The trees thinned as the sun rose higher in the sky, lifting her spirits with it. She saw a ribbon of road ahead and decided to follow it, knowing she could return to the shelter of the wood if necessary.
She walked along the road for several minutes, then accepted a ride in the back of a farmer’s wagon. His wife looked askance at the stick in her hand but did not comment.
After many jostling, jerking miles, the farmer called a welcome “whoa” to his old nag and smiled back at Olivia. “That’s our farm up the lane there, so this is as far as we can take you.”
Thanking the couple, Olivia climbed stiffly from the wagon and asked the way to St. Aldwyns.
“Follow the river there,” the farmer said, pointing. “It’ll be quicker than the road, though you’ll not meet another wagon.”
Olivia followed the river as it passed through a rolling vale, skirted a tiny hamlet, then another. Soon after that, the river disappeared within a copse of trees. Not another wood . . . Olivia lamented. She did not wish to lose her way, so she took a deep breath and entered the copse.
The trees were not dense, and through them she saw an open field beyond. Having had her fill of trees the previous night, she walked faster.
A sound startled Olivia, and she stopped abruptly. Listening over her pounding heart, she heard it once more. Barking. Her stomach lurched. More wild dogs? Coming fast! She was running before she consciously chose to, stick banging against her leg. With her free hand, she hiked up her skirts and darted onto the field. Ignoring the cinder burning in her side, she ran on, not daring to pause to look behind her. Another sound joined the first—a low rumble, growing louder. Thunder? A search party?
The dogs drew closer—she could hear the barking distinctly now—they were nearly upon her. Panic gripped her. Something nipped at her skirts, and she spun around, swinging the stick and yelling at the top of her voice.
“Be gone! Go!” The barking dogs skidded and jumped. She grazed one on its rump, and it yelped and ran away.
Slowly the blur of mottled fur came into focus and she realized these were not wild dogs at all. Horse hooves thundered around her. She looked up in a daze as a small army of scarlet coats and black hats—men in hunting attire—charged up on all sides.
“Stand clear!” one of the riders shouted, his roan galloping dangerously close.
She leapt out of his way. Then she screamed and lifted her arms over her head—for she had jumped right into the path of an oncoming horse. Its rider pulled up sharply and the black horse skittered and reared up. Dirt flew, splattering Olivia’s face. The horse’s hooves flashed inches from her chin and then exploded onto the ground before her.
“What on earth do you think you are doing?” The rider of the black yelled down. “Are you mad?”
Other riders—whippers-in and gentlemen on field hunters of white, grey, and chestnut—circled around her, their voices raised and angry.
“You have spoilt an excellent hunt!” This from the elderly master of the hunt, silver side-whiskers showing beneath his telltale velvet hat. His lined, aristocratic face was nearly as red as his coat.
“She tried to kill the hounds!” another accused. “The lead dog is limping.”
“I thought they were wild dogs!” Olivia sputtered in lame defense.
“Wild dogs!” the huntsman echoed, copper horn hanging from his neck. “I don’t believe it. Are you daft?”
She wiped her sleeve across her eyes to clear the mud and her mind. “No. I . . . I—”
“I believe her, gentlemen.” The rider of the black horse dismounted and grabbed the stick from her hand. “She is obviously armed to ward off wild dogs.”
“From the looks of the chit,” the stout rider of the roan called down, “I’d say she battled a mud puddle—and lost.”
The other men laughed. Ignoring the jeers, Olivia kept her eyes on the tall young man before her. Though not the master of the hunt, and by all appearances no older than she was, he was clearly a leader of men and cut an imposing figure in his hunting kit and Hessian boots.
Forcing her voice into cool civility, she said, “I am sorry about the dog. Now kindly return my stick, sir.”
His eyes were glittering blue glass in a face that would have been handsome were it not imperious and angry. “I believe not. You are far too dangerous.”
Olivia could feel her anger mounting as the men continued their laughter and taunts. But it was the disdainful smirk of the young man before her that threatened her self-control, already worn thin by recent stress and lack of sound sleep. She thrust out her hand. “Return it to me at once.”
