Quiet Meg (4 page)

Joe Coachman told her he had been followed on leaving
Selbourne, and that after collecting her the carriage had
also been followed from Bristol, and Meg had no reason to
doubt him. She had fostered some faint hope that after all
this time the Earl of Sutcliffe would have forgotten her. But
the earl’s obsession had become an object in itself, needing
no encouragement from her other than her existence.

Her own life was too dear to her to surrender any more
of it to such a madman. She now believed that if Sutcliffe
trespassed again she would be quick to counter him, in
much the same manner that he had harmed her family, for
the man was proving impenitent.

Meg thought of Douglas Kenney. She had not loved him
years ago. She had liked and respected him, but she had
come to love his memory. He had sacrificed all for her,
bravely and in vain. Meg had corresponded with his mother,
and Lady Kenney’s notes had helped to ease her conscience. Lady Kenney had not blamed her, wisely claiming that no
civilized being could have gauged Sutcliffe’s depravity.
Meg understood it now; she was determined never again to
risk another’s life.

She frowned as she stared out at the passing countryside.
Lucy’s comeout worried her. Others, especially Louisa
and Aunt Prudence, would shepherd Lucy about town; Meg
hoped she herself need appear only at her aunt’s. But she
could not trust that Sutcliffe would leave her family in
peace. Bertie clearly did not trust as much-he had sent
two outriders, armed, to accompany the coach. He had written that the occasional stranger had made too many inquiries
outside Selbourne’s gates; he had relayed that Louisa’s town
house had been broken into and searched. And he had dismissed a housemaid who had not told him her sister worked
for the earl.

Meg knew Sutcliffe would have been stopped long before this had he not been a peer-and had he not been as
wealthy as he was deadly. Though the ton’s sympathies
were with Meg and her family, the privileges of rank were
unquestioned. If the daughter of a commended king’s
counsel should be inconvenienced-that was something
only to remark and regret. Sutcliffe had troubled to leave
the country for some time after Douglas’s death, but he had
not been exiled. He might receive few invitations, but he
would not be dropped. The ton was most estimably tolerant
of its own.

Meg turned to her maid.

“Annie, coachman told me at the break that we have
been followed. I fear the Earl of Sutcliffe may be contemplating mischief again. You might wish to return to your family up north. I would not keep you. Not in these circumstances.”

“I wish to stay, Miss Margaret,” the older woman claimed.
“This earl canna frighten me. I think mayhap he should meet
with an accident.”

“If you stay you must promise me to be cautious. I
know you want to help me, but you do not know Sutcliffe.
He is dangerous. I shouldn’t wish you to come to harm.”

“You must not worry for me, Miss Margaret. ‘Tis enough
to be watching for yourself. But I feel I can help you, and so
I shall stay.”

Meg thanked her and briefly squeezed her hand. She had
not wanted to lose Annie, whom she would trust with her
life, but she felt it fair to warn her.

Shortly before they reached Selboume’s gates, the carriage pulled up sharply as a lone rider galloped past.
Through the carriage windows, Meg glimpsed a dark shape
and a piercing glance from a shadowed face-the rider determining, perhaps, that the occupant was indeed Margaret.
This scout would be informing Sutcliffe that his prey had returned. Despite Meg’s resolve, that impression chilled her.

“Looked like the devil himself with his black coat and
horse,” Annie said.

“‘Tis but a taste of what I fear is in store for us, Annie.
But you must not be so fanciful. Sutcliffe and his henchmen are only men, after all”

“Yes, Miss Margaret. And someday may they all bleed
like men”

Meg could not reprimand her, given that she herself had
contemplated Sutcliffe’s end on more than one occasion.

“We are home, Annie. See the beeches”

The two score of distinctive trees, sporting their light
green April foliage, graced the avenue, their upper branches
meeting in a high arc above the carriage’s path. A morning
rain had darkened their smooth trunks, though the sun now
lent the year’s earliest flickering shade to the roadway.
Meg’s relief was more than physical as she caught sight of
Selbourne’s stone facade. Yet for all its familiarity there
was something different about her home-something that
she could not define. Selbourne looked warmer and more
inviting.

