With a sense of outrage, Timothia watched Leo sit down in the place directly to her right. Had she not had enough to bear this night? With a table large enough to accommodate thirty persons, how in the world had she the ill luck to draw him for her neighbour? Glancing down to the bottom of the table to where Mrs Baguley was just seating herself, she caught that lady’s eye, and knew that it must have been deliberate.
Indignation rose up. Was she to be made a mockery of? Enough of her female acquaintance had twitted her slyly for her to be fully alive to the damage done by Lady Hurst. She had thought to face it out by coming tonight, but she was fast regretting the decision. She dared swear that there was not a person in the room who was uninformed about the dissension between herself and her cousin—and the occasion of it. Irrationally, she felt her fury veer back to Leo. It was all his fault!
Upon the thought, she felt his glance, and deliberately turned her shoulder, seeking the companion of her other side. She found Mr Brown of Wood Hurst on her left.
‘Miss Dulverton, by all that’s fortunate! The very person with whom I was wishful to have a word.’
‘How do you do, Mr Brown?’ she responded, smiling mechanically.
‘So you’ve emerged from seclusion at last. Not before time, I can tell you.’
‘You are very kind, sir, but what was it you wanted to talk to me about?’
‘Drainage,’ announced the single-minded Mr Brown. ‘My dear girl, you will not believe the disgraceful…’
Timothia heard his complaint with only half an ear. She was in fact fully conversant with the situation which was stirring him up, despite having been out of the world for a year. Her old agent Crimdon had told her all about it, when visiting on the excuse of discussing her needs at Fenny House. Furthermore, she had received occasional visits from those few members of the local gentry who did not disport themselves in London for the best part of the year.
At any other time, Timothia would have entered with enthusiasm upon a discussion of the disgraces attending drainage. Tonight, with her thoughts so taken up by the intricacies of her own vexed situation, it held almost no attraction for her. Indeed, she was hard put to it to keep her attention sufficiently on what Mr Brown was saying to maintain her part in the conversation.
For this, Leo’s conduct was undoubtedly to blame, for he devoted himself for a considerable time to the female on his other side. This happened to be the daughter of another neighbouring family of his, who had—if Timothia’s straining ears did not deceive her—just come out this very season. A quick glance served to confirm that it was indeed little Jenny Preseley, the doctor’s daughter. Timothia was astonished. She had not thought Dr Preseley to have had the means to send his daughter to London for her début. She had grown up very pretty, it would seem, with a quantity of red-gold curls threaded through with silver ribbon.
Red-gold? Red? A stirring of something very uncomfortable entered Timothia’s breast. Jenny Preseley had ever had a mop of red hair. Red hair and freckles. She remembered it now. The girl could be little more than seventeen! Was she still freckled? Timothia moved to pick up her wine glass, contriving at the same moment to cast another surreptitious glance at the girl. As she did so, she most unfortunately caught Leo’s eye.
A slight flush mounted to her cheeks, and she quickly turned her attention back to Mr Brown, assuming as interested an expression as she could contrive. He was still immersed in earnest exposition of his drainage complaint, and Timothia tried to listen.
‘I thought,’ murmured Leo’s voice close to her ear, ‘that we were to be civil to one another in public.’
Timothia stiffened. Affecting to have difficulty in slicing at the meat on her plate, she leant a little towards the table, whispering under cover of the general conversation.
‘I doubt it matters any longer. Content yourself with being civil to the infant Jenny!’
She then wished that she had held her tongue, for Leo closed in again on the pretext of reaching for the salt.
‘Do I understand you to be jealous, Timma?’
Timothia drew in her breath rather sharply. Without intent, she turned her head and met his eyes fully, her own blazing. ‘Don’t be stupid!’
The blue of Leo’s orbs hardened. ‘Take care! You are drawing attention to yourself.’
