The Heart's Companion

Though Jane disliked keeping company with Millicent, she owned it was a fine day for a drive. An alchemical haze hung low across the land, creating a golden, gemlike glow. Everywhere one looked, it was like looking at a different Turner landscape. There was a magical sense of beauty and unreality in the air, hardly the clouds of darkness Mrs. O'Rourke claimed to be gathering.

Harnessed in the traces, the old mare trotted smartly down the lane as if it, too, were infused with magic. With her hands light on the reins, Jane settled back to enjoy the drive. Tall, spreading trees provided shade, broken only by the occasional dappling of sunlight filtering past the dense, leafy growth.

A small, contented smile hovered at the corners of Jane’s lips, her thoughts cycling back repeatedly to the earl and their last conversation. Pink touched her cheeks. Did his manner hint at a measure of warm regard for her? Did she dare trust her feelings?

She was forced to admit to an elemental attraction for the man. But she could not let herself be so vulnerable as to show her feelings. That would leave her distressingly open for pain. She did not think she could take that from him. She feared she was in as much danger of mistranslating his actions as society was wont to do. How did one judge? How did one separate fact from fiction without visible evidence? Why was it taught from the cradle that open communication with a member of the opposite sex was impossible?

Her hands tightened on the reins, and the old horse broke into a canter.

"Jane!" protested Millicent, holding onto the carriage side, "what are you about? I thought you could drive!" she accused as Jane brought the horse under control.

"I’m sorry, cousin, my mind wandered. It won’t happen again."

"See that it doesn’t," her cousin snapped.

Jane thought it interesting to note that now Millicent had achieved her ends of getting Jane to go driving with her, she’d reverted back to form. The question that plagued Jane’s mind was why? But that seemed to be only one of several unanswerable questions that plagued everything she did and the actions of everyone she knew.

"Do you know where Royceland is?" Millicent asked a moment later while carefully smoothing her gown.

"Yes."

"Let’s drive by it. I should love to see it. Is it a dreadful old pile?"

"Not at all. I judge it to be no more than one hundred years old. Penwick Park is much older. I understand there was another house here at an earlier time, but it was torn down to build the current edifice."

Millicent nodded, as if she were filing away the information for further consideration.

"That turn up ahead would take us by the house," Jane added.

"Gracious, it is not far from Penwick Park, is it?" Millicent asked with a trace of annoyance.

"You’re right. Unless one is intimately familiar with the property boundaries, it is easy to stray from Penwick to Royceland, as the children do with distressing regularity," she said, laughing.

"There’s no fence or hedge between the two? That is one of the first things I should do."

Jane smoothly turned the horse down the lane that wound past Royceland. "Why? The families have been on agreeable terms for generations. What purpose would a fence through the wood serve? It’s not as if the boundary were going through a farmer’s field."

"Really Jane," groaned Millicent. "You are incredibly naive."

Jane shrugged, though she did note that Millicent had no answer for her. "There’s the house," she said softly, pulling up by the side of the lane where a parting in the trees made the manor house visible in the distance. Built on classical proportions of yellow-gray brick, its restrained and uncluttered outline stood on the hillside, commanding the land around. "The gardens were a later improvement by Capability Brown," Jane added neutrally.

"A fit seat for an Earl," Millicent commented, well pleased.

Jane looked at her sideways, but made no comment. She picked up the reins again and turned the equipage about, heading back down the lane.

"Are we near the parsonage?" Millicent asked.

"Yes. Why do you ask?"

"I thought perhaps you would like to visit Reverend Chitterdean. Mama tells me he’s sick now."

"Yes, he and Nurse Twinkleham are both sick. No doubt from tending Mrs. Chitterdean during her illness. I should like to stop by. I haven’t been able to for days, and I normally make it a regular habit."

"Then let’s do," Millicent said, smiling at her cousin.

Jane pursed her lips, but could not think of anything wrong with Millicent’s plans. She just wished she knew what prompted them.

As they approached the parsonage, Millicent groaned.

"What is it, cousin?"

"I fear I am not recovered as I’d hoped. I think I’d best return to my bed," she answered wanly.

"Of course," Jane said, turning the carriage about.

"No, wait! There is no reason you should come with me. I am only feeling a little peaked. Why don’t you go ahead and visit the Chitterdeans? I can drive myself back to Penwick."

