THE LEGEND OF NIMWAY HALL: 1750 - JACQUELINE Page 7

  Jacqueline Tregarth wasn’t lacking in wits. Her face, her whole bearing, stiffened.

  Still holding her gaze, Richard continued, “By the time I saw them, the men were already moving away—I saw only their backs. I can’t be certain of identifying either by sight. But their voices had reached me clearly, and I’m perfectly certain that the gentleman I heard in the wood discussing the diversion of that stream was the gentleman who recently stood in this hall, speaking with you. Sir Peregrine Wallace.”

  Jacqueline blinked, then her gaze grew distant.

  “I didn’t speak last night,” Richard said, wanting to clear up that point, “because at that time, I wasn’t sure what was going on and who was connected to whom. I didn’t know Sir Peregrine’s purpose. Now, I do.”

  Jacqueline refocused on his face; her blue-green eyes were flinty, and her chin had firmed. “These tunnels that divert the waters of the stream—they’re still there?”

  “Yes. I heard Wallace tell his man—the laborer—to leave all in place. They knew no one had discovered the diversion, and it wasn’t easy to find. I stood over it, searching the ground for several minutes, before I realized what had been done.”

  She tipped up her chin. Her eyes flashed. “Are you willing to lead me and my men to this diversion?”

  Holding her challenging stare, he raised his brows. “Yes, of course.” He paused, then added, “Assuming your wood cooperates.”

  Immediately after luncheon, they rode into the wood.

  Half an hour later, Jacqueline sat atop her mare and watched Crawley and his lads, assisted by Fred Penn, the Hall’s old groundsman, work to collapse the tunnels that had been bleeding the lifeblood from the Hall’s stream.

  Without the slightest tension, the estate’s men had accepted Richard Montague’s direction. He now stood alongside them, hands on his narrow hips, his head bent as he assessed their endeavors. Occasionally, he pointed to this or that and made a suggestion, with which her men instantly moved to comply.

  Jacqueline might have lived a relatively sheltered life, but she recognized leadership when she saw it, and Richard Montague was born to the role. Not once had he had to push to get his way; he guided and led by example and with sound common sense, and the men followed.

  She also recognized the vengeful animosity with which her men attacked the tunnels, their spades and picks striking with force. They were furious. She was more so.

  How dare Wallace try such a trick?

  This was her wood—Nimway Hall’s wood—and as with the Hall itself, the wood was hers to protect.

  Sensing her flaring anger, her mare shifted beneath her.

  Reining in her ire, Jacqueline patted the silky neck and crooned soothingly. She and the horse were on the opposite bank of the stream, a few yards from the area in which the men were working, yet close enough to hear all that passed between them. The other horses were tethered some way to her right, in the clearing beyond the entrance to the narrow valley.

  If Richard Montague hadn’t stumbled upon Sir Peregrine’s scheme and thought to investigate, she was convinced they would never have found the diversion; it was too well concealed.

  Once the mare had settled again, Jacqueline determinedly turned her thoughts to practical matters—to whether they would be able to patch the holes in the stream bed well enough to completely halt the trickle of water over the escarpment, and if they managed to do so, how long it might take for the stream to resume its customary flow. They would need the mill in action within a month or so to grind the early grain.

  She mentally listed her questions, but her eyes remained trained on the men—more specifically, on Richard Montague.

  He was fast becoming a lodestone for her senses.

  Unbidden, her gaze drew in, focusing solely on him, as the old tales of those who got lost in Balesboro Wood floated through her mind. His story of getting inexplicably lost—completely lost when normally he was assured of finding his way through forests far more extensive—resonated with one set of the long-told tales. The ones of people snared by the wood for a purpose, that purpose being to aid the Hall and, most especially, the Hall’s guardian.

  If one believed in the old tales…it was easy to cast Montague’s entrapment as being necessary to protect the Hall. He—specifically he, with his particular character and traits—had had to be there, to surreptitiously overhear Sir Peregrine discussing his diversion, to be curious enough to investigate further and find the tunnels, then to carry the tale of the diversion to the Hall, to Jacqueline, the present guardian, and subsequently, to lead her and her men to the valley in which they now worked, so they could put right a man-wrought wrong.

