chapter Eight
Penelope woke surrounded by the enticing mixture of sandalwood and sage.
Gabriel.
Memories flooded in like the sunlight that streamed through the windows of the bedchamber. She glanced to her side, but true to his word, Gabriel had gone. The pillow next to hers still bore the imprint of his head, however, and she stared at that spot for long moments.
It had been nearly two years since she’d shared a bed with a man. And never had she spent a night in someone’s arms simply for the comfort they offered. Michael’s nighttime visits had been for lovemaking—after which he would drop off to sleep with his back to her or slip out to his studio.
An odd sensation swelled in her chest, disconcerting and unnerving. Though nothing untoward had happened between her and Gabriel last night, those few hours in his arms seemed more intimate to her than any she’d ever spent.
She’d told him everything—well, almost everything. She waited for the stomach-clenching regret to come, but strangely, it didn’t. It had been painful talking about Michael and his death, but she actually felt lighter in her heart than she had yesterday. Maybe because she hadn’t sensed any indictment coming from Gabriel.
Of course, he didn’t know the whole truth. No one did—not even Liliana, though her cousin had dragged some of the story out of her.
But there was no reason anyone would ever need to know the rest. She vowed she wouldn’t make the same mistakes with Gabriel as she had with Michael. She was much wiser now—at least more learned. She hoped that was enough.
Penelope rose quickly, anxious to pick up where they had left off in Gabriel’s treatment before he changed his mind about letting her stay. It had been a close thing, and he’d capitulated only grudgingly. She meant to prove that he’d made the right choice.
After a quick toilette—slowed by only a minimal amount of limping, she was happy to note—Penelope was ready to join Gabriel in the parlor. Anticipation fluttered in her middle at seeing Gabriel in the light of day after spending the night cradled in his arms, innocent though it had been.
Not quite innocent, her mind whispered. All right, so her thoughts may have drifted to the carnal a time or two as she’d lain against his muscular contours. And when she’d fallen asleep the last time, Gabriel had once again been the focus of her dreams. But this time he’d been very much alive and very much—
Heat stained her cheeks as she pushed open the door that separated the bedchamber from the rest of the suite. The distinctive scent of smoked bacon greeted her nose, as did the yeasty aroma of hot rolls and a glorious whiff of strong English tea. Penelope’s stomach rumbled, pushing aside any lingering embarrassment. Besides, she was actually looking forward to spending the morning with Gabriel, she realized. More than she would have expected.
Until she saw who else was sitting at the table.
Both men rose when they saw her, Gabriel—looking well in light pantaloons contrasted with a waistcoat of bottle green paired with a coat the same golden brown as his eyes—and Mr. Allen, somber in serviceable black, like her.
Still, she hoped she never looked as pinched and forbidding as the director of Vickering Place did right now.
Gabriel smiled in greeting—a welcoming smile, if a bit strained. “Good morning, Lady Manton. I trust you slept well.”
“I did, thank you,” she replied with a sweet smile of her own. He knew she’d slept well, as he had been the reason. When he’d offered to stay with her in case the nightmare returned, she’d been sure she’d never be able to sleep again. But she’d drifted off in the safety of his arms and hadn’t woken again until bright sunlight forced the issue.
“And how is your leg this morning?” he inquired politely—and a little stiffly, due to Mr. Allen’s presence, no doubt.
“Better than I expected,” she answered, carefully making her way toward the table to join them. “Given how much it hurt yesterday. There is little pain this morning, more of an aching heaviness.”
“Then you should be able to return to the inn this evening, I expect,” Mr. Allen said. The words were polite, but something about his tone set Penelope’s teeth on edge. He seemed more than pleased with the prospect of her leaving them.
“Oh, not quite yet,” she demurred, and embellished her limp a smidge as she crossed the rest of the distance. “Pain is still pain, and I wouldn’t like to risk permanent injury.” What she truly didn’t like was the idea of Mr. Allen trying to get rid of her. She glanced at Gabriel. “That is, if Lord Bromwich is amenable to another night or two on a cot.”
“Of course,” came Gabriel’s staunch reply.