The horses drew into the forecourt, the coach’s wheels
ground finally to a halt in the gravel, the grooms jumped
down to steady the team and open the carriage door. Meg
was aware that activity at the entrance had ceased with the
arrival of the carriage; some groundskeepers had been digging a shallow trench at the yard’s edge, where a mound of
rich brown earth waited to be spread upon a new planting
bed. She noticed several things at once-that at a nod from
a tall man on the drive the others resumed their work, that
the man who had nodded was dressed as a gentleman, and
that sunlight spilled across this front portion of the house,
where it had never before fallen in the afternoon.

Meg stepped down from the coach with the help of an
instantly attentive footman. Once she stood on the gravel
she glanced again at the workmen. The tall gentleman was
looking at her in a manner that would have seemed forward
even for an acquaintance.

He was perhaps ten yards from her. Limned as he was
against the late afternoon sunlight, she could not read the
expression on his face or the color of his eyes, but it was a
handsome face and a direct gaze. His shoulders were broad, his hair shone bronzed blond in the sun. Meg should have
found his fixed regard impertinent. Instead she fought the
impulse to curtsy.

He bowed. The slight, restrained movement broke the
unusual spell he had cast upon her. Meg looked to the steps
up to the door. She had not felt unsteady when she left the
carriage, but she did now. And she realized for that moment
of mutual scrutiny she had been holding her breath. As she
breathed now she could smell the day’s earlier rain and a
freshness that must have been spring itself.

She felt the gentleman’s gaze as she ascended the steps;
she had to will herself not to look to him again, lest she
stumble. And then Bertie was at the door.

“There you are, Meggie!” Bertie grabbed her and kissed
her before she was even over the threshold, then pulled her
into the hall. “Let’s look at you. Why-I do believe you’ve
grown!” They laughed together. It was what their father
used to say to them, whenever he’d been away.

Meg removed her bonnet and traveling cloak and
watched Annie disappear toward the back of the house.

“Father?” she asked with concern, even as Bertie drew
her into the drawing room.

Sir Eustace had been maneuvering his chair toward the
hall. Meg hurried to meet him and kneel by his side.

“I’ve missed you so,” she said, taking one of his broad
hands in both of hers. Once more she felt that regret, that he
would never again be as he had been.

“This has been too long, Margaret. You mustn’t leave
again”

“No, father.” And when she released his hand he ran it
fondly over her hair and cheek.

“Are you well, girl?”

“Yes-I am always well.”

“Let us hope that will always be the case, my dear. And
my sister?”

“Aunt Bitty sends her love. She tells you not to trouble
her further about Grandpapa’s portrait, as she refuses to
trade it for anything you might offer.” Meg rose to her feet
but leaned to kiss her father lightly on the top of his gray
head.

“Not for anything, ha! Elizabeth will rue the day. The
stubborn woman must saw it in two to fit it into that mousetrap of a home in Cheltenham”

“I believe she and Mrs. D-intend to employ it as a
screen between the dining room and the parlor, father. Or
should I say, to create a dining room and a parlor?”

They laughed. But even as quick steps in the hall announced Lucy’s arrival, Meg spared a glance out one window. Two men were still digging by the drive, but the tall
gentleman had disappeared.

As Lucy ran to meet her, Meg opened her arms.

“Oh, Meg! I have so much to tell you! You will never believe all that has happened even since I last wrote! I did see
the Brathwells at the Buxley assembly, though Mary Pickens took all their time to herself, of course. And you will
want to hear the plans for town and see the newest patterns
from Madame Corinne. She has consulted La Belle Assemblee and all the latest ..

“Lucinda,” her father warned, “you must take a breath.”

Meg hugged Lucy. Her sister had grown prettier since
the previous spring; her confidence had grown. Yet she was
still just as much of a chatterbox.

“Lucy, I hope you won’t think ill of me for coming home
just now. You must know I only want you to enjoy town. I
will not burden you”

“Why, Meg! Of course you shan’t burden me. I am
happy you shall be with us. Have I not said so, father?”

Sir Eustace eyed Lucy with a raised eyebrow.

“You were always a good girl, Lucy, but you do carry on.
I cannot believe any young man will long tolerate such unbridled jabber.”

