I sat on the windowseat in my bedchamber and gazed out at the thick blanket of fog that had failed to dissipate as an obscured sun rose higher in the sky. It was almost as if the gray clouds above had reached out and joined hands with the mists rising off the sea. We had not seen such a fog since the day I arrived . . .
The oddest urge struck me. It was Lady Vanessa’s naptime, I was free for two hours, and suddenly I felt I must brave the mists, finding my way through the fog to the junction where I had first been set down by the stagecoach. Absurd, I know, but it was a challenge I must face. It was not, after all, as if I had not walked to the cliffs when the weather was fine. If I stuck to the road, getting lost was highly unlikely.
I grabbed up my cloak, clapped on my sturdiest bonnet, and practically ran down two flights of stairs. Ignoring the protests of Allard, the butler, I slipped out the door. For a moment I stood there in the shelter of the cloistered walkway and breathed in the cool damp air. After a rueful shake of my head over my eagerness to challenge the mist, I made my way across the courtyard to the archway that led to the great white world beyond Moorhead Manor’s walls. Fortunately, the fog was not so thick I could not make out the drive, at least for the span of a few feet in front of me.
Five or ten minutes down the lane a shocking thought struck me. I was enjoying myself. I was enveloped in mist, the house vanished behind me, nothing but a wall of white between me and a four-hundred-foot drop into the sea. Yet my spirits soared. I felt even more free than I did on Bess’s back.
I was mad.
No. Just sadly mistaken about what I wanted.
I had so longed for peace and quiet, shelter, a settled existence, yet now that I had it, I was restless, my constant struggle to cope with Lady Vanessa not enough to satisfy my sense of adventure. Merciful heavens, I was charging toward the cliffs as if I welcomed danger, missed its spine-tingling call to arms.
I came to a sudden halt right there in the middle of the lane, the mist swirling around me, and gaped at the audacity of the thoughts in my head, unsure what to make of a Penelope Ruth Ballantyne who was not the woman I thought she was. Perhaps I was simply reveling in the privacy of the moment, thoroughly enjoying being hidden from the residents of Moorhead Manor, from the harshness of the world . . .
And perhaps I was my parents’ daughter, with adventure in my blood, the tramp of cavalry and the roar of cannon forever in my ears. A woman not easily adaptable to a sheltered existence.
But I’d wanted to come to this quiet part of Devon. Yet after a scant three weeks, I was driven to taunt danger, plunging through the fog toward a sheer drop to teeth-like rocks far below. Nonsense! I wasn’t reckless. I must cross the main road a good fifty yards before the edge of the cliff. As long as I kept my feet on well-packed earth, there would be no problem. What I felt was nothing more than a delicious sense of adventure. There was no true danger here. I set my feet back in motion, heading toward the sound of the surf crashing against the rocks.
But of course a walk to the main road was too tame. To the raucous, almost mocking cries of seagulls, who seemed to have no difficulty navigating the mist-saturated air, I crossed the road and kept on going, the wind stronger here, occasionally parting the fog so I could see a good ten or twenty feet ahead, with an occasional glimpse of the gray sea beyond. I kept going, though far more slowly as I approached the edge of the cliff, until I was close enough to look down and catch glimpses of white spray pluming a third of the way up the cliff. High tide, I realized, as the peaks of only the tallest rocks could be seen below.
I glanced along the shoreline and gasped, going very still while castigating myself for the fool I undoubtedly was. There was a fissure in the cliff, a gash at least a yard wide cut into the earth but four feet to my right. Idiot! I could so easily have approached the cliff just there, where erosion had softened the ground . . . How far inland did the crevice reach, I wondered. Was it a danger to the road? Perhaps I should mention it to the earl. Silly me. The estate likely had someone who kept an eagle eye on every inch of the shoreline. I was the stranger here, blundering about like some silly widgeon without two thoughts to rub together. Shaking my head, I backed away from the gash in the earth and turned toward the road.
Except of course there was no road. Only a blanket of white. Resolutely, I put my back to the sea and marched straight ahead. The road was there, I simply had to find it. But the sound of the surf at my back was little help. It reverberated around me, enveloping me almost as thoroughly as the fog. And I finally began to realize just how foolish I’d been, thinking I could conquer a Devon mist. I slowed my pace, concentrating so hard on moving straight ahead—cautiously sliding each foot ahead, testing the ground before settling my weight on it—that pounding hooves were almost on me before I heard them. Hooves, rumbling wheels, the jingle of harness. The sound, distorted by the fog, was all around me, menacing me from every direction. Panicked, I stumbled, arms flailing, my feet moving backward of their own volition. I screamed as I felt the ground crumble beneath me. I threw myself forward onto my belly, my hands grasping at short, windswept grass, my right knee bent beneath me, my left foot dangling into nothingness.
