The Wicked Wedding of Miss Ellie Vyne Page 19

  As she looked out through the window once more, she spied a tall, angular shape, recognizable at once as her aunt’s indomitable, busybody friend, Mrs. Flick, emerging from her own front door on the corner and heading along the lane in considerable haste. No doubt Mrs. Flick had heard of Ellie’s arrival. Any minute now she would rap her knuckles on the cottage door.

  Making a hasty decision, Ellie ran down the stairs, shouted a quick “good morning” to her aunt, who was lighting a fire in the parlor, grabbed her boots and coat, and slipped out through the back door in the kitchen. Although it was still early, she would visit her friend Sophie. Only because the last thing she needed this morning was to face Mrs. Flick’s prying—nothing to do with James or caring where he went. Nothing at all.

  The cool breeze was brisk and refreshing, a wonderful change after the mostly unpleasant reek of London air. Taking a few great gulps of it, Ellie walked quickly away from the village and up the muddied, narrow lane to the farm where Sophie lived. There was no sight of James, but he was a fast walker with a long stride. Perhaps he was so eager to see his old love that he ran. That thought made her laugh in hysteria, until she had to stop and catch her breath.

  Drops of rain spat upon her bonnet, but not enough to make her turn back despite the considerable distance she had yet to walk. She preferred a drenching than facing Mrs. Flick’s interrogation over breakfast.

  Dead, dampened leaves blew across her path, some sticking to her hem. A faint smokiness, carried on the air from a smoldering bonfire out in the fields, ticked her nostrils and made her smile, made her remember seasonal traditions from her youth—bobbing for apples on All Hallow’s Eve, burning her tongue on hot roasted chestnuts, collecting colorful leaves when they fell to the damp grass.

  Ellie passed the old stile where she’d once tied one of her younger sisters by her apron strings, pretending the girl was her horse, and forgotten about her for an hour or two. Here, under an oak tree, she once paused to ink a moustache on a sleeping young man’s face. She patted the thick bark as she walked by, greeting the tree like an old friend. For the first time since leaving London, she no longer felt as if she was followed. That slightly threatening sensation, which had hovered over her in varying degrees of intensity for some time, was today lifted from her shoulders. She walked with a lighter step, her arms swinging.

  How many times, she pondered, had she run along this well-worn lane to call on Sophie Valentine? Although Ellie was five years younger, the two girls became close thanks to their mischievous curiosity and shared enjoyment of observing people. In many ways, Ellie felt closer to Sophie than to either of her younger sisters, and her summertime stays with Aunt Lizzie were greatly enhanced by Sophie’s company. Until, of course, James Hartley came along and monopolized the other girl’s attention.

  There he was. As she turned a bend, his tall figure came into view, his appearance comical in those borrowed breeches, the legs barely long enough to tuck into his riding boots. No sign of his bad ankle this morning, she noted. Probably because he thought he was alone.

  Suddenly he turned and glanced back down the lane. Ellie ducked out of sight behind a tree. A moment later, she peeped out and saw him walking onward. Once more she followed, chiding herself for the impulse that made her hide. She quickened her steps. What did she care if he heard her? But when he stopped again and swung around, she took a dive over the nearest hedge and landed with a muffled squawk. This time she lost her bonnet and had to retrieve it from a muddy ditch, under some brambles. By the time she recovered, back on her feet, he’d vanished around another bend. Now extremely disheveled, she hurried along the lane and plucked thorny sticks from her bonnet.

  The Kanes’ farm was eventually in view, the flint stone wall and ornate, black iron gates gleaming wet with rain. Forgetting the sense of pride that had made her shy of being seen, she ran up just as he pushed open the rusty old latch.

  “You might have told me you were coming to see her,” she gasped, breathless, rain blurring her vision.

  He looked puzzled. “You’ve got mud in your hair.”

  Only a rake like him, she thought, fury popping like gunpowder, considered nothing amiss with making love to one woman and then, the next morning, rushing off to visit another. Without a solitary explanation. Not that he could have given her one she’d accept. “I suppose you did not want me to know you where you went.”

