5. Chapter 5- Bradford
Mr. Belfour’s blooded hounds looked as capable as promised.
The dogs had gangly bodies with an excess of russet skin that collected along their neck and haunches in soft wrinkles, long dark noses, and floppy ears that swung and bounced with their movements.
Their tails wagged as they pointed their great noses at the air, the ground, and the horses in turn.
The two gentlemen started at daybreak—bleak as it was—in the field where the young lady known as Miss Sarah Hughes had last been spotted. The rising sun barely made a dent against the grey gloaming that promised mist or worse.
Mr. Belfour presented the four energetic beasts with a bundle of bedding from the governess’s quarters like some sort of offering. The lead dog trotted off, a howling bay sounding from his mouth.
“That’ll do.” Mr. Belfour smiled proudly, hefted himself upon his horse, and leaned back in the saddle until it squeaked. “That started the magic, make no mistake.”
Bradford frowned and followed. His expression only accentuated his already grim countenance—he hadn’t slept but an hour or two in snatches the night before.
He’d mainly stared up at his bed coverings, trying to remind himself that it was no good for him to ride his horse along the lanes at night—the horse might step into a hole and break its leg, and Bradford would then undoubtedly break his neck.
But he couldn’t sleep, tormented by terrible imaginings of Miss Hughes lying in a cold ditch, her ankle twisted. Or perhaps she’d been waylaid by a footpad? They were very rare in this part of the country, but nothing was unheard of in this day and age.
Such fears alternated with deep swells of anger. How could she have lied to him, to all of them, for the past four months? How had she fooled the investigator who’d done his due diligence on her references? And more pressing than even those large concerns—how could she have left them like that?
It hardly helped that he quite rationally blamed himself for the last.
But all that waiting and wondering was behind him, now that it was dawn. He urged his large black horse to follow Mr. Belfour’s brown mare.
The occasional baying of the dogs belied their canine enthusiasm for the hunt and served to prove that they were still on the right trail as they followed the hedgerow through the field all the way to the road beyond.
As they climbed the berm to the top of the lane, Bradford expected the dogs to turn sharply left or right along the road.
Instead, they plunged through the underbrush on the other side and headed down the hill towards a small creek, tails wagging.
“It’s too steep and thick for the horses,” Mr. Belfour announced, patting his solid stomach with a frown. “We’ll have to use the bridge up there and go around.”
Lord Hayes nearly grimaced. Instinctively, he didn’t want to let the hounds out of his sight for a moment. If there was a single sliver of a chance that they might lose the trail, or miss her altogether, he abhorred the risk.
Mr. Belfour must have seen the concern on Bradford’s face, for he said, “Don’t worry, my lord—the dogs will wait for us on the other side. They’re well trained. We won’t lose them. Trust me, you can hear my Sheila from a mile off, even when you don’t want to.”
He chuckled at his own joke. Bradford nodded and spurred his horse toward the bridge a quarter mile down the road.
Bradford’s incredulity grew as the hours passed.
It was difficult to imagine the polite Miss Hughes traversing that entire distance on foot.
Yet, by the constant, steady pace of the hounds that followed in a very nearly straight line, he knew she must have done.
Several times, Mr. Belfour pointed out smudges or scrapes against mossy boulders or in the grass.
Though the man was an experienced tracker and he seemed perfectly convinced, to Bradford they appeared to be natural scuffs against the landscape, the kind that could have been left by any number of things.
It was on the path through a particularly muddy field that Mr. Belfour pointed and chortled, “Look there. She got her boot stuck for a moment.”
Bradford leaned over his horse to examine the mark, and there it was—plain enough even for him to see it—a small print of a lady’s boot, perfectly preserved in the muck. He shook his head and tried not to be impatient with the process. If only they’d had the hounds yesterday!
None of them could have guessed she’d make it this far. Even last night, when he’d rode out to Stannington, he’d called himself mad. It was far too great a distance, and yet his desperation and anger spurred him along.
And now they were almost to Stannington, albeit by a much more difficult path. It was only Bradford’s practiced good breeding that kept his expression free of shock. He gritted his teeth together in frustration instead.
They’d almost reached the road outside town when there was a great, alarming baying from up ahead.
Mr. Belfour’s face grew grim for the first time on the entire journey. Until that moment, Bradford wasn’t sure the man was capable of frowning, at least not when his dogs were trotting about.
“They’ve found something,” he said darkly. “Stay here, my lord. I will check.”
Bradford couldn’t stay back. He had to see, even if it was the worst. He swung down from his saddle, loosely tying his horse’s reins to a low-hanging branch, as Mr. Belfour had done.
Bradford scrabbled up the steep hillside, wading through the underbrush toward the epicenter of all the ear-splitting baying.
But it was not a body, as they’d both feared.
In Bradford’s mind, what they found was slightly worse—a worn carpetbag, resting at the base of a tree. The very tree that he and George had stopped near the evening before. He recognized the large gnarled oak that marked the crossroads.
Mr. Belfour opened the bag, then examined the area. “She stopped here for some time, my lord. You see the depth of the prints, the way they’ve shuffled about? Methinks she was waiting to get the courage to head into town, or hiding from something.”
Hiding from me, Bradford thought, his head swimming.
He leaned over, bracing his hands on his knees as he tried not to be sick. Mr. Belfour didn’t seem to notice—he was methodically searching the carpetbag. He grunted and Bradford looked up in question.
“Forgive me for saying so, my lord, but I think she might have changed her gown.”
Bradford’s forehead creased. “What?”
“This gown is mucked to the knees. She must have been cold and wet, thought she’d do better with dry skirts.” There was a crinkle as Mr. Belfour held the gown up for Bradford’s inspection. He dug in the pocket. “There’s a note.”
Bradford swiped it from the man’s outstretched hand and unfolded the parchment. It was Miss Hughes’s handwriting—the very resignation she’d offered him only the day before.
Bradford read through the concise letter once more, then tucked it into his jacket pocket—it contained no more information than it had yesterday.
Mr. Belfour’s sharp eyes took in the pallor of Bradford’s face, then slid back to the carpetbag. “The young miss must have been motivated if she made it this far on foot.”
It was an innocent statement, delivered lightly, but Bradford felt the curiosity behind the statement.
He knew what people might think of the situation—a single lord desperately chasing his beautiful young governess across the countryside.
Bradford didn’t want to discuss it with him, but he wouldn’t risk the other kind of gossip that withholding the truth would produce.
“It’s my fault,” he admitted. “I told her I’d have her arrested.”
Mr. Belfour chortled. “Did she make off with the silver plate, then, my lord? No reason to be embarrassed—thieves are common these days.”
Bradford grunted. He couldn’t admit—even to himself—that the longer they chased Miss Hughes, the more Bradford suspected that she’d stolen something, after all.