A Lady Most Lovely Page 12

  “What is it, Williams?” Margaret said at once. “What’s happened to the horses?”

  He began walking toward her. “Won’t you sit down? You must be worn out from your journey.”

  “Tell me!” she demanded. “I did not force Kevin to break his word to you, but I will not wait one more minute to find out what’s going on.”

  Although Williams’s demeanor was generally warm and affable, today he met her gaze with somber concern. But he knew Margaret well, and he was not the sort to prevaricate if there was a distasteful subject to be discussed. “It’s glanders,” he said simply.

  Despite steeling herself for bad news, Margaret was stung by shock. Glanders was fatal to horses. It could spread throughout a stable and even to people, leaving a wake of destruction. “How could this happen?” she protested. “Our stable was clean!”

  “There is always the possibility it arose from some weakness in the horses themselves—”

  “Rubbish!” Margaret scoffed. “Some have tried to say it’s not a communicable disease, but they are wrong. Somebody brought it here. Have you hired any new stable boys? Anyone from Moreton Village or London?”

  He shook his head. “I’ve been over this with Garvey. He feels it may have been brought here by Mr. Denault’s groom.”

  “Mr. Denault!” Was that possible? Numbly, she tried to cast her mind back over the events of the past few weeks. Paul had visited Moreton Hall shortly after their engagement was announced. He had been anxious to acquaint himself with the place and the staff.

  “Garvey says Mr. Denault’s groom was laid low with fever and chest pains. Garvey found out about it because our men were complaining about the extra work it caused. They thought it was an ague of some kind. No one suspected glanders. Not until one of our horses began to develop symptoms.”

  “What happened to the groom?”

  “I’ve sent someone to London to inquire. Since you and Mr. Denault…” He paused and let out a short cough. “That is to say, since there is no formal connection between him and you now, we thought it best to look into the matter on our own.” He shook his head sadly. “I’m reasonably certain our man will return with news that the groom has died.”

  “How many are gone?” she demanded, her words sharp as rage began to course through her. If Paul had brought this horse plague to her, he must have been keeping his own horses in the cheapest lodging available, the kind of stable that was a breeding ground for such a disease. His criminal carelessness had brought destruction to her house. She honestly believed if Paul was standing here right now she would have physically attacked him and wrung his neck.

  “All but two have died,” Williams answered grimly. “We’ve quarantined the last two and are watching them carefully, but I do not hold out much hope.”

  “And Dante?” Her heart lurched in pain as she imagined her beautiful and spirited horse, her best and most faithful companion, in the midst of such horror. But if two horses were still alive, perhaps there was hope…

  Williams gave her a sympathetic smile, as one might try to use to comfort a bereaved person. “I’m afraid he was among the first. It seems Denault’s groom was much admiring of the animal and was often seen near him.”

  And with those words, the last of Margaret’s hopes were laid to rest. Choking back a sob, she turned away from Williams and hurried out the French doors to the back terrace, unwilling for anyone to see the tears that she could no longer contain.

  Margaret raced across the open field, not caring that her tears blurred her vision, not stopping until she had reached a little bridge far from the house. She leaned on the stone wall, gasping for breath, watching the brook flowing below her, its waters pushing leaves and twigs that were helpless against its current. Tom Poole’s words came back to her: “Horses aren’t good collateral. Too much could happen.” What would he do when he discovered the “collateral” was lost?

  She was out of options now. Her jewels, plate, and whatever movables she could spare had all been sold. The final blow had been this loss of her horses—especially Dante. She slammed her fist down on the rough stone. Why hadn’t she taken Dante to London? She hadn’t wanted to pay exorbitant stable fees and, most ironically, had not wanted to put him at risk. Even stables without disease were still suceptible to calamities such as theft or fire.

  Slowly her heart rate returned to normal, and she wiped away the last of her tears. There was nothing to be gained by crying. It was time to set aside sorrow—as she had time and time again—and face her problem with cold rationality. She had pushed valiantly to keep her land safe and intact. No one could have done better than she had when faced with such odds. And yet, it hadn’t been enough. She was very likely to lose Moreton Hall, either in part or in whole. But it wasn’t gone yet. Whatever happened, to her last breath she would never, ever give up trying.

