The Old Maids' Club 02 - Pariah (2 page)

“Very well. I’ll take the road into town. Joyce, search along the side of the road in the direction of the lake. And Mrs. Temple, will you please visit the Forrestleys? Ask them if they’ve seen her.” She started to leave, then turned back briefly. “And perhaps the Millers, too.” Bethanne doubted her aunt had gone that far, but…

She couldn’t waste any more time. Bethanne took off on foot before they could respond. Perhaps because she was traveling as fast as she could, her half-boots squeezed her toes in the cold. She’d have blisters in no time. But slippers would have been worse, and there hadn’t been time to prepare the carriage.

At least Aunt Rosaline would be moving much more slowly than Bethanne was. She said yet another silent prayer of thanksgiving. These petitions were becoming more and more of a habit, of late.

Several moments after she’d left, the clatter of a carriage traveling along the road behind her grew loud in her ears. Bethanne moved off to the side of the road. It drew up alongside her. Even with the dreary clouds overhead, the Marquess of Herringdon’s crest glinted on the side of the conveyance.

Was His Lordship returning to Hassop House? Whatever for? He’d always been one to remain either in London or his principal seat in Yorkshire, only making visits to Hassop in the pleasant weather of summer—and those visits were few and far between. Bethanne couldn’t recall a single visit since she’d been in residence at the cottage, and she’d come to care for her aunt nearly eight years ago now.

The carriage was brimful with trunks and other possessions, however, leaving no room for a passenger inside. Perhaps the marquess and his wife were traveling in a separate coach. Bethanne looked back, but nothing else was on the road.

The driver slowed and called out to her, “I would offer you a ride, miss, but as you can see, I cannot find room for you.”

“Thank you for the thought, sir. I am quite well on my own.”

He’d never have offered if he knew what the townsfolk thought of her. Surely, he was not part of the local staff, but more likely Lord Herringdon’s London or Yorkshire staff. She oughtn’t to intentionally blemish Lord Herringdon’s name by “consorting” with his servants or some other such rubbish, whether this particular driver knew her to be the local pariah or otherwise.

She caught his eye for a moment. “There may be another lady afoot ahead on the path. Please do be cautious.” There was no telling what Aunt Rosaline might do if she were startled by a strange carriage and driver. Bethanne waved him on his way and, after a moment’s hesitation, he flicked the reins. His team picked up speed yet again. They drove out of sight within minutes.

After she’d traveled at least a half mile in the biting wind, perhaps closer to a mile, she caught a glimpse of bright jonquil fabric up ahead. Aunt Rosaline? But then, who else would be out on foot—particularly alone—on such a day?

Only a blithering idiot such as Bethanne.

“Aunt Rosaline!” She picked up her pace until she reached a run. The jonquil form before her gradually grew until there could be no doubt. She ran faster, despite the sharp bite of pain assaulting her lungs each time she took in a bracing gasp of cold air.

When she finally caught up to her aunt, the older woman was seated on the ground. Her skirts were spread out around her, and she held one of her own boots in her hands.

“Aunt Rosaline? What are you doing out here?” Bethanne kept her voice quiet, smooth somehow, despite her tattered nerves. Now was not the time to startle her aunt. It only took the slightest provocation these days.

Aunt Rosaline looked up at her without comprehension. No doubt, she’d forgotten who Bethanne was again. This would not be easy. But then again, when was anything in her life ever easy? Not in quite some time, at the very least.

“I was on my way to visit my brother, Drake. He lives just around the bend over there, you know. But my boot came off.”

“Aunt Rosaline, Uncle Drake lives at Ainsworth Court. He’s well over a hundred miles away. It would take us days to get to him.” Weeks on foot, but there was no need to voice that. Bethanne bent to put the boot back on her aunt’s foot.

Her aunt swatted at her hands. “Oh, you ninnyhammer! We’re just around the corner from him now.” She squinted off in the distance, staring at a massive hill and pointing. “It’s right there. Behind that hill. I grew up in the manor, you know. I should think I know what it looks like.”

