Jack of Hearts (17 page)

“At about one.”

“Then that would give us time to walk into Wetherby and see the mummers. That is, if ye’re feeling up to it.”

Sarah smiled. “I would like that. Anne and I always go, but since she wasn’t here this year, I wasn’t sure what I would do.”

“Well, if ye’d accept my escort?”

“I would be delighted, Patrick.”

* * * *

Sarah had a hard time sleeping that night. It was difficult to find a comfortable position. She had taken the sling off and kept the arm close to her side, but she would relax in her sleep and stretch it and then wake from the sudden pain. When she would try to get back to sleep, she would start worrying about Anne. Surely whoever had cut the saddle girth would not attempt anything else, she told herself. Ned Gibson might be furious at Anne’s unsympathetic response, but a young man would not risk his freedom just for revenge. And Joseph? Joseph did worry her, for he had something to gain besides simple revenge.

When she wasn’t worrying about Anne, she was thinking about Patrick. She had not approved of Anne’s hiring him so quickly, and at first she had not liked him very much. Maybe just because he was Irish. Anne had accused her of snobbery, and perhaps she’d been right. But his devotion to Anne and his job was impressive, and the shock of this morning’s accident had awakened her to other things, like his strong arms. It had felt so good to be enfolded in them, to be able to relax in a way she hadn’t in years. To give over all responsibility to someone else.

It probably wasn’t proper to invite him to dine with her. But he was the head groom, and she was a companion, so perhaps it wouldn’t look odd. Mrs. Collins found him charming, so perhaps she wouldn’t think too much of it. And if the footmen and maids gossiped—well, why should she care?

When Patrick arrived at the kitchen door early the next afternoon, the cook sent him into the morning room. He stood in the doorway, reluctant to enter as a guest. He wondered whether Sarah regretted her invitation to him. He was standing by the fire when she entered, and as she came toward him, her hand outstretched in welcome, he carefully released the breath he had been holding.

“Good afternoon, Patrick. You look splendid in your uniform.”

“Good afternoon, Sarah. And ye look lovely.”

It was no empty compliment. She did look lovely in her dark blue wool, her blond hair pulled up, revealing a long white neck. She was wearing what looked like sapphire and diamond earbobs. She looked too fine for an old soldier like him to be having dinner with. His nervousness made him brusque when he asked her about the absence of her sling.

“My arm is feeling much better, so I thought I’d try to do without it for a while,” she told him. Actually, she’d thought the sling ruined the effect of her gown, so she’d dispensed with it, despite the twinges of pain that occurred whenever she let her arm relax. Seeing the approval in Patrick’s eyes, she was glad she had.

* * * *

“Dinner is ready, Miss Wheeler,” announced Peters.

“Would you like some wine, Patrick?” Sarah asked once they were seated at the dining room table.

“No, thank ye, Sarah.”

As dinner was served, they were both uncomfortably silent, except for occasional commonplaces like how good the soup was. Sarah was finally driven to say, “I am sure the rest of Mrs. White’s meal will be equally delicious, Patrick. If we agree on that now, perhaps we can find another topic for conversation?”

Patrick looked over at her, and his face relaxed. “ ‘Tis just that I am not used to sitting at a gentleman’s table, Sarah.”

“And I am not used to playing hostess, so we are both a little out of our element.”

“Oh, not you, miss. Ye’re a lady, all right.”

“I admit my father was the son of a viscount. But he was only a country vicar. He married beneath him, so his family made sure he received only a second-rate living. I did not grow up in a house like this, I assure you. And I have been supporting myself for years.”

“Where did ye work before coming here?”

“I had spent some years as governess for Lord and Lady Beresford’s children.”

“So ye were used to moving with the quality.”

“I was used to avoiding Lord Beresford’s oldest son,” Sarah said caustically. “I was very grateful to find a position here. For all his faults, Mr. Heriot never once treated me with anything but respect. And Anne has always been generous and loving. Why, look at her present to me. They are really too fine for a companion, but she knew I would love them,” Sarah added as she fingered the diamond-and-sapphire earrings.

“They have a lovely sparkle,” agreed Patrick. His eyes held hers for a moment, and Sarah wasn’t sure if he was talking about her earrings or her eyes. She looked down in confusion.

