He rose and drew up the other armchair. Lucilla sank into it, and he returned to the other.
Together, they sat and watched Joy Burns die.
Later, he carried Joy’s body to the wash house. Lucilla spread a sheet on the bench, and he laid Joy down. Lucilla straightened Joy’s limbs, her clothes, then drew another sheet over Joy’s empty shell.
They stood side by side for a moment, then turned and left, closing the door and returning to the house to continue caring for the living.
At four o’clock, they did their rounds, waking the sleeping Bradshaws and administering doses of Lucilla’s combined remedies.
By the time they’d tidied things away, set all ready for making breakfast, and Lucilla had put up her prepared tonic for later, the sun was lightening the eastern sky.
He found a cache of tea. Lucilla made a pot for the two of them. Taking his mug, he walked through the main room to the front door. He opened it and looked out, then he stepped out, tugged the door almost closed, and sat on the stone stoop. Cradling the mug between his hands, he sipped the strong tea and gazed out over Carrick lands, to where the sun was painting the skies with pale gray, blush pink, and soft orange.
Some time later, the door opened, and Lucilla stepped out. Like him, she’d brought her mug. She sat next to him; the stone step was only so wide—less than an inch separated their hips and shoulders.
Without a word, she, too, sipped her tea and looked out at the dawn as the sun rose over a landscape that was familiar to them both.
Minutes passed, then without looking away from nature’s splendor, he asked, “The poison in the well—do you have any idea what it might be?”
She looked down; she frowned at the mug in her hands. “No, not really. It could be something organic, like a fungus or mold, or mineral-based.” She paused, then added, “If I had to wager, I’d put my money on the latter.”
He sipped, lowered his mug. “Why?”
From the corner of his eye, he saw her raise her head.
“Because a fungus or mold would have taken time—weeks or months—to grow to the point of poisoning the well. Any illness would have come on gradually, over a long period, not as it appears to have done, all in one morning.” Her gaze on the horizon, she sipped, then said, “Salts of some sort. That would be my guess.”
He let that settle between them, then asked, “I take it we’re in agreement that, although Joy could have, for some reason, eaten a mushroom or some other poisonous plant while on her way here, it’s very strange that a healer of her experience, one who was born and lived all her life in these parts, should have made such a mistake?”
He made the statement a definite question.
Lucilla frowned. “Yes. Beyond strange, heading toward incomprehensible.” She waited, sipping her tea. When Thomas said nothing more but simply stared broodingly out at the fields, she decided it was her turn to ask questions. “What brought you back to the estate?”
He shifted on the stone beside her, then settled again. “I got a letter—two letters. The first from Bradshaw, telling me there was a problem with the seed supply for the season’s planting. I happened to run into Nigel and Nolan in town, and they assured me it was…some change in procedure. Something like that. Yesterday, Forrester sent a courier with a note to tell me that he and his wife had found the Bradshaws very ill. Forrester confirmed the difficulties with the seed supply.” He paused, hands clasped about his mug, then said, “I decided I needed to come down and see what was happening for myself.”
She’d harbored a tiny kernel of hope that she might have contributed to his reasons for returning, but…whatever the reason, he was at last there. She sipped, turning over his words. Puzzled, she said, “Our farmers have already planted or are in the process of doing so.” She glanced at him. “I haven’t heard of any new procedure, or any seed shortage, but if there has been any disruption to the supply, Marcus would know.”
He met her gaze briefly. “I’m sure the situation will sort itself out.” He looked forward again.
She did the same, the warmth from the tea slowly seeping through her.
Silence descended, wrapping about them, but it was comfortable, unstrained—comforting.
Then he murmured, “Your butler told me Algaria had passed on—I hadn’t known. He also said your parents were traveling in Europe—I thought that, as Lady of the Vale, your mother never left the area.”
Thomas raised his mug and drained it while inwardly cursing his own curiosity; he knew very well why some errant part of him wanted to know if a Lady of the Vale could live elsewhere.