Bethanne ignored the hands trying to force her to stop. She tied the laces on her aunt’s boots. “Of course, you’re right. But I’m afraid he is from home at the moment.” Maybe taking a different tactic would work. “I believe I saw his carriage heading away. Perhaps we should return to the cottage and send him a letter.” She
had
seen a carriage making its way down the road moments before, after all. It hadn’t been Uncle Drake’s carriage, but maybe Aunt Rosaline would believe it had been her brother’s. Surely she’d seen it as well.

“Oh, you’re quite right, of course.” Aunt Rosaline fussed with the remnants of her chignon, which had long since fallen loose about her shoulders. “Drake will call on me later, I’m sure.”

Bethanne exhaled a silent breath, though the chill in the air betrayed her. Thank goodness Aunt Rosaline would be reasonable today. Maybe she could get her home without any more complications. She straightened herself and reached out a hand to assist her aunt. Once they were both on their feet, Bethanne tucked Aunt Rosaline’s hand into the crook of her arm and tugged her in the direction of the cottage.

The house came into view none-too-soon. The cold had enveloped Bethanne to the point that her teeth were chattering and her fingers felt numb. If she were this cold, heaven only knew how long it would take to warm Aunt Rosaline again.

When she turned up the lane and tried to lead her aunt into the yard, their smooth journey came abruptly to an end.

“What is this place?” Aunt Rosaline stopped short and pulled her hand free. “This isn’t my home. Who are you?” Her eyes darted about frantically. Any moment, she would run. Bethanne had seen this precise reaction far too many times to count.

Joyce hurried out of the house just in time. “Oh, thank goodness you’ve found her.” Mrs. Temple came out only a moment later, carrying blankets to wrap around them.

“Come inside, Aunt Rosaline,” Bethanne coaxed. “We’ll explain everything when we’re in the warm house. Joyce will make some tea and your favorite biscuits. It will be lovely.” She ever-so-carefully reached out a hand to grasp her aunt’s arm.

Aunt Rosaline snapped her arm back in a surprisingly strong movement for her frail form. “Don’t touch me. I don’t know you. I’m not going anywhere with you.” Her wide, fearful eyes bored through Bethanne, like she was attempting to accost her.

Joyce and Mrs. Temple joined them. As a group, Bethanne and the servants formed a circle around Aunt Rosaline so she couldn’t escape again without a struggle.

“Here we are, my lady,” Mrs. Temple said. She draped one of the blankets over Aunt Rosaline’s shoulders and smoothed her hands over her back.

As soon as the blanket was in place, Bethanne pulled it tight around her aunt, making it impossible for the older woman to use her arms against them. “Come along now. It will all be better inside.”

With Joyce on one side, Bethanne on the other, and Mrs. Temple taking up the rear, they attempted to move the lady into the house, but Aunt Rosaline dug her heels into the ground. She wouldn’t budge.

“They’re kidnapping me! Someone help! Call the watch!” Aunt Rosaline struggled against them, kicking out with her foot and connecting with Bethanne’s ankle.

She bit back a blasphemy and kept trying to propel her aunt forward before the entire neighborhood came out into the street to witness the commotion. The three of them were able to lift Aunt Rosaline bodily and carry her inside, despite the constant thrashing resistance she put up.

“Ooh, pretty horsey.”

Bethanne froze. The front door swung closed, shutting Finn outside in the cold with the racket of a horse galloping hell-for-leather along the roadway for company.

“Master Finn!” his nurse, Mrs. Wyatt, called out. She rushed down the stairs as fast as her arthritic legs would carry her. Which, admittedly, was not all that fast. “I’m sorry, Miss Bethanne, he got away from me.”

Bethanne loosed her grip on her aunt and left her in the care of the servants. With her blood freezing to a trickle in her veins, she bolted out the front door.

The beast reared back when Roman ripped against the reins, nearly unseating him in the process—but at least it came to a stop. More than enough crimes could already be attributed to Lord Roman Sullivan, youngest son of the Marquess of Herringdon and former major of His Majesty’s Fifth Dragoons. Today of all days, he would not add Trampler of Toddlers or Decimator of Dwarves to the myriad names he’d already come by naturally: Murderer of Men Much Better than Himself, Betrayer of his Best Mate, and Widow-Maker, amongst countless others.