She took the seat held out for her by a servant and smoothed the linen napkin on her lap as the men settled themselves just after her.
Breakfast was an awkward affair, her delight in the well-prepared fare dimmed by the stiff silence of the diners. Gabriel shot speculative looks at Mr. Allen over his plate, whereas the director shot similar glances at her—with a bit of what she suspected was condescension tossed in. Only a few bites in, Penelope lost her appetite altogether.
She couldn’t contain a small sigh of relief as the painful meal came to an end. “Well,” she said, injecting a brightness she didn’t feel into her voice as she stood, “that was lovely. I am certain you have a full day ahead of you, Mr. Allen. Overseeing Vickering Place is quite a task, I’m sure. Lord Bromwich and I have a full day ahead, as well—and I’d like to get started immediately.”
“Excellent,” Mr. Allen intoned, dabbing at the corner of his mouth before discarding his soiled napkin. “As I intend to spend the day with you, observing your methods for myself.”
Unease and irritation warred for supremacy in her middle. Mr. Allen sitting in with them? What sort of progress could she expect Gabriel to make if they could not talk alone?
“While I’d be happy to engage in a theoretical discourse regarding my methodology, my style of treatment requires a good amount of deeply personal discussion, of the type I am certain Lord Bromwich would like to remain private.”
If possible, Mr. Allen’s face grew even more pinched. “Nevertheless, I am the director of Vickering Place, and Lord Bromwich is under my care. I appreciate that his family has asked for you to see him, but if you wish to continue, you will do so under my conditions.”
“Allen,” Gabriel growled.
“No,” she interjected as she noticed Dunnings, Carter’s beefier and more foreboding counterpart, stand more alert at his post in the corner. The stoic attendant added a hint of menace to the gathering that she didn’t care for, particularly when she saw him fist one hand at his side.
“If that is what you wish, Mr. Allen, I will be happy to have you join us,” she lied. Perhaps he would get bored soon and go back to his responsibilities elsewhere.
When the three of them were seated—she on the chaise, Gabriel and Mr. Allen in opposing wingbacks—Penelope cleared her throat. “Well, as we discussed yesterday, Lord Bromwich,” she began, sending a what-else-can-we-do smile at Gabriel, “I believe much—if not all—of your condition may have its roots in battle fatigue—”
Mr. Allen made a scoffing noise in his throat. “That is your supposition? Lord Bromwich suffers from mania, Lady Manton. Or have you forgotten how you found him when you first arrived?”
The flush of anger made her cheeks hot. “Of course I haven’t forgotten. However, aside from his episode, he has been completely lucid.”
“Many lunatics have lucid moments,” Mr. Allen countered coolly.
“Moments, yes. But I’ve never heard of one who is lucid most of the time. There is normally some hint of instability in between bouts, of which I’ve seen no evidence,” she shot back.
“You are hardly the expert.”
“Enough, Allen,” Gabriel warned while Penelope bit down on a sharp reply. She held up a staying hand in his direction. She could handle Mr. Allen on her own.
She pasted a calm smile on her face and trained her gaze on the director. “Perhaps not. However, I have studied maladies of the mind quite extensively, and I’ve never seen a case like his. What I have seen, however, is evidence that cruel treatment has been shown to make a patient’s condition worse, rather than better. Looking through Lord Bromwich’s records, I notice you’ve advocated several horrifically painful procedures for him. Bleeding, cupping, purging, blistering—”
“All perfectly acceptable forms of treatment for lunatics,” Mr. Allen said, his eyes narrowing on her.
“All antiquated and barbaric.”
He sniffed in a very what-does-a-lady-like-you-know-about-it way and said, “All treatments good enough for our king.”
“Who was never cured and died of his madness,” she retorted, which earned her an angry glare from Mr. Allen.
Penelope would never believe that many of the treatments inflicted on those who suffered from lunacy were appropriate or helpful. To her, it went against every bit of humanity and common sense she possessed.
But she knew that wasn’t why she was angry enough with Mr. Allen to be as rude as she’d just been. Her argument was simply a surrogate for what really burned her—that the director refused to even contemplate that Gabriel was not crazed but rather broken in a different way. A way that might not require him to be locked away in Vickering Place for the rest of his days.