* * * *

By the time they finished their meal, Sarah and Patrick had relaxed enough to share memories of their childhood Christmases. After dessert and a small glass of port, which made Patrick feel that he had joined the decadent aristocracy, they walked down to the village with the rest of the servants to see the mummers perform.

Wetherby was a village that had its own band of mummers, and Patrick enjoyed trying to guess who it was beneath the costumes. Was that Timothy, the butcher, dressed up as the buxom older woman? And Dr. Carter as the fool?

It was an English custom, to be sure, but somehow it made Patrick feel at home, for the story came from the same roots as the wren ritual during the darkest time of the year, something had to die, and the darkness had to become even darker for a while in order for the light to return and the earth to come back to life.

When Timothy pranced around, emphasizing his “bosom,” Patrick heard Sarah giggling, and without thinking, he put his arm around her shoulder and drew her close. He leaned down and whispered, “I like a woman who can laugh.” He was about to drop a kiss on her lips when he remembered he was no longer in the army, teasing one of the laundresses, but holding Miss Sarah Wheeler, the granddaughter of a viscount. He let her go immediately and was so embarrassed by his lapse of manners that he turned his attentions to Rosie, who was standing on his other side.

Sarah, who had been warmed down to her toes by Patrick’s embrace, grew cold all over again when he withdrew his arm and let Rosie pull him into a conversation. And later, as they all walked back to the house, she had to ask herself just why it bothered her so much that she was caught between Mrs. Collins and the cook while that saucy little baggage had both James and Patrick leaning down to catch her every word.

* * * *

Patrick saddled his gelding early the next morning and arrived at the Astons’ a few hours later. Samuels made him wait in the front hall while he went to the morning room to announce him.

“Mr. Aston,” he whispered into Val’s ear.

“Yes, Samuels?”

“There is an…Irish person here to see Miss Heriot. He claims he is her groom.”

“Sergeant Gillen?”

“I believe that is his name, sir.”

“Then show him into the library, Samuels.”

When the butler had left, Val went over to the sofa where Anne was sitting, working a small square of embroidery.

“Anne, Patrick has ridden over to see you.”

Anne looked up in alarm. “What would Patrick be doing here today? There must be something wrong at home.” Anne jumped up, scattering her silks over the rug.

“Do you want Elspeth or me to come with you?”

“No, let me talk to him alone.”

* * * *

Patrick was standing by the fire when Anne entered.

“I am really sorry to be interruptin’ yer holiday, Miss Heriot,” he apologized when she came in.

“Is it the mill, Patrick? Or is Sarah ill?”

“I suppose it is a bit of both, miss. Why don’t ye sit down and I’ll tell ye.”

Anne sank onto the sofa. “Sarah is ill?”

“No, no, Sarah is fine. But she might not have been.”

Anne barely noticed that Patrick was calling her friend by her first name. “Tell me, Patrick.”

“We went out on Christmas Eve in the morning to gather a little greenery for the house.”

“But we decorated the hall before I left.”

“Em, yes, but Miss Sarah said she wanted some holly and ivy for the drawing room mantel, and I offered to help her. We were halfway there when her saddle gave way.”

“Gave way?”

“Started slidin’ off. Luckily she felt it happenin’ and kicked free before the mare took off.”

“Was she hurt?” Anne asked anxiously.

“Just a little. A sprained elbow.”

“Thank God. But what has this to do with the mill, Patrick?”

“Ye see, Sarah was using yer saddle, Miss Heriot. And when I examined it, I found the girth had been sliced halfway through.”

“How could that have happened?” asked Anne, not quite able to grasp what Patrick was telling her.

“Someone cut it very carefully. Since it was yer saddle, ye would have been the one hurt, the next time ye went for a ride.”

“I still don’t see how the mill comes into this,” said Anne, and then her puzzled expression changed. “Ned Gibson? Do you think Ned Gibson had anything to do with this?”

“ ‘Tis a possibility that occurred to me.”

“But what good could it do him if I were hurt?”

“Sarah was lucky that she freed herself so quickly. It could have been much worse if the rider had been dragged along. ‘Tis very rocky out there…”

Anne closed her eyes and shuddered as a picture of Sarah or herself, foot caught on the pommel, head hitting the ground over and over, took shape.

