child gazed at her sadly, tears staining her little face. ‘Why do they sting?’
‘To stop you from picking them. Or rather, to stop grazing animals from eating them. It is the way the plant protects itself.’
The little girl pulled her hand from Marguerite’s and inspected the damage. ‘It still hurts. And I wasn’t going to pick it. I was picking the blue one.’
‘It will hurt for a while, I am afraid. And itch.’ She picked more dock leaves. ‘Keep rubbing the sore places with this until it goes away.’
She glanced around. They were a good mile from Ightham village and even further from her home in Westram. ‘Where do you live?’
The smaller child pointed away from Ightham. ‘Over there. In a big house.’ She spread her arms to aid in her description.
Marguerite knew of only one big house in this particular area, though she had never visited it. Good lord. Marguerite had assumed they were children of villagers, or tenants, but now that she had time to look more closely, she could see that their dresses and pinafores were of far too good a quality to be worn by children of common folk. ‘You mean Bedwell Hall. You are Lord Compton’s daughters?’
The older girl left off sucking the back of her hand and nodded.
Marguerite recalled her abandoned specimen with a sigh. She’d have to pick one another day, because these children should not be wandering around in the fields alone. What on earth could Lord Compton be thinking?
‘Come along, ladies. It is time you went home.’
The younger one giggled. ‘Ladies.’
‘You are ladies, are you not?’ Marguerite said.
The older one left off her rubbing. ‘I am Lady Elizabeth and she is Lady Jane. Everyone calls me Lizzie.’
‘I’m Janey,’ the younger one added.
Marguerite took their hands. How tiny they were. And grubby. It made her think of her childhood. When she had been young and innocent. She could scarcely remember it. Mama had died when she was very young and then it seemed as if she had become mother to her siblings, especially to her sister, Petra.
And now Petra had remarried, leaving Marguerite entirely alone. She liked it that way. She really did. Not having to care for anyone else, being able to do exactly as she pleased, when she pleased, was heaven. And if she needed company, she could always call on Petra and her new husband, Ethan, or go for a visit to Carrie and Avery at their home in the north of England.
Right now, Petra and her husband were off visiting Ethan’s elderly relative in Bath. Ethan had thought Petra was looking a little peaky and had thought a change of air would do her good. Bless the man. He really was good to her younger sister.
They climbed a stile and crossed a narrow laneway bounded by a high wall.
‘The gate is that way,’ Lizzie said.
They really were quite a distance from the house. It did not seem right at all. ‘How old are you, Lizzie?’
‘I am eight,’ Lizzie said, ‘and Janey is six.’
Marguerite frowned. ‘Are you supposed to be wandering around the fields on your own?’
‘No,’ Lizzie said. ‘But we ran away.’
A cold chill travelled down Marguerite’s spine. ‘Why?’
‘Because Papa is mean to us,’ Janey said. ‘So we runned away.’
‘Ran,’ Marguerite said. She did not like the sound of this. Not at all. How many times had she, too, had the urge to run away?
In the end, it had been Neville who left her. She never had understood why he, of all people, had gone off to war with her brother and brother-in-law, but of the three of the women left behind to become widows, she must have been the only one who celebrated her husband’s departure with a toast to whatever impulse had sent him off.
She hadn’t wanted his death. But she had been glad to see him go. Unfortunately, she wasn’t yet free of the misery he had imposed on her life from the moment they wed. But she would be. Very soon.
Not far down the lane, a side gate into the Bedwell estate stood ajar.
She frowned at it. This lord did not care very much for the welfare of his children, that much was certain. She ushered the children through and closed it behind them, making sure it was firmly latched. With growing anger for this careless papa, she marched the two girls up the path to the back of a beautiful Palladian mansion. Once, this house had belonged to the Westrams. Back before Oliver Cromwell had turned England upside down.
It would not have looked like this then. It had been vastly improved since its Tudor days.
Not a soul hustled out to meet them. Had no one realised these girls were missing?
* * *
‘My lord?’
Jack Vincent, Earl Compton, glanced up from reviewing his bailiff’s weekly report on several matters relating to the estate. He frowned. Johnson was staring out of the estate office window with a puzzled expression.
‘What is it?’
‘A young woman, my lord. With Lady Elizabeth and Lady Jane in tow.’
Jack shot out of his chair and around the desk to see what Johnson was talking about. Indeed. It was as his bailiff had said. A willowy woman was striding across the stable yard with his daughters dragging their feet as she urged them along.
‘Wait here,’ he commanded. He strode for the kitchen door.
Cook looked up, flustered at his entry. ‘Is there...?’
He opened the door to the courtyard and emerged into the spring sunshine. He blinked against the glare.
‘Lord Compton?’ an imperious, slightly out-of-breath voice asked.
He bowed slightly to the dishevelled woman whose hems were damp and muddy and who had locks of auburn hair dangling from beneath her cap as if she had been pulled through a hedge backwards. ‘Who the devil are you? And what are you doing with my daughters?’
She recoiled and drew herself up straight. ‘We have not met, but I am Lady Marguerite Saxby. I live in Westram.’ Her mouth tightened. ‘As for your other question, I found these ladies wandering in the field outside your walls. Lady Elizabeth has had an unfortunate encounter with a stinging nettle.’
He froze, looked at the tears staining his eldest child’s face and felt anger rising inside him. How had this happened? ‘Why were you outside?’
Lizzie flinched.
Damn it. He hated when she did that. He reached for a modicum of calm.
‘We runned away,’ Janey announced.
‘Ran.’ He and this woman, this Lady Marguerite, spoke at the same time.
He
