Amy Lake (23 page)

“Is something wrong?” asked the doctor.

“Of course not,” said Fiona.

She went back to the soup, but there was something odd in Dee’s expression, and it took a moment before Mrs. Marwick decided that the doctor appeared somewhat upset, and that her daughter was looking even more mulish than usual.

Dee—upset?

She kept her back to her daughter and Dee, but listened carefully.

“I don’t care,” Madelaine hissed to the doctor. “They’re
stupid
.”

“But Maddie—” said Dee.

Her daughter then said ‘shh’ under her breath, but Fiona heard it. She turned around.

“What on earth is the matter?” she asked.

“
Nothing
,” said Maddie.

“Umm . . . nothing at all,” said Dee.

“We’re going to go feed Susannah,” said her daughter, and they left.

  * * * *

It wasn’t until the next day that Mrs. Marwick discovered—from Dee, who finally told Madelaine that she could sulk all she wanted, but he was informing her mother—what had happened.

“’Twas Mrs. Cadogan who warned us,” he said, “when we dropped by Willow Cottage to give her the bread.”

“Warned you? About what?”

“That Agnes Groundsell has been spreading talk in the village.”

 Fiona was first mystified, then outraged, as the doctor explained. Mrs. Groundsell had told Mrs. Duggins, who had told old Dabney and Mrs. Cadogan, that Mrs. Marwick ‘had not behaved as she ought’ when Lord Ashdown was staying at Tern’s Rest.

“Not behaved as I ought?” Fiona was caught between her indignation and laughter.

Mrs. Duggins, old Dabney and Mrs. Cadogan were all life-long inhabitants of Barley Mow. They knew Agnes Groundsell, and did not like her half as much as they liked Mrs. Marwick, but ’twas good gossip, in its way, and heavens knew one needed a bit of cheer-up during a long winter.

Fiona was shaking her head. “I cannot believe this.”

Mrs. Cadogan had assured Dr. Fischer that they gave no heed to the rumour and that she, at least, would take pains to support Mrs. Marwick if the subject should again arise.

“I don’t think the village itself will pay much attention to Agnes,” said Dee, “but the marquess’ name is enough to spark interest, and you know how these things spread.”

She did indeed. And as Mrs. Marwick thought it over, she realized that the problem was not the people of Barley Mow, but those in the neighboring villages, who did not know her as well. Villages exchanged eligible young men and women, it was the way things were, and it was from those villages—Cleadon, and Biddick, High Simonside and the rest—that Madelaine might one day find a husband. Gossip of this sort could truly hurt her daughter.

After the first shock had passed, Fiona began to wonder. She looked at Dee and frowned. “Why would—?” Then she stopped. “Sir Irwin,” she said.

“I think so, too. If Agnes was going to come up with something like this on her own, we would have heard about it before now.”

They were sitting at the kitchen table, having tea. Mrs. Marwick said nothing for several moments. Then she jumped up and grabbed her coat.

“Where are you going?” said Dee, alarmed. He stood as well.

“To see the . . . the
bloody
baronet.”

He reached out and grabbed her by both shoulders. “Fiona, stop.”

“He is not going to do this! I won’t allow it!”

“And what will you do?”

“I’ll marry him.”

The doctor threw his hands into the air. “No.”

“Why not? He gets what he wants, he’ll build his house, and finally,
finally
leave me alone.”

 “And if he doesn’t?”

Fiona stopped, the coat still in her hands. “Then,” she said, slowly, “then that’s as shall be. ’Tis a price I will pay for my daughter. Any mother would.”

She stood there, unnerved for the moment, and Dee gently took the coat. “Fiona,” he said. “I must . . . go check on Tom Cathcart, over in Seaton Sluice.”

Fiona nodded. The doctor had told her earlier about the grounded ship.

“I was planning to leave this afternoon. Give me three days before you talk to Sir Irwin. Three days. That’s all I ask.”

Mrs. Marwick looked up.

“Promise me,” said Dee. “Really.”

She nodded again. “I do promise. I will not see the baronet until you return. But—”

The doctor shook his head. “No more. I need three days.”

Chapter 43: The Coal Tip

There were, of course, several letters to Mrs. Marwick from the marquess, and one for Madelaine. The letters to Fiona contained language as ardent as any woman would have wished, but they had been delayed in the beginning by Lord Ashdown himself, whose inclination toward perfectionism had not stood him well in this circumstance.

