Page 31 of The Lyon Rampant

Chapter Fourteen

A full fortnight had passed since Belinda’s banishment to Devon. Her departure from London had been a bitter one, fueled by her sister’s disappointment in her and by Roland’s embarrassment at having been caught up in her schemes. She’d had to forgive Minty, who was getting near her time and was often prey to her emotions. It had been much the same when she, too, had been with child . . .

The earl had been kinder and seemed to understand, but all the same, once the news of her misdemeanors had come out, he’d been tight-lipped. Then there were the horrid consequences of her actions to consider. Everyone else felt she should leave London for a while and get as far away from her victims and co-conspirators as possible. Aylsham would deal with any repercussions.

The alternative to Devon—where her cousin lived—was to bury herself in work at Forty Court, and under normal circumstances, she’d have been happy to do so. However, she wasn’t likely to meet any eligible bachelors while up to her elbows in orphaned children, was she? Except on the odd occasion when a subscriber such as Piers Darvill visited them. He was one of the most eligible bachelors in London, but not for her. Definitely not for her. It was partly from fear of running into him again that she’d agreed to depart for Devon, to stay with the same relations who’d looked after her during her confinement.

Mr. and Mrs. Anthony Trago were a delightful couple. They ran the inn that formed the hub around which the village of Buckleigh revolved. In many ways, their simple, rural lifestyle was a breath of fresh air after the busyness and complexities of London life. Here, one could pause and reflect, see things in perspective, and make resolutions.

Belinda’s most significant resolution to date was not to meddle in other people’s affairs, no matter how strongly she felt or how wrong the person in question appeared to be. From now on, she wasn’t going to let her heart rule her head. She was going to be even quieter, even more well-behaved, and immune to emotion—whenever possible. Minty had packed her off to the country with a bagful of clinking bottles of nerve tonic, and Mrs. Trago was under strict instructions to ensure that Belinda took her regular dose. It was as if she were being sent away to recuperate after a long illness, but it was a sickness of the mind, not of the body.

“It’s a shame we never had any children, Kitty,” her cousin was saying as they helped his wife with the breakfast things. “The dray’s coming sometime this morning, and I could do with a strong lad to settle the barrels in place. That cellar is so old and the angle so awkward, that I can feel my back every time I shift one of them. And that Silas just can’t fold himself up small enough to get in around them.”

“Can I help, Cousin Anthony?”

“No, Belinda—we can’t have you doing that sort of thing, fine lady that you’ve become. You don’t want to mess up your nice clothes.”

“I’m not made of spun glass you know.” Her cheeks pinked. “Forgive me. I didn’t mean to be rude. I could just put an apron on.”

“If you want something to do,” Kitty interjected, “you can help Maisie get the roast going for dinnertime and maybe see about making a syllabub or something to serve afterward. We get a regular crowd in on a Friday evening.”

Cooking. That was something where Belinda felt truly at ease. It would do her good—although sometimes, while waiting for something to boil, or blanch, or toast, her mind tended to wander.

As she left the scullery and headed to the kitchen, she had a splendid idea for how to help Cousin Anthony and the silent Silas, who did all the heavy work but was too big to fit into small spaces. It would be the perfect job for young Tom Haggar. If he was ready to leave his drunken sot of a mother, and his lowlife friends in London, he could make better quality companions in rural Devon. He’d be useful at the inn, working with horses, shinning up ladders to fix things, and settling the new barrels in place. He could squeeze around the tables when they were full, refilling tankards and delivering bowls of mutton stew and suchlike to the customers.

Belinda tied her apron in place and shook her head. This was going to be a tough habit to break, trying to improve people’s lives, whether they wanted them improved or not. She must leave Tom be, as she should have left little Oliver and his mother—and his father—alone. How could she have misunderstood the situation so dreadfully?

She smote herself on the forehead. Stop wool-gathering, Belinda, and concentrate on the task at hand. Later, if it wasn’t raining, she might go for a walk. Exercise was good for the soul, and she rarely had a crisis of nerves while under the lowering skies that mantled the Dartmoor peaks.

“Are you helping me today, miss? That’ll save me fingers and feet!” The kitchen maid, a girl of around twelve, bobbed an exaggerated curtsy, grinning all over her face. Maisie was forthright and dependable—she lived in the village and got up at cockcrow every morning to come in and help with the cleaning, the cooking, and the lighting of fires at The Buckleigh Inn.

“There’s some meat to prepare, I understand. And I can help with the vegetables as well.”

“It’s a leg of mutton for this evening. I wouldn’t mind a hand with the neeps, begging your pardon. Their skins are so hard this time of year because they’ve been stored so long—I feel like I’ve broken my wrist every time I’ve peeled one.”

“Then let us share them, half-and-half. And maybe rest in between, and do something else, like start heating some milk over the fire for a syllabub.”

There was a patter of feet on the flagstone floor, and Ordulf the dog came in, swiping his tail rapidly back and forth, whacking Belinda’s skirts as he passed.

Maisie filled her lungs and yelled at the animal, at the same time flapping her apron. “Get out of the kitchen, you flea-ridden cur! Your breakfast is out in the yard like always—there’s nothing for you in here.”

Maisie had a difficult relationship with the Tragos’ hound. Belinda, on the other hand, felt she could forgive him anything because he was great-hearted, and whenever she fancied a stroll, he was thrilled to accompany her. Somehow, having him there beside her, wagging his tail enthusiastically as he poked his nose into the turf-covered stone walls, lightened her mood and made her feel safe.

“Do we have any rosemary, Maisie?”

“Just beside the chimney breast, miss. But there’s fresh in the garden if you’d rather.”

Fresh was always better when available, and it would give the mutton a delectable flavor. Belinda picked up a cabbage knife and stepped outside into the kitchen garden. Here, protected by high walls, the plants were making another attempt to flourish, having endured a chilly spring thus far. Soon there would be coltsfoot, hyssop, sage, and savory. The roses that trailed along the wall would start thinking about blooming, and the fancy giant asparagus in the corner, of which the Tragos were so proud, would raise its spiky head and add a touch of silver to the varied hues of the kitchen garden.

Belinda glanced at the sky—there always seemed to be more than one level of cloud hanging over Dartmoor and its environs—there was high cloud, stretched thin and taut, and middling cloud, billowing like a ship’s sails, edged with yellow and stormy-looking. There was cloud that seemed to be right on top of one, shapeless and misty, that could soak one to the skin when walking on the tors.

A waft of wood smoke from the kitchen fire reminded her not to tarry—she had work to do. Cutting a thick sprig of rosemary, she returned to the kitchen.

“Still cold is it, miss?” Maisie crouched on the floor by the open hearth which was still in use, despite having had a new range installed beside it. She was blowing the flames with a pair of bellows.

“It’s warming up a bit, Maisie. How’s the fire going?”

“It’s drawing just fine.”