Chapter 22
Twenty-two
Eleanor
“People die from blows to the head!” Eleanor tried not to shout at the dolt sitting at the breakfast table holding his head up just to drink his coffee. “You should let us call Dr. Walker.”
“My hat took more damage than I did. Call a hatter. Or go to church, Miss Leonard, and pray. That’s what the superstitious do.” The professor was not dressed for church.
She couldn’t blame him. His head had to be pounding.
Andrew, unscathed by the incident, practically had to carry him in last night.
They’d had no one to help him into bed—and of course, Greybourne had refused help.
He’d been all over mud but she hadn’t noticed bleeding.
Still, she’d spent the night terrified. If she’d been a man. . .
She could have helped even as a female but he refused any aid. Her gender had nothing to do with his mulish perversity.
Sweeping out, Eleanor located Andrew clearing the drive. He generally showed more capacity for intelligence. “I fear the pirates will succeed in killing us unless we find elsewhere to stay.” This was her true terror, that they must leave and become homeless.
They’d been warned—but she refused to run away. She preferred to catch the wretched marauders. But first, she must convince the invincible men that they were all in jeopardy until the culprit was found.
Andy looked at her as if she were mad. “We were in no danger. The curricle has a hood and it was only a dead tree branch, El. The rain made it too heavy and it cracked in the wind. Admittedly, the place needs work. The trees need pruning, that’s all.
” He chopped at the enormous branch that had almost put paid to his and Lord Greybourne’s existence.
She could not bear it if anything happened to either of them.
Was this the fear the professor felt? He’d be sending them away, if so, and she couldn’t even argue.
She despised the idea. They simply needed to understand the danger and act accordingly.
If she were a gentleman, she’d be carrying swords and rifles.
“You could have been killed when the carriage overturned,” she shouted, as if being loud would reach through his thick head. “It was only a miracle you landed on the rhododendron.”
“We weren’t killed. You’re putting the saddle on the wrong horse, El. I am an excellent driver. I’ve just purchased my own pony cart!”
Well, if Grey was the jinx, then Andrew might be safe. That wasn’t the point. “I was not born yesterday, Andy.”
The storm had passed, but this morning, everything dripped.
As she had done earlier, Eleanor examined the end of the heavy, fallen branch.
“Did you even look at this? I recognize a saw cut when I see one. That branch was dead because someone had cut into it. It was just waiting for a good wind or rain or snowstorm. It’s another trap. ”
“If the limb had time to die, then any cut has been there a long time,” her twin concluded on a note of finality.
“Or it might have been half dead and someone attempted to take it out more recently.” Without hat, Grey ventured down the weed-strewn drive to examine the weapon.
Looking pained, he studied what El had seen.
“If only to end this shouting, I must suggest that the two of you stay at the manor. They have offered rooms.”
Leaving him alone to the depredations of killers, exactly what she’d feared.
Eleanor swung on him. “The accidents are real and not a matter of superstition, my lord,” she said frostily.
“I seriously doubt the altered carriage wheel or the branch were intended for me or Andy. Perhaps you should stay at the manor.”
She hated abandoning this huge house. She and her twin had moved half a dozen times since their father’s death. To give up this place that could be so perfect. . . “I refuse to be a coward. I might have to dress like a feeble female, but that does not mean I am helpless.”
Greybourne studied her. She hadn’t realized his eyes were the color of emeralds that darkened when angry. She wouldn’t be cowed by anger either. She held her ground.
“Are you suggesting that I should be the coward?” he asked coldly. “I prefer to believe this is another trap set for Comfrey. Or just a trap for intruders in general.”
“I thought we’d concluded he died in an altercation.
That is not the same as a planned trap meant to look like an accident.
Perhaps you ought to listen to your cousin, sir.
Just because Miss Talbot is female doesn’t mean she’s wrong.
” El picked up her skirt and sailed back inside, angry but uncertain with whom.
Arguing with men who refused to acknowledge reality—acting manly for her sake, no doubt—was as futile as telling them she didn’t need their protection. Not anymore than they did, anyway.
