from the tower in which she currently languished.
Or she could have breakfasted with Lady Eavensham’s guests and heard something of London. Of course, they were hardly likely to have stumbled upon Charlotte, but just hearing about the city made her feel closer to her sister—as though her quest were more possible.
Sarah sighed. It was not to be. Albert and Albertina must be rescued. They were the only mating foxes within the area. Lord Eavensham seemed bent on extinguishing the local population.
With this thought, she pulled off her nightgown, stooping to pick up her dress. Blood still spotted the sleeve. Bother. She’d forgotten all about the rabbit.
Moving with greater urgency, Sarah splashed water across her face and pulled her hair into a bun. Then, scrawling a note of thanks to Lady Eavensham, she hurried down the stairs and towards the cellar door.
Fortunately, the stubby candle remained where they’d left it last year. She sighed. Animal rescues had been a good deal more fun when Kit had been a rebellious adolescent and they’d done this together.
She lit a match, putting it to the wick so that the candle flickered into reluctant life. Cautiously, she stepped down the stairs and into the murky darkness, her shadow undulating eerily against the casks of wine and gardening implements.
To her relief, the wicker baskets and leather gardening gloves remained and she grabbed both baskets and gloves, hauling them upstairs into the scullery. Fortunately, this room was empty save for Gladys, the scullery maid, who stood washing dishes at the sink. Likely, the other staff were occupied in the kitchen or serving breakfast.
‘Morning, miss,’ Gladys said.
‘How’s Orion?’
‘Orion, miss?’
‘The rabbit.’ Sarah flushed. She had a foolish habit of naming her animal friends and had called him after the constellation.
‘I near forgot. He’s over there, miss. I give ’im some vegetables. The stuff what’s wilted round the edges.’ The girl’s broad-boned, country face remained impassive as she scrubbed the plates, moving reddened hands with methodical rhythm.
‘Um, could he stay a little longer? I promise I’ll pick him up soon, but I have to do something.’
‘I dunno what Mr Hudson’ll say.’
‘Not a word if he knows nothing. Besides, he’ll be too busy preparing for the hunt. By the by, would you have any table scraps left from last night?’
The rhythmic movements stopped. ‘Oh, miss. Mrs Crawford don’t have you on starvation rations, does she?’
‘What? Oh, no, nothing so drastic. I need them for another project.’
‘To do with four-legged critters, I’m supposing. You are a one. Ain’t you ever going to grow up?’
‘Seems unlikely at this point.’
‘Well, there’s a bowl for the ’ounds in the larder. ’elp yourself.’
Sarah did so.
* * *
Within half an hour she had manoeuvred both baskets to the outskirts of the forest and set about propping up the traps.
The bugle sounded.
She started and, biting her lip, glanced about nervously, half-expecting the thunder of horses’ hooves. She’d be lucky if she had time to capture both foxes now. Hurriedly, she pulled out the meat scraps from her handkerchief, placing them within the bottom of the baskets.
A flash of rust-brown fur skirted the periphery of her vision and she spotted two curious eyes, bright pinpoints of light, within the cover of the bushes. Sarah held her breath.
The fox stepped forward—a dainty movement like a cat on snow. Albertina. Her red tail had puffed into a brush, making her body appear ludicrously thin.
Sarah sat so still that each woodland sound was magnified. The woodpecker’s tap-tap-tap, the drip from leaves wet from yesterday’s rain, the rustle of an unseen bird or squirrel.
The fox edged closer.
Finally, with a burst of brave energy and a wild scrabble of claws, she darted into the basket.
Sarah pulled the string. The lid snapped shut.
She hated this part; the frightened yelps, the scratch of paws and the smell of fear and urine.
‘It’s going to be fine, Albertina. It’s for your own well-being.’ She spoke softly in the sing-song voice she always used with animals, throwing in French phrases while pulling the twine tight around the clasp. The basket rocked, creaking noisily with the animal’s exertions.
She’d done this for years now, since she’d first arrived here. It had helped with the sick loneliness.
In those first weeks without either her mother or sister, animals had been her only friends. They’d populated her world, making her life as an unwanted child within a strange household bearable.
Her sister had so loved animals. Indeed, Charlotte had few accomplishments; she was not well educated and could not paint or play the piano, but she had always demonstrated this steady, undemanding kindness. Nor did she discriminate, somehow finding good in scrappy urchins or grumpy shopkeepers.
When Sarah had first come to the Crawfords, life without her sister had felt intolerable. Sarah would dread both sleeping and waking and her whole body had felt hollow and bruised as though she had been kicked.
Sighing, she refocused on the basket, still rocking with Albertina’s exertions. This was not the time to reminisce. She must get the animal to the other side of the stream and, with luck, return to capture Albert. After that, she would go home and work on Miss Petunia’s release and hope that, just maybe, this manuscript would sell and a trip to London might enter the world of possibility.
* * *
The blasted babbling brook did it. The memories hit, the pain dizzying in its intensity. For a second, Sebastian saw his children, real as the hounds and horses. He saw them paddling, laughing, carefree.
His hands tightened reflexively and, seeking solitude, he urged his horse up the hillside and away from the other riders. His mount stopped at its summit and he found himself looking into a picturesque valley, interrupted by a silver stream threading through its base.
Something—a flicker of movement—caught his attention. He stiffened. Some village idiot was wading through the water. Even worse, he saw that the stream looked more like a river and was in flood. It moved swiftly, almost overflowing its banks.
‘Hey!’ he shouted.
It was a woman.
He spurred his horse down the slope. ‘Madam! Can I help?’
She did not turn and moved awkwardly, a massive basket propped against one hip. He shouted again. This time she turned, glancing over her shoulder.
‘Lord Langford?’
