Agnes tsked in irritation. ‘That’s the problem. I’ve no deuced idea where the deceitful toad is to ask him.’
∞∞∞
Victoria Huxley stared at herself through the dressing table mirror. Sometimes she fancied that the image was anotherhertrapped in some alternate world. Reaching out, she touched the cool glass. Why she should have this sense that she was somehow incomplete, she couldn’t even begin to fathom, but the feeling had plagued her for as long as she could remember.
Drawing her hand back, she lifted it to her face, and used the tip of her fingers to trace the shape of her features, watching as her reflection mirrored her actions.
Occasionally, she actually wondered whether she might be losing her mind, but Grandfather dismissed her fears with a wave of his hand, stating only that she clearly took after her mother. ‘Always flighty, that one,’ he’d declared as though that explained everything. In truth, she didn’t think Grandfather cared one way or the other. Out of sight was out of mind as far as he was concerned. And since her suite of rooms were right at the top of the house with only one way in and one way out, she was most definitely out of sight.
Oh, she was allowed out of her rooms every now and again, or rather wheeled out when there was someone Grandfather needed to show her to. As long as she remained biddable, of course. She suspected he would just as soon confine her to her suite and throw away the key if she refused to play along.
But sometimes, she just wished she knew what the game was.
∞∞∞
Unfortunately, by the time Reverend Shackleford reached the vicarage with the good news that Mrs. Morton was not in fact about to kick the bucket, Agnes had worked herself up into a high old dudgeon. Percy, the traitorous ingrate had evidently abandoned him at the first whiff of trouble which had resulted in Agnes spending the last hour ringing a fine peal over his head.
Still, the Reverend was able to block out a large portion of the curtain lecture, in part because so much of it was repeated - specifically the words beetle-brained which she used to great effect with varmint, bounder and scoundrel - but mostly because he was entirely preoccupied with the thought of her reaction once she got to the part where she thought to ask where he’d actually gone.
He did wonder whether he’d get away with another plumper, but considering the severity of the situation, decided he would be better coming clean about the whole havey cavey business.
So he waited until she finally stopped to draw breath and suddenly thought to ask the question.
‘The thing is, my dove…’
The Reverend paused as she held up her hand. ‘Don’t you “my dove”me, Augustus Shackleford and if you eventhinkof feeding me another Canterbury tale…’ she trailed off, leaving the rest of the sentence to his imagination.
Reverend Shackleford gave an injured sigh and sat down. ‘You know that lad Anthony brought home? The one with the swollen ankle? Name of George?’ Agnes frowned and opened her mouth to speak, but before she got the chance, he added, ‘Well, to cut a long story short, much to Anthony’s surprise, young George turned out to be young Georgiana…’
∞∞∞
By the next morning George declared she was done with worrying. Tucking into her breakfast, she loftily informed Anthony that a healthy dose of caution was one thing, but only a chucklehead would remain cowering in their bed all day.
She’d come to this conclusion around three a.m. Still awake and awash withwhat ifsand fear, she’d suddenly sat up and announced to Nelson thatenough was enough. She had a roof over her head and food in her belly. For now, that was all she needed. If whoever was looking for her managed to discover her whereabouts, then she’d deal with that when the time came. She still had her coins and two bloody working legs. If she needed to run, that’s exactly what she’d do.
Privately she also concluded that dangling after a man who could never be hers was entirely totty headed. Though, whilst that was perfectly true, it wasn’t quite as easily put aside.
‘I need to take the cart into Little Bovey this morning to acquire some more nails and wood for the panelling,’ Anthony decided. If he was surprised at her sudden change of heart, he didn’t say so. ‘Does your newly discovered boldness extend to coming with me?’ When she hesitated, he added, ‘The fresh air will do you good.’
‘Fresh air ain’t never done me no good up to now,’ she grumbled, climbing to her feet.
‘Hasn’t everdone youanygood’Anthony corrected, adding, ‘I’m persuaded the air you were accustomed to breathing when you lived with the Grimms was the very opposite offresh.’
‘’Specially wi’ the public bog house jus’ up the road,’ grinned George, laughing out loud at his appalled expression.
‘Too ‘igh in the instep to talk about shit are we?’ she poked fun at him. ‘An’ talkin’ o’ necessaries, you goin’ to ‘ave a water closet in the ‘ouse? You’ll be freezing yer baubles off come winter otherwise.’
Anthony winced and sighed as he followed her through the kitchen door, Nelson dancing between them. ‘Please refrain from talking about baubles – or any other part of a man’s anatomy in public,’ he remonstrated her. ‘It’s enough that I have to listen to your revolting prittle prattle.’
In answer, she laughed even louder and took off towards the stable at a run, the dog at her heels. Following more slowly, Anthony watched her disappear round the corner, before allowing himself to laugh. Despite her vulgarity, George was the funniest person he’d ever met. He could only hope that the acquisition of good manners did not come at the price of her spiritedness.
Chapter Thirteen
By the time they reached Little Bovey half an hour later, the blue sky was slowly disappearing behind ever darkening clouds. ‘We’re well overdue for some rain,’ Anthony muttered, eying the encroaching greyness apprehensively, ‘I’d better get a move on if we’re going to avoid a drenching.’ Climbing down from the cart, he told George not to venture far from the horse and cart.
Jumping down, George wandered curiously around the small village green with its tiny, thatched cottages and pond. An inn completed the idyllic scene, though a closer inspection revealed the hostelry was overdue a lick of paint. Idly, she picked up a stick and threw it for Nelson, just as she heard the first faint rumble of thunder.
The mongrel’s ears immediately flattened to his head, and he scampered over to her, the stick forgotten. George looked uneasily up at the sky. The clouds to the west were almost black. There was an ominous flash, and the thunder came again, this time a little louder. Nelson whimpered at her feet, and she bent down to lift him into her arms. ‘Baby,’ she admonished looking round for any sign of her employer.
