A Hasty Betrothal
Autor:in
Dorothy Elbury
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Chapter One
‘Hell and damnation!’ cursed Robert, Viscount Sandford, as he pulled his horses hard over to avoid a seemingly inevitable collision with the coach that had suddenly appeared from around the curve ahead.
Driven at speed by a reckless youngster with no heed for the safety of either the terrified passengers or any other road user, the vehicle was swinging perilously from side to side as the ageing coachman attempted to wrest the whip from the young blade’s hand.
Having eagerly accepted the fistful of guineas from the would-be professional, the driver was now regretting his impetuous gesture and was determined to reinstate himself into his rightful position before they reached the next stage, where the mealy-mouthed proprietor would be sure to report him for this breach of contract. Luckily, the man’s skill with the ribbons was still with him and, as the coach swayed on into the distance, Sandford could see that it did indeed seem to be slowing down as he carefully brought his own pair to a sweating, trembling standstill.
‘Jump down and hold the heads, Tip,’ he commanded. ‘We’ll have to walk them for a bit until they calm down. Damned coachmen—I wish to God they’d refrain from giving the ribbons to these young whipsters!’
‘Whoops! Guv—looks like he hit something!’
Tiptree, Sandford’s groom and one-time batman, pointed to the verge some distance ahead, where a figure lay sprawled in an untidy and apparently motionless heap. Leaping lightly from his seat at the rear of the curricle, he went to the head of the nearside chestnut, talking gently and stroking its nose while Sandford sprang from the driving-seat and strode quickly up the road to see what had occurred. Tiptree followed more slowly, leading the horses and the carriage to where his master was bending over the prostrate form.
‘Nasty bump on his forehead, sir,’ he offered. ‘Wheel must have clipped him as it passed—or maybe he hit it on one of these here stones when he fell?’ He crouched beside the viscount and helped him to straighten the crumpled body.
‘Why, ’tis only a lad!’ he said, as Sandford took the thin wrist in his hand, feeling for a sign of life. ‘A stableboy, by the look of his kit! Is he dead, sir?’
‘No, he’s still breathing—we’ll have to get him to a doctor. Dammit! That means more time wasted! Lift him into the curricle, Tip, then we’ll see if there are any dwellings hereabouts.’
This feat eventually achieved by Tiptree, Sandford climbed back into the driving-seat, steadying the lad against him with one arm, and, holding the reins loosely in his other hand, commanded Tiptree to walk the horses on. Once or twice, the groom thought he heard a low moan coming from the boy and hoped that the youngster was not going to cast up his accounts over his lordship’s driving-coat, for, as sure as eggs were definitely eggs, Kimble would blame him, as usual, for any extra work incurred from this trip. Kimble was his lordship’s new valet and prided himself in keeping his lordship ‘bang-up-to-the-mark’ as the saying went but, luckily, Kimble was still at Beldale, where Sandford had left him contentedly reorganising his master’s wardrobe.
The viscount, having purchased his colours some ten years previously, had distinguished himself with honours at the Battles of Corunna and Ciudad Rodrigo and had risen to the rank of Lieutenant-Colonel but, close on the heels of the victory at Waterloo, had received from home the tragic news of the death of his twin brother, Philip, in a carriage accident, and had straight away resigned his commission. His younger brother’s death had left Sandford as their father’s sole adult heir, so the earl had persuaded Sandford that his army days must, perforce, be over. He must now devote his energies to the Beldale estates and, hopefully, settle down.
The viscount’s brother, whom Sandford had always laughingly referred to as ‘Farmer Phil’ because of his love of the pastoral, had left a young widow, Judith, as well as two little children. During the past year Sandford had become uncomfortably aware that this lady’s mother cherished the thought that he must surely now take his opportunity to marry the girl with whom both brothers had fallen in love as striplings, her father’s property having neighboured theirs. Sandford, unfortunately for the dowager, no longer carried the willow for his pretty sister-in-law, having long since recovered not only from that particular sickness, but also from several similar afflictions over the intervening years.
Now that Napoleon was safely ensconced on St Helena, many of the viscount’s former comrades had also left their companies and returned to England. Sandford had recently been enjoying a spirited reunion with some of his fellow officers in London when he received an urgent summons from Beldale that his father had fallen from his horse and suffered a serious injury. The viscount and his groom were now on their way home with all the speed they could muster.
