Page 24

“Let us take the northern track through the woods to the moors, so we may see the blooming heather.” In addition, the path ascended to one of the highest peaks in Pemberley, offering views of the River Wye.

“As you wish.”

When we emerged from the cover of the trees, I craned my neck to obtain a panorama, but I did not descry any sign of Rollo or Rachel.

“Are you searching for our feathered friends?”

I glanced at him. “Yes, it seems strange now for us not to spy at least one of them.”

“No doubt their hungry nestlings keep them busy.”

“Yes, you are correct.”

“Perhaps today you will agree to ride out on horseback with me.”

Fie. In truth, he had been very patient with me. In the past, I used a myriad of excuses to put off the activity. But it would not do to procrastinate any longer.

Fitzwilliam met my gaze. “What say you? Shall we take the horses out this afternoon?”

“Very well.”

He rewarded my agreement with a winsome smile. My fear of riding stemmed from a rather cantankerous gelding of my father’s. The cranky creature had bit me on several occasions, and often made frightful, sudden moves when I rode him with the apparent design of unseating me. After one such fall, in which I came away with painful bruises but no broken bones, I refused to ever mount the beast again. Fitzwilliam kept a far superior stable of horses at Pemberley, and he had chosen a pretty sorrel mare for me, aptly named Penny. He averred she would never misbehave or try to harm me.

“I believe Rollo is coming this way.” My husband pointed above us to the left, where a black bird hurtled in our direction. Upon reaching us, he flew in a figure of eight shape and released several shrill caws.

“Good day, Rollo.” I gazed up and followed his movements. Why had he not greeted us with one of his usual calls? “He seems odd today, does he not?”

“Yes, I think so too.”

Rollo swooped in front of us. “Caw, Caw, Caw!”

Fitzwilliam’s brow constricted. “What is it, Rollo?”

Rollo swooped before us, then soared above our heads in the direction from which we had come. He repeated his shrill calls, flying in a circle.

I pulled on my husband’s arm. “He wants us to follow.”

“It seems so.”

We turned round and Rollo led us back into the shady woodland. After a quarter of a mile or so, he left the path. We wended our way through the brush to where he flew to the ground under an ash tree beside a prone form.

“Good God.” My husband spoke under his breath. “It is a woman!”

“Oh dear.” I released Fitzwilliam’s arm and we rushed to her. She lay on her back, but her loose, light-brown hair covered her face. The drab pelisse she wore identified her as a servant or perhaps a shop woman, and the fabric of her dress bore dirt and several tears. Based upon the state of her clothing, she might have been travelling in them for days or weeks.

My husband felt her wrist. “There is a pulse.”

“Thank goodness!”

Fitzwilliam moved the unkempt tresses from her face. “I do not believe I have seen her before. Do you recognise her?”

My sight lingered upon her unfamiliar countenance. I guessed her to be of an age with me. She had an unremarkable, yet pleasant, appearance. “No. In any case, we must get her to the house.”

“Yes, of course.” Fitzwilliam spared a glance to Rollo, who sat with his head cocked, observing us. “Thank you, friend. You may have saved this woman’s life.” He gathered her into his arms, taking care not to jar her. I spotted a home-made, canvas reticule a few feet away and picked it up.

When we neared the house, my husband called out to our head gardener. “Send one of the men to summon the surgeon.”

“Yes, sir!” He set down his hoe and hied to the stables.