Jane looked doubtful. "I don’t know if that would be wise."

"Oh, please? I should feel even worse if I knew I were the cause of putting off your visit. "

Jane was confused by her cousin’s unusual behavior, but could see no flaw in her argument. She thought a moment, then nodded and pulled up the carriage. She gave the reins to Millicent. "Go easy on her, she has a tender mouth," advised Jane. Then she got down. "Are you sure you feel well enough to drive?"

"Oh, yes. Do not worry so, cuz."

Jane stepped away from the carriage and turned toward the Chitterdean home. Behind her she heard Millicent flick the whip and urge the horse into a canter. Surprised, she turned around to watch. Millicent’s hat ribbons flew out behind her and she looked as if she were chased by the hounds of hell. Jane shook her head, bewildered. Perhaps Millicent had suffered sunstroke. What else could explain such odd behavior? Still musing over the situation, she approached the house.

She was not more than ten feet from the door, looking more at her feet than at her way, when the front door flew open and Mrs. O'Rourke's warning echoed ominously in her head. She turned to flee, but Lord Willoughby came outside like an exploding cannonade. He grabbed her wrist, dragging her inside.

"Took her long enough," growled Lord Willoughby in only a vestige of the tones Jane was accustomed to hearing.

He roughly snapped her around and let go of her wrist. Jane fell against a vacant chair. As she struggled for balance, she was surprised to note Sir Helmsdon bound and gagged in a companion chair. Mrs. Chitterdean and the maid were not to be seen. Reverend Chitterdean was also bound, but not gagged.

"What’s going on?" Jane demanded, as Willoughby grabbed a length of rope and tied her to the chair.

"Why, your own marriage, ducky," said the supposed Lady Willoughby, her raspy whispering voice gone to reveal a common London street accent. She laughed harshly. "Caw, it’s a might too bad, it is. Might fetch a few yeller boys from the London stews, but that Lady Tipton wouldn’t a’ad non’r that. Said she still ’ad t’call you kin, and that just wouldn’t be fittin’. Bad Ton, she calls it." The woman scratched her backside through the material of her dress and laughed again.

"Enough of your confounded chatter, Sophie," snapped her confederate.

"Eh, none a your high’n mighty airs with me! Just remember who brung you to this lay!"

"It may not be much of a lay if this here parson can’t talk!"

Jane glanced around at Reverend Chitterdean. His face was unnaturally pale, and beads of sweat stood out on his forehead. As she looked at him he was wracked by a long, congestive cough. Afterwards he shook his head miserably.

"I don’t understand," Jane said, dragging her eyes away from the pallid complexion of Reverend Chitterdean. "Are you saying my Aunt Serena has gone to this trouble just to see that I wed Sir Helmsdon? That doesn’t make any sense. Why? To lay the field open for Millicent to succeed with Royce?"

Sophie snorted. The supposed Lord Willoughby shot her a glance of abject dislike, then turned to Jane. "What Lady Tipton’s doin’ you can be sure she’s doin’ for herself. And, if she can shoot off that featherbrained daughter of hers again, so much the better. Now shut your trap before I muzzle you like your husband-to-be there. I’ve got to think."

Sophie jerked her head toward him. "Listen to ’im. Thinks, ’e says. Might as well git comfy, this could tike awhile," she advised with a cheeky grin.

He moved to angrily backhand her mouth, then stopped, a sulky frown on his face. "Aw—you’re not worth the bother." He sat heavily on the edge of a wooden settle, his chin in his hands.

Sophie threw up her hands in disgust. "If it weren’t for your talkin’ fancy, I’d a done better with one o’the boys in the troupe. Can’t you see, if this ’ere parson can’t talk, we justs bundles ’em into the carriage and tikes ’em to one who can. That license Lady Tipton gave us is good with any autem bawler," she said.

"I know that, but that’s goin’ to take time, and time isn’t somethin’ we have! We got to have’m wed afore anyone comes lookin’ for her. Furthermore, we got this Chitterdean’s wife and maid as hostage to his good behavior. We don’t have that club with another."

"So we gets ’em," Sophie said with exaggerated patience. He rolled his eyes. "Easy for you to say."