But she shouldn’t have antagonized him so. She wasn’t certain what had come over her. She was typically sweet and genteel in her dealings with others. She knew making Mr. Allen angry would do little to win him over to her way of thinking.
So she took a deep breath and said, “I apologize. I understand that we both wish what is best for Lord Bromwich. We simply have differing ideas about how to accomplish it.” Her next words galled her to say, but she did anyway. “I do hope you will forgive that I am very passionate about my own.”
Mr. Allen sat stiffly in his chair, his expression not changing in the least. “The equilibrium of the mind can be dislodged by a surplus of passion, Lady Manton. That is a well-documented cause of insanity.”
Tiny hairs rose on the back of her neck at his response, not caring for either his tone or his sentiments.
“Yes, well, while the effects of battle fatigue are less documented, the majority of Lord Bromwich’s symptoms fall within them,” she said, attempting to steer the conversation to less treacherous territory. Gabriel’s jaw had clenched tight when she’d checked his defense of her earlier, and now his fists were balled at his sides. Dunnings had inched closer to their grouping, his eyes darting between the three of them. And Mr. Allen had clasped his hands in front of his chest and was rhythmically stroking the knuckles of one hand with the fingers of his other.
She directed herself at Gabriel now, realizing that Mr. Allen wasn’t going to listen to anything she proposed. “I believe we can lessen and perhaps even cure some of those symptoms through uncovering the hidden associations behind them.”
“What?” both Gabriel and Mr. Allen said in unison.
Penelope thought about how best to explain. “I think we can all agree that the mind is very powerful and mysterious. Doctors and mental philosophers have argued for years over where defects of the mind originate and how to cure them.
“I happen to fall into the school of associationists. We believe that all people start out as blank slates and that the things we experience in our lives connect to our reason. Our reason then forms a conclusion about our experience and associates that experience with corresponding ideas and experiences we’ve had to drive our future actions.”
Both men looked at her with twin expressions of confusion on their faces.
She couldn’t blame them. She suspected she had sounded rather like Liliana did when her cousin tried to explain chemical theory to her.
“Think of it as cause and effect,” she suggested. “A child touches a hot stove, they experience a burn and then their mind makes the association that stoves can be painful and the child does not touch a stove again. This is a very simplistic example, of course. But our minds do this for everything that we experience in life.
“Sometimes the associations are obvious. But sometimes our minds will connect illogical things unbeknownst to us—particularly when we experience trauma, like that of wartime service—that can take over our senses and force us to behave in ways we do not understand.”
“Ridiculous,” Mr. Allen said with a dismissive shake of his head.
But a peculiar, interested look came over Gabriel, as if her words made sense to him. As if he were willing to listen further, perhaps even be willing to let her test her theory.
But they’d never be able to dig deeply enough into his psyche to expose and banish his faulty associations and to effect lasting change in his life with Mr. Allen’s negative presence.
Dash her injured leg. If she were healthy, she could take Gabriel outside to walk and talk, where Mr. Allen might be less inclined to follow. Judging from his pasty white skin, he did not seem the outdoor type. But until she healed, that was not an option.
She could only hope Mr. Allen would lose interest now that he’d decided she had nothing to offer, and leave them to it.
* * *
Four days later, she was wishing Mr. Allen would lose significantly more than interest. His way to the manor from the gatehouse that she’d learned was his private residence, perhaps. Or maybe his licensing—as Vickering Place served more than one lunatic, the sanatorium had to be visited at least once a year by the Royal College of Physicians under the 1774 Madhouses Act. She was so frustrated with the man, she even caught herself wishing he’d lose his health—not for good, of course. Just for a few days, so that he would have to stay home. Then she could speak to Gabriel alone.
For despite Mr. Allen’s outspoken disdain for Penelope’s theories and practices, he insisted on being present whenever she was with Gabriel. And if something required the director’s presence elsewhere, either Dunnings or Carter were stationed near. She might just be unreasonably suspicious, but it seemed as if the attendants stayed closer than they had before—certainly within earshot at all times. Dunnings was more vigilant than Carter, she’d noticed. But the result was that she and Gabriel had made no progress since their night in his bedchamber.
