Page 2 of Mistress of Misfortune

“Thorne is likely still occupied with settling his domestics,” Meredith's mother said, and then frowned. “Do you know, I have heard that he brought them with him from India. All of them men.”

“Heathens in turbans, I was told,” Lady Hardiwick said, her expression darkening. “They speak no English and dress very oddly. I think it disgusting.”

“Surely not,” Mrs. Branwen said. “It is an act of charity to bring them here, and give them work.”

“That is his problem,” Lady Starling told her. “A single man can never manage a household with any degree of competence, and he has the added misfortune of overrunning his with foreigners. No wonder he cannot get on. I wager he will very soon be of a mind to be more sociable, if only to find a wife.”

“Well, he will not have my Prudence,” Lady Hardiwick stated flatly. “I don't care how rich he is, you know what they say about ladies who marry Thorne men. And I refuse to have such a strange, disagreeable fellow as my son-in-law.”

Meredith recalled how tightly she had pressed her lips together after that remark. Prudence Hardiwick was five years her senior, and while passably attractive had no personality. Whenever a man spoke to her, she giggled incessantly, a habit she had cultivated sometime during her three seasons in London. No gentleman had ever offered for her, much to no one's surprise and her mother's great displeasure.

These days Prudence spent most of her time in the company of her friends as they shopped, gossiped and ogled any member of the militia unfortunate enough to cross their path. No doubt being presented to Colonel Thorne would send Prudence into mirthful paroxysms, but Meredith imagined the simpering lady would have little appeal for such a traveled veteran.

“I expect I have now dashed your hopes, Meredith,” Lady Hardiwick said, and patted her hand. “But you are the better for it. No young lady should saddle herself with an unmannerly husband, no matter how desperate her situation.”

“Indeed.” Meredith smiled as she imagined pouring the rest of her tea over her ladyship's feathered bonnet. “You are very kind to say so, ma'am.”

“My poor darling girl.” Lady Starling released a long sigh. “Her father and I cannot work out why she must suffer so terribly, for she is everything sweetness,” she said, as if her daughter wasn't in the room.

“I am not suffering, Mama,” Meredith said quietly. “I always mend.”

Lady Starling ignored her to address the vicar’s wife. “I live for the day that the good Lord hears my prayers, Deidre, and removes this terrible burden from her.”

“I am sure He will, my lady.” Mrs. Branwen gave Meredith a sympathetic look. “You seem quite recovered from that dreadful fall you had last month, my dear.”

Meredith forced a smile. “I am, ma'am, thank you.”

Now, sitting outside Dredthorne, Meredith could understand why the colonel had refused to have anything to do with his neighbors. Country villages were filled with the hopeful and often conniving parents of unmarried daughters; he must have known he'd be a target of matrimonial machinations from the moment he moved into the house. Still, it was odd that he had refused to allow any callers. The vicar would have been among the first to attempt to welcome him, and no one ever turned away the perennially ebullient Mr. Branwen.

Perhaps he is too unwell to accept visitors. Whenever Meredith's bad luck resulted in an injury she wanted to do nothing but stay in her room and be left alone until the pain eased. A soldier like the colonel would understand how difficult it was to put on a brave face when one felt wretched.

“Out of the way!”

The shout wrenched Meredith from her thoughts, and she glanced over her shoulder to see a farmer with a heavily-laden cart barreling straight at her. Quickly she slapped Bessie's rump with the reins, and drove the rig to one side to allow him past. As soon as he did, Bessie whinnied angrily and started off after him.

“Whoa, girl, whoa,” Meredith called out, tugging desperately on the reins. Bessie screeched and reared, something cracked, and the rig suddenly tipped to one side, hurling Meredith from her seat.

She landed on the roadside painfully, crying out as her arm twisted under her, and cowering when the rig crashed on its side not a handspan from her face. Clods of dirt from the impact pelted her; she saw Bessie's legs churning as the spooked horse desperately tried to free herself from the overturned rig.

Meredith rolled over and hissed as her wrist blazed with pain; she cradled it against her breast and used her uninjured arm to push herself up. Once on her feet she staggered to the horse and tried to catch her bridle, but Bessie was too quick for her.

“Stand back,” a deep male voice said, and a fair-haired man with a severe expression appeared on the other side of the horse, his large hands reaching for the bridle and reins. “I have her.”

Meredith nodded and staggered backward, nearly falling down again before she caught herself. The speed and remarkable calm with which the man caught, quieted and detached Bessie from the rig made her heave a sigh of relief; she couldn't have done the same with only one functioning arm. “Thank you, sir. I don't know what I would have done without your help.”

“You could have been trampled, you foolish girl.” The man looked across Bessie's broad back, stared at her arm and then at her face, the anger in his steel-gray eyes fading. “You're hurt.”

“I fell on my arm. It's nothing.” Meredith saw the world tilt and then she was looking at it sideways through a fringe of grass. As the stern-faced stranger knelt before her, she reached out to him.

“I'm so sorry,” she murmured as he took her hand in his. “I only meant to look at the house for a moment.”

* * *

Colonel Alistair Thornegazed down at the young woman. Her pale face had gone still, and her slim cold hand lay limp between his. She was not indulging in a fit of vapors but had fainted from genuine shock or worse. As he gathered her into his arms, he took another look at the broken rig and the mare now placidly cropping grass beside it. It seemed obvious that the horse had spooked and reared, causing the rig to crash on its side.

“Master.” Harshad, his steward and a former officer in the army of India, appeared at his side. His dark eyes widened as he beheld the woman. “Who is this?”

“I haven't a bloody clue. I must use your cart.” He stood and nodded toward the mare. “Take the horse to the stables and ask Kshantu to have a look at her. Tell him she’s lost a shoe.”