Long moments with both body and brain frozen before I was able to take stock of my situation. It could have been worse. I could have been dangling by one hand on the edge of that gash in the cliff, which clearly was more severe than I had thought. Or I could have fallen in, plunging to my death.
Perhaps the gash in the cliffs was not larger than I had thought, and I had been walking in circles . . .
No, I had not, for I was clearly close to the road. My situation was not as dire as I feared. All I had to do was crawl forward on my belly, away from the fissure. But it wasn’t easy to convince my frozen limbs to move. I, who had thought myself up to any challenge . . .
Road. I suddenly realized the sound of horses’ hooves and rumbling wheels had stopped.
“Helloo, Helloo! Anyone there?” A disembodied voice echoed around me, impossible to tell from what direction.
Thank you, Lord! “Over here,” I called. And kept calling, adding “Be careful. The ground is soft here.”
A tall dark figure loomed up out of the mist, stopping a good five feet from where I lay. “Good God, woman,” he exclaimed. “Are you mad to stray so close to the crevice?”
“Just a foolish newcomer to this part of the world,” I admitted, much chagrined.
“Crawl forward until you reach me,” he ordered. “The ground is stable here.”
Thoroughly humiliated, though eternally grateful, I did as I was told. Strong hands swept me up and set me on my feet. Oh. My. I had been rescued by Adonis himself. I recognized him from his portraits at various ages hanging on the walls of Moorhead Manor, and from Lady Vanessa’s many sketches. Robert Wetherington, Viscount Exmere. Heir to the Earl of Hycliffe.
“Might I ask what you are doing here?” he inquired, his concern giving way to the quizzical smile that adorned so many of his portraits.
“I am Lady Vanessa’s new companion, my lord.”
“Ah!” Azure eyes so like his father’s gleamed with an emotion I feared to analyze. “Your name?”
“Penelope Ruth Ballantyne.”
A bark of laughter cut through the swirling mist. “Surely a great burden for a child,” my rescuer said.
“Indeed, my lord. “But instead of waiting faithfully as Penelope did, my mother and I were more like Ruth, following my father wherever his regiment led.”
“An intrepid adventurer then, undaunted by mists or cliffs.”
“A foolish adventurer, my lord, now thoroughly chastened, though exceedingly grateful for the rescue. Thank you.”
Tucking my hand beneath his arm, he led me unerringly through the fog to a curricle and pair, where a young man stood at the horses’ heads, keeping them in place. The viscount helped me mount the bench seat then took up the reins, waited for his tiger to mount at the back, and off we went down the mist-enclosed lane, as if the skies were blue and the sun shining brightly. A surreptitious glance at my companion showed my first impression was not wrong, nor had the portraits lied. Brown hair fell in waves about his ears, one lock dangling precariously near his eyes. His features were classically handsome, breathtakingly so. His smile ready, his attitude kind and far from condescending.
My mind was such a jumble from the incident on the cliff, compounded by being rescued by the elder son of the house, that I scarcely noted his comment that his brother, cousin, and a friend were on the road behind him, and that all three would be staying at the Manor through the holidays.
One thing, however, was clear. I knew even before we reached the courtyard and he put both hands around my waist, easily swinging me down to the ground, that I had encountered the true danger at Moorhead Manor. Robert, Lord Exmere.
My knees should have been shaky from my close call at the cliffs, but instead I floated up the stairs on a buoyant wave of high spirits . . . until I entered my room and caught a glimpse of myself in the pier glass above my dressing table. Merciful heavens. I was the embodiment of one of my mother’s favorite expressions. How many times as a child had I heard her exclaim, “Penelope Ruth, you look like something that’s been sent for but couldn’t come”?
My bonnet dangled down my back, my hair flying every which way. Dirt, even a wisp or two of grass, clung to my cheeks; scratches marred the tip of my nose. I shrugged out of my cloak, which might never come clean, only to find my gown was equally filthy. Tears pricked my eyes. Not for my clothing, though the garments were not easily replaced, but for the loss of dignity . . .
Dignity? Fool! I ached because Lord Exmere had seen me looking like something the cat dragged in. As well as a silly fool who didn’t know better than to stray too close to the cliffs.
Four chimes from the clock on the mantel erased any tendency to feel sorry for myself. Lady Vanessa would be rising from her nap and expecting to find her companion at hand.