  Chapter 12

  Tom needed air—the kind he couldn’t find in London. He was eager to leave behind the city’s tall buildings and the narrow streets laced with smoke and fog. Although he’d traveled hundreds of miles within Australia, he’d never seen anything of England beyond the confines of London. His years away had made him homesick, and he longed to acquaint himself with his native land. A foreign critic had disparaged England as a “nation of shopkeepers,” and yet it was a description that made Tom proud. He was himself an example of where hard work and industry could take a man.

  There would be no point in going by train. His goal was to see the country, and he had heard that trains moved too quickly for the passengers to really see the land. Now that Castor was fully recovered from the voyage, he would provide the method of travel. Tom would journey at his own pace, stay at modest inns, and get to know this land he’d left in haste so long ago.

  Tom had been invited to visit Rosewood, the country home of James and Lizzie’s grandmother, Lady Thornborough. The grand estate would provide Tom with plenty of opportunities for riding, to be sure. But Tom was too restless to consider that plan. He’d heard that parties of the bon ton might visit these country houses for weeks at a time, leading Tom to envision an extension of the precise society nonsense he was trying to escape.

  He’d lost some sense of his own identity in London. He’d been trussed up like a goose and paraded before people who once would never have acknowledged his existence. He’d had no work to do besides handling occasional missives from Sullivan, and no real friends outside of his family. Despite Tom’s best efforts, the few people he’d known before leaving London were now uneasy—embarrassed, almost—whenever he came to visit them. His new wealth and status had created a divide that Tom could not seem to bridge. Perhaps this time alone would give him what he needed to settle his heart and mind and see the country on his own terms.

  Above all, he could not stop thinking about Margaret Vaughn. The moment he’d paid her debts, she’d left London for her home in Lincolnshire. If she harbored any gratitude at all, it was effectively hidden behind her adamant vows to repay him. Tom was just another creditor, no different in her eyes than Mortimer.

  These hard truths provided no reason—and every reason—for his decision to take the northbound road. Yes, he wanted time to acquaint himself with his native land. But more than anything else, he wanted to see Margaret again. Although her beauty had first attracted him to her, he saw now that she wore it almost as a veil, hiding the real treasure beneath. Under that outward mask of cool poise was a woman of fire and strength. But what Tom found most tantalizing of all were the glimpses of vulnerability that she fought so hard to hide. He’d seen it in that first moment when he’d burst in on her and the moneylenders, and once again when she’d said good night to him after Lizzie’s dinner party. Tom felt if he could only reach that part of her, he might at last gain her trust, rather than merely her gratitude. If there was any way at all into her heart, he was determined to find it.

  *

  “I don’t think we’ve seen you here before.” The old bartender settled his watery gaze on
Tom. “Here on business, or just passing through?”

  Tom lifted his tankard of ale and took a long draught before replying. He knew the man had seen him arrive and was aware the innkeeper had given Tom the best suite of rooms. He was fishing for more information, and this suited Tom just fine. He had nothing to hide, and if the barkeep was talkative, he might give Tom useful information about the little village of Moreton and the people who lived here—including its most important resident. “Tomorrow I plan to call on Miss Vaughn.”

  The bartender drew in his breath, pausing his task of wiping down the counter in order to give Tom his full attention. “You planning to ride that Thoroughbred of yours to Moreton Hall?”

  “I am.” Detecting something odd in the bartender’s demeanor he added, “Is there a particular reason why I shouldn’t?”

  “Haven’t you heard? The place isn’t safe.”

  Tom stared at the barkeep in surprise. He had no idea whether Margaret was liked or disliked by the locals, so he’d been prepared for any number of things he might hear about her. But this certainly was not one of them. “How in the world can it not be safe?”

  “It’s unsafe for your horse,” the bartender clarified. “Though I’ve heard men get it, too.”

  “Get what, exactly?”

