“Damn dog came out of nowhere!” the man muttered, guiding the horse through the brush where he had been hiding. He was more irritated at having his reconnaissance disrupted than anything else, having grown comfortable living in the cottage and snooping around the estates, unable to ignore the strange sense of familiarity.
The dog had been on his tail since he had borrowed the horse. Standing hidden behind the gate, he had watched the swell arrive with flowers. Twenty minutes later, he had barely found a hiding spot before he spotted the golden-haired woman and the swell leave on their horses with a small party of servants and the man’s coach. Mulling over how to follow them unseen, he almost missed seeing the small dog come running out of the kitchen door moments after the small party had left on their horses.
Having eluded the footman who ran after him, the white dog began sniffing around the stable yard like a bloodhound, until he stood at the man’s feet, behind the mulberry bush at the corner of the barn. The dog gave a piercing bark. “Shoo,” the man hissed, and stomped his booted foot for emphasis. But the dog merely eyed him curiously.If I don’t do something, he is going to draw attention.
His familiarity with dogs was limited, but he recognized this one seemed to want his attention. Repeatedly, the dog sniffed his leg, jumped up, barked, and ran back and forth, as if trying to tell him something. “Go away,” he hissed, but frustratingly, the dog ignored him. “Scram!” he murmured more loudly, to no avail. Luckily, none of the stable hands were nearby to hear him.
The only dog he had ever known was Bowser, an old black dog that had followed him around the country barn when he was growing up in Cornwall. Bowser had been his constant companion—his only companion. On the coast, the distance between homes was substantive, and he had rarely left the house. There had been no children to play with, so he had pretended the animals were his friends. As a result, there was a lot of crying when one was sold off or killed for food. He would cry and his mother would yell. The housekeeper-cook would prepare biscuits or another special treat for him, as her way to soothe his pain. He enjoyed the biscuits, but he missed his pets.
When Bowser died, his . . . the woman had refused to get another dog unless one magically took up in the barn, so he had pretended Bowser hadn’t died. He had talked to the old dog when he was lonely and played hide and seek with him.
Grabbing the horse he had set his sights on, he mounted and tried to ride off, only to have the dog follow. Skirting off to an area near some brush, he tried to shake the dog. But when he no longer saw it, he turned back and was concerned to find the dog mired in a muddy bog. It was his fault, and he couldn’t leave the golden-haired woman’s pet in the bog to die. He had to help.
Grabbing a piece of rope he found in the saddlebag, he made a lasso and threw it over the struggling animal, pulling it to the edge before sliding from the horse and scooping it up. He had heard her call the dog Chase and tried the name out, amazed when the dog responded with a lick on his chin. Holding the dog close, he felt it calm down and felt an uncomfortable twinge of jealousy that the woman would have what he had always craved—a dog—something that would have kept him from being alone all his life.
He followed the horses at a distance and watched the man and woman enter a large brown tent, where servants scurried in and out, pulling things from a wagon. The ruins looked familiar. He wanted to step forward and make himself known, maybe share in the meal, but fear of rejection kept him hidden. Instead, he slid behind a wall and walked to the horse he had borrowed to follow her. From the moment he had seen her at the stream with her dog, he had become obsessed with knowing everything about her and spent his days going between the adjoining country estates, unnoticed. Watching.
And he had every intention of dropping the dog off safely at her house when he returned the horse, but the energetic dog spotted the woman and squirmed away from him, running toward the tent. Afraid he’d be seen, he urged his mount on, quickly. As he headed back to the stable, a vision of the woman who had called herself his mother flashed in front of him. “I don’t want to think about her,” he said out loud. “Dying did me no favors, Mum. When you died, you took my world with you. I have no one now . . . nothing!”
Her dying breath had told him it had all been a lie. She made him promise to find Mrs. Crustin in Crawley, but never told him who Mrs. Crustin was—or how to find her in Crawley. “She will know what to do. Mrs. Crustin will help you,” she said.
“I loved you, Ben.” She inhaled a strangled breath. “You will always be my little boy. You have been happy, haven’t you, Ben?”