  “I owe you no explanation. Why does it matter to you? I’m just your stud.”

  “Exactly! Make a fool of yourself again over her, but I won’t stand around to watch this time.”

  “And what will you do? Run back to your lover, the count?”

  “It’s none of your business where I’d go.”

  Towering over her, he suddenly lost his previous composure. “It is very much my business.”

  “You question me, but I cannot do the same to you?”

  “Damn you, woman!” Of course, whenever he was losing an argument, he resorted to insults.

  “I’m supposed to have your undivided attention for these nights. That was our agreement, Hartley.”

  “So you shall.”

  But in Sophie’s presence, she would be insignificant again. That was always the way of it. Ellie tasted the bitter resentment already and was ashamed. She didn’t want to be the sort of female whose tender heart flinched at every threat of a wound.

  The farmhouse door opened, and a young boy dashed out to tear across the yard, an excited, rust-colored spaniel leaping and flopping around his feet.

  A woman’s voice called out, “Rafe, you will not go out there in the rain. Bring that dog back inside. You’ll both be covered in mud in no time, and I have no intention of—” Sophie appeared in the open doorway, still scolding the boy. When she looked up and saw them both by the gate, she almost dropped the bowl of batter in her arms.

  “Ellie! James? What on earth…?”

  The boy stopped out of curiosity and grabbed his dog by the collar.

  Ellie was struck instantly by the familiar features of the boy’s face but couldn’t think where she’d seen them before. He couldn’t possibly be Sophie’s child, for she’d been married only two years, and the boy was at least ten, possibly a few years older than that. As far as she knew, the man Sophie married had no previous children, although the boy’s thick black hair was very like his.

  “Come inside out of the rain,” Sophie exclaimed. “I wish I had known you were coming. Why did you not write?”

  “I did not think of it, I confess. The idea of a Christmas visit to Sydney Dovedale came upon me suddenly, and before I knew it, I was halfway here.” Muddy curls dripped down the back of her neck as her bonnet leaked raindrops. Oddly enough, in that moment of so much greater discomfort, her mind focused on that one sensation.

  “Oh, Ellie! You never change.” This was uttered with a gusty sigh as if, perhaps, it was time she did change.

  Ellie glanced at James. His expression was guarded, as was Sophie’s.

  “Hello, James. You look very well.” Her friend hid her amusement about the breeches much better than Ellie could. Sophie was always better at hiding things—like her thoughts and her feelings.

  “And you,” said James. “Your family is in good health?”

  “Oh yes. Very.”

  Ellie wanted to scream. They were being so very formal, speaking lines like characters in a novel. As if there had never been anything between them.

  “Do, please, come in.”

  The boy and his dog followed them into the farmhouse, where the warm, delicious scent of baking teased Ellie’s stomach, reminding her that she came out without breakfast. That fact was soon remedied. Sophie, familiar with Ellie’s appetite, insisted she sit at the table by the window, while she made tea and laid out a plate of warm mince pies. Ellie removed her dampened bonnet and slipped off her gloves to eat. She watched her friend potter about the house with a contented efficiency. Marriage, she mused, comparing Sophie to Walter Winthorne, suited some fol
k better than others. Sophie, of course, was always a beauty. She would never be caught rolling about in a ditch, trying to hide.

  James was very quiet. Anger rolled off him in waves, and all of it directed at her. She should never have followed him. Hiding behind trees, for pity’s sake! What was she thinking to confront him like that? It was fortunate Sophie had not heard.

  A baby cooed gently in a crib by the hearth, above which a line of freshly laundered men’s shirts hung to dry. On the mantel, nestled between bunches of mistletoe and holly, rested three sketches undoubtedly drawn by Sophie; one of her husband, one of the boy, and one of the plump baby, soon introduced as Petruchio.

  “Petruchio?”

  “It was that or Romeo.” Sophie sighed. “My husband has just begun to read Shakespeare, I’m afraid.” Ellie knew Sophie had been teaching her husband to read. Apparently the lessons progressed well. “At least this way we can call him Peter,” she added with a smile. “There is not much to be done with a Romeo.”

