The Escape (Survivor's Club) (5 page)

G
uilt and shame quickly hurled cold water on the embers of Ben’s fury.

The humiliating truth, he admitted, was that he had frightened himself more than half to death when he jumped that damned hedge. He had been back to riding for some time, having discovered that he could both mount and dismount with the aid of a special block. He had learned to ride with some skill and confidence despite the fact that he did not have as much power in his thighs as he had used to have. But today was the first time since his cavalry days that he had challenged himself to jump a fence or hedge.

Perhaps it had been the reaction to that admission he had made to the Survivors at Penderris that he had taken his recovery as far as it could go. Perhaps he had needed to push himself to one more level of achievement just to prove to himself that he had not simply given up. The open meadows bordered by hedges in which he had been riding had tempted him. The hedges were high enough to be a challenge but not high enough to make the attempt to jump one of them entirely reckless. And so he had chosen this particular hedge, set his horse directly at it, and soared over with at least a foot to spare.

The rush of exhilarated triumph that had accompanied the jump had quickly converted to sheer, blind terror, however, and his mind had been catapulted back to
that most hellish of black moments in the tumult of battle when he had been shot, his horse had been shot under him at the same time and had fallen on him before he could draw his foot free of the stirrup, and then another horse and rider had come crashing down on top of them both.

He had thought it was happening all over again. There had been that sense of falling, of losing control, of staring death in the eyeballs. Pure instinct had kept him in the saddle and set him to bringing his horse under control, and he had soon realized that the source of the whole near catastrophe was a damned maniacal hound, which was still leaping about, barking ferociously, long after all danger was over. And there was a woman, an ugly old crone, dressed from head to toe in hideous black, seated at her ease on the grass below the hedge, surrounded by wildflowers and not doing a blessed thing to control the beast.

Had he been at liberty to stop and consider, of course, he would have realized a number of other things, as he did now while he rode away from the scene of his guilt. She would not have been sitting on the ground gathering flowers just for the sheer pleasure of it. It was a chilly, blustery day. She must, then, have fallen or been knocked down. Her dog would not have behaved as it had if he had not come flying over the hedge without any warning. And he might easily have killed the woman if he had taken the hedge just to the right of where he had. The fault for the whole debacle had been, in fact, entirely his.

As she had not been shy about pointing out.

Something else had quickly become clear to him—two things, actually. She was not an old crone. She was in fact a youngish female, though he had not been able to see her face through the hideous funereal veil that
covered it. And she was a lady. Her voice and her demeanor had both given evidence of that fact.

Not that his guilt would have been lessened even if she
had
been a crone. Or a beggar woman. Or both. He had yelled at her, and he could not be sure he had not used some inappropriate language while doing so. He certainly had when fighting for control of his mount. He had not gone to her rescue. Not that he could have done so literally, of course, but he might have shown considerably more concern, perhaps even explained why he could not get off his horse.

In short, he had behaved badly. Quite abominably, in fact.

He briefly considered turning back and begging her pardon, but he doubted she would be delighted to see him again. Besides, he was still feeling too irritated to make a sincere apology.

Pray God he never saw the woman again. Though he supposed it altogether probable that she lived in the neighborhood since she was out on foot with her dog—unescorted. And she was obviously in deep mourning for someone.

Good Lord,
he
had been terrified. How must
she
have felt when horse and rider erupted over the hedge a mere whisker from where she stood? Yet he had ripped up at her for walking and exercising her dog in a public meadow.

After he had ridden into the stables at Robland Park and dismounted, he was still feeling considerably out of sorts. He made his slow way to the house.

“Ah, you are back safe, are you?” Beatrice said, looking up from her knotwork as he lowered himself to a chair in the drawing room. “It concerns me that you insist upon riding alone, Ben, instead of taking a groom with you as any sensible man in your circumstances would. Oh, I know, I know. You do not have to say it,
and I can see your brows knitting together in vexation. I am acting like a mother hen. But with Hector gone to London already and the boys back at school, I have no one to fuss over but you. And I cannot ride with you as I am still under physician’s orders to coddle myself after that chill. Did you have a pleasant ride?”

