chapter 1
In which there is a bullish meeting
FRIDAY, DECEMBER 12, 1817
Miss Kate Darby of Shackleford Park scowled, and yet the recipient of her dark looks was not in the least intimidated. She snorted in vexation—very quietly, of course, just a whisper of warm breath drifted into the afternoon chill. She tried to exude strength, calm, and dominance in this staring contest: to look away would be perceived as weakness … at her peril.
“Nothing to worry about, my friend,” she said, her words barely audible. “I will be out of your way momentarily.”
The beneficiary of this bravado was a big fellow with a broad forehead, prominent eyes, and curly black hair. He wore a look of irritation that was growing more passionate with each passing moment. The threat that his mood would escalate into fury, and the dire consequences that would accompany this rage, was all too real.
Standing some twenty feet apart, Kate knew that the distance was too close for comfort—for both of them. The bull could cross that divide very quickly despite his size and weight; there would be no outrunning this huge battering ram. And so she stared, willing the behemoth to stay just where he was, shoulders hunched, pawing the ground.
Slowly, in small moves, Kate inched backward. The gate leading to Wattage Lane was behind her … somewhere. If only she had been paying better attention.
So intent on correcting a mistake, she had slipped through a narrow opening on the east side of the field, leaving Marie by the road. Distracted by eager anticipation, Kate had not assessed her surroundings properly. There had been no animal in sight when she had glanced around the large enclosure. She had seen, but not signified, the large hoofprints in the hardened mud.
Foolish and foolhardy, she had skipped across the meadow, loudly calling to the cart rolling past the far side of the enclosure. Perhaps if she had moved with deliberation, quietly with stealth, she might have made it across the wide expanse without incident.
It was a moot point.
The rightful occupant of the pasture had heard her halloos and drawn near, likely to investigate first, and then, having found an interloper, to challenge. If Kate did not find her way out of the enclosure fast, she would suffer the consequences of her imprudent distraction.
“This is a rather sticky situation,” a familiar deep, melodic voice said softly. It wasn’t a whisper, but the statement was spoken in a gentle tone in recognition of her precarious position in the standoff.
Keeping her expression passive, Kate fought the urge to turn. “Ah, Mr. Harlow. You heard me call.”
“Indeed, Miss Darby. I believe they heard you all the way back to Tishdale. I’m sure every hen in the neighborhood just stopped laying.”
Kate almost laughed—almost. “Please, Mr. Harlow, do not be amusing. It would be to my detriment.”
“Oh, I do apologize. The hens are likely fine. You, on the other hand … well, definitely sticky.”
“I’ve dealt with worse.”
“Really?”
“I have three older brothers.”
“Yes, indeed. Far more dangerous than a raging bull.”
“I’ve always thought so. This is merely a modest predicament,” she said airily, and then swallowed with difficulty when the bull snorted. “How far am I from the gate?”
“Not far. Shift a little to your left—yes, exactly. And now, straight back ten feet or so.”
There was a squeal of metal on metal behind her—hinges.
“What are you doing?” Kate asked, though she had a fairly good idea.
“It might be easier to slip out of an open gate than to barrel through.”
“Excellent idea.”
“I thought so.”
“You’ll close it after me?”
“Should I? I thought the big fellow might want to gad about … looking for cows.”
“What he might want to do, and what is best for everyone in the area, might not be the same thing. He should probably stay in the field.”
“In that case, I will swing the gate closed behind you.”
“Excellent. Are you ready? I will count to three—oh. Oh no.”
Lowering his head, the bull snorted again. It was the final warning, and Kate knew it. The standoff was over.
Pivoting, Kate ran. She could hear the pounding hooves advancing on her. A scream built in her throat, and she tensed, readying for the blow. Suddenly, a shriek split the air and the pounding halted abruptly.
Surprised, Kate glanced over her shoulder and blindly careened into Matt Harlow. Momentum propelled them awkwardly through the gate, but Matt quickly regained his footing. They stuttered to a stop a few feet from the enclosure, still standing but with Matt’s arms wrapped around Kate. Then, seeing the bull turn his head in their direction, Matt leapt forward. He slammed the gate shut, knocking his cap to the ground in the process. Both stared across the field to the figure that was standing on the far wall, shrieking and flapping her burgundy cloak.
Kate giggled, a little longer than warranted. There was a touch of mania to the sound. “That’s Mary … I mean, Marie,” she said quietly, looking up at Mr. Harlow. Realizing that he was much too close for propriety, Kate shifted away and turned back to the far side of the field, lifting her arm in a large swooping wave.