Her leg, on the other hand, had improved dramatically and she’d been able to return to the inn two nights ago. However, her plans to get Gabriel outside once she was well had been thwarted by Mother Nature. Penelope had never much cared for rainy days—but at the moment, she detested them.
She shook the offending drops from her umbrella as she waited beneath the portico. This morning, just as yesterday, her stomach was knotted and tight. She could not shake the fear that one day—maybe even today—Mr. Allen would simply refuse her at the door.
He’d never seemed particularly happy to welcome her—had done so only at the demand of the Marchioness of Bromwich. But now it seemed as if his dislike of Penelope had outstripped his desire not to anger Gabriel’s influential mother. And Penelope wanted to know why. She had to resolve whatever Mr. Allen held against her, for Gabriel’s sake.
When the director opened the door, he nodded curtly and stepped aside so that she could enter, and a little of her tightness eased. As a servant took her cloak and umbrella, Penelope turned to Mr. Allen, hoping today might be the day they came to some sort of truce.
“Before we visit Lord Bromwich, I was wondering if we might have a private word,” she said.
The director’s dark eyes narrowed over his long, bony nose, but he extended a hand toward his office.
When they entered the room, Mr. Allen moved to stand behind his desk. Rather than take a seat, Penelope walked to the desk as well, taking a stand in front of it.
Unfortunate though it was, she was well aware that at the current moment, Mr. Allen held most of the power in this situation. If he was willing to risk the ire of Gabriel’s family and the potential loss of income should they decide to move him elsewhere, the director could toss her out this very moment. Therefore, she chose her words carefully.
“I appreciate how accommodating you have been in allowing me access to Lord Bromwich,” she said, impressed with herself that she had not choked on the lie. “I also understand that you do not hold the same views as I in regard to his treatment.”
Mr. Allen snorted, not even putting a polite polish on his contempt for her since Gabriel was not here to witness his rudeness.
Penelope pursed her lips. What was it with this man? Did he think women had no place in an asylum except as patients? Did he simply believe that her theories were rubbish and that she would do more harm than good?
An ugly thought crept into her mind. Or did he just not wish for Gabriel to recover? After all, as unfortunate as it was true, most people believed lunatics could not be cured but simply contained. Being responsible for housing and caring for a mad marquess would be both prestigious and lucrative for Vickering Place. Mr. Allen would have an easier time convincing other wealthy peers to put their loved ones in the same sanatorium as a marquess’s family entrusted him to.
Penelope scolded herself for such a lowering thought. No, Mr. Allen was likely just convinced Penelope did not know the first thing about treating a madman. She might have the opportunity to prove him wrong if he would just consent to work with her. And hopefully, eventually, get out of her way.
She kept her voice very polite. “However, I do think we both have much to offer Lord Bromwich. His family has entrusted us both with his care,” she reminded him. “Could we not find a way to cooperate with each other?”
“His family . . . ,” Mr. Allen drawled, lowering his chin and pinning her with an uncomfortably speculative gaze. The director brought his hands together in front of him and twiddled his thumbs in a slow circle. “I wonder if they will still trust you when informed of your questionable methods.”
They were back to this? She held her temper. “The marquess’s family came to me because of my ‘questionable’ methods. They, too, wonder if battle fatigue might be behind Lord Bromwich’s episodes,” she pointed out in case the director thought to make a case to Gabriel’s family.
But rather than accepting that argument, Mr. Allen lifted an eyebrow in not-so-subtle challenge. “Indeed.” He actually tsked at her as his index fingers formed a steeple. “Carter reports to me that Lord Bromwich crept from his bedchamber in the early hours of the morning a few days past. The same bedchamber in which you, also, spent the night. I am quite certain that is not the sort of care the marquess’s family had in mind.”
Penelope gasped, unable to contain her shock. Nor could she stop her face from heating—with outrage, naturally, although Mr. Allen would likely interpret it as something else. “I had an unpleasant dream and cried out in my sleep. His lordship was simply making certain I was well.”
