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Chapter Eight
Alice waved atthe carriages as they set off into the swirling snow. She waited until the lanterns disappeared round the corner at the end of the road, before turning from the window and resuming her place on the chaise longue by the fire.
She picked up an orange and began studding it with cloves, inhaling the rich, tangy scent of citrus and warm spice. The sounds of merriment and seasonal celebration had been replaced by the quiet, soft sounds of Pengarron—the longcase clock ticking in the hall, the crackling of the fire, and the distant footsteps as the servants rushed to and fro, preparing the warming pans for when Ross and the rest of their guests returned from Lady Carlaggan’s party.
Ross had not wanted to leave her on her own, but she needed the solitude, and she was never alone—not with the servants bustling about the place.
And besides, Ross loved dancing, and he needed to enjoy himself. Once the baby arrived, they’d have little time for sleep, let alone merriment—not when Ross insisted on remaining in Alice’s chamber every night. Unlike conventional couples, after they made love, he liked to hold her in his arms until she fell asleep, relishing the shared warmth of their bodies. After little Harry’s birth, Ross had remained in her chamber, insisting he share the responsibility for their son. She smiled to herself at the memory of waking up in the middle of the night to the sounds of singing coming from the nursery, only to find her husband pacing up and down the floor, rocking baby Harry in his arms, singing “The First Nowell” in a soft baritone.
About an hour after the party had left, Alice finished studding the orange with cloves. She added a velvet ribbon as a final flourish, then set it aside, reached for her shawl and went to the kitchen. It always seemed inefficient to ring the bell to summon two servants to make her a cup of hot chocolate, when she was perfectly capable of retrieving it herself. And with no guests in the house, there was nobody to witness her flouting society’s rules—not that her friends, even the imposing Duke of Westbury, would disapprove of such informality.
She pushed open the kitchen door and froze. Mrs. Bascomb stood by the back door, together with Jacob, the head groom. They were deep on conversation and Mrs. Bascomb seemed to be crying.
“Mrs. Bascomb!” Alice exclaimed. “Whatever is the matter?” The two servants looked up, guilt on their faces.
“Begging your pardon, Mrs. Trelawney,” the cook said, “but it’s Miss Amelia’s little dog. She’s escaped again.”
“Is that all?” Alice laughed. “If I know Twinkle, you’ll find her in my chamber, curled up in Monty’s basket with poor Monty relegated to the floor.”
Mrs. Bascomb shook her head. “No, ma’am, she’s gone outside!”
“Are you sure?”
“Yes, quite sure,” came the reply. “The little mite was in the kitchen with me, begging for scraps. When Jacob came in for his supper after he’d seen to the master’s carriage, the door caught in a gust of wind and banged against the wall. Ever so loud it was. The poor little thing bolted right outside the door! I didn’t worry at first, ma’am, as she’s run off before, but she’s not back yet and it’s been over an hour.”
“An hour!” Alice cried. “She’s been outside for that long?”
Mrs. Bascomb colored and looked down. “Forgive me, ma’am, I was so busy seeing to Jacob’s supper and preparing for tomorrow, I clean forgot about the little thing.”
“Well, let us look for her now,” Alice said. “She can’t have gone far. I daresay she’s hiding in the wood store.”
She pulled the door open and was met with a blast of cold air and a flurry of snowflakes.
“Have a care, ma’am,” the groom said. “It’s rare cold out there.”
The three of them stepped out into the yard. Jacob approached the woodstore, and raised his lantern, throwing a beam of light over the neatly-piled stack of logs.
“No sign of her, ma’am.”
He swung round and Alice caught sight of a pattern of marks in the snow.
“Jacob!” she cried. “Shine your light toward the chicken coop. I thought I saw something.”
He raised the lantern and Alice gave a cry.
“There!”
A trail of marks stretched out on front of them, and disappeared into the darkness.
“Them’s pawprints to be sure, ma’am,” Jacob said, “and they’re going in the direction of Boscarne House.”
Boscarne House!
Alice’s heart sank as icy fingers clutched at her insides. Only yesterday, Mr. Scrimgeour had threatened to kill the little dog if he saw her again. What would happen if Twinkle were caught in his property?
Alice would never forgive herself if anything happened to Amelia’s beloved pet. The poor child would be heartbroken. And for what? Alice’s pride. Had she told Ross about Mr. Scrimgeour’s threats, he would have confronted the man. But she’d kept it a secret.
And now, Twinkle was in danger.
