She stepped inside and felt about.
It was just a small hut, she discovered. But it had some furniture in it. Did someone live here? If so, perhaps they would come home soon and tell her which way to go. Perhaps they would not be evil people but would be kind. There were not really evil people or witches, were there?
She was still sobbing aloud. She was still consumed by terror. She was still trying to be sensible.
“Please come home,” she sobbed to the unknown owners of the little hut. “Please come home.Please!”
She could feel a bed covered with blankets. She lay down on top of them and curled up into a ball, one fist stuffed against her mouth.
“Papa,” she wailed. “Papa. Miss Martin. Papa.”
Horace jumped up beside her and whined and licked her face.
“Papa.”
Eventually she slept.
18
Joseph sat in the drawing room at Alvesley for all of half an hour,conversing with Portia, Wilma and George, and the Vreemonts, cousins of Kit’s. It was admittedly cooler indoors and a great deal quieter, but he was annoyed nonetheless.
For one thing, Portia said nothing about feeling faint from the heat and looked a little surprised when he asked solicitously about her health. It had all been Wilma’s little ruse, of course, to draw him away. She would have considered it his duty to pay more attention to his betrothed despite the fact that the whole entertainment had been planned for the children and most of the other adults were exerting themselves to amuse them.
For another thing, he had had to break his promise to take Lizzie for a boat ride. He would do it as soon as they returned, but even so he was powerfully reminded that she was always going to have to take second place to his legitimate family, to be fitted in for his attention whenever they did not need him.
For a third thing, he had felt like planting McLeith a facer when he had taken Claudia Martin walking. The man was going to wear down her resistance and persuade her to marry him—which conclusion ought to have made Joseph rejoice. It seemed to him more and more as he thought of it that she yearned for love and marriage and a marital home despite all she said about being happy with her school and her lonely existence as its headmistress.
But he had wanted to plant McLeith a facer.
They made their way back to the picnic site eventually. He was going to take Lizzie boating as soon as possible. It would not seem strange that he do so—a number of the other adults had been entertaining her, making sure that she was involved with various activities and was enjoying herself.
But just as they were approaching the picnic site and he was looking eagerly about for his daughter, a voice spoke loudly above all the hubbub of other voices—it was the strident voice of a schoolmistress accustomed to making herself heard above a tumult of schoolgirl chatter.
“Where is Lizzie?” Miss Martin wanted to know.
She was getting up from a chair beside McLeith’s, Joseph could see.
He was instantly more alert.
“Where is Lizzie?”
Her voice was louder now, less controlled, more panicked.
“Good God!” he exclaimed, pulling his arm free of Portia’s and hurrying forward. “Where is she?”
A hasty glance around failed to find her. So did another.
Everyone had been alerted by the cry, and everyone was looking around and speaking.
“She is playing circle games with Christine.”
“That was ages ago.”
“She is with Susanna and the baby.”
“No, she is not. That was some time ago. I had to go and feed Harry.”
“Perhaps she went for a ride in a boat.”