It was a timely reminder. For a split second, it seemed to Timothia that the whole table was silent, listening. Then the hubbub of voices returned, and she let her breath go. Glancing about, she noted that there were indeed several pairs of eyes trained upon her, in particular from the opposite side of the table, where others besides Susan and Valentine—placed separately, but still within sight of each other and their mutual friends—were interested spectators. Mr Brown had stopped talking, and Jenny Preseley was eyeing her with a mixture of awe and deference. With deliberation, Timothia smiled at her, and received a shy acknowledgement.
Then, without another word to Leo, she turned back to Mr Brown. ‘You were saying, sir?’
He resumed his discourse, and Timothia tried desperately to listen to him in an effort to blot out the thoughts in her head. Jealous indeed! Not that the girl was not as pretty as a picture. It would not in the least surprise her if Leo should succumb. Men were such easy prey to innocence and virtue. He was ten years her senior, but what of that? She looked to be malleable, and if she could not administer his estates for him at least she would not set herself up in opposition to his will. Leo might be as autocratic as he chose, and Jenny would never say him nay. She wished him joy of the wench! They might not share a thought in common, but that was a small matter—if Leo should happen to fall in love with her.
The meal began to seem interminable. Try as she would, Timothia could not but overhear snatches of the conversation taking place to her right. There was a good deal of laughter from her cousin, accompanied by shy-voiced protestations from his companion. It would appear that Leo was very well entertained by little Jenny Preseley!
To Timothia’s relief, Mrs Baguley at length gave the sign for the ladies to rise and leave the gentlemen to their port. Timothia no sooner found herself in the drawing-room than she sought out Susan, whom she found seated upon a gilt-edged Chippendale sofa of white-painted wood upholstered in blue flowered brocade. A setting that enhanced rather than detracted from her friend’s appearance in a charmingly simple gown of lemon-coloured French lawn, with a lace trim.
‘Tell me at once how it comes about that Jenny Preseley is here?’ Timothia demanded without preamble as she took a place beside her friend.
‘Did you not know?’ came Susan’s breathy response. ‘Mrs Baguley took her up. Jenny has been staying with her in London since February.’
‘So that is how it was.’ Then Timothia realised from her friend’s give-away pansy eyes that she was trying to hide something. ‘What is it? Susan, tell me!’
Susan grimaced a little. ‘My aunt Hurst says that Mrs Baguley placed Jenny in that position at the table on purpose.’
Timothia felt her breath catch. ‘I suppose I need not be a genius to guess the reason.’
Her friend nodded gloomily. ‘She thinks Leo may take to her, if all is over between you.’ She clasped Timothia’s hand and lowered her voice. ‘Dearest, you must not be angry, but it seems that all the world has been forever inclined to predict a match between you and Leo. I thought it had only been myself who dreamed of it. But, no. My aunt told Claud that everyone believed it a settled thing, especially when you failed to take up anyone’s offer to come out.’
‘Did they indeed? No doubt that accounts for their present interest.’
‘Yes, because of course no one ever dreamed that you would quarrel.’
‘But how charming of Mrs Baguley to ensure Leo’s future by placing myself and Jenny on either side of him—as if he need only choose between us!’
Susan squeezed the hand she held. ‘I am so sorry, dearest. I know just how you must be feeling, for I had been led to imagine that Mrs Baguley intended Jenny for Valentine.’
Timothia was conscious of a rush of sympathy for her friend. ‘I suppose your hateful aunt Hurst said so?’
Susan nodded numbly, and Timothia followed her glance across the room to where Jenny Preseley, in a white muslin gown, was standing near an open French window that let onto a small balcony. The days were yet long and it was still light, but the candles had been lit and the haze of evening cast a glow over the young girl, setting off the red in her hair. She was petite, with a neat figure, and it did not seem to Timothia that the faint speckling of brown across her milky complexion did anything but enhance her looks.
‘She is very pretty,’ Susan said, on a forlorn note.
‘Very pretty, and very young,’ agreed Timothia.
‘Only just seventeen, I think.’