The elderly master of the hunt called derisively, “Have you any idea whom you are addressing, ghel?”
Keeping her eyes on the haughty young man before her, she answered levelly, “Someone with very poor manners.”
The others reacted with barely concealed snorts of laughter.
Good, she thought. See how he likes being laughed at.
Some new emotion flickered across the man’s face, but the expression was quickly overlaid with contempt. Broad shoulders strained against his close-fitting coat as he carelessly flung the stick into the brush some thirty yards away.
Olivia opened her mouth to protest, but the old master called down a steely warning. “Careful, ghel. Bradley there is magistrate as well as lord. You don’t want to risk his wrath.”
She looked once more at the young man called Bradley. Golden side-whiskers indicated fair hair beneath his hat. Under its brim, blue eyes rested on a bit of dirt on his coat sleeve. With the merest glance at her, he flicked it away with a finger, and in that one gesture Olivia knew she had been dismissed as thoughtlessly.
“Ross!” he called, and a younger man, by appearance his groom, jogged over. “How is Mr. Linton’s hound?”
“He is well, my lord, merely bruised.”
“Still, bear him on your horse. Linton’s kennel-man will want to have a look at him.”
“Yes, my lord.”
“Thank you, Bradley,” the master said. “I think we must call off the hunt for today.”
The huntsman nodded and pocketed his horn. “That fox is in Wiltshire by now at any rate.”
“Perhaps she could be our fox.” The stout roan rider jeered, gesturing toward Olivia with his riding crop.
“Excellent plan,” another said. “Quite sorry, constable. We thought the sorry creature a fox.”
“No—a mad dog!” A second man poked Olivia on the shoulder with his crop, and soon three of them were circling her on their horses, laughing all the while.
“Gentlemen!” came a loud command.
The three men reined in and looked at Bradley.
“That is quite enough,” he said. “Peasants are not for prodding.”
“Just so,” another snorted. “They are for paying rents.”
Lord Bradley scowled, clearly not amused.
“Take heart, gentlemen,” the master consoled. “The season has barely begun. We shall have many more hunts come winter.”
Lord Bradley prepared to remount his tall black horse. He paused, his icy glare resting briefly on Olivia. “Are you still here?”
She expelled a dry puff of air. “No, sir. I have disappeared utterly.”
His eyes narrowed. “Have you not somewhere to go?” It wasn’t a question.
“I—”
“Go!” he commanded, jerking his crop to the south.
Olivia strode blindly across the field, humiliated and indignant. She was angry at herself for obeying, for fleeing in the exact direction he pointed. Was she a dog herself? He surely had not meant for her to go in any specific direction. Only away. I was traveling in this direction at any rate, she thought hotly, and trudged toward the river once more.
Chapter 3
Always remember to hold the secrets of the family sacred,
as none may be divulged with impunity.
—SAMUEL & SARAH ADAMS, THE COMPLETE SERVANT
The sun was high in the sky when Olivia knelt beside the river to wash her face and hands. She scrubbed at the stubborn dirt encrusted in the lines of her palms and beneath her nails. She hoped the dirt on her face did not cling as tenaciously. Nor the guilt she felt. Had there been no other recourse? Surely she might have thought of another way to stop her father. She might have called the constable or a neighbor. But it was too late now. Olivia splashed cold water on her face, wishing she could wash away the memory—the regret—as easily.
She found but two hairpins still tangled within her fallen curls and, in the end, tore a strip of ribbon edging from her shift and tied back her hair with it. She did not wish to enter the next village looking like a beggar. Or worse.
The water, while too frigid for comfortable washing, seemed inviting to her dry throat and she bent low to drink, using her now-clean hand as a cup. Cold and delicious. She bent low over the water once again.
“I say! Hello there! Don’t— Are you all right?”
Still on her knees, Olivia turned at the call. A man in a black suit of clothes and tabbed white neckcloth briskly approached. Behind him followed a spotted dog and four young boys, a sight which put Olivia more at ease than she would otherwise have been.
“I am well. Only thirsty.”
“Oh!” He stepped nearer. “I feared you might be about to do yourself harm. Though I suppose the river is too shallow and gentle here to pose much danger.”