“Har! Har!”
Lady Clara Durham’s deep guttural call echoed across the field and tree line near the edge of the Earl of Beckcott’s property. She had taught Maid Marian to recognize and respond to the sound when the peregrine had been little more than a fledgling. At the signal, her gamekeeper released the dog—currently on point—and the setter dove into the bushes near the trees. Grouse exploded into the air, the thunder of their wings sending a surge of excitement through Clara, who straightened in her saddle, watching the drama play out, her eyes turned to the sky, anticipation surging through her like a rising fire.
Mere seconds passed as the falcon tucked her wings and dropped in a full teardrop stoop toward the climbing flock of grouse. Clara’s chest seemed to swell with the thrill of watching her beloved companion streak toward the ground almost too fast to see. The attack, swift and deadly, ended as the falcon struck one of the birds with a force that snapped the neck of the grouse and sent a flurry of feathers into the air as they both landed in a thick patch of grass browned by the heat of the summer sun.
Almost invisible in the clutch of sward, Marian perched atop her kill, looking around, an instinctive search for other predators as well as her handler. Clara, her red hair flying around her shoulders, squealed with glee and dropped from her horse, her boots thudding on the ground as she ran toward Marian. She slowed her approach as the falcon let out a stark cry, then Clara rained praises on her and bent, holding out her right hand, which was encased in a thick leather glove. Marian arched her neck, pleased as punch, and gave a quick hop, landing on Clara’s glove with a quick beat of wings to find her balance.
A smothering, dry wind surrounded the hunting party with sharp gusts, billowing Clara’s long curls around her as she drew her arm in and stroked Marian’s head with a feather she kept tucked in a band on the glove. “Precious joy,” she whispered. “You are a queen.” The bird preened a bit, then settled as Clara slipped a leather hood back over the peregrine’s head and secured it.
“Please, your ladyship. May we go back now? It is almost time for the dressing gong.”
Clara looked up at her maid, whose unsteady seat on the sweet pony Clara had persuaded her to mount for the hunt reminded her that maids did not ride, and Radcliff seemed particularly unsuited to the out-of-doors on the best of days. Her disheveled blonde hair poked wildly from beneath her simple cap, and her ruddy cheeks seemed to blaze in a face distraught with discomfort.
“I’m going to lose another one, am I not, Marian?” Clara murmured to the peregrine, who merely twisted her head at the words.
Radcliff was maid number four in less than five years. Being a lady’s maid to the daughter of an earl was a prime position for a servant, but all of Clara’s seemed to rapidly find even better positions.
Clara looked from Radcliff to the gamekeeper, who paused, removed his cap, and mopped his forehead with a handkerchief. Sutland, unlike Radcliff, had been with the Beckcott earls his entire life, having grown up in the stables with his father, still one of their best grooms. “Itismiserably hot, my lady.” He nodded at the setter, one of Clara’s favorites. “Even Moses seems to be desperate for a bit of water.” Sutland shrugged, then headed over to pick up the grouse and add it to the game bag slung over the saddle of his horse.
Clara glanced at the setter, whose tongue, indeed, lolled out the side of his mouth as he panted.
Lost in the thrill of the hunt, Clara had not felt the heat. Now she became all too aware of how the sun beat down, even this late in the afternoon. Since the beginning of the month, it had been one of the hottest Julys any of them could remember, and the drought on the surrounding estates had been a frequent topic at the dinner parties as the summer had progressed. If it did not rain soon, the harvest would be sparse—as would the income of the tenants and their host estates. It was even hotter in London, which was one reason Clara had been able to persuade her parents to spend a few weeks in the country, even in the middle of the social season. But they would soon return, heat or no.
“Of course, we should.” She twisted, peering at the tree line. “Before we do, shall we rest a moment under the trees? There’s a stream that flows along that line. The horses and dogs can drink, and we can cool a bit.” She headed for the closest copse of yew and oak trees, immediately feeling a break from the heat as she took shelter beneath their broad limbs.
