Chapter 12 #2
Merry had smiled and admired like the rest, but when the infant’s tiny fingers closed around hers, something inside her wavered. The soft warmth, the sweet milky scent, the absolute trust of the little creature—all stirred a melancholy she could neither name nor control.
It was ridiculous, she told herself as she rode back in the Fieldings’ carriage.
Ridiculous and ungrateful, she told herself irritably.
She had her health, her family and more than enough comfort.
Yet the image would not leave her: the baby’s cheek nestled against its mother’s neck, the quiet contentment of belonging.
By the time the carriage turned away from the village, she could bear the confinement of it no longer.
“Would you mind setting me down at the home farm?” she asked. “I should like to see how the lambs are doing. Dawkins can bring me home later.”
Her mother gave her a knowing look but nodded, and Mrs. Fielding relayed her instructions to the coachman, who, used to the whims of his betters, said nothing.
When the carriage halted before the familiar low buildings, Merry stepped down into the crisp afternoon and the carriage rolled on.
The sky hung white and thin, the air sharp enough to make her breath cloud.
The bleating of ewes came faintly from the fold.
Dawkins emerged from the barn wiping his hands on a bit of sacking. His grey hair stuck out beneath his cap, and his ruddy face brightened when he saw her.
“Good day to you, Miss Merry. I had not expected you again so soon.”
“I wished to see the new lambs,” she said, smiling a little. “I thought the fresh air might cure my restlessness.”
He chuckled. “Ah, the country’s physic, that is. I was just about to step up to the house for my dinner. My daughter’s roastin’ a goose, and if I don’t appear soon, she will send the boy to fetch me by the ear.”
Merry shook her head. “Do not stay on my account. I want only to spend a little time among them. I will be quite safe here.”
Dawkins hesitated, looking toward the darkening edge of the fields. “Very well, miss. I will not be long. I shall fetch you back to Wychwood myself.”
“Do not rush,” she said kindly. “I promise not to lose my way between one pen and the next.”
He tipped his cap and went off down the lane, whistling.
Merry turned toward the lambing sheds. The familiar smell of straw and barn rose about her like a balm.
She could hear the soft rustle of animals settling, the rhythmic thud of a ewe pawing the bedding.
The smallest of the lambs—the one she had fed with the bottle—tottered toward her and butted its head against her knee.
She bent to stroke its woolly back and smiled.
“Ah, little one,” she murmured. “You have more sense than most people I know.”
The familiar calmed her at once. She moved through the pens, righting a tipped pail here, smoothing a fleece there, speaking softly to each creature as she passed. The wind moaned faintly through the eaves, carrying the smell of snow.
She was bending to check a lamb when a shadow moved across the doorway.
“Merry.”
She straightened, her hand gripping the top rail. Barnaby Tremaine stood there, the low light behind him, his coat askew and his cravat undone. He looked as if he had not slept in a day—or a week. The pallor of his face was startling against the red of his eyes.
“Mr. Tremaine?” Her heart gave a quick, frightened leap. “What are you doing here?”
“I came to see you.” His smile was uneven. “You have been avoiding me.”
“I wrote to you,” she said, fighting to keep her voice even. “There was nothing left to say.”
He stepped inside, and the smell of spirits came with him, pungent and unmistakable. “Ah, yes, the letter. A trifle dramatic, do you not think?”
“It was simply the truth.”
His eyes flickered, and for a moment she thought she saw shame—but it passed too quickly. “How did you know I would be here?” she asked.
“As it happens,” he said, “I saw your carriage from the village. I followed.”
Her pulse quickened. “You followed me?”
“Do not look so alarmed. You left me no choice.” He took another step forward. The slush on his boots darkened the straw. “You will not listen to reason otherwise. We belong together, Merry. You know it as well as I.”
She moved a pace back, her heel brushing the side of a trough. “You are mistaken. You must leave now.”
He reached for her arm, but she jerked away. His fingers caught the edge of her sleeve. “Please, Barnaby. You have had too much to drink. You are not yourself.”
“I am more myself than ever!” he burst out. “Your family has poisoned you against me, that sanctimonious Fielding especially. Do you think he cares for you? He only wants to ruin me.”
“I want nothing to do with any of this,” she said, her voice shaking. “Let me go.”
He drew a breath, his expression changing from pleading to determination. “You are making me do this, Merry. It should not have been this way.”
“What do you mean?”
Before she could move, he seized her wrist. She struggled, but his grip tightened painfully. “Barnaby, stop this!”
“Listen to me!” he hissed, dragging her closer. “If you come with me now—tonight—we can be married within days. Once you are my wife, they can do nothing to part us.”
“Let me go!” she cried, wrenching against him. The lambs bleated nervously, one knocking over a pail that clattered on the earthen floor.
He pressed her back against the wall. The wild look in his eyes chilled her more than the cold. “I need you, Merry,” he said hoarsely. “Do not make me force what should be given willingly.”
Her heart thudded in terror. “You cannot mean to—?”
But he was already drawing a length of rope from his coat and before she could twist away, he caught both her wrists. The rough hemp scraped her skin as he bound her hands before her.
“Barnaby! Please—this is madness!”
“It must be done.”
He pulled her out into the yard. The pale light was dimming fast. His horse waited near the fence, stamping impatiently, its flanks lathered as though it had been ridden hard. He threw her over the saddle like a sack of potatoes.
“Stop!” she cried. “You will regret this!”
Her words were swallowed by the wind. Tremaine mounted behind her, his arm clamping around her, trying to force her upright. The rope cut into her wrists as she struggled. He jerked the reins, and the horse lurched and then plunged forward down the lane.
Cold air lashed her face. The trees blurred. She could hear nothing but the pounding of hooves and the rasp of his breath close to her ear.
“Barnaby, please,” she gasped. “This will ruin us both!”
“Better ruin than to lose you,” he shouted over the wind. “They will understand when we are wed.”
She twisted, trying to throw herself free, but his grip was iron-hard. The rope bit deeper. Panic rose sharp and blinding—if she fell now, she might break her neck.
“No!” she cried once, the sound lost to the empty fields.
The lane curved and branches whipped at her cloak. The village lights were a distant smear of gold far behind them. Dawkins would not return for an hour at least. Who would think to look for her before nightfall?
Her mind raced uselessly, searching for anything that might save her—a rider on the road, a gate left open, the mercy of a startled horse. The only answer was the wind and the cruel rhythm of the gallop.
The last thing she saw before darkness swallowed the fields was the flicker of Wychwood’s chimneys through the trees—warm and safe but impossibly far away.