“Very,” he said.

She rested her work on her lap. “What has ruffled your feathers, then? Apart from my fussing, that is.”

“Nothing.”

She raised her eyebrows and resumed her work.

“The tea tray will be here in a moment,” she told him. “I daresay you are a bit chilled.”

“It is not a cold day.”

She laughed without looking up. “If you are determined to be disagreeable, I shall make a companion of my knots.”

He watched her for a short while. She wore a lacy cap on her fair hair. It offended him somewhat, though it was a pretty confection. She was only thirty-four, for God’s sake, five years his senior. She behaved like a matron—which was exactly what she was, he supposed. It was longer than six years since he had been wounded, and sometimes it seemed that time had stood still since then. Except that it had not. Everything and everyone had moved on. And that was, of course, part of his recently acknowledged problem, for he had not. He had been too absorbed in trying to put himself back together so that he could pick up the threads of his life exactly where he had left them off.

The tea tray was brought in, and Beatrice set aside her work to pour them both a cup of tea and to carry him his, together with a plate of cakes.

“Thank you,” he said. “I must smell of horse.”

“It is not an unpleasant smell,” she told him without denying it. “I shall be back to riding myself soon. The
doctor will be calling here tomorrow, for the final time, it is to be hoped. I feel perfectly restored to health. Relax there for a while before you go to change your clothes.”

“Is there a widow living in these parts?” he asked her abruptly. “A lady? Still in deep mourning?”

“Mrs. McKay, do you mean?” She lifted her cup to her lips. “Captain McKay’s widow? He was the Earl of Heathmoor’s second son and died three or four months ago. She lives at Bramble Hall on the far side of the village.”

“She has a big, unruly dog?” Ben asked.

“A big,
friendly
dog,” she said. “I did not find him unruly when I paid a call upon Mrs. McKay after the funeral, though he did insist in quite unmannerly fashion upon being petted. He came to lay his head on my lap and looked up at me with soulful eyes. I suppose he ought to have been trained not to do such things, but dogs always know who likes them.”

“She had him in a meadow not very far from here,” he said. “I almost bowled them both over when I jumped a hedge.”

“Oh, goodness gracious,” she said. “Was anyone hurt? But—you
jumped a hedge
, Ben? Where is my hartshorn? Ah, I have just remembered—I do not possess any, not being the vaporish sort, though you could easily make a convert of me.”

“What the devil was she doing out unchaperoned?” he asked.

She clicked her tongue. “Ben, dear, your language! I am surprised to know she was. I have never seen her outside her own house except at church on Sundays. Captain McKay was very badly wounded in the Peninsula and never recovered his health enough to leave his bed. Mrs. McKay nursed him almost single-handedly and with great devotion, from what I can gather.”

“Well, she was out alone today,” he said. “At least, I assume it was the lady you named.”

“I am surprised,” she said again. “Her sister-in-law has been staying with her for some time. I have very little acquaintance with her, and it seems unfair to judge a near stranger, but I would guess she is as much a stickler for propriety taken to an extreme as the earl, her father, is. He is
not
my favorite person, or anyone else’s that I know. Had he lived a couple of centuries ago, he would have joined forces with Oliver Cromwell and those horrid Puritans and sapped all the humor and enjoyment from everyone else’s life. I am surprised Lady Matilda did not insist that Mrs. McKay remain at home behind closed doors and curtains.”

“You sound indignant,” he said.

“Well.” She set down her cup and saucer. “When one arranges a quiet dinner with the soberest of one’s neighbors, including the vicar and his wife, with the intention of extending the hand of sympathy and friendship to two ladies who have recently lost a husband and brother, and one has been turned down and made to feel that one’s very existence is frivolous and contaminating, then one can surely be excused for being slightly ruffled when one is reminded of it.”