She winced inwardly. Even to her, the truth sounded rather pathetically unbelievable.
Mr. Allen’s steepled fingers tapped against one another. “I see. All night, of course.”
Penelope clenched her jaw tight and breathed in deeply. “As we were then both awake, we took the opportunity to talk more about his illness.”
The director smirked at her. “If you say so. However, it is my duty to look after the best interests of the inmates within my care. As such, I have written to Lord Bromwich’s brother, Lord Devereaux, detailing my concerns.”
Penelope felt sick. She’d just bet he had, with relish—no doubt casting everything in the worst possible light. Would it be enough to sway Gabriel’s family? The self-assured look on Mr. Allen’s face said he seemed to think so.
He confirmed her assessment by adding, “I fully expect that his family will revoke your access to him any day now. And you can be assured, Lady Manton, that the moment I receive their reply to that effect, I shall take pleasure in removing you from the premises myself.”
From his oily smile, Penelope knew he would, indeed.
“I shall also happily prevent you from having any further contact with my patient in future.”
Dear Lord, this was awful. She didn’t think Gabriel’s family would do such a thing, but it was only Gabriel’s mother that she’d met with. Mr. Allen had sent his messenger directly to Gabriel’s brother, Lord Edward, who was standing in as head of the family. As unfair as it might be, the reality was that the men of the world had the final say in such matters. Was Edward Devereaux the type of man to side with the opinions of another man over a woman’s, as so many men were?
If so, she could be shut out of Gabriel’s life for good.
Or for as long as he was confined to Vickering Place, which, given her thoughts on the chances of Mr. Allen’s treatments actually helping Gabriel to recover, might as well be for good.
Penelope’s chest squeezed. Dare she wait until Mr. Allen’s messenger returned to discover if that were to be the case? And even if Lord Devereaux decided in her favor, Mr. Allen had made it clear he would thwart her at every turn. Maybe, then, she should convince Gabriel’s family to move him. Maybe . . .
She couldn’t risk Gabriel’s future on maybes. Maybe Gabriel was mad. Maybe Michael’s lunacy did run in his blood. But she knew in her heart that battle fatigue played some part in it all. Whether it exacerbated his madness, or whether his episodes simply sprang from it, she knew she could help him.
But not here.
If she were going to keep her promise to Gabriel, her promise to herself that she would do whatever it took to help him, she would have to get him out of here.
And she’d have to do it before Mr. Allen got his reply.
* * *
The only blessing in the rain was that it appeared to have delayed the expected messenger. As fortuitous as that was, Penelope needed a fair day for her hastily devised plan to work. A fair day and a fair amount of luck.
She got the first three days later. The sun crept over the horizon that morning, and when Penelope arrived at Vickering Place just before midday, it still shone king in the sky with nary a cloud in sight.
Penelope swallowed her nerves as she stepped down from her carriage. The lack of rain was appreciated, but several other things had to go well if she were to succeed—the least of which was gaining Gabriel’s cooperation with her scheme.
As usual, Mr. Allen met her at the door. The director had lost his gloating smile as the days had crept by without the expected reply from Gabriel’s family, but today it was back in all its smarminess—in anticipation of what the sunny day might bring, no doubt. Clearly he’d decided the messenger had been kept away by the rain as well.
“Lovely day outside, is it not, Lady Manton?” he said all too pleasantly as she stepped past him into the foyer.
“Indeed,” she agreed. “I should like to take Lord Bromwich for a walk along the grounds again today.”
One of the director’s black brows rose. “Not planning another convenient fall, are we?”
Penelope gave him a benign smile, refusing to rise to his bait even though her ears burned. Her plan hinged on getting Gabriel out of the manor house, and Mr. Allen had proven himself to be a spiteful sort. He might refuse just to vex her. She tried to make herself sound chastened, defeated, unthreatening. “Sunshine can be so restorative. I just thought it might do his lordship some good.”
Mr. Allen considered her request as they made their way to Gabriel’s suite of rooms. “Lord Bromwich has seemed somewhat improved since your last foray. I suppose it cannot hurt,” he acceded. “As long as Carter goes with you, of course.”