“Mama could have left at any time—we’re not tied to the Vale in any tangible way. But our duties…” Lucilla paused, then went on, “It’s by our own choice that our duties bind us. Mama has never traveled out of the country before, but she’s gone down to London, or to Edinburgh and elsewhere, often enough. But she never left the Vale except when Algaria was there to stand in her place. Now that I can do the same, Papa persuaded her to go and experience all the sights she’s always longed to see.”
She paused, sipped, then went on, “Neither Mama nor I would ever leave the Vale untended—without one of the Lady’s chosen to care for her people.”
He’d assumed as much, which was why he’d long ago decided that she would never be—could never be—the lady for him.
She continued, “It’s not just our role as healers, but as…foci, or figureheads. Just being there gives the people a central figure, one that draws them together, that gives them hope and bolsters them in times of trouble, and keeps the community united.”
He knew that was so, understood that well enough to entertain no ambition to steal her away. She was the embodiment of the future for the people in the Vale, and they were good people. She was theirs.
And that being so, she could never be his.
That errant part of him that, despite all, wanted her, didn’t like that truth, but he couldn’t argue it, couldn’t fight it.
His empty mug dangling from his fingers, he stared out at the fields as the rising sun bathed them in golden glory. Both he and she were tired, but not exhausted. They had worked all night, yet a sense of quiet euphoria filled them. The Bradshaws were much better, and all were sleeping normally—even he could see that.
Suddenly, she leaned against him, her shoulder against his upper arm, her tipped head resting on his shoulder. Lids low, she sighed, then murmured, “You don’t mind, do you?”
He looked down at her, at her flaming red hair; wisps had come loose and curled, lit to brilliance as the sun touched them. “No.” He was passably good at lying. Having done so, he decided he might as well be hung for a wolf as a lamb. He raised his arm, letting her settle more comfortably against his side, then draped that arm about her shoulders. She might be delicately built, but she was very real. And wholly feminine.
Feeling the subtle warmth of her stealing into his muscles, he drew a careful breath. He forced himself to look out over the fields and state what he knew had to be. “Once we’re sure the Bradshaws are on the mend and the Forresters arrive to relieve us, I’ll escort you home.”
Best to underline the limit of their association—for himself even more than for her.
CHAPTER 4
The Forresters arrived in a pony trap at ten o’clock that morning.
By then, Lucilla had made breakfast for the Bradshaws, as well as for Thomas and herself. After dispatching Thomas to milk the by-then-distressed cow, she had rummaged and found oats, and some barley, too. She had made a large pot of thick porridge, adding fresh milk to make it creamy. The two youngest Bradshaws came to the table, but the others ate propped up in their beds. The rapidity with which the steaming bowls, liberally laced with honey, had emptied had reassured her.
The Bradshaws were firmly on the road to recovery.
When Mr. and Mrs. Forrester walked into the house, she had a large batch of the strengthening tonic prepared and put by, enough to see the whole family bac
k to robust health.
After going around the bedrooms with both Forresters and explaining the improvements she expected to occur over the next few days, she led Mrs. Forrester into the kitchen, leaving Mr. Forrester conversing with Thomas in the main room.
Both Forresters had been shocked to hear of Joy Burns’s death but, rustically stoic, had accepted the mystery of it as “just one of those things.” Neither she nor Thomas had alluded to any deeper suspicions; no sense in starting rumors over something they could never prove.
After instructing Mrs. Forrester on the correct dosage of the strengthening tonic to administer to each of the Bradshaws—and reassuring her that there was no danger if any of them took too much—Lucilla helped unpack the baskets of food and supplies the Forresters had helpfully brought.
With everything for the Bradshaws’ further care organized, she turned her mind to the most pressing item on her personal agenda: How to keep Thomas with her—or, alternatively, how to remain by his side.
Regardless of the reason for his return, he was there. In his continued absence, she’d wondered if she should act and bring him to her, but she had always sensed she wasn’t supposed to; the current situation was, presumably, the reason for that. He’d been summoned by others and he’d come, but now he was there, acting to keep him there long enough for them—her and him—to take the next step along their preordained path, namely to marry, was patently something she should do.