He bit back a curse and shook his head, bewildered. What nurse worth her wage would allow her charge to run free like that? If one of his men had dared such a thing—

But no. Those days were in the past. He had no more men serving beneath him, nor would there ever be again. At least not in that manner. Otherwise he wouldn’t be here now, wouldn’t have nearly trampled a child, wouldn’t have been caught thinking of the blasted vial tucked securely in his coat pocket, just over his heart.

Roman ought to have been paying attention to the road before him, to his surroundings. Where had his training gone? A soldier should never neglect his situation. A lack of awareness could mean death, and not only in the midst of a war.

He could have killed the boy.

When his mount stopped prancing in place, Roman dismounted and pulled the child up with one arm, holding tight to the reins in the other. The boy would be safer in his grasp than on the ground, at any rate.

A small, pudgy hand came up and patted Roman on the cheek. “Pretty horsey,” the boy cooed with a grin as wide as the Channel.

At almost the same instant, a screeching woman flew from the house. “Finn! Stay right there.” The guilty nurse, it would seem. She stopped abruptly, nearly falling over at the top of the steps from the suddenness of her halt.

The harridan would have to be dealt with. Roman prepared himself to give her a stern talking to for neglecting her charge so badly when all hell broke loose around him.

“Give me back my—the boy,” the haughty little pixie demanded of him. She planted her hands on her hips and stared up at him with a fear-tinged, green-eyed glare as she pressed forward again, coming ever closer to him and not stopping until they stood toe-to-toe. While any number of things
might
have been the cause of her fear, Roman had a strong suspicion he was the primary culprit. Damnation. This sort of distraction was not in his plans.

The top of her head didn’t even reach his shoulders and her mahogany curls had come free from their confines, cascading in waves nearly to her waist. Her gown was some pink shade, matching the wind-swept hue of her cheeks to perfection. The dress was not made of the serviceable gray worsted one would expect of a nurse, though. How odd.

And then another woman—a larger, older version of the beauty, wearing a yellow redingote—darted out the front door of the cottage, screaming like a banshee and rushing straight for him. Three female servants (in the expected gray, he noted) dashed out behind her.

“Stop, my lady!” one of them called, with no small hint of desperation in her tone. “Oh, gracious heavens, I’m so sorry, Miss Bethanne.” The servant caught sight of Roman, and her eyes bulged. She quickly corrected herself. “Miss Shelton, that is.”

But the woman in yellow didn’t stop. In fact, she would have trampled him if Roman had not planted his Hessians deep into the earth and held firm, keeping the boy held aloft to prevent injury. He dropped the horse’s reins and helped set her to rights when she ran straight into his side.

“Oh, thank goodness. They’ve kidnapped me, sir,” she panted. “You simply must help me.” She nestled herself beneath his arm and had the look of a woman who never intended to budge.

Kidnapped? Surely, the ladies before him might be a bit negligent when it came to the boy’s care, but they hardly looked like a band of miscreants.

The sprite in pink closed her eyes and took a breath before resolutely looking up at him. “My aunt is addled, sir. Her mind is not what it once was. Kindly release her and hand over the boy. The servants and I can manage things from here. Then you can be on your way again.” She even dared to wave her hands at him in a shooing motion, complete with an arch of her dainty eyebrow.

Could she truly think to do away with him as easily as that when considering her so-called aunt’s accusation? “Am I to understand you’ll handle them in the same manner in which you’ve handled everything else to this point?” Roman asked dryly. Perhaps
she
was the addled one of the bunch.

Or on second thought, maybe the term could apply to the lot of them. They did all seem a bit shifty-eyed.

“I’m not her aunt, sir,” the woman grasping him around the waist whimpered. “I have never seen her before in my life. Not any of them.” She looked up at him and her eyes were wild, but surely the very same shade of green as those of the younger woman. For that matter, she had the same pert nose and the same heart-shaped face. “Will you take me to my brother? The Earl of Newcastle. He will protect me.”