‘Ten years younger than either Valentine or Leo. I cannot answer for them, but in all honesty, Susan, do you not think that she is more likely to fall for a younger man?’
Susan turned large and doubtful eyes upon her. ‘But who? Claud is spoken for, you know. And Adam is away soldiering against the French.’
‘Susan, there are other young gentlemen in the world besides your brother and my young cousin.’
Susan shook her head. ‘Very few others in this circle. And Valentine is a great catch. I am sure she is to his taste.’
Timothia refrained from pointing out that Jenny Preseley was far more likely to prove to Leo’s taste—if Valentine’s testimony was to be trusted. A little redhead, with a neat figure. But if Leo was coxcomb enough to suppose her to be jealous she would speedily undeceive him!
‘Well,’ she said instead, ‘if a flirtation with Jenny takes the gossips’ attention away from me, either of them are welcome to it.’ She met head-on the reproach in Susan’s brown eyes. ‘You need not look at me like that. I have no doubt at all that you had a hand in spreading the word.’
The spaniel eyes changed instantly. ‘I didn’t. Oh, Timma, I didn’t. I only told Claud, and—’
‘That I had already deduced. I suppose it did not occur to you to remember that Claud is very much in with your aunt.’
Susan gaped at her. ‘Oh! I never thought. Oh, Timma, I am so sorry.’
Timothia relented. ‘Never mind it. I dare say everyone would have seen it for themselves in any event, if it is true that they supposed Leo and I were intended for one another.’
The gentlemen entered the room soon after this passage. Despising herself, Timothia watched for Leo, waiting to see whether he would seek out Jenny Preseley. In the event she did not see him enter, for Valentine came up.
‘Timma, I have to beg your pardon. Now, you must not blame Sue!’
‘But, Valentine, I—’ began Susan.
‘No, Sue,’ he interrupted. ‘I will not allow you to be at fault. I talked to Chloe, and from there to Lady Hurst was inevitable.’
‘But I know for a fact, Valentine,’ insisted Susan, ‘that Claud spoke to our aunt on the subject. It is just as much my fault, I assure you.’
Timothia intervened before Valentine could argue the point. ‘I wish you will both be quiet! What does it matter whose fault it was? If it makes you both happy, by all means share the blame between you. But, for pity’s sake, have done!’
A short silence greeted this outburst. Timothia looked from one shocked countenance to the other, and sighed. She rose from her chair.
‘Forgive me. I am a trifle overwrought. I think I will go home.’
Valentine made to speak, but Timothia saw Susan quickly shake her head. She was thankful that her friend understood her so well. With a brief word of farewell, she left them, and threaded her way through the animated guests to find her hostess. She had just caught sight of Mrs Baguley settling at a table where the tea-tray had been deposited, when she felt her arm taken in a firm grip.
‘One word, Timma.’
Timothia’s pulse quickened. She looked round at Leo’s frowning features. ‘What is it?’
‘Not here.’
Resistless, she allowed him to draw her out of the crowd gathering about the tea-table, and in a moment she found herself standing with Leo on the very balcony before which Jenny had been talking earlier. Looking back into the room, Timothia saw that most people were turned the other way.
‘If anyone sees us here, it will only add fuel to the flames,’ she said, and was dismayed to find that her voice was shaking.
Leo had detected it. His frown deepened, and he wanted very much to take her hand. But such an approach had met with so hurtful a rebuff that he could not do it. The evening had upset him. He had been angry with her, yes, for her conduct at the dinner table. And had taken his revenge by devoting himself to the little Preseley chit. But with the departure of the ladies it was Timma who had filled his thoughts.
He had never in the past given a thought to her appearance, but tonight he had been struck almost immediately by the alluring way in which the low-bosomed green silk gown set off her figure. That it was otherwise plain, and a trifle out of fashion—the waistline being marginally lower set than he observed to be current with those newly returned from the metropolis—served only to deepen his dissatisfaction, for he guessed she could not afford to replenish her wardrobe this year. As his wife, she might have decked herself out as fashionably as she chose!
