Chapter Thirty-Five
David and Robwoke in the faint light before dawn, swallowed the remains of the earl’s stores, and rode on quietly, neither commenting on the new sense of brotherhood enriching their shared determination. The sun spread a sliver of light over a hill before them and to their right. From his perch atop it, Gibbons signaled, and they urged their mounts to a gallop.
*
At Willowbrook, Lucypaced, pen in hand, to peer out the front windows. Goodfellow, her ever-present shadow, leapt to his feet and watched her, aware by now that even her beloved ledgers couldn’t keep her anchored in the study. Goodfellow had assured her Rob would follow when the two of them were banished to Willowbrook. She waited up that night, but Rob didn’t come. Maddy’s note telling her that the two men had ridden off to join Gibbons didn’t arrive until the following morning, and Lucy had fallen asleep in the drawing room, waiting fruitlessly.
Soon after the message, Ellis Corbin and folks from Ashmead arrived to carry off poor Robbins’s body to the church. The vicar sent word the burial could wait a few days but no longer. That distraction faded as soon as the wagon carrying Robbins’s body made its way over the newly completed bridge, and her fears resurged.
Two days passed with no word, and Lucy’s nerves were frayed beyond repair. She spun around to face her bodyguard, watching her from the other side of the foyer. “I’m going to ride over to Clarion Hall with you or without you. There must be news by now. If they’ve heard nothing, I’ll retreat to the dower house. At least then, I’ll have Lady Madelyn’s company. I’m going. You can follow if you insist.” He did.
Lady Madelyn, as it turned out, met her at the hall. “Still no word,” she said.
“I hope those miserable villains didn’t escape,” Lucy breathed. “I don’t understand what the countess had to do with the threats, but she—”
The duchess’s face fell, a sheen of moisture covered her green eyes.
“I’m sorry, Maddy. She may be your mother, but this has to end.”
Lucy’s friend dropped her eyes and gestured toward the formal drawing room. “Come. Let’s have tea.”
A feeble smile rose to Lucy’s lips. “Tea. England’s cure for all ills.”
“Corporal Goodfellow, the chair by the door can’t offer comfort for a man like you. Please take your ease in the kitchen. It is warm, the seats are more substantial, and there is food to be had. Miss Whitaker will be safe enough here,” Maddy said.
“Thank you, Your Grace, but I’ll make myself comfortable here by the door.” He took the footman’s chair.
When the tea cart arrived, Lucy picked up a plate of biscuits and carried it to the door while the duchess poured. “You may at least eat to keep up your strength,” she said, offering it to Goodfellow.
The corporal grinned at her. “Thank you, Miss. I’m plenty strong, but I won’t say no to that sugar biscuit.
Maddy had placed the tea things on a table in front of two chairs subtly arranged to face windows that opened on the front of the manor. Lucy took her seat, fussed with her skirts, and sank into the lush upholstery. For a few moments, the ladies drew comfort from the tea and one another.
“What did you do yesterday to stay sane?” Maddy asked.
Lucy described the sad little caravan from Ashmead. “After that, I tried to keep busy. I sent a note to an estate agent in Nottingham outlining my requirements in a cottage.”
Maddy’s cup hit the saucer so hard, Lucy feared it might crack. “Lucy Whitaker, what do you think you’re doing?” Her voice vibrated with outrage.
Lucy’s entire body stiffened with determination. “Planning for my future. With luck, they’ll have put a stop to the threats, and Rob—Sir Robert—can sell Willowbrook. He’ll have no trouble, and it will happen fast. I have to be prepared.”
Maddy’s eyes narrowed. “You can afford this?”
“I believe so,” Lucy said, relaxing slightly. “I have some funds David has been keeping, and, um, Sir Robert promised me the money I set aside as steward’s wages. I’ll have my bees. I’ll manage.”
“Manage?” Maddy asked in disgust. “Is that all you want from life, to manage?”
“I’ll be content, Maddy. Don’t push me. You are content enough to ‘manage.’”
Maddy ignored the jibe. “Have you spoken to Robbie about this—and stop that Sir Robert nonsense with me. I know better.”
Lucy’s heart seemed to spasm, but she stiffened her resolve. “Rob has nothing to say about it. I am not his responsibility, no matter what his male ego dictates.”
Maddy opened her mouth to object, but Lucy stopped her with a glance. “My mind is quite made up, and I am content.”At least I plan to be. “Pass me those biscuits.”
The conversation turned to books. Maddy asked Lucy if she had finished the final volume ofMansfield Park, the most recent title by the author ofSense and Sensibility, one Maddy had loaned her. Lucy had finished it, and discussion of plot twists occupied a happy hour or more. Lucy found the heroine, Fanny Price, a bit too helpless, but Maddy’s insistence that the character did the best she could under her circumstances won her over.
“As to Edmund, are all men that short-sighted?” Lucy sighed.
