Quiet Meg (8 page)

“Papa!” Lucy cried. But the men were laughing. And
Meg felt a stranger to her own family.

She said little as the discussion moved to the arrangements for town. Cabot volunteered that he had just visited,
and Meg looked at him in astonishment. To travel so much
and accomplish so much in such a short time was extraordinary. He did not appear unduly tired, but perhaps the
candlelight was kind.

He caught her gaze, and seemed to address his next
question directly to her.

“Have there been any more uninvited guests?”

“Not a one,” Sir Eustace said with satisfaction.

“No,” Bertram agreed. “And I searched the north woods
just yesterday.”

Meg looked not at Cabot but at the tablecloth.

“There has been a rider in the north woods every morning,” she said softly.

“What?” Her father reached to grab her left hand. “Why
did you not tell me?”

“I did not want you to worry. I … have not acknowledged him. And I have taken the groom with me.”

“Every morning, you say? How close then? How did you
spot him?”

“The first morning I rode-I took Arcturus, on a circuit.
I ran him along the edge of the woods and noticed movement in the trees, at some distance. But then the rider must
have realized it was I, and not Mr. Cabot-on Arcturus.
When he started toward me, I gave Arcturus his head and
raced back to the stables.”

“But what of the groom?” Bertie asked. “This rider ran
at you even with Dobbs along?”

“He wasn’t with me. Not that first morning.”

Her father pressed her hand, hard.

“Margaret,” he admonished. “You had assured me.”

“I know. But it was so early. I stayed within view of the
house, in the open.”

“Father,” Bertie said, “we’ll have everyone out to comb
the woods tomorrow morning. If this fellow thinks us complacent he’s in for a shock”

Cabot had been observing her very closely, and very seriously.

“If you’ll pardon me, Lawrence,” he said. “Your visitor
will simply wait until you tire of deploying an army, however many days that may take. Miss Lawrence has been wise to ignore him. Indeed, I fear I blundered in chasing
him last week. I should have predicted he’d remove himself
before our search. You might consider surprise now, instead. After attracting him with his objective.”

“You mean let Meggie continue this risky business? As
bait?”

“Not unguarded. Tomorrow morning, you or I should accompany your sister. Curiosity might draw him forward,
whence he might be caught from the sides or behind. A
couple of men sent well before dawn, to hide themselves
and wait, might check him”

“We cannot be certain there is only one,” Bertie said.

“It … it always looks like the same man,” Meg said.
“The same horse, the same dark clothes as the rider at the
gate that first day.”

“And no doubt he will be cautious if Dobbs is not along,”
Sir Eustace said. “How would you address that, Cabot?”

“Perhaps we shouldn’t try. Perhaps I should simply escort Miss Lawrence tomorrow, and ride Arcturus. This spy
has seen me before on the same horse, and I appear to interest him. If Miss Lawrence and I were to act as though
unaware of his presence, he might be caught.”

To act as though unaware of the spy’s presence! When
Cabot had proposed it, Meg had wondered how such calculated ease was to be achieved. But once out with him in the
morning air she found that goal not at all difficult to attain.
When riding with Charles Cabot, one thought entirely of
Charles Cabot.

“Where would you like to lead us this morning, Miss
Lawrence?” he asked as they left the stables. “Your father is watching us through a field-glass-a most effective monitor, if we stay in view.”

She smiled.

“I suggest you show me some of your work sites-what
you are calling the knoll, perhaps. And the lake.”

He nodded, and they turned down the beech-lined avenue. The days were beginning to warm, most of the trees
were full foliaged, and a scattering of early white and purple blossoms lit the green sward. Arcturus chomped at the
bit, but he clearly knew his rider was a master.

“Arcturus likes you,” she observed.

“I like Arcturus” Cabot smiled at her. “Your mare looks
strong and speedy. She is Arabian?”

“She is.” Meg reached to pat her neck. “Paloma is second
only to Arcturus in speed, and she is actually quicker to turn
and respond. Arcturus is difficult to stop”

“I haven’t tried to”

Meg laughed.

