“Thee can mock, Mrs, but him were born midnight Midsummer. Some with the gift don’t learn naught living in the city, but himself spent his boyhood here.”
“With his parents?”
“Bah, the old duke and duchess didn’t care for their bantlings and the young lord was as feral as a fox, roaming the estate and sleeping in the forest. Least I and the housekeeper back then could do was teach him the country ways so he’d come to no harm.”
Hebe gawked, could never imagine the urbane nobleman she knew from London sleeping wild, but then she’d never thought to see him lifting that scruffy white goat’s foot for inspection either after it had limped towards him – which was what he was now doing.
The goat nibbled his hair and chuckling, Lord Ernest ruffled its shaggy coat and pinched a thorn from between its toes.
Unlike most petticoat-led men she’d encountered who were languid and practised in their charm and flattery, this one was so carefree and natural, especially as he caught her eye and smiled, hair damp and tousled, silver-framed spectacles skew-whiff – the ones she’d come to realise he solely wore when engaged in stable toil.
That goat tottered towards her, no hitch to its gait, its haunting eyes daring her to glance up and return his master’s smile.
Perhaps she could.
Such a smile she’d not dared to bestow upon a handsome gentleman for years. Not since Tobias Locke had politely requested an introduction to her at a musical soiree, an act she now knew had been just that – a practised performance of compliments and attention in order to lure a naïve girl with a golden dowry.
Hebe rubbed her upper arms. “Lord Ernest is a different gentleman when in London.”
“Ah, I know what thee are talking of, lass.” He turned to her and winked. “Them stories travel here too, and I don’t make excuses for the lad, but him were ignored for so long when young, I imagine he soaked up the attention like a sheep’s fleece does the warmth of March.”
Hebe was unsure whether she wished to hear such talk. “Well…” She rose and brushed down her skirts, “I might attempt this maze.”
“Aye, lass. Best of luck to thee.”
“Any advice for not getting lost?”
Mr Grampy Tom dipped his head. “Keep the sun on thine back and the crows to thine front and all will be well.”
Splendid. How hard could a maze be?
THE SUN BEAMEDupon Hebe’s face and a crow hopped on the hedge to the back of her, malevolent eyes glowering.
She was lost.
Hopelessly lost.
Forever Hebe had adored the thought of these intricate grass paths lined with hedge, read about the ancient Hampton Court puzzle maze and dreamed of losing herself in their playful opulence.
The reality was somewhat more fearsome.
Oh she had commenced in a buoyant mood, wandering down paths and peering down the corridors of green, guessing at her direction. Yet every route had become a blind alley, and no matter where she headed, the sun would not stay to her back, the hedges twisting her away.
This damnable maze wasn’t even that extensive but the pathways were so narrow, the light of the day barely stretching to the grass, hemming her in. Even cheating had been a failure, her jumps a forlorn waste of effort as the hedges were too high, her boots too flat.
She felt dizzy and disoriented as though walking in circles – which she probably was – and after a while of darting down paths and finding no haven, her dreams of the night hours had inveigled their way to the fore – the maze resembling hallways and her husband’s tormenting game.
Was that a snap of twig?
Hebe paused in her stride, slowed her panicked breathing and squinted up, searching for the beauty of this moment.
Sky as blue as a peacock feather. And surely Lord Ernest was not that far away, inspecting hooves and laughing.
As her harsh breathing eased, she marched on until faced with another choice of direction.
Right.
And she continued, only for the path to lead to one more.
