Seducing Mr. Heywood (18 page)

Mrs. Mathew’s arms were covered from fingertips to elbows with flour, and her mobcap was hanging askew over one ear. Bromley, aproned from chin to knees, was scrubbing pots like the lowliest scullery maid, while Mrs. Chipcheese filled baskets for the ailing. They all looked up as Charles and Lady Sophia entered the kitchen.

“My lady! What can we do for you?” Mrs. Mathew asked, wiping a gray lock of hair from her eye and thereby dusting the side of her ruddy face with flour.

“You have all been doing more than enough!” Sophia exclaimed, gesturing with arms wide, taking in all the early morning activity. “I wanted to tell you how much your efforts are appreciated. The doctor seems to think that the worst is over.” She hesitated briefly, then continued, “There have been some losses, alas, but people are on the mend and there are no new cases today. So, thank you, thank you very much.”

Bromley stepped forward, wiping his hands on the capacious apron. “My lady, we merely followed your example.” The two cooks nodded their agreement.

“Thank you, Bromley. You honor me, as I honor you.” Charles lifted his eyes heavenward. Somewhere in that celestial sphere, he knew for a certainty, the baron was pleased.

After a hot bath—the vicar had brought up the water so as not to burden Bromley with the task—Sophia was almost herself again. She dressed in a simple muslin frock and plaited her long, blond hair. Reappearing downstairs, she looked like a schoolgirl or an extraordinarily pretty young serving maid.

“I will take the dogcart to the Brown farm, Charles, and stop at the Harlows’ on my way, to see how Joan and Brent are faring. I told Mrs. Mathew I would carry provisions for both farms.”

Brent
…Charles had wondered where that gentleman had disappeared. The earl had made himself scarce during the medical emergency, and Charles had assumed that Brent was in Dunhaven’s company. So he was at the Harlow farm with Lady Sophia’s pretty abigail! Lewis had told Charles about the incident involving Dunhaven and the maid, Sarah; could Brent be trusted with Joan? The vicar was still not certain about the character of the man he considered a rival for Sophia Rowley’s affections.

“Brent is at the Harlows’, then?” he commented.

Sophia nodded, settling herself in the dogcart and securing the baskets for the short drive. “Lizzie tells me he is an expert at cow milking.” She giggled at the thought of that fashionable buck in shirtsleeves, squeezing bovine udders. What a picture for the
ton
! If Rowlandson himself drew the caricature, they’d not easily believe it of this nobleman.

“He and Joan are managing well?” Charles lifted himself into his saddle. Lancashire Lad, his gray, stood steady.

“Very well, according to Lizzie,” Sophia remarked. “She says they are clucking after the Harlows like hens with chicks, and bickering cheerfully.”

“The Harlows are hardly chicks, my lady. They’ve farmed that land for nearly fifty years,” Charles replied.

Sophia chuckled. “I know! That is what is so amusing. Those two young people treating that aged pair as if they were sick children. Brent has shown his mettle, has he not, sir?”

“As you have proved yours, my lady,” Charles said with feeling.

Sophia blushed. “Do not make too much of my contribution, Charles. You…Lewis Alcott…my household staff…We have all done the same.” She continued. “And though Lewis is most exasperating at times, he is a good man and an excellent surgeon. We are lucky to have him.”

Charles nodded. “Your late husband thought well of him, my lady.”

Sophia raised her dazzling blue eyes to his. “George was an excellent judge of character. He wanted me to rely on you, and, though I resisted, he was correct. You have been a rock to me; I am glad, now, that he appointed you guardian for the boys.”

Now it was Charles’s turn to blush. “When did the baron speak of me, my lady?”

Sophia wrapped the reins about her wrist. “Lawyer Norton gave me a letter George had written a few weeks before he died. I read it with a good deal of annoyance when I first arrived here, and again a few days ago, with a much different attitude.”

Charles’s response was drowned out by the arrival of Fred, a very dusty, road-weary Fred, on horseback.