“We shall see you then at supper, when he finally winds
down.” On a whim she touched her crop to Paloma’s flanks,
knowing the mare was eager for a run. She also knew they
had the advantage-at least for a few seconds-and she
urged the mare in a race toward the knoll. Meg felt the sting
of the air and the wild delight of freedom-a joy she had
once taken for granted. Arcturus soon pounded behind
them, drawing even on the rising ground. She was pressed
to hold the lead. But Arcturus did slow sooner in order to
stop at the top, and Meg and Paloma nosed forward the last
few feet to claim the promontory first.

“Cleverly raced, Miss Lawrence,” Cabot said as he
walked Arcturus at her side. “You know your horses.”

“They are family, after all. ‘Tis almost impossible not to
learn their habits. I must grant you a handicap, though, and
declare the match a tie.” She was flushed from the run,
breathless. She found it difficult to meet his intent gaze. Instead she turned to the site. “What do you intend to build
here?”

“What would you like?” He asked sincerely, not flippantly, but Meg knew the incident with the silverbell tree
was not far from his mind.

“I would truly like to know what you envision, Mr.
Cabot, as you have taken such care to consider my father’s
situation in planning this”

“Well then, something to catch the eye here in the distance, at your highest point. I’ve a fondness for trees as
subjects in themselves, but I’ve not yet determined.”

“Perhaps a Grecian ruin, or an obelisk?” Meg suggested
playfully.

“I shouldn’t have thought that your preference. But by
all means. A temple of reverie-if it appeals.”

“Not at all. I was … teasing you, Mr. Cabot” She looked
away as his gaze caught hers too warmly. He turned to explaining how the zigzagged course would ease her father’s
ascent up the steep slope; he had demonstrated a commendable sensitivity to her father’s condition. Listening to
him, Meg grasped that in working on a property, Cabot
made it uniquely his own, that he found something of his
own ground in the process-much as a farmer might claim
sustenance from his acres.

“Whose is the property below here?” Cabot asked, indicating the fields and brick walls of the residence beyond
the hedges toward the east.

“Oh that’s Havingsham. Havingsham Hall belongs to
Mr. Wembly, a good friend of my father’s, and for many
years master of the local hunt. ‘Twas assumed my sister
Louisa and the Wembly’s son Walter would wed, but she
chose Thomas Ferrell. Mr. Wembly was disappointed, and
my father has not seen him since-not since just after his
accident. The Wemblys leased out the Hall and moved to
town. I’ve not met the current tenants. But Lucy and the
youngest son, Harris Wembly, were once firm friends. I
hope the rift will not last. The Wemblys are very good”

“They have no son for you though, Miss Lawrence?”

She looked at him sharply.

“Are you hoping to combine the properties for yet a
larger park, Mr. Cabot?”

He laughed, so easily that she could not maintain her
pique.

“That is a thought, Miss Lawrence. Though I admit I am
not accustomed to planning on such a dynastic scale.” He
patted Arcturus’s neck. “Come, let’s to the lake before the
horses cool.” He urged the bay to an easy canter down a
newly sloped trail through the trees. Meg followed reluctantly. She had thought she might have a civil conversation
with him, but the man had an extraordinary ability to discompose her.

They startled a host of waterfowl as they broke from the
trees at the side of the lake. Extensive labor had excavated
and reshaped the north bank, lending the water a beguiling
curve. The result was very visible from this side, and magical in its effect, which was to entice one’s gaze in two directions. A new clump of willows on the restored bank
appeared to have been in place for years.

They trotted the horses at the water’s edge, while Cabot
silently considered the house in the distance. Then he
chose to canter again on the gradual rise to the north lawn.
As they neared the back courtyard, he at last slowed Arcturus to a walk.

“Do you now see the meaning of these stakes, Miss
Lawrence?”

She had been studying him as he rode, not contemplating the scenery. As she looked to the house, the stakes, and
the lawn she had to shake her head.

Cabot dismounted abruptly and moved to her side.

“Come,” he said, raising his arms to help her down. “Let
me show you”

The request was so unexpected that she did not think to
protest, merely let him grasp her waist and swing her from
the saddle. But his touch, his nearness, acted upon her immediately. She could not breathe. As he looked down at
her, Meg met his gaze. In that second his fingers released
her waist and he stepped back.