  Sir Peregrine Wallace’s diversion had been a calculated crime against her and her people, one she would neither forgive nor forget.

  Richard worked with the men, directing them in shifting stone, rocks, and clay to block the holes in the stream bed, then collapse the tunnels that had drained the water away.

  Finally, he deemed the work around the stream done. As a trial of the effectiveness of their repairs, he had the young lads drag a pick through the rubble just before the edge of the escarpment, parallel to the drop. Along with the men, he stood and watched as the long slash in the earth at first filled and overflowed…but then the water in the groove stood, then slowly sank into the earth, and the incoming flow eased, then ceased altogether.

  The ancient groundsman grunted. “Good enough. With the amount of clay in the soils here and with the spring flush over and done, the bank will have time to dry and bind and seal up our work. It’ll hold.”

  Along with the other men, Richard was happy to accept that assurance.

  They hoisted their tools and trudged back to the horses. As they walked along the now merrily gurgling stream, they were all pleased to see that the level of water was already rising along that stretch, returning to its correct level.

  Richard walked to the horse he’d been given to ride—an aging but still powerful chestnut gelding that had been Jacqueline’s late father’s horse. She came trotting up on her mare as he swung up and settled in the saddle.

  “All done?” she asked, holding the spirited mare in.

  He nodded. “As your old groundsman says, it should hold, and I’m sure he’ll be back to check in a week.”

  She smiled faintly, the gesture lightening her until-then-serious expression. “Indeed. We can rely on Fred Penn to keep an eye on it.”

  With a dip of her head, she led the way forward, on and across the clearing. Richard tapped his heels to the chestnut’s sides, then reined in its resulting surge and brought it to pace alongside the mare.

  As they left the clearing, he glanced back. The men had come on a range of beasts, some two to a back. They were sorting themselves out and preparing to follow. Richard faced forward. As he settled into the saddle, he gave voice to a puzzle. “Yesterday, I couldn’t find my way through this wood, not even to the Hall. Yet this afternoon, I led you and the others directly to this valley. I didn’t have to think. I knew which way I needed to go to return here, just as I normally would when in any other forest.” He glanced at Jacqueline.

  Briefly, she met his gaze, then shrugged. “I can’t explain that any more than you can.”

  He humphed, but let the confounding matter rest.

  As they ambled beneath the trees, the air warmed by the slanting sunbeams, he debated, then deciding that his assistance with the stream gave him a certain license, he surrendered to what he recognized as a protective impulse and inquired, “Do you have any insights into Wallace’s motives in diverting the stream?”

  She let the question lie between them for a full minute before replying, “I’ve been wondering about that.”

  After several seconds, to Richard’s satisfaction, she went on, “From his visit this morning, it seems clear that he’d hoped to bring about a situation whereby I would accept his help, thereby placing me and the estate in his debt. Not monetarily but morally. Although he has yet t
o allude to the prospect, I strongly suspect that he—as with so many others—has it in mind to offer for my hand. I assume he believed that by assisting the estate in such a way—indeed, in stepping in as a savior of sorts—he would ingratiate himself with me and make me subsequently more amenable to entertaining his suit.”

  Judging by her flat tone, Wallace had severely miscalculated, a realization that warmed Richard’s heart. But in delivering her answer, his pretty hostess had made no effort to conceal her antipathy toward gentlemen who wished to marry her. Such cynicism in a gently bred lady, especially an attractive one in her mid-twenties, seemed strange. Recalling all he’d overheard the night before, although he sensed he was straying onto thin ice, he couldn’t resist prompting, “I heard that you’ve turned away a good few suitors.”

  She snorted. “Indeed.” She shot him a sidelong glance, a rather sharp one he made a point of not meeting. “I daresay,” she said, looking forward, “you heard that from the older ladies. There are several in the neighborhood who view my position as an unmarried lady in possession of considerable lands and an established manor house as a situation to be deplored. More, as one in urgent need of rectification.”

