Midnight Quill Trio

April 1763

April 1763

Rose stood in front of the mirror while her maid, Boyle, dressed her in her cherry-red riding habit.

She averted her gaze from Boyle’s reflection—the broad, ruddy cheeks, the pale eyes, the grim-lipped mouth, the sandy hair pulled back in a tight knot—and stood stiffly while the woman twitched the riding jacket into place over her shoulders. “My hat and gloves, Boyle.”

Her maid handed them to her.

No, Rose corrected herself. Boyle’s not my maid: she’s my gaoler. Guarding her these past six months while Henry had been in the West Indies.

Rose placed the three-cornered hat on her head, pulled on her riding gloves, and headed downstairs, along the echoing Long Gallery with its portraits of Quayle ancestors, down the staircase lined with suits of armor, across the dark and cavernous entrance hall. A footman opened the front door for her.

Rose stepped outside, drinking in the sunshine and the cool spring air. She trod briskly around to the stables. The sight of Dancer, glossily black, being led across to the mounting block made her mood brighten still further.

“Morning, m’ lady,” her groom said.

“Good morning, Fenmore.” Rose stroked the mare’s arching neck. “How is she?”

“In fine fettle, ma’am.”

The groom helped her to mount. Rose arranged her voluminous riding skirt and gathered the reins. They left the stableyard at a trot and took the path through the woods to the lake.

At the lakeshore, Rose reined in and looked around. Spring surrounded them: budding leaves, birdsong, fresh stalks of grass pushing up from the soil. The lake reflected the blue sky, tiny wavelets lapping the shore.

She glanced back at the groom. “Let’s go somewhere we can gallop.”

Rose held the mare to a trot while they rode through the woods and urged Dancer into a gallop once they broke free of the trees. Hedgerows flashed past, leafless trees, muddy fields tinged green with the first growth of spring. She felt a soaring sense of freedom. At this moment, it was wonderful to be alive.

When she sensed Dancer tiring, she allowed the mare to slow to a trot. Exhilaration tingled inside her. She glanced over her shoulder and smiled at Fenmore following faithfully behind.

An answering smile lit his face for a second, and then vanished. He was once again the impassive servant.

Rose turned back towards Creed Hall.

Hedgerows closed around them. Her joy began to trickle away. Every step Dancer took brought them closer to Creed Hall. Her home. Her prison.

A blur of movement, small and brown, hit Dancer’s right shoulder with a puff of feathers. The mare shied.

Rose clutched the reins, fighting to keep her seat—and then Fenmore was alongside, his hand an iron grip on Dancer’s bridle, stopping the mare from bolting.

“Thank you, Fenmore.” Rose gathered the reins more firmly. Her heart thundered in her chest.

He nodded, not releasing his grip. A feather spiraled slowly in the air.

Rose looked down. A song thrush lay on the ground. “It’s still alive!” She slid from the saddle and knelt to look at it.

Fenmore dismounted and looped the horses’ reins over a branch. He stripped off his riding gloves, crouched, and picked up the bird. Rose watched while he examined it, carefully extending each wing. “Nothing’s broken.”

The bird lay passive, cupped in his palm, only the movement of its breast showing that it lived. “Likely it has a nest full of eggs, this time of year,” Fenmore said, gently stroking the speckled feathers. “Some may even have hatched.”

“Will it be all right?”

The thrush swiveled its head. One wing beat in feeble panic. Fenmore stilled it, laying his other hand gently over the bird. “Hush.” His voice was low and soothing. “We mean you no harm.”

The thrush seemed to understand him. Its struggles stopped.

Fenmore carefully laid the bird to one side of the path and stood. He helped Rose to her feet. “It should be able to fly once it’s recovered its wits.”

Rose stared up at him. Fenmore wasn’t pretty, like Henry. In fact, he was almost ugly. He had a rugged face. Blunt nose, blunt cheekbones, blunt jaw. He looked like a warrior from a Norse legend, with his white-blond hair and sun-browned skin and eyes as blue as the sky. A Viking, young and strong and vigorous, built to fight.

And yet he’d been astonishingly gentle with the bird. Gentler than she’d ever seen a man be.

Fenmore’s brow furrowed slightly. “Ma’am?”

“It wasn’t afraid of you.”

“Animals trust me.” As if to underscore his words, Dancer nuzzled his shoulder. Fenmore’s hand went up to stroke the mare’s cheek. “They know I won’t hurt them.”

Rose rode out again in the afternoon. She preferred to spend as little time as possible indoors. Henry had been gone six months, but his scent still lingered in Creed Hall and his voice seemed to echo faintly in some of the rooms.

She cantered around the lake. Fenmore followed, with a blanket and a wicker hamper strapped to his saddle. They halted at the small folly on the eastern side. It was built like a Greek temple, perfectly round, and encircled by a colonnade. The marble gleamed white in the afternoon sunlight. At the pebbly shore, a small rowboat was tied.

They dismounted. Fenmore spread the blanket on the ground. He opened the hamper and unpacked a flagon of lemonade, a plum cake, a loaf of dark and sticky gingerbread, some nuts and candied fruit.

Rose stared at the food. “I’ll never eat all that!”

The groom glanced at her. A smile creased the corners of his eyes, but he said nothing.

The afternoon passed in slow contentment. Rose nibbled the plum cake while Fenmore tended to the horses, then she lay back on the blanket and stared up at the sky and the drifting clouds. She felt a sense of peace. Whenever she was inside Creed Hall her chest tightened and breathing became difficult, but here, surrounded by trees and water, she could breathe easily.

Fenmore packed up the picnic as the afternoon drew to its close. Rose sat on one of the shallow marble steps, hugging her knees, gazing across the water to the wooded hills on the other side. I wish I didn’t have to go back to the Hall.

She looked around for Fenmore. He was scattering crumbs on the ground.

Rose stood and walked across to him. “Is that for birds?”

“And squirrels.”

He towered above her, but she didn’t fear him. Beneath the plain features, kindness was imprinted on his face. And yet Henry, who is far prettier, I fear. Rose shivered at the thought of her husband. “I should like to see a squirrel.”

“Belike you will, if they know to find food here.”

“We could put more food out tomorrow,” she said hopefully.

“That we could.” Fenmore scattered the last of the crumbs, then fetched Dancer and helped Rose to mount. They rode slowly back through the woods. Rose clenched the reins when Creed Hall came into sight. A shudder ran through her. For a fleeting second she thought she smelled the perfume Henry wore.

Henry’s not here.

Rose blew out a breath. She relaxed her grip on the reins. The next ten months were a gift to be treasured. She wouldn’t ruin them by thinking of Henry. She would live each day as if he was never coming back.