With the riding crop tucked under her arm, she left by the servant’s door and passed through the door in the walled kitchen garden to cross the gravel drive to the stable mews. She held a finger to her lips and the groom, Simon, chuckled. “Looks like snow, Miss Hetty.” The big, fair-haired man fetched The General from his box. Hetty trusted Simon with her secret. She would trust him with her life if it should come to that.
Simon led the chestnut out and put her father’s saddle on him. The General whinnied and dug at the ground with a hoof, eager for a canter. Hetty patted his nose. “You don’t mind a bit of snow, do you, fellow?”
“The General will be glad of some exercise, and knowing you ride like the very devil, I daresay you’ll return before the weather turns.”
She grinned. “I’ll be back in time for tea, Simon. Rest assured.”
If only her father had such confidence in her on horseback. Since a fall from a horse had caused her mother’s death in India, he insisted she ride the small mare he’d purchased for her. She adjusted her seat on the saddle which was more comfortable than the sidesaddle. And safer.
Hetty rode past the cream-colored walls of the thatched manor house, its barren garden in winter slumber. The General sailed easily over the gate, and they continued down the lane. Simon was right. Ominous gray clouds edged with silver piled up on the horizon, and there was a hint of snow in the air.
Confident that the snow storm was hours away, Hetty took her usual route across country where she was less likely to be seen. The General knew the way, taking the right fork with little urging. They always enjoyed a gallop along the straight road to the first bend in the narrow country lane. The General obliged, his powerful legs lengthening his stride.
Hetty threw her head back and laughed out loud. How good it was to have the sleek and elegant thoroughbred, carrying her swiftly over the ground. To be free with the brisk breeze washing away the sluggish disposition that overtook her when she was too long in the house.
Her rides had been curtailed after her father began to attend to business by correspondence. But a matter with Lloyds needed to be dealt with in person and demanded his presence in London.
At the thought of Aunt Emily’s intriguing poetry recitals and her neat townhouse, which was just a stroll from Hyde Park, Hetty huffed a regretful sigh. So close to museums, art galleries, and shops, indeed, all that London had to offer.
The General cantered over a meadow, drawing glances from cows chewing the cud, and splashed through a shallow stream.
Her father purchased the farm, Malforth Manor, set on twenty-five acres, for his retirement. He enjoyed the quiet country life, while Hetty, at seventeen years old, was ready to tackle the world. Five years had passed since they’d returned from India, each more uneventful than the last. The one bright spot in her life was when her godfather, Eustace Fennimore, came to dinner and regaled them with stories of London life. But that only made her more restless. A very popular man, revered in local society, Eustace was a close friend of her father’s. For a time, they were in the same regiment in India.
Her mother’s death affected her father very deeply. It seemed to Hetty inadvisable to depend on another human being so completely for your happiness that one was devastated when that person was no longer there.
To relieve the boredom of living in Digswell, she’d taken to writing poetry. She still clung to the hope she might one day live like Aunt Emily and become a renown poetess.
Above her, a sparrow hawk making lazy circles in the sky suddenly swooped on its prey. Hetty rode on, composing her latest poem. She quoted a few lines aloud. The General pricked up his ears. “What do you think, Gen? Needs work, doesn’t it.”
An hour passed before she turned the horse toward home. Distracted by her thoughts, she’d ridden farther than she intended. The storm bank began moving swiftly with a fierce wind behind it. Forced to take the village road, she urged The General into a gallop.
Malforth Manor was still some miles away. She would be lucky to reach home before the storm hit. She eased the horse into a trot as they approached a sharp bend in the road, the way ahead hidden by a stand of elms.
Once around the corner, Hetty gasped and reined in her horse.
A man lay sprawled on the road.
Highwaymen tried this ruse she’d heard. She edged her horse closer and made a quick search of the landscape. A horse disappeared over a hill with its reins trailing. An accident then. Hetty dismounted but still approached the man with caution.
A gentleman. Beneath the open folds of his multi-caped greatcoat the brown coat revealed the skill of the tailor and the cream, double-breasted waistcoat looked to be of fine silk. Tight-fitting, buff-colored, suede pantaloons encased his long legs. His mud-splattered top boots showed evidence of loving care.
Barely a leaf stirred. It was oddly still, and the air seemed hushed and quiet as death before the coming storm. It matched her mood as she stood wondering what to do about the problem before her.
He moaned.
Hetty squatted beside him. “Are you all right, sir?”
When he failed to answer, she seized one broad, hard shoulder and attempted to roll him onto his back. Blood tricked from a nasty gash over his forehead and into his dark hair.
“Can you hear me, sir?”
His eyelids fluttered.
She shouldn’t stare at him while he remained unconscious, but she couldn’t draw her eyes away. His dark looks reminded her of a painting she’d seen of Lord Byron. More rugged perhaps, but an undeniably handsome face, his olive skin more tanned than one usually saw in an English winter. A hint of shadow darkened his strong jaw. She gingerly picked up his wrist and peeled back the suede leather glove, relieved that his pulse was strong. An expensive gold watch swung from its chain having escaped his pocket. Not robbed then. It was likely that he’d hit his head on a tree branch and knocked himself unconscious. But how did he come to be on the road?
A gust of chill wind caused a shiver, forcing her to take note of the sky. Ash-gray snow clouds hovered overhead. “I have to move you, sir.”
Hetty stood and looked around. The road ran along the boundary of the Fortescue estate. There was a small hut over the hill among the trees, used for storage and hunting. She used to peer inside when she roamed the woods, but she hadn’t been there for years and had no idea what state it was in now. The first icy flurries of snow drifted down, sending a shaft of urgency through her. What to do? Her godfather, Eustace, spent part of the year in the Fortescue mansion, Rosecroft Manor, but that was miles away.