He could hardly blame her for behaving as she had done at dinner. The situation in which they found themselves tonight was enough to make any woman defensive.
‘I have to beg your pardon, Timma,’ he said quietly. ‘The circumstances are impossible.’
Timothia sighed, and a little of her discomfort left her. She looked at him. ‘Are we to expect this sort of thing every time we set foot outside our doors? How long do you think we will be obliged to endure it?’
He shrugged. ‘Until, I must suppose, we end it one way or another.’
A frisson shook her unexpectedly. She was barely aware of her own lowered tone. ‘I thought we had ended it.’
It seemed to her that Leo moved a little closer. Or it might have been a trick of the light that was beginning to fail. His voice was a breeze, murmuring on the air.
‘Have we?’
His eye caught hers, and the look that she encountered sent a spread of warmth scuttling through her veins. She knew not how to interpret his expression, only that it disturbed her. She felt as if her very soul was being searched by the light in the depths of his eyes.
Confused, Timothia broke contact, pulling away. She grasped the iron railing with one hand, and with the other sought to quiet the perturbation below her breast.
‘Are you in pain?’
She looked back at him, shook her head briefly. ‘N-nothing of that sort. I—I must go home.’
Leo’s hand covered hers on the railing. Timothia’s glance flew from his face to the hand and back again. She gripped the rail harder, to prevent the tremble that began in her fingers.
‘May I escort you?’ he said.
Panic took her, though she could not have said why. Snatching her hand from under his, she took a hasty step backwards. ‘No!’
His features tightened. ‘Very well.’
‘It—it would look too particular,’ she said quickly, driven by some unnamed quality she detected in his tone. ‘We have been talked about enough.’
But Leo was no longer looking at her. His frowning gaze was sweeping the room, as if he sought for someone. Then he turned back to her, and a new note was in his voice.
‘The devil! I had not realised until now. Where is your dragon? Do you tell me you have come alone? What in the world do you mean by coming out without a chaperon?’
Timothia stiffened, the confusing symptoms thrust aside in a surge of wrath. ‘You have not won the right to question my actions, Leo!’
‘I need no other right than being your cousin,’ he retorted.
‘Let me tell you that I recognise no such right,’ she threw at him. ‘And if you imagine that Edith will be dragged to such affairs as these you very much mistake the matter.’
‘A pretty sort of companion!’
‘She suits me very well, I thank you. Furthermore,’ she added with venom, ‘in answer to your earlier query, Leo Wetheral—yes, by heaven, we have ended it!’
Turning her back on him, she moved into the room and thrust as quickly as she could through the persons blocking her passage, ignoring the popping eyes and questioning glances that came her way. Her hostess greeted her with dropped jaw.
‘Timothia! What is amiss?’
‘Nothing, ma’am, nothing at all,’ Timothia responded with barely repressed irritation. ‘I must go, for it is getting late and the light is failing.’
‘But will you not—?’
Timothia cut her short. ‘I must thank you for a most enjoyable evening. Goodnight!’
She passed through the door without looking back, and fairly ran down the stairs. At a word from her, a footman was despatched to summon Bickley with the gig, while with unsteady hands Timothia took her cloak from the butler and gathered it about herself, hugging into its folds as if she meant to hide away within that comforting disguise.
Leaving the house, she climbed into the gig. The hood was up, and Timothia sank back into its merciful shadows and bit hard on her lip against a threatening storm that was whipping up inside her.
‘Now what’s got into you, Miss Timma?’ asked the groom in his avuncular way.
‘Drive, Bickley!’ she uttered harshly. ‘Take me away from here. At once!’
The horse bounded forward, setting off down the drive at a lick. At the turn into the road, Bickley slowed the carriage a little, and kept a steady pace through Somersham.
‘I’ll pick him up again when we’re through the town, Miss Timma.’
‘Do as you will, but pray don’t talk to me!’
