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“Out here this time in the morning is normal for us ‘country people’,” Barnabas replied, well versed with Beatrice’s anti-morning persona. “Come and meet our new guest, and mind your manners. This is Estelle. Miss Matthews.”
Estelle found herself pinned beneath the rather hawkish glare of a woman in her mid-forties who looked more like Barnabas than Myles.
“This is Beatrice, Estelle, my sister. Ignore her ill manners. She hates mornings,” Barnabas explained.
Beatrice slid into a seat, her gaze locked on Estelle. She frowned at the clothes Estelle wore, clearly recognising them. Estelle braced herself for some sort of protest or snide remark. In the end, Beatrice turned her attention to her plate.
“So, who managed to grapple you through the door then?” she asked eventually.
Estelle looked at her in astonishment. In spite of herself, her lips twitched. Her gaze met Isaac’s. She could only assume that with both men looking at her, Beatrice’s question was meant for her.
“Nobody grappled her through the door, as you quaintly put it, Beatrice. Estelle met with an accident,” Myles replied carefully.
“He ran her over,” Isaac added with a grin.
Myles sighed and threw his cousin a dark glare.
Beatrice didn’t blink. Instead, she began to butter her toast as she shook her head sadly.
“So, you have resorted to clubbing them and bringing them home now, have you?” she murmured with a rueful sigh.
Barnabas snorted, and lifted his broadsheet so nobody could see his face.
Myles glared at his aunt balefully.
“It was an accident, and too dark to see until it was too late,” he argued.
Beatrice laughed out loud. “Oh, dear, that is good even for you, dearest,” she murmured and threw Estelle a sly look. “When Barnabas told you to go out and find a wife, he didn’t mean hunt one down and drag her home on the roof of your carriage, my dear. This is the great outdoors, I’ll grant you, but you need to have a little finesse. No wonder she looks a little dazed.”
Estelle fought a smile and took a sip of the steaming tea at her elbow while she composed herself.
Myles felt his cheeks heat, and struggled to contain his grin. He shook his head but refrained from answering.
“Running her over and dragging her home, I ask you,” she chortled.
“It was an accident, alright?,” he replied in exasperation. “I brought her here because she was injured.”
“Where did it happen?” she asked nobody in particular.
“In the village,” Myles replied without thinking.
Beatrice grinned even more. “You mean, you ran her over in the village and brought her here because she was injured?”
“Yes,” Myles hissed.
“When you ran over her in the village?”
“Yes.”
“The village that has a doctor in it?” She smothered a laugh and lifted the heavily buttered toast as she pushed away from the table. She wagged a finger in Myles’ face and began to hum the wedding march as she turned toward the door. Before she left she levelled a rueful look on Estelle, who was struggling to hide her astonishment, and winked. “Brace yourself, my dear. Welcome to the mad house.”
As if to emphasise her sentiments, a scream suddenly ricocheted through the house.
“Good Lord, who in the devil’s name is that?” Barnabas growled as he shoved away from the table.
Isaac and Myles launched to their feet. Estelle’s appetite disappeared in an instant as she watched the men race toward the door. Aware that she was going to be left alone in the room at any second, she stood up and hurried after them.
“Stay close,” Isaac warned her gently.