An uneasy silence fell between them. Sophie hitched her hip onto the edge of the table, then slid back, swinging her feet off the floor, a frown of concentration on her strangely ageless features.

Suddenly, the would-be lord slapped his knees and stood up. "I’ve got it. Royal Tunbridge Wells."

Sophie slid off the table. "What? Are you daft? That’s at least fifteen miles from ’ere!"

"I know, but the Right Reverend Cranford Crawley’s there, and I think we know a thing or two about him," he said with a wink and a smirk.

Sophie smiled slyly. "Aye, that we do. But that’s a far piece, we’d likely be caught before we got there."

He grinned, his ugly face more horrifying. "I know how to throw them off. Look, if we just needed another reverend, we’d likely need go no farther than five miles in any direction. That’s where they’ll look for us."

"Yes, and 'ow does you propose to get to Crawley without leavin’ tracks they can follow? One of them aerial balloons?" she taunted.

"No, you cow, by carriage. I heard from another bloke in the regiment how in America the Indians dragged bushes behind them to hide their trail."

"So."

"So, we tie bushes and branches to the back of the carriage and drag them after us, wiping clean our road."

Sophie scratched her head, frowning. It didn’t set well with her to admit he had an idea. Finally she shrugged. "We’d best get busy then."

The two compatriots went outside to fix the carriage. "Reverend Chitterdean, where’s your wife?" Jane whispered anxiously.

The man jerked his head upwards to indicate upstairs.

"You mean you really can’t talk? You’re not shamming?" He shook his head sadly.

Jane looked over at Sir Helmsdon, a rueful, twisted smile on her face. "Looks like you’ll be getting your rich wife, sir."

Angrily he shook his head no. He worked his mouth against the gag until it slipped down a little. When he twisted his head and stretched his chin, it finally cleared his mouth. "I swear to you, Miss Grantley, that I’d not have it so," he gasped out, his gray eyes dark as a thundercloud.

"I believe you," she said softly.

"And don’t be so quick to give up hope."

"But you heard what they said—"

The mismatched Willoughby’s came back in. "That’ll serve," he grunted. "Here now, what’s this?" he demanded, seeing Helmsdon’s gag about his neck.

"Ah, live it be, Georgie. It served its purpose. Kept ’im quiet like till we bagged ’er. Give the two lovebirds a chance to plan their weddin’ night," Sophie said with a crude laugh.

Georgie grunted. He untied Helmsdon from the chair, then tied his two hands in front of him while Sophie did the same to Jane. With the rope's slack, he tied Helmsdon’s hands to Jane’s, leaving a four-foot span between them. "That’s so you don’t get any bright ideas of escaping, either of you. You’d have to drag the other with you."

They started to march the two of them outside.

"Say, what about him?" Sophie asked, jerking her head in the direction of Reverend Chitterdean.

"What about ’im? He can’t tell anyone where we’ve gone. He can’t talk!" Georgie guffawed, slapping his knee as if that were the greatest joke he’d ever heard.

"Yeah, you’re right," Sophie said with a slow grin. Then seeing Jane pause to look back at Reverend Chitterdean, she shoved her forward, nearly pushing Jane and Helmsdon off-balance. She laughed. "Step lively. It’s your weddin’ day!" They bundled Jane and Helmsdon into the carriage. Sophie climbed in after them, taking the opposite seat.

"Here," Georgie said, thrusting a pistol into Sophie’s hands. "I don’t trust him. Keep my barker trained on him. "

Sophie tsk-tsked after Georgie shut the carriage and they felt him swing up to the box. "I don’t unnerstand a cove like you, all unner ’atches, turnin’ your nose up at a chance to a well-’eeled match. You ought to bless Georgie and me. And Lady Tipton, too. All you do is sit there and glower. "

Jane and Helmsdon didn’t say a word.

"I dunno why she wants you married off, but she’s paid ’andsomely. Bought me all manner of purty things to be this Lady Willoughby. She were sure distressed when I couldn’t learn to talk refined, but ya never know’d, did ya? That raspy voice ’id it all. Now Georgie, ’e come by ’is fine speech natural, ’im being the get of some gentry mort. Family ’ushed it up. Finally saw ’er married, too. They paid fur ’is schoolin’ and a place in the army, then forgot ’im. Wiped their ’ands of ’im, they did. Probably ’oped ’e’d get ’isself kilt."