‘I’ve a better regard for me skin nor that, Miss Timma! Mum as a corpse.’
A faint smile curved Timothia’s lips in the darkness. But it was a momentary respite. She felt wrung out—as if she had run a gamut of emotion this night. She was left bewildered. How was it that her responses to Leo had become so unpredictable, so explosive? It was as if, whenever he came within her vicinity, she no longer had control. Some dark force took over, tossing her this way and that.
Yet her relations with Leo had always been so comfortable. They had sparred, yes. But never had she struck at him with so poisonous a tongue! She could not imagine what had thrown her into this uncharacteristic distemper. Oh, that wretched offer! What, was she determined to punish him over and over again? But for what? What had he done, in all honesty?
At once the unknown force took flight. What had he done? He had cut up her peace! He had destroyed their friendship and made a laughing-stock of them both in the eyes of the world. Worse yet, he had made her stupid! She was ashamed of her own conduct, of her own thoughts, and that she had never been. How could she be so silly over poor little Jenny Preseley?
She sighed. The night was fine, and stars dotted the heavens. A romantic evening—if one had leisure or inclination for such things! They were not for her.
The thought brought a tightness to her chest, and she was relieved to see that they were approaching Fenton. Yet the thought of Fenny House and its poky little rooms was stifling. She wanted air.
‘Don’t stop at the house, Bickley,’ she said, making a sudden decision. ‘Drive to the Fenns.’
The groom did not hide his astonishment. ‘The Fenns, Miss Timma? At this time of night?’
‘Yes, the Fenns. I want to go there.’
‘It’s mad you are, Miss Timma, and no mistake,’ observed Bickley in a grumbling tone. ‘Why should you be wishful to go down there? Horrible, smelly place. And it’s only a track. We don’t want to go losing a wheel in the ruts.’
‘We have the lantern, Bickley,’ argued Timma. ‘Besides, it has not been raining these many days, so I dare say the road will not be so very bad.’
‘And I dare say we’ll be lucky to come out of it without no broken bones! You must have been in the sun, I should think, Miss Timma.’
But Timothia was adamant. ‘Well, if you don’t like to go, Bickley, I shall set you down and drive myself.’
‘That you won’t, Miss Timma!’ stated the groom, outraged. ‘I know me dooty. I’ll go if you needs must, but like it I won’t, and that’s me last word!’
Timothia had to laugh. ‘I’ll believe that when I see it.’
But despite his qualms and grumbles Bickley drove on past the entrance to Fenny House and on through the village, turning off the road onto a narrow farm track that was indeed full of ruts and bumps. The gig took it slowly, and Bickley was obliged to shift from side to side to avoid the potholes which increased the further down the track they went.
At length the visible marks made by the wheels of carts gave out, and Bickley pulled up. ‘Seems to be the end of the track, Miss Timma.’
‘It does not matter,’ Timothia said, preparing to alight. ‘We must be less than a hundred yards from the edge of the Fenns.’
‘Wait a minute, Miss Timma!’ said Bickley suddenly. ‘Do you hear that? Sounds like someone else had the same idea!’
Timothia paused, listening to sounds from behind. Another set of hoofbeats! More than one horse? And carriage wheels! The sounds must earlier have been covered by the inordinate noise of their own progress. ‘Heavens, who in the world could that be at this hour?’
‘Belike another lunatic!’ said the groom sourly. ‘Now, don’t you go jumping down until we know it’s safe, Miss Timma.’
He was too late. Timothia was already climbing to the ground just as the vehicle behind them was pulling up. Moving behind the gig, Timothia ignored the agitated protests of her groom, for a pool of light was thrown by lanterns on either side of a coach. A pair of horses were shifting, and blowing steam into the cool night air.
The coach door opened as Timothia moved into the light, and her cousin Leo jumped down. Surprise held her momentarily silent. He took a glance round, found her face, and came quickly forward, his long greatcoat swishing about his ankles.