This present delay would not serve to improve his lordship’s frame of mind, thought Tiptree, as he surveyed the grim expression on Sandford’s face. His long military service with the viscount had earned him a special place in his master’s affections and he had learned to judge his moods to a nicety.
‘Looks like an inn of some sort ahead, sir!’ he called, but Sandford had noted the ramshackle building and was already lifting the unresisting victim on to his shoulder and preparing to climb down.
‘Bring the carriage into the yard and see to the horses,’ he instructed, as he strode to the closed door, at which he kicked violently. ‘Landlord! Ho! Open up within, I say!’
Moments passed as he eased his now-groaning burden more securely across his shoulder. Again he hammered and shouted and finally, to his relief, he heard the rattle of door-chains and the screech of an iron bolt being drawn back. The door opened, but only fractionally, to reveal a tousled-headed old woman who regarded him with rheumy eyes.
‘We’m closed for business, sir,’ she mumbled fretfully, attempting at the same time to shut the door in his face.
‘Open up, I say!’ demanded his lordship curtly. ‘There has been an accident. This youth is injured and I shall require assistance.’
He pushed at the door firmly and the old dame stepped aside fearfully, recognising the Voice of Authority when she heard it, but still she shook her head apologetically as she attempted to grasp his sleeve.
‘Sir—sir,’ she stammered, ‘There baint no one here but mysen. My old Sam—he took ill and died a sennight since and I been waiting for our Jem to come back from the soldiering…’
Sandford interrupted her. ‘Then I shall deal with the matter myself. Get some water heated and show me to a couch of some sort.’
He nudged the old woman firmly along the passageway until, realising the futility of her protestations, she shakily pointed him in the direction of the ‘best’ parlour where, ducking to miss the lintel, Sandford backed into the room and deposited his once more silent burden effortlessly upon a couch. Then, reaching for a cushion, he gently settled the boy’s head on to it and smoothed back the ragged mud-spattered hair from the grimy face.
After some moments the reluctant innkeeper, followed by Tiptree, hobbled into the room carrying a bowl of hot water and a towel.
‘My eyesight baint too good, sir,’ she wheezed, as she dipped one corner of the linen into the water. She was about to attempt to bathe the boy’s forehead when Sandford took the cloth from her and proceeded to wipe the filthy brow himself.
‘We’re soldiers ourselves, ma’am,’ he explained, as he examined the ugly swelling which could now be clearly seen on the boy’s temple. ‘I’ve had to deal with many such incidents—aye, and worse,’ he added, almost to himself. Then, ‘Could you rake up some victuals, do you think? Cold pie or bread and cheese will amply suffice.’
He turned to Tiptree, who was examining the patient for broken bones. ‘Well, Tip, what have we got, do you think? Is the boy done for?’
‘Shouldn’t think so, Guv,’ said that worthy cheerfully. ‘Thing is, though, what we have here ain’t exactly a boy!’ He pointed to the unbuttoned shirt, beneath which the beribboned top of a cotton camisole could be clearly seen.
‘Good God!’ exploded Sandford, stepping back in dismay. ‘Cover him—her up, Tiptree, for God’s sake!’
He snatched a rug from a nearby chair and together they made a half-hearted attempt to make their patient decent as she gradually stirred and focused a pair of dazed green eyes upon them.
‘Wh-what are you doing?’ she protested faintly and tried to sit up. ‘Oh, my head! Wh-where am I—what has happened—who are you?’ She fell back on the cushion in pain and confusion, gripping the rug tightly to her chin as she regarded her rescuers with understandable apprehension.
Sandford stared down at the girl in frowning consternation. No rough serving wench, as he immediately realised on hearing her voice, but surely no young lady of any breeding would appear in public, wearing such shocking attire?
‘You must forgive us, ma’am,’ he said curtly. ‘You were hurt at the roadside—we brought you here—thinking you to be a boy!’
The girl flushed slightly, but a wan smile crossed her face. ‘Yes, well—I am in disguise, you see—could you help me up, do you think?’ She swung her breeched legs gingerly to the ground and Tiptree grabbed her arm as she swayed forward.
‘Oh, dear,’ she groaned. ‘I seem not to be quite myself—perhaps I should sit for a moment or two.’
Sandford controlled his impatience with difficulty as the girl stared up at him in silent expectation, waiting, he supposed, for him to make the first move.