She laughed. "Ya know what Georgie’s goin’ to do with ’is share? Trick ’is self up and go visitin’ ’is oh so proper mama. ’E knows where she is. Found out six months ago, ’e says. Just been waitin’ fur the right time."

"What are you going to do, Sophie?" Jane asked softly, hoping to keep the woman distracted. She couldn’t think why she should, what purpose it would serve, but felt impelled to do so.

"Me?" she laughed mirthlessly. "I don’t know. I was doin’ purty good with the ballet until two months ago. Turned me off they did, said I was too old." She sniffed. "I can dance better’n most those fresh-faced chits they’re bringin’ in. They’re more interested in what they earn lying on their backs than trouping ’cross the boards. Now I ain’t goin’ to sit ’ere and say I didn’t git non’a them favors, but faugh! There ain’t no art anymore," she declared disgustedly.

Her lips twisted in a pout. "That were the real reason I were turned off, ya know. I could dance circles around the others! Made ’em all look bad. Like a pack o’ galloping animals. They complained, ya see."

She paused, a thoughtful expression on her face as she rocked with the carriage’s movement. "Y’know what I’d like ta do? Start me a school ta teach dancin’ fur the stage. Real purty dancin’. That would show ’em, that would!"

A marshal light burned in the woman’s eyes, and Jane almost hoped she’d get her dream. Somehow she found she couldn’t hold either Georgie’s or Sophie’s actions against them. They were ripe pigeons for Serena’s ilk: as much prisoners of their lives as Helmsdon and she were prisoners in the carriage.

The carriage rocked around a corner, throwing her against Sir Helmsdon. She looked up at him, and found a strange expression in his eyes. Almost one of guilt. She raised an eyebrow quizzically. He smiled and shook his head.

Sophie's head began to drop. It didn’t seem she was going to reveal any more secrets. They could tell she was locked within herself, remembering the perceived injustices she’d received. She sighed heavily and leaned back against the plush squab seat cushions, the pistol steady in her hand, her path chosen.





When Royce turned the last page of the novel he’d been reading, the afternoon shadows were long and the sun was beginning to turn orange. He placed the book back on the table where he’d found it. Earlier in the afternoon he’d picked it up out of boredom. When he saw Jane Grantley’s name on the flyleaf, he settled down to read it, curious as to what Jane liked to read. It wasn’t his normal bill of fare, but he had to admit he enjoyed it. He was anxious to discuss it with her.

A frown drew his brows together. He vaguely remembered the muffled sounds of them returning an hour ago. Mrs. Hedgeworth’s high, complaining tone coming from the Great Hall was clearly audible. He wondered why neither lady returned to the parlor.

For all that, where was everyone?

He swung his legs to the floor. Leaning heavily on the arms of the settee, he gingerly levered himself up, testing what weight his ankle would bear. Other than one brief stab of pain followed by a constant dull ache, it wasn’t too bad. He hobbled over to the parlor door and opened it. The Great Hall was deserted. Frowning in annoyance, he made his way slowly across the marble floor, his footsteps ringing in the large, empty space.

Suddenly a doorway under the stairs opened. Out stumbled Jeremy.

"I’m sorry, my lord. I was just, I mean, I heard you in the hall. Is there anything I can get you, my lord?"

"No, thank you, Jeremy. But you can tell me where everyone is. This house is quiet as a tomb!"

"It is odd, my lord. I noted it myself," he said eagerly. "But as to everyone’s location, I know I couldn’t say."

"I heard Miss Grantley and Mrs. Hedgeworth return an hour ago. Are they keeping to their rooms?"

"Miss Grantley did not return with Mrs. Hedgeworth, my lord. Mrs. Hedgeworth says she left her by the parsonage gate. Said she wanted to visit Reverend Chitterdean, seeing as how he’s ill now. But I do believe Mrs. Hedgeworth is in her room. Would you care for me to send a message up to her, my lord?"

"No, Jeremy, that’s quite all right. But I would care for an arm to act as crutch."

"Certainly, my lord," Jeremy said, placing his shoulder under Royce’s left arm.

Just then the sound of laughter and the slamming of a door caught their attention.