  “Clearly, you don’t agree with that assessment.”

  Her laugh was harsh. “If you knew of my suitors—those who have presented themselves to date—you wouldn’t, either. Every one has come to me with only one thought in his head—to gain control of the Hall’s farms, along with the right to supply wood to the bishopric of Bath and Wells, which right is attached to the Hall’s title. Both farms and right are valuable in that they generate significant income. At present, however, most of that income is plowed back into the farms and the Hall, spent in supporting the fabric of the estate and the people who work on it and care for it.”

  The glance she threw him then—one he felt forced to meet—was steady and held palpable feminine power. “Nimway Hall does not exist for the benefit of any man. It’s here to support those who labor in its fields, all those who care for its wood and who maintain the Hall itself. Those who are its keepers.”

  She paused, then looked ahead. “The tradition of the Hall is one that reaches back through the mists of time. Unlike the case with most other estates, the Hall and its lands pass in the female line, usually from eldest daughter to eldest daughter. Each daughter who becomes the lady of the Hall accepts the role of guardian. Consequently, any man who aspires to be her husband must understand and accept that the reins of the estate remain in the lady’s hands, and that the preservation of the Hall, of this wood, and the lower fields is the guardian’s duty—a duty that takes precedence over any other she might undertake.”

  Richard couldn’t hold back a wry smile. “I can see how that might not align with the views of gentlemen looking for a bride.”

  “Indeed,” she scoffed. “To date, deciding how to respond to my would-be suitors has required little thought.” She paused, then in a more even tone amended, “I should make clear that my disgust is not leveled at the institution of marriage, but at the gentlemen wishing to secure my lands via securing my hand.”

  He dipped his head in acknowledgment, struck by the thought that her situation was, in many ways, the female version of his. More, that her distinction between marriage and suitors was a valid one, one he hadn’t considered overmuch with regard to his own situation.

  That was something to ponder, perhaps when he finally reached the safety of his uncle’s hearth.

  For now, however, in the matter of Sir Peregrine Wallace and his interest in the lady of Nimway Hall, Jacqueline Tregarth had her feet firmly on the ground and appeared well armored against any attack, especially from any man aspiring to her hand.

  She tapped her heels to her mare’s sides, and Richard urged his gelding to keep pace alongside. He glanced at her, took in the fetching sight she made in her green velvet riding habit, and facing forward, smiled to himself. Pretty she might be, of the caliber to draw eyes and focus predatory senses, but one look into those wide, blue-green eyes and one glance at her determined chin ought to be enough to warn any man against taking the lady for granted.

  Given how attractive he found her, it was lucky he wasn’t on the lookout for a wife. Conversely, he knew very well that she was attracted in much the same way to him, which made her disinterest in suitors something of a relief.

  They were mirror images, it seemed. Just as he was being hunted for his wealth and his name, she, too, was being courted for her possessions rather than the person she was.

  As Nimway Hall appeared before them and, side by side, they cantered up the drive, he acknowledged there was a certain comfort in knowing that the lady in whose company he was shared his aversion to being pursued.

  They returned to the Hall in time for afternoon tea. After partaking of scones and cakes as well as a dish of the fragrant brew, with the shadows lengthening, Richard walked out to the stable to check on Malcolm the Great.

  Having contributed to the well-being of the estate by assisting with the repair of their stream, Richard felt more comfortable over making use of the house’s amenities. Consequently, when he inquired of Hopkins as to the state of Malcolm’s hoof and Hopkins shook his head direfully and informed him it would be days yet before the horse was fit to ride, he didn’t feel compelled to search for alternatives to continuing at the Hall.

  “Come.” Hopkins beckoned. “Ned has the beast with him. Let’s see what he thinks.”

  Richard followed the bow-legged man with his rolling gait through the stable and into the farrier’s domain at the rear of the building.