‘Allow me to present myself, ma’am,’ he eventually managed. ‘Sandford of Beldale at your service—Tiptree here is my man. You must forgive my haste—but I am on most urgent business and I have no time to waste, so I beg you to acquaint me with your destination and I shall see to it that you return home as quickly as possible.’
‘Oh, no! You don’t understand!’ the girl retorted crossly, as she once again attempted to rise. ‘I have run away—they were trying to force me to marry— Did you say Sandford?’ She looked up at him, amazement in her voice. ‘Not Colonel Sandford? But yes! I can see that you are indeed he!’
She was, at once, on her feet and staring hard at his countenance.
‘I can claim that honour, ma’am,’ Sandford replied stiffly, ‘but you have the advantage—should I know you?’
‘Well, you hardly would—even if you remembered—in this outfit,’ countered the young lady, deftly straightening her clothing. ‘Allow me to introduce myself—Harriet Cordell—Sir Jonathan was my father—you will not have forgotten him, I’m sure.’ She looked at him confidently.
Sandford nodded slowly. ‘No, indeed. Our paths crossed many times in Spain. So you are Major Jon’s daughter?’
He surveyed the grubby apparition before him and Harriet had the grace to blush.
‘But what scrape is this that you are in? Your parents settled in Lincolnshire, as I recollect? How do you come to be in Leicestershire—and in this rig? Is it some sort of wager?’
‘No. It is as I said—I have run away from my home. I took the stableboy’s clothing and left yesterday morning before the house was up. I have walked miles and miles and I slept last night in a hayloft after the owner had put the horses to bed!’
She looked about her in sudden concern. ‘Did you recover my bundle? My purse and gown are in it—I don’t see it here.’
Sandford glanced at Tiptree, who shook his head. ‘We had our hands full with you, miss,’ he said apologetically. ‘I’ll go back down the road and take a look, sir, shall I—but I doubt it’ll still be there. It’s a busy road.’
At the nod from his master he left the room.
Just then the landlady re-entered, bearing a tray of refreshments, which Sandford, stepping forward, took from her hands, at the same time sending a warning frown to Harriet to remain silent.
‘Thank you, ma’am,’ he said cheerfully. ‘Our patient has recovered. This fare will set us up and we will all be on our way without delay. Here’s for your trouble.’
He pressed some coins into her hand, ushered her out of the door and returned to the table. Selecting some of the cold pie and a piece of chicken, he handed the plate to Harriet and instructed her to eat the food.
‘And no missish airs, if you please,’ he commanded sternly. ‘A seasoned campaigner, such as you are, will be well used to eating what’s to hand. You spent your youth in the train, I collect?’ He helped himself to some food and sat down at the table, regarding her with undisguised curiosity as he ate.
‘I admit to having little appetite,’ Harriet acquiesced politely. ‘And I do have the most throbbing headache, but I shall do my best to take some nourishment. We—Mama and I—learned that lesson in the Peninsula. As you say, we often travelled with the baggage-train, along with the other wives and families. Our quarters were generally quite good, however, and we had our abigail, Martha, with us. Papa went out to Gibraltar when I was tiny and, of course, we went with him, for we had always stayed together…’ Her voice trembled slightly and she took a sip from the glass he had poured for her, pulling a face.
‘Ugh! Porter! I could never become accustomed to that!’
She was immediately comforted by the sight of his quick grin and covertly studied her rescuer. Throughout her childhood she had listened in awe to the many tales of his daring exploits, so was intrigued and, she had to admit, not a little nervous at meeting her one-time hero at such close quarters. She recollected having been presented to him at a ball in Lisbon, but this had been in her youth and she doubted that the great man would recall such an insignificant incident.
Having cast off both his driving-coat and jacket, Sandford was now in his shirtsleeves, riding breeches and top boots, all of which displayed his good shoulders and strong limbs to advantage. Although not precisely handsome, the viscount was blessed with regular features, crisp brown hair and a pair of steady grey eyes with which he now sat and frowningly surveyed her as she nibbled at her pie.
There was a tap at the door and Tiptree entered, empty-handed. Harriet jumped up and started forward.
‘Oh, no! Don’t say you could not find it! Now I am in the suds!’ She spun round to face Sandford. ‘I wonder, sir—could I prevail upon you to advance me some money? I need to get to the staging post, you see. I am going to seek out my grandfather. I am sure he will help me…’ She broke off lamely. ‘What must you think of me? I will tell you the whole, if you can spare me your time?’