‘What in the world are you doing here?’ she demanded as he reached her.
‘The exact question I was going to ask you!’ he returned. ‘I followed you to be sure you got home safely, and have been wondering for the last ten minutes whether you have taken leave of your senses.’
‘Is it you indeed, Mr Leo?’ came the voice of Bickley from somewhere in Timothia’s rear. ‘Thank the Lord! Do you talk some sense into her, sir, for I can’t!’
Timothia swung round. ‘Hold the horse, Bickley, and your tongue, too!’
‘That’s just what I ain’t going to do, Miss Timma. I’m hoping as how Mr Leo will prevail upon you to return home.’
‘Well, he will not!’ declared Timothia, and without further words walked off in the direction of the Fenns.
‘The devil!’ uttered Leo.
He moved back to his coach where the groom had already jumped down, and barked an order. ‘Unhook one of the lanterns!’
What the deuce was the idiotic wench up to? he asked himself for at least the twentieth time as he waited impatiently for the lantern to be detached from the side of his coach. In a moment, armed with the light, he was easily able to catch up with his cousin, whose progress in the near pitch-darkness had been necessarily slow.
Making no attempt to stop her, Leo took his place alongside her, holding up the lantern. ‘What do you think you are doing, Timma?’
Timothia halted. ‘Leo, you have two choices. Either you may stop spoiling sport and go away—’
‘Save your breath!’
‘—or, if you insist on accompanying me—’
‘Which I do. Who knows whether you may meet a poacher or some other felon? You know how dangerous are these parts.’
‘—pray…’
‘Walk!’
‘Yes, walk,’ she insisted.
‘At close on midnight? And in such a place as this?’
‘What is wrong with it?’
‘Everything,’ he said crushingly. ‘In the first place—’
Uttering a bare grunt of defiance, Timothia turned from him and started off again, moving purposefully. Breaking off his complaints, Leo perforce accompanied her, keeping the lantern poised so as to light the way as far ahead as possible.
‘I was thinking the other day,’ he said conversationally after a moment or two, ‘of that thrashing I took for you once. Now I see that I was mistaken. A salutary whipping or two might have served to instil some common sense into you.’
Timothia refused to allow herself to be goaded into retort. Ignoring him as best she could, she marched doggedly on until a faint glimmering on the dark outline of the landscape ahead began to permeate the darkness. Yes, there it was! Impulsively, she stopped, seizing Leo’s arm.
‘There! Do you see it?’
‘What, the will-o’-the-wisp?’ he asked prosaically. ‘It is given off by the marshy gases.’
A slight sensation of disappointment clouded Timothia’s mind as she moved on. He ought to have remembered. Of course she knew the cause of the apparent phosphorescence that seemed to flit across the top of the still uncultivated parts of the Fenns. But once Leo had spoken of it very differently. There had been romance in his soul. Or so she had then thought.
They were getting closer to the edge of the old marsh, and the wispy lights became more distinct, dancing above the ground. Almost as if he read her thoughts, Leo put the lantern behind him as they stopped, shading its light so that the green flickers brightened.
For a short time, they watched together in silence. Then he saw Timothia’s head turn towards him, her face a silhouette.
‘You have a short memory, Leo.’
There was a wistful quality in her voice. Almost without intent, Leo brought the lantern up so that he could read her features. Timma did not move, but her eyes seemed to glitter in the glow. Her warm skin gleamed, and Leo experienced the oddest sensation of melting within himself.
‘What is it you mean?’ he asked softly.
Her lilting smile curved her lips. ‘Don’t you remember? Papa took me to look at the Fenns one night, to show me the will-o’-the-wisp. I was seven. The next time I saw you—next day, or later; I don’t remember precisely—I told you all about it. You said they were fairies. I dare say you said it only to tease me, but I believed you. I have never forgotten it. Will-o’-the-wisps have been fairies to me ever since.’