Triumph twinged in Penelope’s chest. Just a tiny bit. She’d cleared one hurdle, but there was much that could yet go wrong. Still, having Carter as their minder was ideal. He paid much less attention to them than Dunnings did.
“Besides,” the director went on as he inserted his key into the heavy lock leading to Gabriel’s parlor, “the outdoors is as good a place as any to make your farewells.”
A cool calmness came over Penelope as she slid past Mr. Allen into the room. She would be saying farewell today if all went as planned, but to Vickering Place—not to Gabriel.
Carter grumbled, of course, but Penelope did not think the man’s heart was in it. All of them had felt the strain of the long, tense days inside Gabriel’s rooms. She suspected the attendant was actually looking forward to the change of scenery.
Within half an hour, she, Gabriel and Carter were making their way through the back gardens.
They weren’t the only ones taking advantage of the break in the weather, she noted. Along one path, an attendant pushed a rolling chair with a frail-looking elderly man, who seemed to be asleep. On a bench near the drained fountain, a heartbreakingly young woman sat rocking back and forth, muttering to herself, while another attendant stood off to the side.
Penelope glanced to Gabriel, who was walking beside her. His gait was steady and sure, his steps quietly confident. His sharp gaze scanned the landscape, as if appreciating and assessing it for all that it was—much like she imagined he once had battlefields. Alertly. Intelligently. Completely lucid.
He didn’t belong locked away in a place like this. Even if he never entirely conquered his episodes, perhaps she could help him manage them enough so that he could live on his own estates. If they weren’t entirely successful and his family went ahead with having him declared non compos, perhaps Devereaux could be persuaded to settle a lesser property on him and hire a caring staff to attend him. She could teach those around him to help him through mild bouts of mania. If he were to improve enough that the episodes came fewer and farther between, he might even lead a satisfying life—albeit different from the one he’d been born to.
Her conviction that she was doing the right thing—if not necessarily in the best possible way—grew.
“Shall we take the same route as we did last week?” she suggested, turning that way.
But Gabriel resisted, coming to a halt. “It’s been raining for days, and that path was treacherous enough before.” He frowned. “I shouldn’t want to risk you reinjuring your calf. Let’s just stick to the garden today, shall we?” He steered her onto a well-tended pea gravel path that circled it.
Dash his considerate nature. This was no time for him to be all protective of her health. She had to get him on that path and away from the house.
But for now, she followed. If she were too adamant, Carter might suspect something. As they reached the halfway point of the circuit, she took a chance and pitched her voice low, speaking out of the side of her mouth toward Gabriel. “If we stay in the garden, we will never be able to distance ourselves enough from Carter to talk.”
Gabriel slanted his eyes to her curiously.
“When we come around, take the path we did last week.” She gave him a pointed stare that she hoped conveyed “or else.”
The corner of his mouth tipped up in a half smile, but he barely dipped his chin to let her know he understood and agreed.
Penelope’s heart started racing as they cleared the third turn. She glanced past a female patient and her minder—who were coming toward them—to the entrance of the path she wanted to take. Only a few more yards to go. Once they were headed toward the rear of the property, all she had to do was convince Gabriel to walk a bit farther than they had last time and then—
“Lord Bromwich.”
Penelope’s gaze snapped back to the path they were on. The two women had stopped in front of them, bundled up in heavy hooded cloaks. Even though the sun was lovely today, it was still February.
“Miss Creevey.” Gabriel greeted the speaker warmly, stopping as well. “I didn’t know you were scheduled for a visit today.”
“M’lady was otherwise engaged this afternoon,” the young woman replied, “so she gave me an ’alf day. You know I like to spend any time I can with Ann.”
Penelope tugged discreetly at Gabriel’s arm. They did not have time for a social visit at the moment.
But he mistook her meaning. “Forgive me,” Gabriel said. “I’ve failed to make introductions. Lady Manton, Miss Creevey and her sister, Mrs. Boyd.”
