“Who’s there?” she called, endeavoring to remain calm, although her voice sounded young and high-pitched.
“Halloo ...?” Rebecca hailed and waited, but there was no answer. Her hands felt damp within her gloves. Should she start running?
She made herself walk on, the back of her neck bristling all the while.
Sudden pounding footfalls shook the ground from the opposite direction. A large animal came tearing through the trees. A scream rose in her throat as the creature burst onto the road, charging straight at her.
She recognized the Fenchurches’ Irish wolfhound, though the beast looked terrifying with his teeth bared.
“Ranger, no,” she commanded with all the authority she could muster. “Ranger, stop!” She braced herself as the dog leapt into the air.
He landed at her feet, panting eagerly up at her.
Rebecca sagged in relief. “You remember me. Good boy.” She petted his wiry head, which reached higher than her waist.
A moment later, Ranger tensed, low growl at the back of his throat. He sprang into motion, kicking dirt onto her skirt as he loped away down the road. In pursuit of what? Or whom?
Rebecca strode briskly on her way, now and again glancing nervously over her shoulder.
She passed through the tall hedge and saw the welcome glowof candlelight twinkling from the windows of the underkeeper’s lodge. Her spirits lifted at the sight.
She knocked and let herself in.
Rose looked up from her mending with pleasure. “Ah, Miss Rebecca. You’re out late.”
“Yes, I...” She turned to the window and stared out. “I heard someone in the wood. I think he may have been following me.”
“Who?”
“I did not see. Are you expecting anyone?”
“No.”
Rebecca knew it wasn’t someone simply passing through, as the road led only to the lodge and to the Wilfords’ parkland and hunting ground beyond. There was not a farm or cottage for miles.
Rebecca tried to shrug it off. “Probably someone from the estate, then.”
“At this time of day?” Rose said. “I doubt it. More likely that vile Leo Stoker. He’s taken to meeting John in the wood since I made it clear he wasn’t welcome here. He supplies your brother with smuggled liquor and those little brown bottles. I don’t mean to speak out of turn, but you have a right to know where all the money goes.”
Rebecca frowned. “The newspapers describe how terribly addictive opium is. Does he not realize?”
“He says, ‘It’s only laudanum. Doctors prescribe it all the time, so don’t act so scandalized.’”
“What does he think laudanum is?” Rebecca protested. “A mixture of opium and alcohol!”
“I know.” Rose sighed heavily and shook her head. “I wish John would tell Leo Stoker to take his foul stuff and never come back. Indeed I do.” The older woman looked at her inconcern. “You don’t think Leo or whoever followed you wished you harm, surely?”
“Probably not,” Rebecca admitted. “Though whoever it was certainly frightened me. Thankfully Ranger came along—the Fenchurches’ dog? He ran down the road and probably scared off whoever was there.”
“Good.”
Rebecca studied Rose’s careworn face, noticing how much she had aged in the last few years.
Rebecca sat down near her and said, “I know it has not been easy for you, caring for this place and for John. A thankless task, I imagine.”
“Only when you’re not here.” Rose raised a palm. “No criticism intended. Your allowance and having one less to feed here have helped, I can’t deny.”
Even so, regret weighed down Rebecca’s soul. “Is John at least ... civil ... toward you?”