‘Oh, Timma!’ A light laugh escaped him as warmth radiated through his chest. ‘I never thought to discover in you a hopeless romantic. It had certainly escaped my memory. I dare say you are right, and I did say it to tease you.’
She was looking again at the flickers that glowed and died as they seemed to shift position. Leo’s gaze remained upon the outline of her hair, its shade almost silver in the lantern’s light. She had gathered the heavy folds of it into a looped braid perched at the back of her neck, adorned with a filigree comb. Leo was seized with an insane desire to snatch away the confining ribbons that held in place the mass of hair, that he might watch it tumble down, and feel it ripple through his fingers. He had not seen Timma’s hair loose since—oh, since she’d crossed the boundary into womanhood at seventeen!
Something of his heated thoughts penetrated Timothia’s consciousness. She looked back as if impelled, meeting his eyes in the gloom. The strangest sensation beset her, as of an altered reality wherein the spoken word had no relation with the apparent thought behind it. What she said she knew not. What Leo answered was as alien in its portent.
‘There are some corners of my childhood that remain untouched.’
‘Your love of fairy stories? I was used to think it odd in a girl like you. I had thought you must have grown out of them.’
‘I grew out of the stories, but I have never shaken off your idea about will-o’-the-wisp.’
Her smile was magic, transporting him into the past. For a few instants in time, she was the Timma of his remembrance, the bond between them untrammelled and free. His fingers came up, lightly caressed her cheek.
‘And are they fairies still?’
‘They look no different to me. If ever you have children, Leo, you must tell your daughters just the same.’
The words echoed in Timothia’s head. She saw in Leo’s eyes the exact instant when they registered with him. The sense of unreality vanished. Her spirits plummeted, and she drew away just as the line of Leo’s jaw stiffened.
Constraint returned. All that lay between them seemed to rise up in an invisible wall, the harsh words that had been bandied to and fro crashing in like shot from a cannon, scattering the friendly ease that had returned so briefly. On a sudden, the cold of night made itself felt, seeming to penetrate to Timothia’s very bones. What in the world was she doing here? She became conscious of squelching mud at her feet, which were encased in slippers wholly inadequate for such a terrain. What had possessed her?
Brusquely, Leo hefted the lantern and turned his back upon the phosphorescent gleam. ‘It is time we were going. I shall follow to see you safe home.’
Timothia swept about, and started back towards the carriages, hugging her cloak about her as if to conceal the inward shivers that seemed to rack her. Not one word further was exchanged. Leo parted from her in silence, and she climbed in solitary dignity into the gig as he vanished into the interior of his coach. Bickley had turned the gig about to face towards Fenton again, as had her cousin’s coachman, who waved them to go ahead.
Timothia did not even notice the rattling of her own conveyance, for the only sound that penetrated to her ears was the double clip-clopping of the horses behind mingled with the heavier rattle of coach-wheels. Long after it had died into the distance, Timothia fancied she heard it still, bearing her cousin away.
Faithful was skittish. His chestnut mane tossed with the jerking upward motion of his head as he threatened to rear. Timothia tightened the rein, murmuring soothing words, and then slackened it once more as the stallion quietened again. But he fidgeted still, sidling and flicking his ears.
‘What in the world is the matter with you?’ demanded his mistress impatiently. ‘Is it a gallop you want?’
If the horse could speak, she might swear that he would have greeted the suggestion with acclaim. A ripple of muscle answered her, and a whiffling movement of the proud mouth.
‘Very well, then.’
She could not be more willing to oblige him! They had trotted a good three miles over rough country, cantering only now and then when the lie of the land permitted. Timothia’s blue devils were so insupportable that she had vowed to throw them off—or die in the attempt! Accordingly, she had set off for her morning ride in a fresh direction from the norm, travelling south. Crossing through the corner of Crow’s Nest Wood, she had skirted Wood Hurst and ridden on towards the Sparv, wishing that she might lose herself in the hills.
