CHAPTER 2
THE DOWNS
Simon rode down the hill on the sheep path Elinor and Cecilia had followed up to the meadow. He went to fetch Squire Inglewood, the magistrate, and Dr. Patterson on the extremely slim hope—voiced by his wife—that Mrs. Jones somehow remained alive.
James stayed by the cliff, studying the area for a way to descend to the bottom.
The women attended to the needs of their children, then hurriedly packed up the picnic and the pony cart. Neither talking, both women caught up in their thoughts of Mrs. Jones.
Charlotte looked tired again, so Elinor settled her lying down in the back of the cart, and Cecilia laid Hugh beside her. Hopefully, both children would sleep until they could take them home; otherwise, the rough trail could produce cranky children.
Cecilia couldn’t stop thinking about the broken cameo brooch. Charlotte had found it on the other side of the meadow from the escarpment where Mrs. Jones had fallen.
If it had been a fall.
She pushed that thought ruthlessly out of her mind. Unfortunately, she had been involved in investigating too many murders over the past two years, since she’d met and married SirJames. She did not need another murder so close to home. And, unlike Elinor, she did not hold out the hope that Mrs. Jones yet lived. She would wait with the others for the magistrate and the doctor to arrive. Time enough for answers.
And yet that part of her drawn to mysteries couldn’t help but wonder…
Had Mrs. Jones come to the meadow alone? If she had, where was her little pony cart and horse? Or had she ridden up, and if so, where was her horse? What had made Mrs. Jones cross from one side of the meadow to the other? Cecilia supposed she could have been searching out the best location for her painting. What time had she come? Had it been dark? Surely not. Who would have been here in the night? Unless they had been hoping to catch sight of fairies dancing in the meadow, she thought sardonically. If it weren’t for the seriousness of the situation, she’d be tempted to dance across the meadow herself, for the wind carried the scent of the wildflowers that danced and swayed before the breeze. The leaves—nature’s chimes—mingled with the songs of birds in the woods. So still, so blessedly normal. Everything about the meadow appeared beautiful and peaceful—if one did not look over the steep cliff edge along the southeast extent of the downs, as James now did.
She saw him sit down on a rock that rose out of the edge of the meadow. He took off one boot, then started to take off the other as Cecilia ran toward him.
“James! What are you doing?”
James lookedup to see his wife running toward him. “I see a way to safely climb down the cliff to where she is,” he said in his typical unemotional tone, which he’d mastered in the midst ofchaos during the Peninsular War. Rising to his stockinged feet, he removed his jacket and handed it to Cecilia.
He could tell Cecilia wanted to protest, but she knew him too well to do so. Her pale pink lips compressed to a thin line. “Best wear your leather riding gloves” was all she said, digging them out of his jacket pocket and holding them out to him.
James saw the fear in her eyes, and his lips curled into a gentle smile. He leaned in to give her a kiss as he took the proffered gloves. “You are ever my treasure,” he murmured.
Her lips quirked at the corners for all that remained unsaid.
He walked over to the edge of the cliff and squatted near the edge, studying the cliff face. Satisfied as to the best location to work his way down, he rolled up his sleeves, then turned around and carefully eased over the edge, his stockinged feet catching on clumps of dirt and occasional rocks. He would come down a few feet to the left of where Mrs. Jones lay, but believed he could make his way over to her.
He saw Cecilia step closer to the cliff to watch him. “Stay away from the edge, Cecilia. No telling what area might give way next,” he said to her before turning his attention away from her and to the dangers of his descent.
Chalk rubbed against him, pieces breaking off to roll down the cliff face or to deposit streaks of the fine white dust upon his person. Soon, his eyes scratched, and grit filled his mouth and nose. He didn’t know which felt worse, breathing through his mouth or his nose.
With each handhold and foothold he secured, he felt his body slide to the next.
His right foot slipped off its toehold, his leather-clad fingertips clinging tight to their holds, his arms aching with the strain of holding his own weight. The feeling reminded him of the horror of the Battle of Badajoz.
His toes finally found another ledge, this time a jutting rock he could trust. He pushed against it as his arms found closer handholds and his left foot followed to the small ledge that had halted Mrs. Jones’ fall.
He relaxed slightly, allowing himself to take a deep breath. He was now even with Mrs. Jones. He worked his way slowly left toward her.
He glanced down into the ravine below. She’d landed on the narrow ledge on a small bit of rocks and chalk where chalk grasses grew in clumps. The clumps of grasses held the cliffside in place, while another ten to fifteen feet extended the drop to the bottom of the cliff.
James eased his way closer, finding a spot on the narrow outcropping that would support him without his hanging on the wall. He used his teeth to aid in removing his leather glove on his left hand. He reached over to gently touch her neck. A faint, fluttering beat surprised him.
She was alive!
“Mrs. Jones,” he said urgently. “Can you hear me?”
There was a quiet moan from the woman.
James felt his heart begin to race as her eyes fluttered open to slits. Her fingers curled into claws, catching at the sleeve of his shirt. Her tongue slightly touched her lips. “Wa…wa…”