  “Glanders.” He spoke the word softly, checking over his shoulder first, looking worried that he might bring the disease into the inn if he spoke too loudly.

  Tom set down his mug with such force that some of its contents sloshed onto the bar. “You can’t be serious.”

  The bartender nodded solemnly. “It’s true. Wiped out the entire barn.”

  Tom resisted the urge to groan out loud. He was sure Margaret loved them all, and he knew she was counting on the money she’d make from them. When she had offered them up as collateral, he had sensed that they were shoring up whatever had remained of her pride. With a sorrowful grimace Tom remembered a verse that Sullivan had often quoted to him from Psalms: A horse is a vain thing for safety: neither shall he deliver any by his great strength.

  He stood up and put his payment for the ale on the bar. “Did you say everything was gone? Including all of her Thoroughbreds?”

  “Yes, sir.” The bartender finished wiping the counter. “Such a shame that she lost her favorite saddle horse. She loved that creature. Used to ride it into town, looking so tall and proud.” He smiled in remembrance. “Often you’d see her crossing the fields, too, usually on her way to visit the tenant farmers.”

  “She is a good landowner, then?” Tom asked.

  “Indeed she is. Takes more interest in the land than her father did, rest his soul.” He shook his head again. “Too bad so many folks has already moved away.”

  “Why did they go?”

  The bartender shrugged. “Drawn away by the promise of better pay in the factories, thinking they’ll earn a better life.” He motioned toward the open door and the beautiful rolling hills that lay beyond. “But I ask you, how could any life be better than this?”

  *

  The afternoon was far advanced. Threatening storm clouds hovered in the distance, moving in Tom’s direction as he rode Castor at a slow walk along the road that edged the Vaughn estate. He ought to be getting back to the inn, to have Castor groomed and fed and to seek out his own supper as well. And yet he rode on, not ready to turn back. He rode another half mile or so to a spot where the road crested a hill. He’d been told that Moreton Hall could be seen from there. He wanted only a glimpse of it tonight. Tomorrow he’d go back and pay a proper call.

  The bartender was right, Tom mused. Out here in the country, things always seemed better. God’s voice was just a little easier to hear than it was in the noise and bustle of town. Today he had a dire need to hear that voice. He’d wanted only to help Margaret, and yet ten thousand pounds was not a sum to be handed over lightly, so he had accepted her terms. Now that the horses were gone, this tentative alliance they’d forged was on shaky ground, and Tom had no idea how to proceed. “Lord, what should I do?” He spoke the words aloud as he and Castor slowly advanced along the road. “Why—” He stopped himself short with a chuckle. “Never ask God why,” Sully would often tell Tom. “The Lord has his own reasons that we are not always privy to. Instead we must ask what. That is, what is to be done? How can I serve?”

  Tom brought his horse to a stop and took in the view. The land fell away on all sides, breathtaking in its late summer glory. The fields of wheat were turning to delicate golden hues, while the trees were still lush and green. Only the slate-gray clouds marred the perfect landscape, although even they brought a certain wild beauty to the place. Yes, one could certainly sense the presence of God here.

  He stretcheth out the heavens as a curtain, and spreads them out as a tent to dwell in.

  Off in the distance, Moreton Hall stood majestically, an august building of stone, laced here and there with ivy and topped with a slate roof and dozens of chimneys. It presided over a bucolic landscape of green pastures and woodlands, alternating with rows of golden wheat and the fields that lay fallow this year, awaiting their turn to contribute to the harvest.

  As Tom’s gaze took all this in, he noticed a solitary figure perched on the wooden steps that straddled a low stone wall. She sat motionless, staring out at the fields, toward the west where the sun would be disappearing soon.

  Without a moment’s hesitation, he nudged his horse forward, turning off the road and into the meadow.

  Chapter 13

  She was not likely to welcome his arrival, he knew. She might very well be angry that he had followed her all the way up to Lincolnshire. She might consider this an unwanted intrusion. But Tom considered that Sully’s advice was right on the mark—especially today. Tom had his own reasons for being here, to be sure, but he believed God had a hand in it, too.

