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Her alarmed grandmother aimed her horn at Jenny’s face. “Bockhampton! That is six miles away.”
“Hardly an arduous walk. No hills to endure and the shelter of the valley.” She was not looking forward to walking six miles, but if she took the carriage, the groom would know of her real destination. “I shall take Rupert.”
Rupert was Susannah’s cocker spaniel, a fat, lazy creature who needed to eat less. Susannah had not the stamina to walk him, but she knew he needed exercise. From underneath the table, the dog whimpered, as if aware of Jenny’s plans.
“Do you hear that, Giles? She’s going to walk to Kitty’s house.”
Giles smirked. It was hard to tell if it was a smile of disapproval or approval. The footman, who’s duty it was to spoon porridge into his mouth, mopped his chin.
Jenny assured her grandmother she would be fine. She had walked the route in the summer many times as a girl to see her cousins. What difference would a little fog make?
She chose her thickest cloak, sturdiest boots, and leashed Rupert.
“I’ll be back later,” she lied to Susannah. “And if the weather worsens, I shall simply stay the night until it improves. So, do not fret, Grandma, if I do not return.”
She had no intention of returning that day, or the next, and her plan relied on Susannah’s tendency to forget the simplest of facts. Kitty was not at Bockhampton House. She was spending the week at the parsonage with her daughter and son-in-law. The only flaw in her plan was Rupert—the poor dog would probably not take kindly to being relocated for such a lengthy spell.
Once she was satisfied her form was lost in the depths of the fog and she could no longer see the windows of Bereworth, she turned not east towards Poole, but west to Weymouth. The walk was not six miles but closer to ten. She had set herself a challenge; she was determined to reach her destination.
Chapter 7
“Sir,” Risley said, sticking his head around the door of the library where Elias sat attempting to make sense of Oswald’s accounts. “There’s a dog at the door. Yapping away.”
Elias rolled his eyes to the timber beams of the ceiling. “And?” he asked expectantly.
“It’s leashed, but nobody else is there.” Risley spoke through a gap in his blackened teeth and fidgeted with his belt buckle. The groom hated coming into the house and preferred the company of horses to men.
“Then take it somewhere and give it food. Somebody might claim it once the weather has improved.” He waved Risley a dismissive hand.
“I tried that, sir. But he keeps pulling me along. It’s like he wants me to follow him.” He removed his cap and scratched his bald patch. “Dogs ’ave good sense when it comes to asking for help.”
Elias might once have refused to believe him, but having worked so long with horses, he knew animals were capable of extraordinary acts if placed in the path of danger. He tossed his ink pen aside and closed the ledger. “Very well.”
The spaniel was drenched and ran around in circles in front of the house. Catching sight of Elias, he bounded up to him and pressed two saturated paws on his clean breeches.
“Off, boy.” He swiped him aside.
The dog yapped and bounced up and down. Elias caught hold of the leash, and as soon as he had it, the dog charged into the fog. Elias followed with Risley on his heels. The neat grass turned into a wilderness of thistles and weeds as they crossed the small park that fronted Dewborne Manor. The fog only parted when they came to a small cluster of trees. Elias snatched a glimpse of blue for a brief second. The dog was almost howling by now.
“Rupert?”
The voice was familiar but weak and floating away from him.
“Jenny!”
There was a long pause. He called out again.
“I’m here,” she shouted, her voice stronger and closer.
Elias handed the leash to the groom and strode into the thickest pool of mist. From out of it emerged the blue-clad figure of his lover. Her cloak was heavy with droplets, her shoulders sagging. When she caught sight of him, she collected her skirts and barrelled into his open arms.
“What are you doing here?” he asked, tipping up her chin.
Her cheeks were pale and lips blue. She said nothing. It did not matter, he decided. She was too cold, and questions could come later. With ease, he swept her up into his arms, bearing the weight of her body and saturated clothing. Jenny clung on to his neck and lay still. He turned, and with a good sense of direction instilled him after many campaigns in foreign countries, he easily found the house. Risley had gone ahead with the dog.
“Margaret,” he hollered. Where was the blasted maid? “Margaret!”
She appeared, her dreamy face staring blankly in his direction. “Master?”