The others joined her, although Radcliff still looked disgruntled. “It is cooler, my lady, but I dare not get down. If I do, I’ll never get on this beast again. And we do not have time for me to walk back.”
Clara grinned and stroked the nose of the gentle pony as she looked up at her maid. “I know you do not enjoy these outings. I only wish I could convince my parents that I do not need a chaperone here on our own property. Sutland is more than honorable, and he would skin the boys alive if they so much as touched me.” Clara glanced at the others in her small group—Sutland and two stable boys who had come along to wrangle the four dogs they had brought. “It’s not as if we are expecting raiders from the Highlands.”
Radcliff shook her head. “You know it’s the appearance of the thing, my lady. If any of the neighboring residents—”
“It’s just silly. Who would see?” She pointed to the other side of the tree line. “The closest house is Ashton Park, and Kennet and his clan are almost never there.” Clara remembered the four Ashton children well—from when theywerechildren. In age, she fell between the two youngest—Lady Elizabeth and Lord Michael—and had shared the children’s activities with them at house parties. She had seen Lady Elizabeth at events earlier this season, but she had not seen the boys in years and doubted she would know any of them on sight. The Kennet clan were seldom in residence at Ashton Park except during the Christmas season—months away.
Marian shifted on her hand, and Clara stroked the peregrine’s back with the feather. “I should not let it upset me so. Marian feels it. But it is quite frustrating when all I want to do is let her fly and ride beneath her as fast as I can.”
“And if you got hurt?” Sutland moved up beside Clara and handed Radcliff a cup of water as her pony dropped his head toward the stream to drink. “Riding aside is not the safest way to go galloping across the land.”
Clara scowled. “That too.”
“I’m sure the countess only wants what is best for you, my lady.”
Shrugging, Clara turned toward the stream. Sutland was right—her mother did care for Clara. If only what her parents considered “best” did not make Clara wish to find a cave and hide away. Parties. Soirees. Yet one more season in London. As if thetonwould forget her disastrous spill the year before. First ball. First dance. And Clara had tripped over her own feet and fallen face-first onto a table loaded with glasses and lemonade. The host had to stop the orchestra and clear the dance floor until the servants could clean away all the shards of glass. Her whole family had been asked to leave, and it had taken the countess the entire season to make amends.
Clara found a low branch and urged Marian to step over onto it. “I have to admire my mother’s ambition, Marian, but I will always be known as the lady who went swimming in the lemonade. And that wasn’t even the first disaster, only the latest.” She did seem to have such a fall every year since her debut four years ago, but none quite so devastating. Pulling off her gloves, Clara knelt by the stream and plunged both hands into the water. Immediately she felt cooler, and she withdrew them, patting her face, her eyes closed.
She could still hear the laughter. The derisive comments about her size, her clumsiness, the unfashionable red hair that fought every style, her lack of grace in satin slippers and lack of skill on the dance floor. The comments had gone on and on until she left, only to recur at every event. Whispers behind hands that felt like relentless torture. She tried not to care what those people thought, but the humiliation stung and went on stinging no matter how she tried to ignore it.
An entire year of grueling lessons in dance and comportment had followed, more intense than anything leading up to her debut, but with little success. Clara still bore more resemblance to a deer on ice than a graceful lady of the Beau Monde out on the market for a husband. The few events she had attended this season had been equally uncomfortable, although no great fall had happened—yet. Now the earl had started mumbling about “arranging something,” to “end the girl’s pain,” and that sent sheets of dread down Clara’s back each time she recalled the overheard words. Her father’s kindness toward his youngest daughter warred with his impatience for her future to be settled.
No wonder she preferred her hunting dogs, her kitten Pockets, her horse Aethelred, and her precious Marian.
Clara let out a long sigh and stood up. Wishful thoughts were a waste of time, as her mother often said. She brushed off her skirt, pulled on her gloves, and gathered Marian for the ride home. Time to stuff her hopes for happiness back into the closet.
Chapter Two
Monday, 1 August 1825
Ashton House Stables, London