  When appealed to for his opinion on Malcolm the Great, who was hitched to a railing nearby, Ostley, too, shook his head. “I’d thought he’d be right as rain by now but…here.” He crossed to the big gelding and picked up the hoof in question. Angling it so Richard could see, Ostley pointed to a pinkish section on the pad, next to the spot where the large sliver of wood had been wedged. “There’s no cut and it’s not infected, but I’ve seen that sort of thing before. He’s not taken to the wood—the type of wood, see?—at all. If you try to ride him, especially given his weight”—Ostley set down the hoof and glanced at Richard—“aye, and yours, too, then odds are that’ll open up, and then it will get infected.”

  Richard pulled a face, but nodded in acceptance. “He’s too valuable to risk. It seems I’ll have to wait for a few days yet.”

  Ostley nodded. “That’d be my recommendation. The times I’ve seen this before, it’s been maybe five more days before the swelling’s gone down.”

  “Five days?” That was longer than Richard had imagined. He looked inward, expecting to find impatience if not frustration, only to discover that, instead, the prospect of having the time to further investigate the curious behavior of Sir Peregrine Wallace and, if possible, thrust a more definite and permanent spoke in the man’s wheel vis-à-vis Jacqueline Tregarth was distinctly appealing.

  He wasn’t, indeed, averse to spending more time at Nimway Hall. It was a pleasant and peaceful place, with pleasant, accommodating, and undemanding people—a place in which he didn’t need to fear being set upon and trapped into matrimony. Quite the opposite. And with Wallace to deal with, he wouldn’t be bored.

  He was on the verge of inwardly smiling and accepting Fate’s decree when Hopkins, regarding him earnestly, said, “If you was in a hurry to get on to your business in Wells, we could loan you that gelding you rode today. He’d carry you there, easy enough, then I could send one of the lads with your beast once he’s recovered.”

  Richard paused and thought again, but… Slowly, he shook his head. “I don’t have business, as such, to attend to in Wells—my visit was purely social and unplanned at that. No one there is expecting me, so no one will be concerned that I haven’t yet arrived.” And now that he was here, in the relative safety of Nimway Hall, there was no urgent need for him to race for the protection of his uncle’s bachelor household; those who wished to pursue him could have no notion of wh
ere he’d found refuge.

  He met Hopkins’s gaze and smiled. “Thank you for the offer, but I would simply be sitting idle in the bishop’s household, and truth to tell, I would rather be here, where I can at least ride and enjoy the countryside. After months in London, that’s a welcome relief.”

  If he continued to Wells, he would have to remain indoors; venturing forth, even there, would be too dangerous. It was too soon after his near escape in town, and his connection to His Grace of Bath and Wells was no secret, after all.

  He would also rather not leave Malcolm the Great wholly in others’ hands; he was the only person the huge gelding allowed on his back. That thought settled the matter. With a brisk nod, Richard glanced from Hopkins to Ostley. “I’ll stay.”

  They both smiled, clearly of the opinion that he’d made the right decision.

  “Presuming,” he added, “that my remaining won’t inconvenience the household in any way.”

  Both Hopkins and Ostley exchanged a meaning-laden look, then both waved aside Richard’s concern with the dismissiveness they plainly felt it deserved.

  “Can’t see why anyone would mind you hanging about,” Hopkins stated.

  “Aye—and it’s the right decision an’ all.” Ned Ostley nodded to where Malcolm the Great had shifted to rest his huge head on Richard’s shoulder. “Attached as the great beast is to you.”

  Richard chuckled and stroked Malcolm’s long nose, then stepped away. With a wave to Ostley, Richard headed back to the stable with Hopkins.

  Leaving the stableman issuing orders to his lads, Richard strode on, back toward the house.

  Far from feeling obstructed by not being able to continue his journey, he felt…lighthearted. Strangely free.

  Looking ahead, he studied the house, its gray stone burnished by the sun’s waning light. He had to admit it was a welcoming sight. He mentally looked ahead to the coming days…and that welling sense of freedom nearly made him giddy. How long had it been since he’d felt so unencumbered—so free of social expectations and constraints?