“If you would, stand here and look directly toward the
blue stake, and tell me what you see.”

Meg did as he asked, her thoughts in a wild turmoil that
had nothing to do with the north lawn, but as she looked
she saw what he intended-a direct view to one of the oldest beeches on the property, a tree that amongst the family
had earned iconic status.

Cabot grasped her shoulders lightly from behind, and
neatly shifted her to stand looking along another blue
stake-she would have turned somersaults if those warm
hands had commanded them. This time the object was not
quite so clear, but along the same line of sight stood a huge, gnarled oak, partially obscured by the company of lesser
trees and in need of considerable pruning, but a magnificent giant indeed. New eyes had discovered in the oak as
striking a tree as the beech.

Again the warm hands moved her, this time backwards.
For one moment Meg thought Cabot meant to pull her
against him. She closed her eyes in anticipation. But he released her shoulders.

“Now,” he said, “look toward the red stake.” His voice
was rough, as though he had tired of instructing her.

She did as he directed, and saw at once the two grand
trees, the lake, the knoll, and a corner of the house, in one
sweeping panorama. For the first time, she noticed that the
lake appeared set in a natural amphitheater.

“‘Tis how I keep things in scale and balance, as though
framing a picture. Do you see it?”

Meg nodded in silence. She had thought her home beautiful, but she had never viewed it in its entirety, not in just
this fashion.

She wheeled to him.

“‘Tis fascinating to think that-”

“Shhh” He grasped her gloved hand and raised it to his
lips. “Do not look toward the woods, Miss Lawrence,” he
said softly. She did not need the warning; she could not
have looked away from his lips on her hand. “Our visitor
has come forward, and I believe your brother is about to
pounce”

At a shout from the woods they turned. A rider was fleeing the trees, racing toward the lane skirting the stables, but
Bertram was almost upon him, and two grooms were in a
direct line to head him off. Cabot released Meg’s hand and moved to Arcturus, but even as he raised the reins, the others had trapped their prey and pulled him from his horse.

“Enough of that! Bring him here.” At her father’s call,
Meg spun around to face the north terrace. She glanced at
her father, being wheeled outside, then looked to Cabot.
She could feel the color mount to her cheeks. Apparently
she alone had forgotten the morning’s mission. They must
think that she had played her part superbly.

Bertram and the two stable hands brought the stranger
stumbling forward.

“Dobbs, run along next door and fetch the magistratefetch Jefferies.” At the order from Sir Eustace the young
groom at once set off at a gallop.

“Now let’s look at you. Bertram, stop strangling the
man”

Bertram released his hold on the man’s neck scarf.

He was a rough-looking fellow, what little Meg could
see of him beneath his cap and copious worn clothing. His
thin cheeks were grizzled, his hands and nails grimy. But
despite his lowered head and shaded face, Meg was conscious of those glittering, watchful eyes. She recognized
that bold gaze.

“You’d best come inside, Miss Lawrence,” Cabot said,
reaching for her arm.

“No, I’d … I’d rather stay. He’s the same man, father,
who passed the coach the day I returned”

“What do you mean, sirrah, spying on my daughter?” Sir
Eustace demanded.

The stranger stood silent.

“You’ve been trespassing.”

Again he stood silent.

“I promise you none of what happens to you will seem
worth what Sutcliffe pays you.”

“Th’earl has naught to do with this.”

“Hasn’t he? Yet you know Sutcliffe is an earl?”

The man swallowed and set his jaw belligerently.

“Father,” Bertie growled, “let me take him aside and
knock some sense into him..

“I’ve no doubt you have many creative inducements in
mind, Bertram, but I, at least, must answer to the Bar. If the
man chooses to remain mum, that is his right. He will still
be charged, he will still be convicted, and he will still be
imprisoned for a very, very long time. He is clever enough
to know that if he gives us the information we seek, matters
will go easier for him. Our magistrate is not persuaded by
obstinacy.”

Again the man swallowed.

“You’ve been here for a week, man. Are you staying in
the village?” At that the intruder at last nodded. “Alone?”

“Aye,” he said. “In the stables at the inn.”