“Thank you, Marie! I’m fine now,” she shouted. “All is well!”
Seeing her friend jump down from the stone wall, Kate dropped her voice. “Thank you,” she said again, directing her comment this time to Mr. Matt Harlow.
“Most welcome,” he said with a broad smile. “Wouldn’t want to see you laid up this close to Christmas.”
“Or laid out.”
They stared at each other for some minutes. “That, too,” he said quietly, ignoring her teasing tone.
Kate smiled, strangely pleased by his brief frown.
Her memory had not played her wrong, not embellished the appealing aspect that was the Steeple valet. Matt Harlow was indeed the handsome young man with broad shoulders, medium brown hair, and hazel eyes that she remembered. He did dress impeccably and yet have a slightly disheveled look about his hair. More important, his impish yet charming smile had been reaffixed.
While Matt bent to retrieve his cap, Kate set about straightening her cloak as it had twisted to the side. Once completed, she tugged her mittens back into place. Then they turned in unison to greet each other properly—civil expressions on their faces as were dictated for persons of such a short acquaintance.
“Good afternoon, Miss Darby,” he said formally, nodding his head in a respectful bow.
“Good afternoon, Mr. Harlow.” Kate bobbed a curtsy.
“Fine day for a stroll,” he said with a raised brow.
“Indeed. And a drive from the coast. Did you have a pleasant journey?” Kate asked.
“Well, the trip was far less eventful than the last few minutes.”
He seemed to wait for Kate to explain … which she didn’t do. It was far more fun keeping him wondering. “Yes, I can imagine that’s true.”
“Oh, for heaven’s sake, Miss Darby. Why were you shouting across the pasture? And why were you giving that poor bull a hard time? Invading his territory and all that. You could have been killed.”
“Yes, that was a mistake … though an honest one. Farmer Gibbs took his animals off the field some weeks ago. He must have thought the day too fine to waste and put them, or at least him, back on.”
“Which still doesn’t explain why you felt the need to cross the field in the first place. There is a perfectly good road on either side.”
Kate laughed. Now they were at the heart of the matter. “Yes, however, the road I was on leads to Shackleford Park. The road you were traveling leads to Wattage.”
“I beg your pardon? We were on the wrong road?”
“Yes. I was in Tishdale with Marie.” Kate turned, looking over her shoulder to see the top half of Marie Whynaught standing behind the stone wall. The hood of her cloak had fallen back to reveal dark blond curls and a furrowed brow, conflicting with her pert features.
Facing Matt once more, Kate used her chin to point toward the opposite road. “You missed the turn. We were on our way back to Shackleford Park when I saw your cart across the pasture. You would have realized your mistake at Wattage, but it would have taken you three-quarters of an hour out of your way and then again to return. It seemed reasonable to save you from traveling hither and yon on a deplorable road for nothing. Hence the shouting for your attention … and thereby gaining the bull’s interest.”
“Thank you for putting your life in danger to save me from an hour and a half of pointless travel.”
Kate laughed. “Yes, well, it was quite unintentional—the danger part, not the helping part.”
“I should hope so.”
“So what’s all this, then?” a new voice called from farther down Wattage Lane.
Matt winked at Kate and then turned his head. “You were taking us down the wrong road, Johnny. You’ve never been good with directions.”
“Me? You was the one here in the summer.”
Kate shifted so that she might see Johnny—last name unknown. Wearing the green Steeple livery, he was about Matt’s age—nineteen or so—tall and lanky, as most footmen tended to be, with a striking countenance if not handsome. His eyes were a trifle too deep-set to complement his thin lips, and yet there was an appealing hint of mischief about him.
“Had you been attending properly, I wouldna made the mistake, now would I?” the footman said. “You were too busy waxing on about the charms of—”
“Shall I introduce you?” Matt interrupted with a glare.
Johnny laughed, not in the least slighted. He stepped forward and doffed his hat. “Johnny Grinstead, third footman to the Steeples of Musson House … for near on three months.”
“Kate Darby, lady’s maid at Shackleford Park. It’s a pleasure.”
“Indeed it is, Miss Darby,” he said, stepping closer still and dropping his voice to an intimate whisper before reaching out to take her hand. “Lovely country you have here,” he crooned.
With a smile, Kate agreed and glanced at Matt to see him shaking his head. She grinned as he shouldered Johnny out of the way, pulling her hand free from the grasp of his companion and tucking it into the crook of his elbow.
“You can show us the way to Shackleford Park,” Matt said, leading her down the lane to where the cart waited.
Copyright © 2018 by Cynthia Ann Anstey