“She could have been seriously hurt. Or even killed. I could have been,” Anne whispered. “But could Ned Gibson have been that eager for revenge?”

“Ye don’t really know him that well, do ye?” Patrick hesitated. “He was me first suspect, but then another person came to mind—Mr. Trantor.”

“Joseph! Why ever would he want to hurt me!”

“He has a very good motive, Miss Heriot. Miss Sarah tells me he wants to marry ye, but ye’re looking elsewhere.”

“He was disappointed, I know. Even angry that I was going to London. But Joseph could never be a murderer. I can’t believe it.”

“He inherits all if something happens to ye, isn’t that true?”

“Yes, he’s my father’s only living relative aside from myself.”

“Sure, and that’s reason enough, I’d say.”

“But how could he be sure I’d be killed, Patrick? After all, Sarah escaped serious harm. No, it can’t be Joseph. It must be Ned Gibson, out for revenge.” Anne was quiet for a moment. “But how can we prove anything?”

“I’d like to do a little investigatin’, Miss Heriot. Take a trip over to Shipton. Have an ale or two at one of the pubs. Maybe I’ll hear something more about our boyo.”

“But they know who you are, Patrick. Why should anyone talk to you?”

“I can complain about what a hard mistress ye are, miss,” said Patrick, giving her a quick smile.

Anne rose from the sofa. “Patrick, I want you to come and tell Mr. Aston your story. Perhaps he will have some ideas.”

* * * *

Anne led Patrick over to the cozy little circle of chairs around the morning-room fire. “You all know Sergeant Gillen.”

“You must be cold after your ride, Sergeant. Will you have a cup of coffee?” Elspeth offered.

“I’d love some tea, ma’am.”

Elspeth rang for a pot of tea and more scones.

“Now, come over here and sit down, Sergeant. Anne, you look worried. What has happened at Heriot Hall?”

Elspeth’s easy way of taking charge calmed Anne a little.

“Patrick has just told me of an accident that Sarah had.”

“Miss Wheeler is all right, I hope,” said Lord Faringdon.

“Yes, sir, I mean, my lord,” Patrick answered.

“But it wasn’t really an accident,” continued Anne. “Her saddle girth was cut—except it wasn’t her saddle, it was mine…”

“What are you saying, Anne?”

Anne gave Elspeth a rueful smile. “I know I am being a little confusing, but I haven’t taken it in yet myself.”

“So you suspect that someone intended harm to Miss Heriot, Sergeant Gillen?” Val’s tone was that of someone used to getting information quickly and efficiently.

“Yes, sor. And Miss Wheeler was very lucky to escape serious injury.”

Jack Belden stood up and walked over to lean against the mantel. “Have you any idea who would do this, Sergeant Gillen?”

Before Patrick could say anything, Anne quickly replied, “There is a young man at the mill who came to see me just before Christmas. He was very upset that his fiancée had been dismissed.”

“What did he want from you, Anne?” Val asked quietly.

“I suppose he wanted me to intervene with Joseph for her and have her rehired. But of course I wouldn’t do that. It would create all sorts of problems if I went over Joseph’s head. I told him that I would make sure she got a Christmas bonus despite the fact that she was let go before I announced the bonuses.”

“What was his reaction?”

“He was still very angry,” Anne admitted.

“At you personally?”

“I suppose so. Certainly at Joseph.”

“What was the girl dismissed for, Anne?”

“Whistling.”

“Whistling?” Val said incredulously.

“I suppose it does sound minor, but my father’s rules made sense as Joseph explained them to me. And they are no different than the rules set by the other mill owners,” Anne said defensively.

“Is Trantor a hard man?” Val inquired.

“Not an unjust one,” Anne said with some annoyance in her voice.
She
was beginning to feel interrogated, which felt unfair, given that she had been the intended victim.

“So you admit he is hard?”

“Surely Miss Heriot doesn’t have to admit anything, Valentine. She was, after all, the probable target.” Jack smiled as he mildly rebuked his friend.

“I apologize, Anne,” Val said stiffly. “I worked under a hard man myself as a boy and encountered my share of ‘just’ officers when I served in the ranks. It’s difficult for me not to feel sympathetic to your workers.”

“You are not suggesting that Ned Gibson is justified in putting someone’s life in danger!” exclaimed his wife.