That it fell to her to do.
How to do so, however…
He had said that he would escort her back to the Vale, but when they reached there, how was she to get him to stay?
The Forresters had brought more water. Thomas and Mr. Forrester came into the kitchen, crossed to the rear door, propped it open, and went out. They returned a minute later, carrying one of the water barrels between them.
Lucilla rushed to clear a space on the counter along the rear wall. The men set the barrel down, made sure it was steady, then went out to fetch the next.
Shifting various pans from the counter to create more space, Lucilla heard Thomas, outside by the dray, say, “So neither you nor any of the farmers have been given any explanation for the delay in the seed stock?”
“No,” Forrester replied. “When we asked, we were told that we’d get the seed when it came in, and that was all there was to it. Any of us questioned—as Bradshaw did—why the seed was late, we were told it wasn’t our concern.” Forrester’s ire was plain. “Can you imagine? Telling us—who grow the crops, who get the seed into the ground—that it’s no concern of ours when we get the seed? Preposterous!”
Lucilla stepped back as the men brought in the next barrel, the second of three.
When they went back to the dray, she made a show of rearranging some pans so she could remain close enough to the door to overhear their exchanges.
“I take it,” Thomas said, “that none of you spoke directly to the laird.”
“No—although we would’ve if we could’ve. We were told it was Mr. Nigel we had to deal with. Not that that would’ve stopped us, but none of us has seen the laird these past months. Seems he’s been poorly and keeping to his room.”
“So I’d gathered,” Thomas said in reply.
Manachan was ill? That was the first Lucilla had heard of it, but, although the Vale and the Carrick estate were geographically connected, the people on the two properties shared few familial ties, and so the usual conduits of gossip—sister to sister-in-law, cousin to cousin—weren’t there.
Frowning to herself, she left the pans and moved further into the kitchen. To keep her hands busy, she started repacking her saddlebag while rapidly reviewing all she knew.
Something, quite obviously, was going on on the Carrick estate. The peculiarities of Manachan being ill and no seed being provided for planting were the least of it. The Bradshaws’ sudden illness and Joy Burns’s death added darker layers to the situation.
Thomas had been summoned and had been left no option but to come down to the estate and involve himself in sorting things out; that, too, was plain enough.
And, wisely, he’d asked for her help.
So she was now involved, and as the people on the Carrick estate were under the Lady’s protection, too, to her mind that was entirely appropriate.
By extension, she needed to remain involved until she and Thomas got to the bottom of whatever was going on, and sorted matters out in whatever way said matters needed sorting.
She glanced up as Thomas and Forrester carried in the last barrel and settled it alongside the others.
Yes, she had a vested personal interest in remaining by Thomas’s side, but solving problems for the Lady’s people was what she was supposed to do. It was part of her role, a part of the code by which she lived.
The clop of hooves and the ponderous crunching of wheels on the gravel outside had all of them in the kitchen looking toward the front of the farmhouse.
Thomas frowned and led the way to the front door. Forrester followed. Lucilla set down her herb packets and hurried in the men’s wake. Wiping her hands on her apron, Mrs. Forrester brought up the rear.
Thomas opened the front door, looked outside—and inwardly swore. Leaving the door open, he walked out and down the step to the heavy, old-fashioned curricle that had come to a halt, rocking on its springs, before the farmhouse.
The reins in his hands, Sean met Thomas’s eyes, a warning in his.
Beside Sean, swathed in a blanket over a thick overcoat, sat Manachan. Large though he was, in contrast to Sean’s hale and hearty form, Manachan looked frail. His pallor was more pronounced in the clear morning light, and his crippling lack of energy showed in the effort he had to expend to simply raise a hand in greeting.
Thomas rounded the horse and went to Manachan’s side. He gripped the hand Manachan had raised. “Sir—we didn’t expect you.”
