Chapter Four
Sea Grange Manor, Suffolk, A few minutes later
Father was in the library, so Meg went immediately there. She expected the conversation to be unpleasant, but delaying the inevitable with him always made things worse.
He stood, bussed her cheek and gave her shoulders a squeeze. “Come sit with me by the fire.”
Once settled, he asked after her day and listened with interest as she discussed her purchases. Meg felt comfortable with him as she had not since before the war. Was he returning to his old self? Had he realized how unpleasant his behavior had been recently?
“I gather you met a gentleman while in the shop,” Father said. “I’m surprised you did not mention it.”
“Oh, la,” she waved the statement away. “I’d forgotten him,” she lied. She didn’t like lying to anyone, but if it would deflect an angry outburst and maintain Father’s pleasant demeanor, the lie would be worth it.
“I’ve heard disturbing reports of you traveling about Fenwick unaccompanied, or worse, in company of persons of whom I would not approve,” Father began, his expression clouding.
Reminding him he had insisted she go without escort on this and several occasions was pointless. He might be obsessed with decorum much of the time, but the obsession was erratic in ways convenient only for Father.
“You know I am perfectly safe in Fenwick. No one would dare accost me for fear of answering to you.”
“Nonetheless, you have behaved improperly. I am most disappointed and must consider consequences,” He rose, placed his hands behind his back and paced to and fro before the hearth.
Meg waited. She’d learned not to make suggestions when Father considered consequences.
“You should have come with Brookbank. I informed him how inexcusable I found his failure to return with you.”
“I am sorry, Father.” Details too were best left unsaid as any little thing could trigger her father’s temper.
“Why did you not?”
Meg held her silence. Father rarely cared why she acted. The question was rhetorical at best.
“Well?” From a side table, he picked up a long rule used for drawing straight lines and slapped it against his hand.
Meg knew from experience exactly how that slim piece of wood felt when whipped across bared skin. He’d never used it himself. He had instructed her governess to “apply the rod as needed”
“I had not completed the purchases you sent me to make. I did suggest to Brookbank that he wait for me.”
Father’s brows rose, and he put the rule aside. “Really? He did not inform me. I shall have to consult him on the matter.”
Not instruct him but consult him? Not believe your daughter over your clerk? More evidence that, as Meg suspected, Brookbank possessed some hold over Father.
“I do apologize for any concern you felt, Father.”
Some emotion—worry, regret, fear—Meg couldn’t be certain, filled Father’s eyes.
“’Tis no matter, dear Meg.” Taking her hand, he brought her to her feet and folded her into a hug. “I’m glad you realize I worry for you.” He released her and led her to the door.
She cast her own gaze to the floor. “Yes, Father.”
“I also have an apology to make. Brookbank and I will leave in an hour and will be traveling for the next few days. I know you have missed me and I’ve been home too short a time for us to establish the comfortable routine we once had. I promise, we will spend more time together in the future.”
Meg was overjoyed to be rid of Brookbank, whom she blamed for the changes in her once affectionate papa. “I will miss you,” she said. “Traveling on such short notice is no doubt inconvenient.”
“I see you understand my difficulties. Behave while I’m gone, daughter. I’ll hear about any infraction of my rules.”
Meg was certain he would. However, she had her own means of avoiding notice from the household. She looked forward to a few days of unfettered freedom.
The following morning, before the sun streaked the skies, before all but the kitchen servants stirred, Meg dressed in an old woolen gown, tall sturdy boots, and a short but warm coat then made her way to Trout Creek at the spot the wishing trout called home.
She was determined to capture the fellow.
’Twould be a way to thumb her nose at Father, and he would never know.
***
As night grayed into dawn, Kit crossed the empty public room and stepped into the Barque’s kitchen.
“Here’s the food you requested last night.” Mrs. Brewster added a stoppered cider jug to a bulky sack then handed him the bag.
“Thank you very much, Mrs. Brewster.”
“You can thank me by bringing back a dozen or more trout to offer on special tonight,” she groused.
Kit smiled. “I’ll endeavor to supply all you need. However, my intent is to pursue Fenwick’s legendary trout.”
“D’you know where to find the Wishing Trout’s hole?”
“The spot has been pointed out to me.”
“Then get you gone, Mr. Copefort. Daylight’s comin’ on fast. You’ll want to have your hook in the water before the sun’s full up.”
“Indeed.” He secured his cloak and tipped his hat before passing through the kitchen’s rear entrance.
