited yesterday?”
“An outer rim,” she said. “The farms we saw yesterday were those closer to the escarpment and the stream and its ponds. Their fields are mostly given over to crops of one sort or another. These fields”—she gestured to the fields between which they were riding—“are primarily used for grazing.”
“Mostly sheep, I take it.”
“Yes. Some cows, of course—we do have a small dairy herd and a dairy.”
It occurred to her that he’d learned a great deal about her and Nimway Hall over the past days. In contrast, she’d learned little about him. Yesterday, she’d told herself that who he was didn’t matter. Today…regardless of logic, she no longer felt that way.
He was a younger son of a landowning family, and his father’s farms lay in Essex; that much, she’d gleaned.
He dealt confidently with both household and estate workers, wit
h the air of one accustomed to doing so. And he possessed a certain level of confidence—impossible to mistake and equally impossible to fake—that shone in his easy interactions with everyone and anyone, from Hugh and Elinor to the farmers’ children. He was the opposite of pompous, the opposite of a man who felt compelled to shore up his station.
What else did she know of him?
That he was one of those rare gentlemen who was able to accompany a lady on business without needing to take over. Without arrogantly attempting to dominate. At no point over the past days had he questioned or judged her, much less spoken against her decisions. Throughout her dealings with her people, she’d sensed him at her shoulder, a steady, supportive presence, ready to help if required or requested, but otherwise content to follow her lead…
Vividly, she remembered her parents visiting the farms and her father hovering in just that way—supportive, protective, but never overbearing, never attempting to usurp her mother’s place.
They reached the lane to the next farm, and she turned down it. “Do you spend most of your time in the country? Or in London?”
Richard glanced at her. He’d wondered when she would start asking more personal questions. “These days, I spend at least half the year in town. As for the rest, I visit friends all over the country—shooting, fishing, house parties in general.” The usual life of an idle gentleman.
“So you spend more—most—of your time in society?”
Uselessly—to no good purpose. He inclined his head.
They reached the farmyard, and she turned her attention to the farmer who was approaching. Richard had noted that all of the farmers they’d visited that day had expected her to call, even though, as she’d explained, her intention was purely to learn how best she could assist them in making the most from the goods they would offer at the market and the fair. Obviously, the farmers regarded her help as something on which they could rely.
As he listened to the ensuing discussion—this time concerning the price of heifers—he could almost see the strengthening of the bond between tenant farmer and manor. He made a mental note to mention Jacqueline’s habit to his mother. The marchioness could be counted on to be interested in anything that improved manor-tenant relations.