Manachan nodded weakly, yet nevertheless managed to infuse the action with his customary dismissive irascibility. “The Bradshaws,” he all but wheezed. “How are they?” Using Thomas’s grip for leverage, Manachan started the process of getting himself out of the carriage.
For a moment, Thomas was fully absorbed with balancing his uncle’s weight; the last thing he wanted was for his laird to fall on his face.
Lucilla had taken in Manachan’s state in one swift glance; she didn’t need to see more to know the old man was seriously ill. What the devil had happened to him? But he was still The Carrick, the laird, and despite the inadvisability of him having come out all this way, he was behaving appropriately—as a laird should.
Glancing at Forrester, she saw that he was as shocked by Manachan’s state as she was, but he wasn’t hiding it as well. Moving past him, she stepped off the stoop and circled the horse to where Thomas was endeavoring to keep Manachan upright. “The Bradshaws are much improved,” she stated.
Manachan had been looking down at his own feet; he hadn’t seen her approach. At her words, he glanced up at her from under beetling brows—but he recognized her instantly, which gave her hope for his condition.
“You, heh, miss? I heard your mother was from home.”
“She is.” Stepping to Manachan’s other side, Lucilla calmly twined her arm in his. “Thomas fetched me, and I’ve treated the Bradshaws—all of them.” She glanced at the couple on the stoop. “And now the Forresters have come and will keep watch over the family. They should be entirely recovered in a few days.”
Between them, she and Thomas managed to guide, steer, and support Manachan into the house. They eased him down onto the sofa before the fire; he sat half slumped, laboring to catch his breath. Forrester had busied himself stoking the fading fire in the hearth, coaxing it into a blaze. At Lucilla’s suggestion, Mrs. Forrester had rushed off to make a pot of tea.
Leaving Thomas and Forrester to explain what they would to Manachan, Lucilla followed Mrs. Forrester into the kitchen and set about searching for biscuits.
She found a crock filled with a mixture
of biscuits of various types. She started hunting through it, pulling out the shortbread, softer and more suitable for a man in Manachan’s state.
Mrs. Forrester glanced through the open archway at the men, then brought an empty plate to Lucilla. Standing beside her as she arranged the shortbread on the plate, Mrs. Forrester whispered, “I had no idea the poor laird was so low. I’m sure Forrester didn’t have any clue, either.”
“Nor did I.” Lucilla glanced at Mrs. Forrester. “No one in the Vale has heard anything about Manachan being ill.”
Mrs. Forrester lifted a shoulder. “We knew he was ailing—but there’s ailing and ailing, as you would know.” She shook her head. “He was always such a…well, vigorous man. It’s sad to see him so…pulled down.”
“Indeed.” Lucilla was already considering what to do about that. Now she’d seen how unwell Manachan was, there was no question as to where her duty lay. Manachan was The Carrick, the laird, and he lived under the Lady’s protection, regardless of whether he accepted that or not.
She picked up the plate she’d piled with shortbread and walked back into the main room in time to see Thomas, seated in one armchair, lean closer to Manachan and quietly ask, “Are you all right?”
The concern in his tone, the anxiety in his face, spoke clearly of the depth of his worry for his uncle. She moved closer and offered Manachan the plate. “We’ll have the tea ready in a moment.”
Manachan nodded and lifted one of the shortbreads from the plate. He moved slowly, with will and thought required to perform even that simple act.
Lucilla glanced at Thomas, but his gaze was on Manachan. Looking back at Manachan, she asked, “Has Thomas told you about Joy Burns?”
Thomas murmured, “I did.”
“Bad business,” Manachan muttered around his first bite of shortbread. His gaze was fixed on the flames in the hearth. After a moment, he swallowed, then said, his words not quite distinct, “She was clan—she’d been with us all her life.”
Lucilla turned as Mrs. Forrester bustled up with the tea tray. When the farmwife glanced inquiringly at her, Lucilla nodded for her to pour. They handed around the cups, and Lucilla sat in the other armchair. The Forresters retreated to the kitchen, uncomfortable in the company of those they regarded as their betters, at least when it came to taking tea.