"Something tells me," murmured Royce, "that the quiet tomb is a thing of the past."

Jeremy grinned. "As you say, my lord."

The boys burst into the hall. Seeing the earl, they ran toward him, both talking at once. Royce braced himself for their physical onslaught, but Jeremy deflected the full power of their impact.

"My lord! My lord!" squealed Edward.

"You should have seen—" Bertram was saying.

"It was the funniest thing—" Edward said.

"And dragged it behind them!" they shouted over each other.

Royce laughed. "Hold it! Hold it. calm down. One at a time."

"Well, my lord, we were at the Folly, you see, playing with the telescope," Bertram said. Edward nodded. "There’s been lots of activity in the neighborhood today that we got a chance to see. First we saw Sir Helmsdon leave. The next thing we know, we saw his horse over by the parsonage! Leastwise it looked like his horse. We haven’t seen another long-tailed gray the like of his in the neighborhood before. Anyway, what was really funny was to see Lord Willoughby come out and take it into the church!" Bertram finished.

"Willoughby took Sir Helmsdon’s horse into the church?"

"Right up the steps," corroborated Edward.

"What happened then?"

"Well, we didn’t look through the telescope the whole time," Edward said, his hands planted on his hips in exasperation.

"I understand," Royce said solemnly, though his lips twitched against a laugh.

"But when Becky said it was time to come back, we both took turns with it again. "

"Of course, how logical," he said, maintaining his even countenance.

"And that was the strangest sight!" Edward said.

"Hush, let me tell it, I can do it better."

"I saw it, too!" Edward protested. "They tied bushes to the back of their carriage!"

"Who did?"

"The Willoughbys! And they drug them along after them, too," Edward said.

"Very odd, my lord," Bertram confided, nodding solemnly.

"And you say they were at the Chitterdeans?"

"Oh, yes, sir!"

"Did you see who was riding in the carriage when it left pulling these bushes?"

"No, sir. But it was another man and woman. We saw the woman’s skirts and the man’s legs. They were walking really close, carrying something between them. "

"Their hands were tied!" intoned Edward.

"Were not," his brother said in disgust.

"Well, that’s what it looked like to me."

"You need spectacles."

"Bertram! Edward! You may argue all you want in a moment. Just tell me one thing. What color were the woman’s skirts."

Edward shrugged. Bertram frowned. "I don’t know. Kind of a white or cream color, I guess. But she had on a green jacket like Aunt Jane has."

Jeremy and Lord Royce exchanged glances. "And the Willoughbys have not returned, my lord," Jeremy said.

Royce nodded. "Thank you, boys. You’re right, that was a strange sight. I suggest you run upstairs and get cleaned up before your aunts see you." He watched the boys run up the stairs, then he turned to Jeremy. "Is Conisbrough in the stillroom with Lady Elsbeth?"

"Yes, my lord," Jeremy mumbled, blushing a deep red.

"Where is it?"

"Through that door and down the stairs." He pointed to the door he’d come through when he met Royce.

The earl looked at him oddly and shook his head. Leaning on him, he hobbled quickly to the door and opened it.

"Holla! Black Jack!" he bellowed down the stairs. "Trouble!"

That last brought an answering yell and the sound of running footsteps. Upstairs Lady Serena’s and Mrs. Hedgeworth’s bedchamber doors opened. They came to the top of the stairs.

"Whatever is going on?" demanded Lady Serena.

"Jane may be in trouble," Royce said shortly.

"Oh, no!" gasped Lady Elsbeth, coming up behind the Marquis of Conisbrough. She clasped his arm.

Jeremy’s eyes opened wide, then narrowed with an angry stare. He pulled away from Royce and pointed an accusing finger at Lady Serena. "You planned it! I heard you!" He turned to Royce, his lips compressed into a thin line. "At least, I heard part of it, and I thought it strange. I tried to tell Miss Jane, but she wouldn’t listen to me."

Royce grabbed him by the shoulders, ignoring Lady Serena’s outraged cries. "What did you hear, lad?"