“A pleasure,” Penelope murmured with impatience, barely sparing the ladies a glance. She knew she was being rude, but they really needed to move along.
“As you are here, will you join us for tea this afternoon?” Gabriel asked Miss Creevey.
“Perhaps I shouldn’t,” the woman said, ducking her head, “being as you have a visitor yourself.”
“I’m sure Lady Manton wouldn’t mind,” Gabriel assured the woman.
“Of course not,” she agreed quickly. Anything to bring this tête-à-tête to an end.
“All right,” Miss Creevey said. “I shall join you later, then.” With a nod, the woman led her sister past them in the opposite direction while Penelope tugged Gabriel toward the old pleasure path.
As they turned onto it, she sped her steps. Gabriel followed suit, whereas Carter did not. His crunching footfalls fell increasingly behind them, just as she’d hoped. He kept them in eyesight, but not exactly earshot—much as he had the last time they’d gone this way. With any luck, he’d decide to rest on the same stump he had before as well, expecting they would walk on a bit and then turn around as they had before. She’d hate to have to resort to her alternative strategy.
“Out with it, Pen,” Gabriel said, startling her from her thoughts. “What exactly is it you have in mind?”
She blinked at him, wondering if she was that obvious. The shrewd look in Gabriel’s eyes suggested she was.
Dash it all. Did Carter suspect? She glanced over her shoulder. The attendant was shuffling along, falling farther behind, so probably not. If he had, perhaps Gabriel’s invitation to Miss Creevey for tea this afternoon had put the attendant off any ideas that something was afoot.
Should she tell Gabriel now? No. Something told her she’d have a better time getting his cooperation if she didn’t give him much time to think about it.
So she asked a question of her own as diversion. “How do you know Miss Creevey? I don’t expect you invite every patient’s family up for tea.”
It was Gabriel’s turn to blink at her. Then his eyes shuttered. Penelope’s curiosity kicked. She’d asked the question as a delaying tactic, but now she found she really wanted to know the answer.
“Miss Creevey visits her sister every week that she’s able, as I’m sure you’ve surmised,” he said finally. “Mrs. Boyd lost her husband at Waterloo. He—” He hesitated, closing his mouth. “Lieutenant Boyd served in my company, actually, which is how I came to know both sisters. Miss Creevey is kind enough to visit me now, as well, when she comes to see Ann.”
“Oh,” Penelope said. She had an odd sense that there was more to the story, but she didn’t have time to delve into it now. They’d just passed Carter’s stump, which meant it wasn’t far to where the hired carriage should be waiting.
She started walking faster.
Finally, she saw it—the scarf she’d tied to a tree three days ago to let her know where they would need to cross into the woods. She hurried to it and tugged it free.
“What’s this?” Gabriel asked as he gained her side.
Penelope looked behind them, squinting her eyes for any sign of Carter, but the attendant was not in sight. Her heart pounded in her chest. Almost there.
She turned to Gabriel and took his hand. “Do you trust me?”
His brow furrowed as he stared at their joined hands. “Do I—” His golden brown eyes flicked to hers. “Of course.”
His immediate affirmation warmed something deep within her that she didn’t have time to analyze right now. Instead, she tugged at him and started into the woods. “Good. Then come on.”
“Pen—” he said, but he followed. The undergrowth was thick now. She had to trample over knotted vines and wiry branches as brambles tore at her skirts. But she kept moving forward, pulling Gabriel along behind her as quickly as she could. If Carter hadn’t sat down upon his stump, he very well may have reached the edge of the woods and realized where they’d gone—could even now be either in pursuit of them or rushing back to Vickering Place to sound the alarm.
She was breathing hard by the time they broke free of the woods and came out onto a narrow country lane. Her chest eased a bit when she saw the waiting carriage, right where she’d expected it to be.
She let go of Gabriel’s hand to yank another scarf free from a skinny young tree, which she’d tied there earlier this morning to let the driver know where to meet her.
“What the hell?” Gabriel burst out.
She turned to him then and winced at the gathering storm clouding on his face. Dash it all, they had no time to dither about this.
“You said you trust me,” she reminded him. “Now prove it. Into the carriage with you.”