Anything were better than to continue in this intolerable state of depression! She had experienced nothing like it since the early period of her mourning, when the ceremonials were over and she’d had time to take in the full aftermath of Papa’s death. Loneliness dug like a spur into her heart.
It was not even as if she had lacked company in the hazy distance of these many days. Susan had been to visit her, and she had herself dined cosily at the Rectory at Old Hurst. Susan’s reverend father had spoken kindly of the old days, and she had enjoyed a brief little chat with Mrs Hurst, who seemed to feel that Timothia might have power to persuade her daughter to forget Valentine and look elsewhere. Had that been all of a week ago? She’d had other visitors since, but they blurred as readily as had time. Oh, yes. Mr Brown had called to enlist her further support for his demands upon Pidley’s influence with the government about the matter of drainage. Timothia had found that drainage, at one time a fruitful topic of conversation, for once failed to interest her. Then she had attended a soirée at Hursting Stone—with some reluctance. And she thought the small gathering at the house of Chloe Devenick had been only two days ago. At neither of these establishments had her cousin Leo put in an appearance, although she was assured by both hostesses—who seemed to make a point of telling her!—that he had been invited.
Not that she would have wished to see him. Quite the contrary. But there was an inevitable let-down when one had braced oneself to face a person in public, with determination that no-body—least of all the individual concerned!—should perceive anything amiss, only to find that the effort had not after all been required. It put an unnecessary strain upon one’s social veneer. And took up far too much attention which could better have been used for something more worthwhile.
Despite all these entertainments, Timothia had been unable to halt a creeping sense of isolation. It had seemed to permeate her very soul, bringing her spirits so low as to become utterly oppressive. Now here they were in July, and she was as dismal as ever. She had so lost count of time that she could not even remember what day of the week it was! She could no longer continue in this way. Something had to be done.
Discounting such attractive remedies as throwing herself off the top of Valentine’s castle towers, or blowing her own brains out with the pistol that Leo had most thoughtfully taught her how to shoot, Timothia had opted instead to ride as hard as she could to the devil. Literally. Only she was by far too careful a guardian of her cattle to allow her own inclination to run her horse into danger.
She had held Faithful in while she picked her way through unknown country. But once she spied the hills of the Sparv ahead she knew she must take advantage of the last of the open country if she was to shake off her own fidgets—which she knew she had communicated to the stallion.
She took a precautionary moment to adjust herself in the saddle, slid her foot more firmly into the stirrup, and then gave Faithful his head. He flew, racing across the meadows, ears laid back, limbs pumping muscle as his full strength soared into play. Timothia kept her seat with relative ease, for she was an accomplished horsewoman, and the exhilarating sensation of speed blew freshness into the dark corners of her mind.
The hills loomed larger as the ground flashed by, and as of instinct Timothia headed her mount into the growing gap ahead appearing now between two vast mounds that had seemed as one, only dipping at the centre. She did not slacken Faithful’s pace, but only guided him a little to the familiar route.
Familiar? But she had not ridden here before. Her eyes searched the outlines of the hilly range ahead. They struck her as alien at first, then all at once everything fell into place. She knew this country! That view was as etched in her mind as it must be in Leo’s. Heavens, what had she done? In her desire to avoid Wood Hurst she had strayed unseeingly across country—and now she was come within full sight of Wiggin. This was Leo’s land! That very gap in front of her was the route he had taught her as a short cut that led from his estate to her own at Dulverton. They had ridden it both severally and together innumerable times.
What had she done? What deep-seated thrust of memory had drawn her here? Fool! Unthinking simpleton!
Under her, the rhythm broke. Inattentive, she had lost her union with the horse. In an instant, she realised that her rein was too slack, and tried to draw it in. Too late! The stallion veered sharply. Timothia was unprepared. Her foot slipped from the stirrup, and she was flying free.
Landing hard, Timothia was aware of a juddering crash, and then a momentary blackness. It was over in seconds, and she opened her eyes to a whirling sky—and violent pain at the extremity of one leg.