Sandford sighed resignedly. ‘My business is most pressing, to be sure, but I cannot just walk out and leave you here. Tiptree, come and eat while I hear Miss Cordell’s tale.’ He rose from his chair and seated himself on the window settle next to the couch Harriet had just chosen.
‘I will be quick, for I can tell that your time is precious,’ she said gratefully. ‘You may have heard that Papa was injured at Nivelle and we returned to England before Napoleon escaped from Elba, so we were not involved in the Belgian campaign—much to Papa’s fury. He had been hit in the chest and never really recovered and he—he died last year, before the victory. Mama was totally to pieces and our neighbour—who farms the land next to ours—was so very helpful to us, arranging the funeral and organising the farmworkers to carry on and—so many things I shan’t tire you with. Anyway, somehow she grew to depend upon him and his advice and, just after Easter—three months ago—she agreed to marry him. Would you believe it, after being married to Papa for more than twenty years! I think Sir Chester is quite the most odious of men and as for his son—words fail me!’
Harriet clenched her fists and her slim frame shuddered. ‘That was it, you see. Sir Chester had married Mama, thinking that she was wealthy—but Papa had left everything to me, in trust until I am twenty-five or marry. Mama has the interest from the trust and a generous competence, of course. Papa was not a rich man, but we were always secure, and he had also inherited the family farm when his cousin died. However, to the point; when he discovered that it will be another five years before I inherit the estate, Sir Chester started pushing his horrid son at me and throwing us together at every opportunity—he was determined to make a match, but I was very unco-operative, I can assure you! Two days ago I overheard them planning to abduct me and force an elopement, so I knew I had to get away before I found myself Mistress Gilbert Middleton!’
She was obliged to stop to compose herself and Sandford took the opportunity to ask, ‘You mentioned a grandparent—he lives in Leicestershire? Perhaps I can take you to him?’ but Harriet shook her head and, after taking a deep breath, hurriedly continued with her explanation.
‘Mama’s father—he is a Scottish landowner, but she eloped with Papa when she was eighteen and she has had no contact with him since. I understand that he lives somewhere to the north of Edinburgh…’
She then looked hopefully at Sandford, who had risen to his feet and was reaching for his jacket. Laying her hand upon his arm, she beseeched him urgently, ‘Please, my lord, will you lend me some money so that I can continue my journey? I was trying to reach Grantham for the staging-post. I believe the coaches leave for Edinburgh at six every morning. We cannot be far away, if you would be so kind as to convey me there?’
‘Absolutely not!’ retorted Sandford, shrugging into his driving-coat. ‘You, my dear Miss Cordell, will accompany me to Beldale where my mother will see to you. You must see that I cannot possibly leave you here alone in this inn. As for allowing you to travel by public stage to some unknown destination—you must be all about in your head still, if you imagine that I will do that! Now, tidy yourself and wash your face while Tiptree sees if the old dame has a cloak or something we can persuade her to sell!’
Somewhat incensed at his lordship’s overbearing dismissal of her project, but suspecting that her protestations would be in vain, Harriet allowed herself to be bundled into the viscount’s curricle and, wrapped in the hooded cape procured from the landlady (who had made herself a considerable profit from the morning’s unexpected activities), resentfully succumbed to her fate.
The journey to Beldale was completed almost in silence, with Harriet and Sandford each engrossed in their own thoughts, and Tiptree, seated behind them, wondering if his lordship had allowed his concern for his father’s welfare to overset his usually sound judgement.
Sandford was, ruefully, wondering much the same. His mother would have had enough on her plate, he realised, without this additional complication, having hardly had time to mourn her son. Now to be faced with a serious and possibly life-threatening injury to her beloved husband must require all of Lady Caroline’s resources. From her hastily scribbled missive he had gathered that Beldale had been thrown, or had fallen, from his horse while returning from estate rounds and had lain helpless in the woods for some hours. His failure to arrive at the stables had eventually alerted the grooms but, although a search party had then quickly located the injured man, it appeared that drenching rain had exacerbated his condition. He had been given the best medical attention available but he had slipped in and out of consciousness as a raging fever had taken hold. His physician had voiced his worst fears and, after a frantic three days, Lady Caroline had reluctantly sent for her son.