"The first time I heard her complaining to those Willoughbys about Miss Jane sleeping down here, and how that would affect their plans. Then this morning she gave something to them and told them to keep it safe. I heard the word license. Then I heard some question about Reverend Chitterdean cooperating. "

"Preposterous," snapped Lady Serena. "You, young man have a vivid imagination. Any conversations I have had with the Willoughbys have been innocuous in the extreme. Elsbeth, you know how I feel about that pair. Besides, what do you mean to say heard. Any conversations I may have had were behind closed doors."

Everyone looked at Jeremy. He blushed and scuffed his feet. "I—I listened at the keyhole," he confessed.

Everyone but Lady Elsbeth stood in stunned silence at his confession. She whisked by them all and ran lightly up the stairs. She stood in front of her elder sister and shook her head from side to side. Downstairs Royce and Conisbrough were shouting orders to have horses saddled. Millicent shrieked and fainted. No one noticed.

Lady Serena tipped her head up, a superior smile on her face. "I told you I should see she has suitors. And by now she is wed. So you see, you have no reason not to come live with me.

Lady Elsbeth grabbed her sister’s arm and twisted it behind her back. She forced Lady Serena into a small drawing room and closed the door. There were immediate shrieks of outrage. Lady Elsbeth turned the key in the lock, then tucked it into her bodice. Behind her a number of household servants had gathered, drawn by the shouting. She strode past them, only glancing down at Millicent’s prone form as she passed.

"Someone get a bucket of water and throw it on her," she said, then hurried down the stairs.





Royce grunted at the searing pain that shuddered up his left leg when he pulled his top boot on. Ruthlessly he shunted the pain from his mind. No doubt when this day was done the boot would have to be cut off. It couldn’t be helped.

What did the Willoughbys want with Jane? Ransom? And what of the second man the boys saw? Was that Helmsdon?

He shrugged on a jacket cut more for comfort than fashion and strode with only the hint of a limp out of his room. He met the marquis and Lady Elsbeth in the Great Hall. Lady Elsbeth glanced at his boot-clad feet, her healing nature warring briefly with her concern for Jane. Concern won.

"Serena is behind this. I don’t understand it, but for some reason she is determined I live with her. She expects Jane to be married by now, thus freeing me," she explained as they hurried outside to the waiting horses.

A frown creased Conisbrough’s high forehead. "Would Chitterdean perform a marriage under duress?"

I don’t know. I don’t think so, but it may be a moot point. He has the grippe now. He may be too ill."

Royce nodded. "Thus the reason for bundling Jane and an unknown gentleman—presumably Helmsdon, from the boys description of his horse—into a carriage. It also explains the elaborate effort of tying brush to the back of the carriage to obliterate their trail."

Conisbrough and Lady Elsbeth looked at him in surprise.

"That’s what the boys said they saw through the telescope," Royce said, grabbing the reins from the waiting groom. His jaw tightened in grim determination when he placed his left foot in the stirrup and swung himself up into the saddle. Sharp pain shuddered up his leg. He ignored it. Nodding curtly to Conisbrough, he wheeled his mount around and spurred him to a gallop.

Lady Elsbeth watched them a moment, twisting her hands nervously before her. She could not simply stay behind, wondering every moment what would transpire. Her lips thinned. She turned and curtly ordered a carriage brought around. While the grooms headed for the stables, she turned back to the house to fetch her hat and cloak.

In her chamber she paused by her dressing table, her eyes scanning the assortment of bottles there. She nodded, and ran to her wardrobe to collect not only an extra cloak for Jane to ward off the coming night’s chill, but also a small portmanteau. She hurriedly stuffed it with lawn nightgowns (suitable also for cutting into bandages), pins, scissors, smelling salts, and medicinal herb mixtures. Lastly she added a large bottle of a milky brown liquid.

With the portmanteau and extra cloak clasped in her arms, she ran from her room, her own cloak billowing behind her. In the Great Hall she shouted instructions to the servants, telling Jeremy to be certain her sister and niece were still at Penwick when she returned.

"I don’t know when that will be. Keep the boys out of trouble, too," she requested, hurrying down the wide front steps. She placed the portmanteau on the floor, then allowed a groom to help her up.

"Pardon me, my lady, but shouldn’t you take one of the grooms with you?" Jeremy suggested, trailing after her. He reached up to tuck the extra cloak around her.

"No, I shall do better alone. Stand away, Jeremy," she ordered, "I’m going to spring them!"