Dressed for Sunday services, she donned a cloak in case the rain returned. Even if it were in any shape to do so, the curricle would not be going out with a half dead tree blocking the drive.
Leaving the men chopping wood, she led Peg and Miss Fields on foot down the lane.
She wasn’t risking more traps by going the short way.
The chapel was on the far end of town but it had to be less than a mile.
They wouldn’t melt if rained upon. Peg was proudly sporting her new straw bonnet though, so El hoped the clouds held off.
They met several more churchgoers whom the cook seemed to know. El acknowledged introductions but occupied herself watching for Black Dickie or any of his ilk.
She didn’t see any artists attending church, but the man the professor called a reprehensible journalist approached them as they reached the churchyard.
Aware that Peg made a poor chaperone, El ignored Mr. Percival’s greeting.
“Might I speak with you after services, Miss Leonard?” he called over the heads of the women gradually forming a barrier around her.
“We have not been introduced, sir.” Feeling no guilt at her rudeness compared to his, she sailed past. Her loyalty lay with her idiot employer.
“You should learn Grey’s history,” he shouted after her.
She was a mere employee. She had no need to learn his history. Unless it meant learning why anyone might want to kill him. She’d find that out from Miss Talbot.
Ascertaining that the women closing protectively around her were Miss Field’s friends from the manor kitchen, El settled herself in their midst on a back bench.
The village chapel was quite small and primitive, but the ancient stained-glass windows were magnificent, presumably provided by the earls over the centuries.
It was a fairly egalitarian church, with unpadded benches for all.
The manor may once have had its own chapel, but Mr. Upton was the only clergyman these days.
That meant the manor folk must attend with the villagers, although, out of custom, the gentry sat in front.
Eleanor wasn’t entirely certain where she fit in. Back in the city, she hadn’t attended often. Sunday was the day she performed all her household duties and finished any incomplete copy work. And since she put her coins into men’s clothing, she didn’t own a good Sunday dress.
But if she were to settle here—and that seemed to be in question—she had to fit in somehow. Her plain garb suited the back rows. The manor’s staff were affable, and it was good to have people to tell her how to go on and who was whom and so forth.
She simply didn’t feel comfortable discussing her work or Lord Grey’s difficulties or even the running of a household with them. For that, she needed the more educated manor ladies.
Or perhaps the innkeeper’s wife, who was also the local schoolteacher. But Mrs. Russell had two children and was so dreadfully busy. . .
El had survived for years without female companions. She supposed it wasn’t a necessity now.
Except for skeletons and falling trees and pirates.
. . She really would like a sensible head to converse with.
She might have worn men’s clothes and done the work of men these past years, but she had never been able to think like one.
Gentlemen tended to be singularly single-minded, while her thoughts tramped a dozen terrifying pathways.
So after church, when the intriguing Miss Talbot caught up with her, El signaled her staff to go on ahead.
“May I walk with you back to Bradford House? I fear Grey will never invite me, so I must rely on you to help me to talk sense to the wretched man.” Grey’s cousin bobbed a brief curtsy, causing her blond ringlets and admirably feathered bonnet to bounce.
“Oh, you may as well talk to his horse for all the good that will do,” El said bitterly, remembering the morning’s argument.
“Your cousin heeds the opinion of no one but himself. But I am very glad of your company, if I may so presume.” El knew she spoke to a wealthy heiress, but Miss Talbot, Thea, appeared to be as eccentric as her cousin, so she didn’t feel too presumptuous.
“He does listen, eventually, witness his arrival here. I’ve been after him these past six months to visit.
He knows I will scold when I see him, so he avoids me.
” A perfectly-sized blond lady in an elegant muslin gown trimmed with lace and ribbon, Thea easily kept up with El’s usual mannish strides.
El felt gangly tall in her plain garb and adjusted her stride to her shorter companion. “Your muleheaded cousin believes it is better to send us away rather than do anything sensible like accept that others might be useful.”
Thea appeared mildly alarmed. “Does that mean you are leaving? We don’t want to lose you! If Clare is so desperate for your help that she is willing to reveal that she writes those dreadful gothic romances, then surely I can speak of it. She needs you here.”