He saddled his own mount—rather than wake the hard-working stableboys.
He affixed the rod purchased from Beuth to his saddle then loaded the sack and all remaining gear into his saddlebags.
Soon he trotted north along the road roughly parallel to Trout Creek.
He arrived at the Wishing Trout’s watery home with the sun still below the horizon. The scene could have come from some artist’s palette. He emerged from the trees lining the creek to see the morning mist spread over the area.
Breaks in the fading fog revealed a heap of brush blocking more than half the southern part of the stream. Opposite the heap, the bank overhung the stream. A pool spread northward—water backed up from the brushy dam—providing the ideal place for the small prey trout favored as food.
As the day brightened, a figure emerged from the dwindling mist.
Miss Fenneman stood in the water—skirts hiked around her hips—near the upper edge of the brush heap.
Stunned at the sight, Kit watched her fishing pole whip through the air as she cast her line northward.
The hook landed with a delicate plop, floating just below the surface and drifting with the current.
The hook approached the northern edge of the overhang. Then the line jerked—hard.
Miss Fenneman let out a victorious cheer. “I’ve got you now, you old slyboots.”
Still speaking, she lowered the tip of her rod and carefully moved it sideways at about a forty-five-degree angle.
She’s good. Very good.
A huge trout leapt in the air, dove, then leapt again, thrashing side to side in an attempt to dislodge the hook.
The force of the monster fish on the line nearly toppled Miss Fenneman.
Kit dropped everything, tossed aside his hat, ripped at the ties of his cloak, and sprinted into the water.
Her stance still unsteady, she managed to remain upright while keeping a grip on her pole. The fish fled. She let the line spin out.
I cannot let her fall.
That dress would weigh her down. She’d drown even in the shallowest stream.
As he reached for her, his feet slipped out from under him. Momentum carried him forward to collide with Miss Fenneman.
“Nooo,” she yelped.
Impact forced the fishing rod from her grip, and she toppled.
Face down in the water, Kit lay across her.
Get up man, or you’ll both drown.
His body ached all over. Water filled his mouth, some finding its way down his throat. He forced his head up, spitting water, dirt, and gravel. His feet found awkward purchase on the creek bottom. He grasped Miss Fenneman around the waist, lifting her as he pushed upward.
He teetered, hard-pressed to keep his footing and hold his prize above the stream at the same time.
“Put. Me. Down,” she sputtered. “Before you fall and drown us both.”
He stared as water dribbled from her berried lips.
With one step, his boots found solid, if squishy, ground, but he did not release her. Instead, he pivoted and marched to the creek bank. Five steps onto the shore, he set Miss Fenneman on her feet, keeping one hand on her waist in case she faltered.
With the other hand, he found his cloak and awkwardly spread it on the ground.
“There,” he said, pleased with himself. “You may sit here while I build a fire.”
His hand on her waist informed him she did not move.
“Unhand me.”
The icy tone burned. Kit released her then straightened to look at her. “I am con…”
“You… you… IDIOT.”
He blinked at the raging virago he knew to be Miss I am delighted to meet you, sir, Fenneman.
Hands fisted at her sides. Her blue eyes sparked gold flame.
Creek-water spiked her lashes. Her delicate nose twitched, nostrils flaring.
Her lips, now blue with cold, opened over clenched teeth.
Her silky brown curls straggled in a sodden mess across her shoulders.
Soaked through, her muslin dress revealed a pair of fine rose-tipped swells beneath the cloth.
His gaze traveled lower. Seeing she wore no corset, he immediately stared into her eyes before swiveling around.
“Are you afraid of me, Mr. Copefort?” she snarled.
Am I?
“Perhaps I should be, but I’m not. I don’t face you simply to preserve your modesty.”
***
“My? … My modesty?” Her voice rose. “What in the world…?” Meg cast a downward glance, taking in her nearly invisible dress. “Oh!”
“Perhaps you would care to wrap yourself in my cloak.” Back still turned, Mr. Copefort gestured toward the dark cloth on the ground beside her.
“Ah, uhm, yes. Thank you.” The cloak was inches too long, but swaddled her in warmth. A pleasant aroma—some mixture of citrus and cloves—rose from where the soft wool stroked her chin. “You may turn around now.”
He faced her. “I am very sorry. Please accept my apologies for that dunking. I fear concern for your safety overcame good sense. You have every right to be displeased with me. I can only hope you will forgive me.”