Robbie, the footman to whom he had eventually entrusted the packet, had every intention of delivering them immediately to the post, but Lady Beckwith had discovered him on the way to the stables, and had given him a number of commissions to attend to, which involved visiting several shops in Newcastle-upon-Tyne, and ordering a great many items for the houseparty. The letters had been carefully consigned to an inner pocket of Robbie’s jacket, where they remained for most of the next two days, until the footman heard that Lord Ashdown was asking if any mail had arrived for him. Robbie then remembered, with a start, that Lord Ashdown’s own letters were still in his pocket. He turned white and rushed out to the post, with no-one the wiser.

The letters arrived in Barley Mow the day Dee left for Elswick Manor, but Sally Chilcott, the postmistress, did not tell Fiona. She had given Dr. Fischer her word that she would not deliver any letter for Mrs. Marwick without letting him see it first, and he had emphasized that this was of particular importance on any occasion when he was away from the village.

  * * * *

That week started out bright and chill, and Hobbs spent time each day cutting wood for the kitchen fire. If the kitchen was not warm enough the bread would not rise, and Fiona felt that if she could not bake bread she might go mad.

Her daughter was busy in the stables, helping Hobbs with various odd jobs to be done when he wasn’t cutting wood. On this occasion they were repairing the slats in one of the larger stalls, which had been most recently occupied by Bunny, and Fiona stayed away from the work, preferring not to dwell on memories.

In particular, the memory of sitting on a hay bale next to Lord Ashdown. The hay was gone now, thank goodness, but Lord Ashdown—or perhaps Lady Edwina—had left behind a fine saddle blanket, and Fiona could not ask Hobbs to throw it out, for all that the sight it provoked a shaft of pain that went straight to her heart.

Such a silly thing, to be upset by a horse blanket.

As far as the repairs to the stall, Mrs. Marwick was not sure how much help her daughter provided, but Hobbs seemed happy enough with the company, and it kept Maddie from sitting in the kitchen, asking questions that her mother could not answer.

At least not to the girl’s satisfaction.

“Didn’t you like Colin at
all
?” had been the most recent, couched in plaintive tones that wrung Fiona’s heart, even as she wanted to throw her hands up in exasperation.

“Of course I liked him. That doesn’t mean—”

“He asked you to marry him! Why can’t you marry him!”

Fiona was thunderstruck. “Lord Ashdown told you—”

“I
guessed
. And he said he was!”

 Fiona had hoped that Madelaine would soon forget about Colin Ashdown, but she knew the matter was not that easy. Her daughter had always known her own mind. She would not forget. And the thought of telling Maddie that she was to marry
Sir Irwin
—

 Lud. She needed to get out. She needed fresh air.

’Twas a sunny day; Fiona decided that a thorough cleaning of the kitchen could wait, and that it was a good time to take the long walk out to Wyril Point. Sir Irwin had claimed to want to build a house there and—if he was telling the truth—neither Fiona or Dee had the least idea why. The point looked much the same as any other on the coast of County Durham and Northumberland. Perhaps if she visited it, something would make sense. Fiona stuck her head into the stable for a moment. Maddie was holding one of the new slats while Hobbs nailed; she assured them that she would not be gone long but the girl waved her off, and Mrs. Marwick was fairly certain that her daughter hadn’t heard a thing she’d said.

’Twas time for Madelaine to get back to her studies, thought Fiona, with a twinge of guilt. They always suffered in Dee’s absence.

She walked along the inland road for several hundred yards, finally making the turn east, and onto the path with led directly to Wyril Point. The weather was no colder than usual, so close to Christmas, but the wind was chill, and Fiona tucked the ends of her scarf into her coat.

Speaking of Christmas—

.Dee had promised to find Maddie a pocket atlas, one which would include maps of England, but Fiona had not yet given much consideration to a gift for her daughter. She had thought of sewing a new dress for her, but Madelaine’s interest in nice clothing was currently nonexistent; Fiona would make the dress anyway, and her daughter would wear it, but not by choice, so it seemed hardly a fair gift for Christmas.

You must marry Sir Irwin. For Madelaine’s sake.