He grinned at her until she caught his eye and laughed.

“The answer to my invitation was written by Lady Matilda McKay,” she said. “I like to believe that Mrs. McKay would have declined it in a far more gracious manner, if she had declined it at all.”

The grin faded from Ben’s face. “I owe her an apology.”

“Do you?” she asked. “Did you not apologize when it happened? She was
not
hurt, I hope?”

“I do not believe so,” he said, though he remembered that she had been sitting on the ground when he first became aware of her. “But I ripped up at her, Bea, and
blamed her for the near catastrophe—and her dog, which is an ugly brute if ever I saw one. I owe her an apology.”

“Perhaps we will see her at church on Sunday,” she said. “I would not go riding up to the doors of Bramble Hall, if I were you. For one thing, you have not been introduced and it would be vastly improper. For another, I do believe the sister-in-law might well have an apoplexy if she discovered a single gentleman on the doorstep. Either that, or she would attack you with the nearest umbrella or knitting needle.”

He could just forget about the whole episode, Ben supposed a few minutes later as he made his slow way upstairs to change out of his riding clothes. But he hated to recall that he had behaved in a manner unbecoming a gentleman—and that was a bit of an understatement.

He definitely owed her an apology.

S
amantha and Matilda went to church as usual the following Sunday. It might have amused Samantha that Sunday service had become the big outing and social event of her week, if it had not also been so pathetic. For so it had been for the past five years, even though she had been only nineteen when she first came to live at Bramble Hall. And the situation was not about to change, despite the fact that she no longer had Matthew to tend at home.

She sat beside Matilda in their usual pew at the front of the church, her prayer book on her lap, and turned her head neither to the left nor to the right, though she would dearly like to have seen which neighbors were also present. She would have liked to nod genially to them as she had always done in the past. But Matilda sat rigidly still, and, foolishly perhaps, Samantha felt constrained to match her piety, if that was what it was.

It was only after the service, then, when they had risen to pass down the aisle and out to the waiting gig, their faces properly hidden behind their veils, that she saw
that man
again. It was how she had been thinking of him, with growing indignation, for two days.

That man
.

He was sitting in the pew across the aisle and one row back from hers. He must have been able to see her all through the service. He was still sitting, not jumping to his feet as soon as her eyes alit incautiously upon him, as any proper gentleman would have done, especially one who had treated her so ill. And it was not that he had not noticed her. His eyes were directly upon her.

How
dared
he?

He was not wearing his hat inside the church. His face was narrow and angular, as she had observed at their first meeting. He had a straight, finely chiseled nose and slightly hollowed cheeks, a firm chin and hard blue eyes beneath midbrown hair. He must have been exceedingly handsome in his youth. He was not a youth now, though. It was hard to guess his age, but his face bore evidence of having looked upon a great deal of hard living, perhaps of suffering. It was still handsome, however, she conceded grudgingly, perhaps the more so for not being boyish.

It would have been more satisfying if he had been ugly. All villains ought to look the part.

She would have looked away with deliberate disdain and continued up the aisle, but she had hesitated a moment too long, and the lady beside him, who
was
on her feet, spoke to her. She was Lady Gramley. Of course she was—this was her usual pew.

“Mrs. McKay,” she said kindly, “how do you do?”

“I am well, thank you, ma’am,” Samantha replied. She could feel Matilda’s hand firm on her back. Good
heavens, was it improper for a grieving widow even to exchange pleasantries with her neighbors at church?

“Perhaps you will allow me the pleasure of presenting my brother, Sir Benedict Harper,” Lady Gramley said. “Mrs. McKay, Ben. And Lady Matilda McKay.”

And
finally
he considered getting to his feet, though he was in no hurry even now. He looked to one side, away from Samantha and Matilda, and picked up two canes, which he arranged on either side of him. They were not ordinary canes. They were longer and had handpieces partway down, with leather loops through which he slid his hands. They circled his arms as he grasped the handpieces and hoisted himself to his feet.