  Throughout this conversation, James remained silent and watched the black-haired boy who sneakily fed pastry crusts to his dog under the table. Sophie, naturally, was too polite to ask how she and James, once enemies, came to be traveling together.

  “I heard you say this is Rafe?” Ellie prompted.

  For some reason, her friend had offered no introduction to the boy. Now Sophie fussed with her apron strings as she joined them at the table. It struck Ellie that there was a vast deal of nervous fidgeting in her presence ever since she arrived in Sydney Dovedale. First her aunt and now Sophie. That village never used to have so many anxious people who couldn’t look her in the eye.

  “Yes,” her friend said finally. “Rafe is my husband’s nephew.”

  “Who are you then?” the boy wanted to know.

  “Ellie Vyne.” She held out her hand. “Pleased to make your acquaintance, young man.”

  The boy looked at her hand then her face again.

  He wiped his grubby palm on his breeches and shook her hand warily. Again she clutched at a spark of recognition, but it was gone, evaporated before she could make sense of it. “You live here with your aunt and uncle?” she asked him, since Sophie volunteered no further information.

  “’Course I do,” the boy sputtered, spraying sugar and pastry crumbs. Then he stopped, dropped his pie, and glared at her. “What are you doing here? Strangers don’t come here much. You haven’t come to take me away, have you?”

  “Rafe,” Sophie exclaimed, “don’t be silly. This is my friend Ellie, and she and Mr. Hartley have come all the way from London to visit. Why on earth should she want to take you away?”

  The boy rounded his shoulders, still glowering at Ellie from beneath a thick fringe of ebony hair. “Just makin’ sure. She looks like trouble.”

  James spoke finally. “Perceptive child.”

  Rafe flicked his hair back. “What’s that, mister?”

  “You have Miss Vyne pegged already.”

  The boy wiped his mouth on his sleeve and looked at Ellie. “Why are you trouble then?”

  She shrugged, unable to reply because James had just put his hand over hers where it rested on the table. She didn’t know what to do about it. Did it mean she was forgiven? “I’m not really,” she replied. “It’s just rumor and gossip. Mostly unfair and unfounded.”

  Beside her, James gave a small snort of derision, which she pointedly ignored.

  “They say that about me too,” the boy blurted. “That I’m trouble.”

  Sophie passed him a kerchief and urged that he wipe his mouth on that instead of his sleeve, and then she reprimanded him for not washing his hands before he came to the table. Reluctantly, the boy slouched off into the scullery to complete that task. The dog galloped after him.

  “Aunt Lizzie told me that your brother sold his property.”

  “Yes, to a very grand fellow by the name of Sir William Milford, a bachelor, who is not often in residence—thwarting the hopes of every single lady within twenty miles. Although one cannot blame the fellow for declining to live in that drafty fortress. There are rumors of extensive plans to improve it.” Sophie shrugged. “One wonders what can be done with such a place and what madness he suffers for shouldering the burden. But his tenants and workers say he is kindly and just.” She gave a wry smile. “Aunt Finn says that is merely because he is so seldom here.”

  “Your aunt is out?” Ellie asked, disappointed not to see the lady in her usual rocking chair by the fire. Finnola Valentine was a lively character with a good share of scandal in her own past. She could always be counted on to say or do something shocking. Ellie had a great fondness for her and vice versa.

  “Aunt Finn spends a few weeks in Norwich with an old friend,” Sophie replied with another quick smile. “As far as I know, the town still stands. We expect her back for Christmas, but if she enjoys herself, I daresay she’ll be in no hurry to return.”

  “Yes, I’m sure.”

  “You plan to stay for the New Year, Ellie?” Sophie asked, her voice fragile suddenly.

  “I desired a pleasant change, and London is so—”

  “We’re engaged,” said James.

  Breath snagged in her throat. “We most certainly are not engaged!”

  His fingers tightened over hers. “We most certainly are, woman!”