Shocked and wordless, he stood next to the bed, streaming angry tears as he watched his mother draw her last breath. He cried for her and for the dreams he had had as a child, the dreams that had once felt real. His world had fallen apart again.
Ben thought through everything she had ever told him—that he could remember—on the trip from Cornwall to Crawley, unsure of why he was doing this. He was a man and needed to find his way now. He no longer needed to take care of a sick parent. She hadn’t been making much sense those last days, but she was gone. The ache in his heart lessened a little each day. He would join the navy as he had always wanted. But first, he would do as she bid—one last request.Then I can start my life, he thought. He had made sure his mother had a proper burial. He had gifted his home and its contents to the housekeeper that had helped care for him all these years.
His mother had raised most of their food; so, living isolated like this came naturally to him.I have no home. And I do not know who Mrs. Crustin is, or what she will tell me. And I won’t until I leave the cottage. Maybe soon.It had been too easy to become comfortable here.
He looked over his shoulder and saw the diminutive dog lead two riders in the bog's direction, and urged his horse forward. Getting caught spying would not be helpful, and they would never consider him for the navy. He needed to leave herebefore anyone saw him.
* * *
Michael’s horse settled into a slow walk alongside Isabelle’s as he listened to her conversation with her dog. Chase ran beside Isabelle, intently sniffing the ground and keeping out of the way of the horses.
She looked over at him with a sly smile. “He has a tremendous sense of smell,” she said with pride. “He is taking us somewhere, with a purpose. Chase is an excellent communicator.”
“There’s a wet bog area, up ahead. That would explain the mud on him. Why would he have come that way?” Michael said, scanning the area. He recalled that her father’s property and his joined a couple of miles from here, near the stream where he had been fishing earlier in the week.
Michael studied the ground where the dog was nosing furiously around some trampled low grasses. Chase gave a sharp bark, drawing Michael’s notice to a faint set of horse tracks alongside what looked like a man’s boot tracks.Had someone rescued the dog from the mud?That could explain the tracks and Chase’s fascination with this spot. “Do you think he is telling us something?” he asked in an amused tone, noticing Isabelle had also seen the tracks. If he recalled correctly, a vacant gamekeeper’s cottage sat not far from the stream where he had been fishing earlier in the week, which would be in the direction the horse tracks seemed to have been coming from. Filling the position of gamekeeper was on his list of things he hadn’t attended to yet. His man of business had mentioned it at their last meeting. It would probably be a good idea to fill that role as quickly as possible.
“What do you make of these tracks?” she asked, warily. “I wonder if Chase has been trying to show them to us.”
“He’s a smart little man, to be sure. And he seemed intent on getting us here.” He turned and signaled for Peter to come forward.
“Yes, Your Grace,” the footman said, pulling his horse up to Michael’s and Isabelle’s.
“Peter, would you mind handing Chase up to me? I think it is time to put him in my satchel,” she said before turning to Michael. “I’m sorry. You had motioned for Peter. Sometimes I speak without thinking.” She kept her voice just above a whisper and nervously nibbled her bottom lip.
Peter walked to his horse and removed a leather satchel, which he handed to his mistress, before securing the straps to the horse’s saddle. Gently, he lifted Chase and handed the dog to its mistress, who deftly secured him in the satchel harness.
She’s got gumption, Michael thought, admiring the small pet carrier. “That’s an unusual satchel. It has a small harness on it. Is that the one you told me about earlier?”
A smile flickered across her lips. “Papa felt Chase would be more comfortable if he could see where he was going, so he sketched this bag and had it made for me. Strapped to the right side of the horse, it gives him a great vantage point. Chase thinks he’s King Tut,” she said impishly.
Michael smiled, taking in her playful expression. “I’m impressed with your father’s ingenuity. You mentioned before that he designed it, but I could not imagine it. It is a brilliant design. I daresay he could market those! When I was growing up, my mother had a pug, and she would have found that useful. Aristotle loved the outdoors, and my mother loved riding. I’ve no doubt she would have taken him everywhere.”
“I seem to recall my mother mentioning that she and your mother rode horses together, often very early in the morning—and preferred to ride astride.” She giggled. “Mother is still an avid rider. She taught me to ride.”