Fiona shook her head to clear the thought, and saw that the final turn to the point was immediately ahead. What could she do, wondered Fiona, if Sir Irwin really builds there? Perhaps Hobbs can put up a wall between the baronet’s house and Tern’s Rest. Or a twenty foot hedge of cypress might do. With a vicious, snarling dog. We’ll name him . . . but she could not think of a name ferocious enough, and once she began thinking of dogs she began to worry about Madelaine, and to consider that a small puppy with a sweet disposition would be far safer for her daughter. They’d never had such a creature. When Joseph was alive there had been an elderly border terrier whose major activity was lying in front of the kitchen fire, but Raoulf had died not long after her husband, a small sorrow that had been engulfed by the larger.

Perhaps . . . a puppy for Christmas. ’Twas time, she decided, cheered at the thought. Madelaine loved all animals, and a puppy would be just the thing to get her daughter’s mind off the loss of Bunny and Artemis and everything else.

Fiona was considering how to find such an animal, and what she should say if Maddie insisted that it sleep inside, when she realized, first, that she had arrived at Wyril Point, and secondly that she was not alone. A short man stood at the very edge of the cliff, bending nearly double and peering into a piece of equipment that she did not recognize. He was wearing a heavy wool coat that seemed to have a great many pockets and making notes in a journal. A chain stretched behind him, attached at one end to a pole driven into the ground, and at the farther end to something she could not make out.

The man turned and saw her. She saw his eyes widen, but he caught himself and nodded to her. “Miss,” he said.

Fiona did not correct him. “What are you doing?” she asked.

“Ah, just a bit of a survey for the tip.”

“The tip?”

“Coal spoil. It takes more space than you’d think, really. But this is a fine piece of land, we’ve a straight shot from the colliery down Cleadon Road.”

“The . . . colliery.”

“Aye. Brandling Main hit a major vein six months past. Plenty of slag and nowhere ta’ put it.”

The man continued to make notes as he talked. Then he looked up again and frowned, as if wondering if he ought to be telling her his business.

“And who are you?” asked the man.

“Just a neighbor.” She smiled in reassurance, although her heart was beating so hard that she thought he must be able to hear it. A coal tip. Fiona knew exactly what he was talking about, and she was appalled. Coal mining produced waste—huge amounts of overlying soil and debris from the colliery, which all needed to go somewhere. Mrs. Marwick had not seen one herself, but Dee had. The doctor had described the great, ugly mounds that were popping up along the northwest coast of England, destroying the shoreland and driving away every animal and bird.

But how could they do such a thing? She owned this land—

Everything fell into place. Wilfred Thaxton. The baronet’s insistent proposals of marriage. And Wyril Point.

In one small way she felt relief. Finally, the truth. But relief quickly turned into panic. Dee would not return for another day. What if men turned up with . . . well, with whatever one used to make a coal tip? Everyone knew that Wyril Point was part of her land, but if someone decided to just
take
it, what could she do?

And if she married the man she would have no choice at all.

Mrs. Marwick took a deep breath. “I beg your pardon,” she said, “but you must leave. This is my land and no-one is putting a coal tip on it.”

The man’s eyes narrowed. “Thought you was just a neighbor.”

“My home is Tern’s Rest. Wyril Point belongs to
me
.”

“Not what I was told,” he replied, shrugging.

Hobbs, thought Fiona. I must get Hobbs. “You must leave at once!”

He shrugged again. “Fair enough. Got all I need.”

The man walked off, following the path that led back to the road. Fiona was shaking with anger. The baronet! That horrible man was trying to sell
her
land without so much as a by-your-leave. The colliery would pay him well, she supposed. Fiona hoped that Dee’s Mr. Cathcart was well and that the doctor could return more quickly than he’d anticipated, because she would prefer him with her when she went to confront the baronet. Perhaps the doctor could intervene if she tried to throttle Sir Irwin.

A coal tip! Not on her land.

Chapter 44: Dr. Fischer on the Road

Thomas Cathcart was perfectly well. His wife had sent word—as Dr. Fischer had requested—only two days ago, saying that Cathcart was up and about and would be back aboard ship within the week. Dee had no need, or intention, to visit him.

The doctor was, in fact, on his way to Elswick Manor. He had eschewed a coach in favor of his usual mount, a large Irish hunter named ‘Sergeant’, and although Dee was not precisely a horseman, he rode often enough, and was making adequate time. He would be at the manor, assuming he could find it quickly enough, by late afternoon.