  “Not yet we are not.” She felt her cheeks getting warm. She was embarrassed in front of her friend, who must think she’d gone mad. Engagements scared her to death these days. She’d never had any luck with them before. In her experience, men quickly settled into taking her for granted once they were engaged. “I believe I told you quite clearly that there is no engagement. Just an arrangement. Of sorts.”

  Poor Sophie was gazing at them both, completely befuddled.

  “It’s merely an agreement to consider marriage,” Ellie explained further. “If the conditions are favorable.”

  “Call it what you will,” James snapped, taking his hand away.

  The boy returned from the scullery, dropped into his chair, and this time addressed James. “You live in Lunnen, mister?”

  James irritably scratched the side of his nose. “I do. Presently.”

  The interrogation returned to Ellie. “Where do you live, missus?”

  “All over the place.”

  “All over?”

  James muttered, “Like a gypsy.”

  She tried to explain. “Sometimes I stay with my sisters in London. Sometimes I visit my father, or I go to Brighton or Bath and stay with friends.” She forced each word out, although her mind was preoccupied.

  “Really? Brighton?” James laughed harshly. “I thought you said you’d never been there in your life.”

  Rather than answer, she took a large bite of mince pie.

  Having considered what she’d said, Rafe exclaimed, “You move around a lot. Like a crook what don’t want to be caught.”

  “Rafe!”

  James smiled. “Once again, a perfect understanding of Miss Vyne already. She doesn’t wish to be caught.”

  The boy grinned. “I moved around a lot too. Before I done come ’ere.”

  “Came here,” Sophie corrected, looking frazzled.

  “Done came here,” the boy repeated. He pointed at Ellie. “You’ve got brambles in your hair.”

  Ellie realized then that there was something familiar around his mouth. She tried picturing the boy with lighter coloring.

  James muttered, “Miss Vyne lurks under hedgerows to spy upon people.”

  There was a short silence until Sophie found another subject, chattering about all the renovations her husband made to the farmhouse. Ellie tried to pay attention, but her mind would not behave, and she saw that James, equally inattentive to the conversation, was fascinated by the boy. He stared across the table until Sophie’s husband came in from the stables.

  The greeting between James and Mr. Kane was cool and less comfortable than an Indian fakir’s mattress of knives, but passed without incide
nt. Since his wife forgot to mention it, Mr. Kane extended an invitation to them both for the party that evening.

  Before they left, Sophie took Ellie into the pantry to give her some preserves for her aunt. With the door partially closed behind them, the women surveyed the shelves full of preserves, until Sophie suddenly reached for her hand and whispered, “My dear friend, there are things you don’t know about James.”

  “Really? I’ve always thought I knew everything about everything.”

  “Do be serious for once! James is a man with…a past.”

  “And I am a woman with the same.”

  “But there is—”

  The door opened, and Rafe stuck his head in. “What are you whisperin’ about? Are you whisperin’ about me? You are, ain’t yer? You’ve got a guilty face.”

  “No we are not, for pity’s sake,” Sophie snapped, rather more angrily than necessary it seemed to Ellie. “Why would we have anything to whisper about you?”

  But it was enough interruption to dissuade Sophie from whatever warning she’d meant to give. She’d seemed torn as to whether she should speak or not and, with only very slight discouragement, gave up.

  Ellie didn’t push for more. In truth, she didn’t want to hear any bad things about James. Part of her took umbrage at her friend suggesting there might be anything about James of which she was unaware. She’d known the man and all his faults for seventeen years, for pity’s sake.

  Yet something had troubled her friend for the entire visit and so deeply that, until Sophie’s husband raised the matter, she forgot to mention the party altogether. Under normal circumstances, a party would be the first thing either woman mentioned to the other. Today, however, they were both too distracted.

  Ellie had seen Sophie glance at James with fearful, hollowed eyes. Whenever she dared look at him at all. Something was very wrong. Ellie’s doubts and fears needed little nurturing to flourish like weeds through her mind.

  Had her friend’s strange, stilted manner stemmed from knowing how Ellie and James were always at odds? Did she wonder how they could overcome the infamous feud? Or was it simply the differences in their background?