Sandford, having lost the precious time he had gained from his headlong dash out of the city, concentrated on his driving and, for most of the journey, refrained from making any sort of conversation until, leaning forward to spring his horses on a straight section of road, he happened to glance sideways and noticed Harriet’s white and set face.
‘Not so far now,’ he announced bracingly. ‘We turn off at the next village and then it is a mere three miles to the lodge.’
Harriet nodded glumly. Still feeling the effects of the bump on her head and gradually becoming more aware of other painful areas of her body, she found herself growing increasingly nervous at the thought of the forthcoming interview with the Countess of Beldale. Although her upbringing had been an uncommon one, leaving her with a lack of some of the more usual feminine accomplishments, it had taught her to be very self-reliant. Her common sense now warned her that it was going to be difficult to justify clothing herself in male garb, whatever provocation had led her to do so. Hadn’t Mama and Martha frequently been obliged to remind her that she was a lady and that, even in extreme circumstances, she must always endeavour to behave as such?
It had never been her intention to allow anyone of consequence to see her in her disguise. She had supposed that, as a stable lad, she would pass unnoticed on the roadside and that, hidden from view behind some barn or other, she could have changed into her carefully folded good dress and covered her hastily cropped hair with her ample bonnet before boarding the coach for Scotland. She had brought away a purse full of guineas so had expected to travel in reasonable comfort once she reached the staging route. She had not, of course, allowed for this disastrous turn of events.
Having spent her formative years following the army on the continent, she believed that she was well able to take care of herself. She was a skilled and daring horsewoman, having learned her craft under the unforgiving eyes of the grooms and cavalry officers of her father’s regiment with whom she had been quite a favourite, with her swinging amber ringlets and her slim, boyish figure. Always willing to attempt the impossible, she had usually managed to remain steadfastly cheerful in the most disheartening conditions.
Not quite so cheerful at the moment however, she saw, with very mixed feelings, that the carriage was negotiating a narrow curve running through a small, picturesque village. The sun was already nestling down into the puffs of cloud above the nearby hills and its light was fading quickly. She held her breath in admiration as Sandford turned his horses into a broad carriage-drive with hardly a check, raising his whip in response to the lodge-keeper’s salute as they swept through the high, wrought-iron gates.
She was unable to appreciate the extent of the parkland flashing past her and, in reality, was in no mood to do so for, as the cream stone façade of the elegant house came into view, her apprehension increased.
The great front doors were already on the point of opening as the carriage reached the steps and an elegantly attired lady of mature years was hastening out to meet Lord Sandford who, having cast the reins at Tiptree, had leapt down from his perch and was taking the stone steps two at a time with his hands outstretched.
‘Father? How is he?’ he cried, anxiously clasping his mother’s hands. ‘I am not—too late?’
But her ladyship was smiling. ‘Robbie—oh, my dear! His lordship has rallied!’ she replied joyfully. ‘But I’m so glad that you have returned! The physician is with him now—come along, quickly. He will be wanting to speak with you.’
The countess urged her son into the hallway as she spoke and, throwing his driving-coat to a waiting footman, Sandford bounded up the wide, curving staircase. Halfway to the landing he checked, turned and, with his hand on the banister, exclaimed, ‘Good grief! I almost forgot—Miss Cordell! She is still in the curricle!’
She was not. When the groomsmen had taken the horses’ heads, Tiptree had handed Harriet down and she had nervously climbed the steps in Sandford’s wake, expecting him at least to account for her presence but, with increasing agitation, she realised that she herself would once again be responsible for the difficult explanations. She stepped hesitatingly into the well-lit hall as Lady Caroline turned in puzzlement towards her, then stiffened momentarily as she heard her ladyship’s gasp of astonishment.
‘Sally! Sally—can it be? But, no! Of course not!’
The countess stepped forward quickly to peer at Harriet’s face.
‘Please remove your hood, my dear—oh! Your hair! But the colour—and that face! Surely I would know it anywhere—Robbie! Come down at once! Who is this young lady—where is she from?’ She drew Harriet to the middle of the hall as Sandford slowly and reluctantly descended the stairs.
‘Forgive me, Mama,’ he replied, as Harriet agitatedly clutched the shabby cape around her, terrified that her disguise would be revealed both to the countess and to the several impassive servants on duty.
