“Which way is the cove?” That urgent sensation was still holding on to Elsie, and she could not shake it. She had to get to that cove, whether it was a mile off or a great deal farther—clear, wet air and then the scent of the seaside would help. Bring back the memories of home and chase away the sheer oddness of this manor.
Again, Samson looked uncertain. “I think that way.” She pointed out the stable, her hand gesturing towards what looked like an unbroken stretch of wildflowers and sky-reaching grasses that reached an out group of trees merging into a wider forest. “At least the men went the other way. I assumed the cove wouldn’t need clearing so…”
It was a good step of logic on Samson’s part, and Elsie nodded. “You’re correct. Let’s go.”
“Oh no miss, I wouldn’t want to get lost.”
“I’m sure it’s not far, just past those trees.”
But Samson looked stubborn, so Elsie shrugged, patted her damp skirts, and called to Lancelot, before hurriedly leaving the stable, heading with purpose towards the trees.
“Hush, boy,” Elsie said affectionately as Lancelot bounced along next to her. Clearing the manor house and stable did bring a sense of relief. A warm, cosy feeling to put space between the building and her.
Lifting her arms as she walked, Elsie hugged herself. It seemed no matter where she went, no matter her optimistic attitude, she never could find somewhere she felt at ease. Mayhap she was reading too much into it, but after London and several Seasons in Edinburgh… Even though she hated to admit the idea to herself, inher home in Berwick-upon-Tweed, there was that sensation of not being entirely comfortable. If she was being honest with herself, it was that she was searching for something or someplace she could find that elusive fulfilment.
Striding onwards through the thickening grasses, Elsie swiped at the wildflowers, gathering blooms to her, a futile gesture at being more ladylike. The pretty purples of the wild blooms, with their little white centres filled her hands but Elsie only gave them a cursory glance, before continuing onwards to the tree line. The scent in the wet air was growing stronger, the smell of the sea. High above her were the branches of the trees, and Elsie walked through the forest, keen to be nearer the water or the cove, whichever awaited her.
The overhanging arches of the trees created a lovely, lush canopy high above, shielding Elsie from the downpour. Inside the woodland it was quieter, and finally that sensation of being watched left her. Lancelot and she made excellent progress, and with each step, Elsie told herself that she was getting nearer to the cove.
Quite why it mattered so much was beyond her. But it did. Having the reassurance of something she could count upon, perhaps, when her sister and parents were so far away. She was not her normal self—quite why that would be could hopefully be explained by the strangeness of the setting and had nothing to do with the new duke. The memory of his gaze, his presence, the flex of his jawline, the injury or when he’d stepped close to her at the dining table. It had felt intimidating but in the clearer light of day, Elsie was not sure if that was his intention—she wondered if he was, in fact, trying to warn her.
Light from the edge of the forest emerged from behind dense greenery and Elsie quickened her step.
The cliffs at the end of the forest were sheer, but magnificent. The views of the cove below showed a jutting cut into the land, which was filled with shallow sea water. Despite the overcastskies, the water far below still looked appealing as it washed over the sands. The sand rose at one point, giving way to higher ground and then changing to rocks. Placed atop of this outcrop was a cottage, accessible if one did not mind wading through the shallow waves to reach it. If it were sunny and the tide was out, Elsie could easily imagine this would be picturesque.
The question was how to get down into the cove.
Carefully, Elsie made her way along the cliff’s edge until the natural incline of the cliffs led her down slowly towards the water. Beside her Lancelot was making excited noises. The pathway was not the smoothest, but Elsie ignored any worries, she was too eager for the refreshing feel of the water on her toes.
“Yes, I will be taking off my shoes,” she said, partly to the dog and partly to herself, and laughed as her rescued hound barked back. “Yes, Lancelot lets go have a look.”
The last few steps were the hardest but when Elsie reached the sand, she felt triumphant as she stared around the cove, taking in the beauty of high cliffs, dotted with greenery, and hard chalk. If nothing else could remove the memory of feeling overwhelmed by the duke, then surely it was the greatness of nature.
Lancelot took off along the seam of the water’s edge, giving the wholehearted appearance of a dog laughing as he darted in and out of the water. His evident joy raised Elsie’s spirits.
“I won’t be bullied,” she told herself, dismissing yet again the memory of the duke. She would enjoy herself as much as Lancelot. In defiance of propriety, Elsie bent and undid both of her boots, eased her stockings off too, and spread her feet into the welcoming cool sand. Lifting her skirts up, Elsie felt the rush of water over her toes, and giggled at the coldness.
“Come on, boy.” Elsie slapped her hand against her day dress. Lancelot rushed back as Elsie waded farther into the water, her intention to explore the distant little cottage despite the uneasy feeling someone was watching her once more.
CHAPTER 6
Having spent the morning helping remove some of the blockage from the main thoroughfare, which had been completely covered in mud and several fallen trees, Kit supposed he was mildly pleased to return to the manor. The clearing seemed to go well, and as he went inside, he spotted his younger sister through the window. Flora might not have been occupied in many of the habits of younger women be it needlepoint, the pianoforte, or watercolours, but at least she wasn’t rolling around in mud or attempting to climb trees again. All in all, Kit felt grateful for these small mercies.
None of that would quite explain the nagging sensation that burnt at the back of his mind as he made his way through the manor, heading towards his library. Perhaps it was the dread of being confronted or chased after by the tiny Miss Keating, whose diminutive prettiness belied her will of steel. Through his mind, he played out all the names he might call her as she berated him for the bad weather—virago, shrew, harridan…
His library was empty when he entered it, save for a plate of sandwiches. With a hunger built on manual labour, Kit set about demolishing them. Perhaps, he thought idly, Miss Keating mighthave vanished or flown off rather like the fairy she appeared to be. Mayhap she might have been reclaimed in the night by her magical brethren.
A tentative feminine knock interrupted his vindictive imaginings, and with a sigh, suspecting who it might be, Kit called out, “Yes?”
The door swung open and to his surprise there were two people he did not know. The man looked like one of the folks who’d helped the staff clear part of the road, but Kit hadn’t asked his name. The girl stood uncertainty next to him, looking close to tears. Both were dressed in servant’s garb, but Kit was sure neither was employed by the estate. He wondered whether they were mad enough to want employment here. Surely if they were locals, they would have heard the rumours…
“Your Grace.” The manservant stepped forward and then glanced to his left. “I am sorry to bother you. My…” He indicated the girl beside him.
“Who are you?” Kit cut him off.
“Oh.” The man flushed a little. He had to be in his early twenties, of middling height but with pleasant enough features and a strong jawline. His accent said, clear enough, that he was from South London. An inkling of an idea of who they both might be was forming in Kit’s mind, but he heartily hoped he was wrong. “We’re from the Duke of Ashmore’s London home, and we journeyed down yesterday with Miss Keating?—”
“That’s what we’ve come about.” The girl suddenly stepped forward. Her face was tear-stained, and she looked even younger than the man. “My mistress—Miss Keating—she’s missing.”