Lucy tossed her blond curls.

“There is only one man who matters, father. The one I
have chosen”

“If you have chosen, daughter, perhaps you can spare us
the expense and inconvenience of town. Why does the young
fool not come speak to me?”

Lucy blushed.

“Well, he … he does not yet know I have decided.”

Bertie shook a finger at Lucy.

“I know what you are thinking, Lucinda Lawrence, and
it’s very bad of you. You’ve been making a nuisance of
yourself. Leave the poor man alone.” He looked at his father. “She’s been pestering Cabot, father.”

“Umph! Mr. Cabot is not for you, Lucinda. Leave him
be. When we get to town you shall find suitors enough.”

“Who is Mr. Cabot?” Meg asked curiously.

“Charles Cabot, the architect,” Bertie said. “I thought I
mentioned him in my last letter?” When Meg shook her
head, he added, “I knew him at university. He is much in
demand-revised the grounds at Hume-Wilcote last fall,
and the Duke of Clare has claim on him come May, for improvements to his estate at Abbey Clare in Kent. Cabot’s
stopping here as a favor.”

“‘Tis an expensive favor, Bertram,” Sir Eustace remarked.

“Oh, stop it, father. You may tease him all you like, but
you know he has worked wonders here. I thought I saw him
out front just before you arrived, Meggie. Let me see if I
can’t tow him in for you.” Bertie stepped swiftly into the
hall.

“I must … I must go change from all my travel dust, father. You mustn’t wait supper. And Lucy, I have a gift for
you from Aunt Bitty.”
“

“You needn’t rush, Margaret,” her father advised as she
moved toward the door. “You know we do not bend to the
hour.”

I have been traveling since five this morning, father. I
confess to some fatigue.” But her shoulders relaxed as Bertie
returned alone.

“Apparently he’s suddenly ridden off somewhere”
Bertie looked puzzled. “I thought we were to ride together
tomorrow morning. Well, no matter. You shall meet him at
supper, Meggie.”

She smiled wanly and excused herself. She could not
have explained her panic. To have that stranger-staying
here. With her family at Selbourne. Sitting down with them
to supper! She had come home to uneasy shelter.

Chas had turned and fled. He had watched her up the
steps, but as soon as Bertram had reached to pull her indoors, Chas had turned abruptly and walked rapidly away.

He had slipped in through the gate to the kitchen garden
and leaned against the cool stonewall, closing his eyes and
listening to his heart pound. Appealing. Appealing! His
grandmother had known how it would be. You must see for
yourself, she had said. And now he was struggling for composure while hiding in the kitchen garden.

Even that had been a poor choice, for when he opened his
eyes he still saw her-in the garden she had planned. This
would be no sanctuary. And at any moment someone might
move to a west window and spot him.

He thrust himself away from the wall and hastened
across the garden, her garden, to the west gate and the stables. He quickly saddled a horse himself-the same bay
stallion he had grown to appreciate over the past few weeks.
Then he set out on a tear for the north boundary. He had intended to go the next morning; he would have to revisit the
site with Bertram on the morrow. But just now he needed to
escape the house. From any other direction he could still
see at least part of Selbourne’s gray stone. In his present
mood he would seek it out and stare at it and he knew he
could not stare at it.

Meg Lawrence was not for him. Yet in those few seconds
on the drive he had felt an instant, fierce urge to claim her.

Chas let the horse have his head, racing toward the woods
at a run. The drumming of the bay’s hooves echoed his
heartbeats. Only as they reached the trees did he pull up
and move carefully amidst the branches and tangles. Fallen
leaves and pine needles were soft beneath the horse’s
hooves; the late afternoon shadows were long. Chas was
acutely aware of the scent of the woods, the growing chill
in the air, the occasional calls of birds high overhead. As his agitation eased he was alerted to something else as
well-in the shadows of the trees, not more than two hundred feet from him, another rider observed him.

The man was trespassing. Having worked with the survey of the entire estate, Chas knew well where Selbourne’s
boundaries lay. This intruder was a good quarter mile
within the estate’s northern border. There was no reason
for a tenant or neighbor to be visiting the property at this
hour, or by this route.