‘This is Miss Harriet Cordell. She requires our assistance in a rather delicate matter—shall we go into the salon?’
He took his mother’s arm and propelled her gently into a nearby withdrawing-room, signalling Harriet to accompany them. As the door closed, he drew the countess to a sofa and took up his stance by the fireplace, indicating a nearby seat to Harriet, who perched herself very gingerly on its edge, keeping the front of the cape closely about her breeched legs.
Lady Caroline waved her hand impatiently at her son. ‘What is this all about?’ she demanded. ‘This is Sally Rutherford to the letter—I should know! We were bosom bows at our come out. I don’t understand!’
She stared helplessly at Harriet, who was herself in total confusion at the older woman’s words.
‘I am Harriet Cordell, ma’am,’ she stuttered. ‘My father was Major Sir Jonathan Cordell—my mother Sarah is the daughter of Lord Douglas Ramsey…’
She stopped as Lady Caroline clapped her hands in delight.
‘Ramsey! Well, of course! He married Sally—I was her bridesmaid—he took her off to Craigburn and we never met again. We corresponded, to be sure, but she died in child-bed—I always believed that her child died with her. Ramsey refused to answer any letters and I supposed him to have gone into a decline. He was much in love with Sally,’ she finished sadly.
There was a moment’s silence. Harriet cast her eyes up pleadingly at Sandford, who seemed to be studying the pattern on the carpet with great interest. He cleared his throat and his mother looked quickly towards him and smiled.
‘Oh, dear,’ she said. ‘I am being maudlin, aren’t I? Do forgive me, my dears.’ She turned to Harriet and patted the seat next to her. ‘Come and sit by me, my child, and tell me your tale. I can see that Robert is fretting to go to his father and I feel that he will be of little use to us until he has done so.’
Harriet was only too pleased to comply with her hostess’s request and waited until Sandford had left the room before reciting her misadventures once more. The countess interrupted her flow only to clarify certain points and then sat, nodding her head in sympathy, until the tale was told.
‘—and what I have to do now, ma’am,’ Harriet spoke firmly, ‘is to ask if you will advance me the money to seek out my grandfather or perhaps…’
‘My dear child!’ Lady Caroline recoiled in distaste at the very idea. ‘I shall write to Lord Ramsey myself. Indeed, I should have done it years ago. Firstly, however, we must see to your dress—Mathilde will find you something.’
She pulled at the bell-rope beside the fireplace and, almost immediately, a footman appeared at the door.
‘Oh, March—send for Mathilde and tell Mrs Gibson to have the Rose room prepared for a lady guest.’ She turned once more to Harriet. ‘I expect you are famished too—have cook send up some substantial refreshments, March.’
The footman bowed and left the room.
‘We still keep country hours for our meals, my dear, and had our dinner at three o’clock, but I dare say a hearty supper will be welcomed by both Robert and yourself?’
Harriet nodded. Tired and aching, she was happy for the moment to place herself in her ladyship’s hands and, very soon afterwards, she found herself conducted upstairs to a delightful rose-coloured chamber overlooking the gardens at the rear of the house.
Meanwhile, Sandford had hastened to his father’s bedchamber where he was admitted by Chegwin, the earl’s elderly valet.
The viscount learned that the crisis had occurred during the early hours of that morning when Beldale had at last rallied and his fever had lessened, although he was still incoherent and weak from the blood-letting upon which Sir Basil, his physician, had insisted.
Chegwin had defied all attempts to remove him from his master’s side throughout his illness, refusing all offers of help with either the feeding of the patient or the changing of dressings, resting only when Lady Caroline herself was with his lordship.
‘I am glad to see you home, my lord,’ he welcomed Sandford softly. ‘His lordship is sleeping, but he is no longer as restless as he has been these past days.’
Sandford took his seat by the big four-poster bed and contemplated his sleeping parent gravely. The pale, lined face looked so much younger in repose and his heart softened as he recalled the days of his childhood when he and his twin had accompanied their father around the estate, proudly riding alongside him and always taking his fine example as the pattern-card for their future lives.
He was at a loss to understand how his father, an excellent horseman, had come to take such a toss. The bridleway through the woods on the far side of the estate was a wide and open one and Sandford assumed that the earl would have been riding at a gentle trot. His lordship was over seventy, it was true, but had always been of a hale and hearty disposition and fully active in all outdoor pursuits and had, hitherto, managed his large estate with enjoyment and gusto. Now, the viscount was beginning to wonder if Philip’s death had affected the earl more than he had at first supposed.