  Margaret turned at his approach. “Mr. Poole,” she said crisply, standing up. “What a surprise.”

  Tom stopped several yards away and dismounted. Thunder rolled in the distance, a dim rumble that made Castor toss his head in agitation. “Easy, boy,” he soothed, scratching the horse’s withers. It seemed to calm the creature, although his ears continued to flick back and forth, evidence of his anxiety.

  Margaret was even more beautiful today. A fitful breeze tugged at the folds of her walking dress, shaping it to her body’s natural curves and rendering it more alluring than the low-cut dinner gown he’d last seen her in.

  “Forgive me for showing up uninvited,” he said. “A man in town told me what happened.”

  She took a step back, watching him with a guarded wariness. “Did you come to say I told you so? You said it was a bad investment, and you were right.” Her face twisted in pain. “Years of careful breeding and nothing but the best of care—all wiped out in the blink of an eye.” She lifted her chin. “But I will get you the money somehow. I always repay my debts.”

  “The money,” he said with deliberate care, “is not why I came to Lincolnshire.”

  Something flared in her eyes—that brief show of vulnerability, and Tom wondered if there was perhaps a chance that she was softening toward him. It was gone in a flash, however, replaced by the impenetrable coolness he was coming to know too well. She turned away as though he had not spoken, gesturing toward the gently rolling fields that lay between them and the town. “I’ve just come up here to give it a final look. It will go on sale soon.”

  “You can’t mean you plan to sell your estate,” Tom said incredulously.

  “Not all of it. The railroad company wants to buy a large tract near town to build a new line. It will make the journey to Lincoln shorter and more efficient.” Her eyes squeezed shut for a moment. “It will also be noisy and intrusive and eat up the very best of my farmland.”

  She began to knead the back of her neck, as though trying to relieve the tension built up there. Tom thought he detected a glimmer of a tear in her eye. He wanted to reach out, to place his hands where hers were and massage away the
pain. But such actions were improper in her world, no matter how badly they might be needed. He would not push past her defenses; he would look for a way to draw her to him. As he stood there, forcing himself to keep his hands at his sides, he felt a few drops of rain hit his face. The storm was very nearly upon them.

  Castor snorted and reared up a little. There was another crack of thunder, this time loud and impossible to ignore. A flash of lightning streaked across the sky.

  “We need to get you home,” Tom said. “I wouldn’t want you to get soaked. Also, my horse gets nervous in heavy storms.”

  Margaret looked up at the gathering clouds. “There’s no time to get back to the main house, and in any case it isn’t safe to cross the field in a lightning storm. However, there is an abandoned cottage not too far from here.” She pointed to a nearby wood.

  It was a good plan. Tom nodded. “Come on then.” He mounted his horse, then reached down to offer Margaret a hand.

  “What are you doing?” she asked sharply.

  “Put your foot in the stirrup and I’ll pull you up. I can control the horse better if I’m riding him, and we’ll get to the cottage faster.”

  She hesitated as Castor pranced with agitation.

  “He’s restless because the weather is changing,” Tom assured her. “He’ll settle down once the rain arrives. I promise you’ll be safe.” He reached out his hand again. “Please. Trust me.”

  Thunder cracked again, and the rain began to fall in earnest. Still looking dubious, Margaret lifted her skirt just enough to enable her foot to reach the stirrup. She extended a hand toward Tom and pushed herself up as Tom pulled. Once she was on the horse, Tom settled her sideways in front of him, cradling her back with one arm. When he was certain she was secure, they set off.

  Margaret wrapped her arms around his waist, holding on tightly and placing her head against his chest. Castor needed little urging, and in no time they were approaching the woods. Margaret kept her head down—a defense against the rain, no doubt—but Tom thought he detected a small sigh escaping from her. He savored her touch. It was heaven to have her so near to him, dependent on him—if only for these few moments. Tom kept the horse moving swiftly, even though he wished this ride might never end. Never before had a woman felt so right in his arms. Surely she belonged nowhere else.