“Oh, my lady,” he cried, “the boys are gone! They were taken!”

From his lookout in Sophia’s bedroom, the Earl of Dunhaven saw the arrival of Sophia’s trusted footman. Damn and blast! he muttered, gathering up the rest of his daughter’s jewels in a leather bag that also held select items of silverware. It was time to depart, with not a moment to lose! His horse was saddled and ready at the stable, his pistols clean and primed.

To the north was Scotland, and from that coast ships sailed to the continent. The baubles should ensure a pleasant sojourn, and perhaps ’twas also time he looked for a wealthy continental lady to wed. Much as he despised married life, the blunt from the jewels would not
last forever. Not if he were to continue to follow his favorite pastime, those elusive games of chance. If nothing else, life had taught Tom Eliot to be a realist.

Lady Sophia had fainted. Charles had carried her into the Hall, while a frantic Fred had poured out the rest of his story. Bromley had hurried to fetch the vinaigrette from her dressing room, only to return in a matter of minutes with more news of an unsettling nature for the vicar. Lady Rowley’s boudoir was a shambles, clothing and effects strewn everywhere. Her jewelry case was missing.

“Where is the Earl of Dunhaven?” Charles asked the butler.

“Lady Rowley requested that we keep a watch on him, sir, but with all that has been happening—” Bromley was distraught. Too many unspeakably vile things were happening at once. It had not been so in the baron’s time.

The vicar clapped Bromley’s shoulder. “I know, man, I know. Do not blame yourself. Right now, we must decide what’s to be done to find the boys. That is the most important task.”

On the sofa, Lady Rowley was stirring. “What happened? Fred? Charles? Bromley? Please! You
must
tell me what has happened!”

Charles sat down beside her. “My lady, Fred has told us that the carriage was set upon by brigands, highwaymen, two days’ drive from here. It overturned, injuring the coachman and Horatio; Fred and Horatio were also shot and wounded. The boys—”

Sophia began to wail, tearing her hair from its smooth plait. But he stayed her hands. “No, my lady, do not despair! The boys were taken, yes, but I expect they were kidnapped for ransom, as they were not injured.” Charles was aware of his lie; Fred had said that John had received a blistering blow to his head during the scuffle that had ensued.

Sophia was sobbing hysterically. “This is because of
me, is it not? ’Tis because I am a dreadful person, a bad mother, I know it! My boys! Why them? Why not me?”

Charles fixed her with a steady look. “We will find those boys, trust me! Trust in God, my lady. We
will
find them; I pledge my life and my honor on this. And you must never hold yourself responsible. You are not ever to think that.”

Sophia hiccupped as Bromley handed her a large square of white linen to dry her tears. Charles passed the piece of cloth to her, keeping hold of one of her hands.

“God has not abandoned you, my lady,” Charles reassured her, hoping that the boys were safe, wherever they were.

Fred said, “We can round up the male staff and the villagers and find the young masters!”

Charles shook his head. “There are few men to send, Fred. There has been sickness in the village. All the great houses and the farms have been affected, too. People are still weak and unwell. We must see who is fit to join a search party, and report this to the magistrate. Where are Horatio and John Coachman now?”

But Fred’s face was ashen at hearing this news. “Sarah? Is she well?”

Sophia nodded, wiping the last of the tears from her face with the linen. “Sarah has been helping here with Mrs. Mathew, Fred. She has been fine.”

Fred let out a deep breath.

Gently, Charles reminded him. “Horatio, Fred? And the coachman? Where are they?”

“Oh, beg pardon, sir. They are in a tavern; the innkeeper’s wife said she would attend them. Horatio was shot and the coachman was hurt when the carriage turned over, but the doctor said they will be well enough to travel shortly. They will look about for folk who might have seen men on horseback riding off with the young masters.”