After his son’s untimely death, Beldale had been closely involved with his daughter-in-law’s business affairs. To be sure, she had an excellent estate manager in their cousin Charles Ridgeway, but the earl had deemed it his duty to oversee his grandson’s inheritance and this was one of the reasons he had felt it necessary to insist upon Sandford’s quitting his military career.
During the past year Sandford had become increasingly aware of the fact that his presence at Beldale was likely to be of a permanent nature and that he would have to set about relearning the task of running the estates. He had grown up here, of course, and had dabbled in such matters before the yearning for a military life had sent him on his travels. He had always loved the place and its people, if not quite as wholeheartedly as Philip had done, he ruefully acknowledged, but was gradually coming to realise that there would be few regrets, especially after all the carnage and suffering he had recently witnessed.
The viscount now became aware that his father’s eyes had opened and were trying to focus upon the figure at his bedside. A frail hand reached out and felt for Sandford’s own and the viscount bent to hear Beldale’s whispered words.
‘The horse—he fell—something…’ His voice tailed off and he sank once more into his drugged slumber.
Sandford drew his head back, puzzled. Chegwin came to the bedside and confided, ‘That is how he has been, my lord, and always the same words. Is he worrying about his horse, do you suppose? Smithers tells me that the poor beast had to be destroyed—two legs were broken, I understand. His lordship has not been informed, of course. Would that be causing such restlessness, sir?’
Sandford shook his head doubtfully. ‘I should hardly think so, but certainly it is odd that he constantly dwells upon it.’
He stood up, gently unclasping his father’s hand as he did so, saying, ‘I shall speak with Smithers myself. You are doing very well here, Chegwin. Please accept my deepest gratitude.’
The old manservant bowed, concealing his pleasure at the young master’s words. ‘We do our best, sir,’ was his reply, but there was a smile on his face as he closed the door after Sandford’s departure.
The viscount made straight for the stables, seeking out the head groom who was locking up for the day. Smithers confirmed the valet’s story that Cobalt had been destroyed. He himself had attended to the horse immediately after his master had been carried away from the scene of the accident.
‘Threshing about in great pain, so he were, sir,’ he said sadly, shaking his head. ‘’Twere a real shame that—a grand old lad, he were. But both his front legs was broke, you see, sir, so couldn’t do otherwise.’ He looked anxiously at Sandford, knowing that his actions had been correct and wondering where his young lordship’s questions were leading.
‘Absolutely right, Smithers. I am not doubting your judgement. I just needed to clarify a few points in my mind. Did you notice anything odd about the fall?’
Smithers rubbed his chin and frowned. ‘I couldn’t see how his lordship came to fall at all on that path, sir, him being such a bruising rider, and Cobalt could have fetched him home blindfolded, as you know. But there it is, sir, his lordship had shot over Cobalt’s head—that were obvious from how he was lying—and the horse had gone down on both front legs from the look of the cuts on his knees. Likely a hare or some such startled him is my best guess and I did give it a lot of thought, sir,’ he said, shifting uncomfortably. ‘Even went back the next morning to have a good look round. Still don’t get it, though.’ He shook his head again.
‘Don’t concern yourself, Smithers.’ Sandford clapped the groom on the back. ‘I’m sure that you did all that should be done in the circumstances. You can show me the spot in the morning, just to satisfy my curiosity. As you say, the fact that his lordship fell at all is a mystery. Now, finish up here quickly and get to your supper.’
Turning on his heel, he left, going at once to his rooms where, with Kimble’s disapproving assistance, he quickly changed out of his travel-stained garments before descending to join his mother once more.
The countess was awaiting his return with some eagerness, although she was unable to shed any further light on his father’s accident, describing only the injuries he had suffered. A blow to the head causing severe concussion and a broken ankle were the main problems, but the old gentleman was covered in bruises, too, and it would be some time before he was himself again. She was just too glad that Sir Basil, his lordship’s physician, was now quietly confident that his patient would make a good recovery and she was overjoyed when Sandford informed her of his intention to remain at Beldale and take over his father’s reins until Lord William had fully recovered.
By now, having had ample time to formulate her own ideas for Harriet’s salvation, Lady Caroline then turned the conversation to that particular problem.
