Page 4 of Nothing But a Rakehell
“Just think of it as another weapon to add to your arsenal,” Miss Munroe said cheerfully. “Although you are altogether well-armed, one more arrow in your quiver won’t hurt.”
Nodding, Glory moved toward the window. Miss Munroe was a perfectly nice young lady, a girl of good family and fortune from an estate near to this, her sister’s new home of Greystone Park. Glory knew that Hope had invited the girl to tea and to share in the dancing lessons in the hopes that Glory would befriend her. They were of similar age and would both likely be making their debuts in London next year.
Glory did, in fact, like the girl. Miss Munroe had been accepting and matter-of-fact about Glory’s . . . differences. Not one prying question, mocking remark or pitying glance at her limp. An unusually benign reaction, and one which Glory appreciated. She did like the young lady, truly. But . . .
The breeze from the open window beckoned. The sun shone and Greystone’s parks, farms and forests waited to be explored.
“Thank you, both,” she said, summoning a smile. “And you, Mr. Thorpe. I hope I will do better tomorrow, but for now, I think I should rest my ankle.”
She heard her sister sigh as she exited, but she kept going, and in less than half an hour she was changed into her riding habit and in the stables, allowing a groom to assist her into her specially-constructed saddle. She’d been at Greystone long enough to have won the battle about riding out alone, so she was soon heaving a massive sigh of relief as she cantered away from the house.
She went first past the little experimental field of lavender. The young plants her sister had nourished grew lushly grey-green and healthy. Once past, she headed toward the river, following the established road through the crop lands. They were busy with men tending barley and corn, now that her brother-in-law had money for seed once more. She urged her mare, Poppy, to a run along the familiar path, feeling unfettered and happy and free as she only ever did in the saddle. The pain in her ankle had faded. Her leg, hooked around the modified pommel and supported in the special cradle built into her saddle, no longer ached.
Here she was not slow and awkward. Astride Poppy, she was just like everyone else—the equal of anyone—with a better seat than most.
She breathed a happy sigh and urged the mare onto the fork in the road that led higher, toward the forests.
The woods here were ancient, dark and mysterious. They had nothing so old and untouched in Sussex, at her family’s estate. She and Poppy went slowly, exploring the shadows and the sun-dappled open spots, the downed trees lined with moss and the ridges of limestone rising unexpectedly from the forest floor.
They intersected a faint path that Glory recognized. Following it, they emerged onto an irregular field. It was one of her favorite spots. Smaller than most of the fields that bordered the river, Tensford told her that it had been cleared by hand, long ago and carved from the forest by tools more primitive than the ones used now. He’d said that he hadn’t planted it this season because he planned to fertilize it, but she rather suspected he’d left it because it was so beautiful.
Covered in high grasses and clumps of wildflowers, it whispered with the music of peace and birdsong and the buzz of insects. Butterflies danced from bloom to bloom and a slight breeze called her. Awed as always, she pulled Poppy to a halt and drank in the loveliness.
Gradually, Poppy began to move down the meadow, cropping the lower grasses at the edge. The border higher up was irregular and forested, but Glory knew at the bottom quarter the boundary transitioned to a thick hedge that separated the field from a swampy drainage area. They were rounding a protruding copse of elms, nearly to the hedge, when Poppy’s ears swiveled forward, listening.
Glory paused, and listened as well. Nothing disturbed the peace of the place for several long moments. Then she heard a clear snort and the jingle of harness.
On alert, she urged her mare ahead. Coming around the copse, they found a rider-less horse, reins tangled in the branches of the hedge. It was a chestnut gelding, average of stature and bloodline, she judged with a knowing eye. Not one of Tensford’s. A job horse, she would guess. Hired out of an inn or livery. She could see no sign of its rider.
“Is anyone there?” she called.
Nothing.
She waited. Called again. Waited a few minutes longer.
Feeling foolish, she debated what to do, but with a shrug, she loosened the entangled reins and led the horse on down toward the bottom of the field and the path that would lead home.
This time, she and Poppy caught the sound at the same time. A voice. Male.
She paused to listen.
A single voice. No pause for conversation with another, just one man droning on. From the other side of the hedge.
She frowned. She could have sworn there was nothing on the other side of that hedge but a murky, marshy bog, a low place that acted as a natural collection of field drainage.
The droning continued, and so did she, reaching the corner of the field and the worn path. She followed it a bit, still leading the gelding and trying to decide what to do, as the man’s monologue grew fainter.
She didn’t want to meet anyone out here, after all. She should just go on, return to Greystone and send someone back to investigate.
But then the voice fell suddenly silent and alarm quickened her pulse. Had the man fallen into the water? Passed out? Or just moved on? Curiosity won out over caution and inclination. She looped the gelding’s reins over a branch and urged Poppy higher and to the right and into a newly planted barley field. If they wandered back the other way, keeping to the furrows, they could approach the marshy spot from the other side.
She held Poppy back, watching the ground as the cultivation gave way to undergrowth. Advancing slowly, they made their way to the edge of the murky bog. “Is anyone there?”
“Marooned!” The man’s voice sounded suddenly loud and it came fromwithinthe marsh. Moving closer, she scanned the dark water.
“Reefed!”
At last she spotted him. He was so covered in brown muck he was barely discernible, but he was up to his waist in the stuff, a good distance away, nearer to the hedge that separated the spot from the meadow on the other side.