“Good,” Charles commented. “Good! We can make a small search party here. I can go, and perhaps Lord Brent and Bromley, for a start.” He turned to Sophia.
“My lady, I will take those baskets to the Harlow farm and return with Brent. I will also take the basket for the Browns.”

Sophia shook her head. “No, I will take them the basket. I promised Chloe, Mr. Heywood, that I would tell her stories about princesses and fairies.” She shuddered, then made a decision to carry on. There was nothing more she could do. She was in despair; weeping and wailing and tearing her hair was what she wanted to do, but she could not, not in front of everyone.

Sophia knew she must regain control of her emotions and carry on, for her sake and for the sake of her distraught staff. Telling stories to Chloe, keeping her promise to the child, would erase this horror from her mind for a short time while she waited for Charles to summon men for the search. Then she would return to do what she could at home. There was not much she could do, she realized. It was up to the men, to the search party. She accepted the fact of her helplessness, but she must be strong. “Then I will return to do whatever has to be done,” she vowed.

She took a deep breath and continued, suddenly recalling her discussion with Brent on the day of her sons’ departure. “Where is my father?” She looked at the men, her brow furrowing as suspicion began to grow into certainty. “Where is the Earl of Dunhaven?”

She could not know that the earl was hell-bent for Scotland, even as the reluctant highwayman Arthur Coats was releasing the boys from their bonds and setting them free.

St. Stamia’s Fair was a typical three-day festival—the vigil, the feast, and the morrow, so it was termed—when it began in late Saxon times. By the time of the Virgin Queen Elizabeth, it had extended to a fortnight. Its saint was a contemporary and rival of Rowley Village’s St. Mortrud, the relict of a wealthy landowner who’d converted to Christianity late in life. She made up for those lost pagan years with fervor and zeal to the very end.

Lady Stamia founded a nunnery that fortuitously escaped the depredations of King Henry VIII and also those of Cromwell’s Roundheads a century later. It had flourished so deep in the hills above the sleepy town of Shepton, some miles from Rowley Village, that it was easily overlooked. Fittingly, good St. Stamia had evolved into the patron saint of things lost and not easily found.

Two such lost items were the brothers Rowley, John and William. Deposited rather hurriedly outside of Shepton
one night by a repentant Arthur Coats, they’d crawled onto the side of a ferny hillock and slept. When they awoke at dawn—John with the remnants of a splitting headache—the lads found themselves not far from a double row of stalls, temporary affairs of wood and canvas for hawking buns and other sweet pastries, rolls of woven cloth, bags of raw wool, beer and wines, all manner of beasts (four-footed, two-footed, winged), and trinkets galore. Mouths agape in wonder, John and William saw the fair come to life as they gazed at Gypsies reading palms and the requisite Punch and Judy show, as well as a traveling troupe of actors reciting from the works of Shakespeare.

A monkey shared a booth with a squawking green parrot, both watched over by an old tar claiming to have seen service with the king’s navy in exotic Far Eastern ports of call. If the promised bear appeared, there might be bear-baiting. A shifty-eyed conjuror pulled rabbits from a hat while another dodgy fellow performed card tricks, and a sheriff arrived to watch suspiciously over both sleight-of-hand masters. There was no bearded lady, but a family of midgets, little manikins smaller than William, strutted and tumbled.

John was beginning to feel better. Though his head ached and he had no idea where he was, the sights of the country fair were cheering him considerably. William jumped up and down in glee. Drinking in the myriad wonders before them, the boys temporarily forgot their mother and the hosts who were expecting them. They listened to tunes played by fiddlers and hurdy-gurdy men, enjoyed the colorful costumes of the mummers and puppets, and were transported to a world of fantasy beyond their dreams.

The boys had never heard of Stamia, that good but obscure saint, and did not realize this was the fair they’d anticipated visiting all summer. They simply knew that their dream of attending a fair had come true. Aches, bruises, the horrifying ordeal and hardship of being waylaid and kidnapped, receded into the distance as they
melted into the crowd of merrymakers. They were transported into another realm.