A scant fifteen minutes later I entered her sitting room, my face scrubbed clean, my hair braided and pinned up, my fresh gown pristinely clean though drab, as expected of a proper companion. I was, however, just slightly breathless with the rush to be ready on time. Or was it because my euphoria was sneaking back, ousting my mortification? Whatever the cause, I suspected from the rare gleam of excitement in Lady Vanessa’s eyes that she had already heard the news. And I, quite incredibly, not having benefitted from previous lessons in humility, immediately plunged into murky waters.
“With four young gentlemen added to the dinner table,” I declared, “I am greatly in need of female support. Please, my lady, say you will join us.”
She stared at me, as if I’d gone mad.
“An excellent suggestion,” David Tremaine said. “As easily done as said.”
Unexpected support came from Miss Scruggs as she added, “Just think, my lady, how much you’ll enjoy wearing one of your dinner gowns again.”
“No!” Vanessa shook her head, her voice rising higher as she added, “How can you say such a thing? I cannot. I will not.”
And, of course, feeling righteous about the magnanimity of my suggestion—sharing the attention of four young gentlemen when I could have had them all to myself—I lost my temper. “You are only as much of an invalid as you allow yourself to be,” I shot back. “You go no farther than the end of the corridor when you could enjoy the entire house, the gardens, even go for a drive. It is cowardly to hide yourself away from the world.” I threw my arms wide. “It’s a glorious place, and you are foolish to shut it out.”
Horrified by my words, I clapped both hands over my mouth, bent my head, and simply stood there, knowing I deserved every castigation I was about to receive.
“Well,” Lady Vanessa said after an outraged huff, “Papa promised you would be a breath of fresh air.” I peeped at her, waiting for the rest of her tirade. “Naturally, I didn’t believe him, but he was right. In spite of your attempts to hide behind dreary garments, you are as far from drab and self-effacing as a companion can get.”
I could see Miss Scruggs wringing her hands. A small rumble sounded from Mr. Tremaine that might have meant anything.
“I shall attempt it,” Lady Vanessa announced, astonishing us all. “If I must take to my bed for a week afterwards, be it on your head.”
“I am so glad,” I burbled as David Tremaine’s hand came down, squeezing Lady Vanessa’s shoulder. In truth, I felt the elation of a battle well fought, though I knew it to be only the merest skirmish.
Four young men at table and only two young ladies. Not that I wasn’t accustomed to dining with a plethora of young men, as my father frequently included his junior officers at table, but it had been a long time since the Peninsula, and the hearty male banter once again had me fighting off memories best forgotten.
Huntley Wetherington, a young man of perhaps nineteen, had a ready smile and a quick wit. His hair fell in sandy brown waves framing the same sky blue eyes as his sister. His smile, however, was a ready as his brother’s.
Mr. Kenrick Blythe, their cousin, was a different matter. Though not unhandsome, he lacked the brothers’ vitality. Nor was he quite as tall or broad-shouldered. Thin-faced, with pale blond hair and almost colorless eyes, he seemed lost in their shadow. Until he opened his mouth, and I realized he was as quick-witted as his cousins, and far more sharp-tongued, even to the point of being caustic. When I found myself blushing over his comments about people I had never heard of, I suspected there were members of the ton who actually feared his wicked judgments.
Yet Mr. Blythe’s sartorial splendor, if not his caustic remarks, were amply seconded by Lord Norvelle, a gentleman of an age with Exmere and his cousin, and a friend, I was told, since schooldays. Heir to the Marquess of Rothbury, he lived up to the image of a scion of the ton, presenting a fine façade of an autocratic face, marked by gray-blue eyes, a trim figure, and the languid pose affected by so many young English gentlemen, even officers of the line.
When I glanced at Vanessa, her glowing gaze was fixed on Norvelle, as if for a moment she had actually forgotten her woes, and David Tremaine as well. I suspected Lady Emmaline had juggled the seating a bit in order to place Norvelle directly across from Vanessa, whose chair fitted best at the end of the table, just to her father’s left. A quick glance at David revealed nothing but a completely blank expression as he stood with his back to the wall, so still he might well have been a piece of furniture.
Cautioned by Lady Vanessa’s too open fascination with Lord Norvelle, I could only hope I had not betrayed myself by glancing too frequently at Lord Exmere, who was seated catty-corner across the table on Lady Emmaline’s right. I forced myself to consider the many strong words of advice my mother had drilled into me about the hazards of traveling at the tail of an army. Oh yes, I knew them all. Had heeded them well. And now . . .
I was a fool, a totty-headed fool headed straight for disaster.