she said. “Are you going somewhere, Lizzie?” Lady Rosthorn asked. She would insist upon coming with her, Lizzie thought, and that would spoil everything. “I am going to join my friends,” she said vaguely. At the same moment someone was asking Lady Rosthorn for help with holding a bow. “And you can find them on your own?” Lady Rosthorn asked. But she did not wait for an answer. “Good girl.” And Horace—with Lizzie in tow—was off. Lizzie knew there were lots of people at the picnic. She knew too that there were constant and constantly changing activities. She hoped no one would notice her go and catch up to her to escort her to join the walk. She could do it on her own. Horace was her guide. He could take her wherever she wished to go. She breathed more easily when the crowd was left behind and no one had hailed her or come dashing up behind her. She even smiled and laughed. “Go find them, Horace,” she said. After a while there was no longer grass beneath her feet but the hardness of a path or driveway. Horace led the way along it rather than across—the hard surface remained beneath her feet. It did not take long for the initial euphoria of the adventure to wear off. The walking group must have had far more of a head start than she had realized. There was no sound of them. Once she drew Horace to a halt and listened and called Miss Thompson’s name, but there was no sound and no answer. Horace drew her onward until she felt and heard hollowness beneath her feet and realized that she must be on a bridge. She groped her way sideways until she felt a stone balustrade. She could hear water rushing below. When they had been coming from Lindsey Hall in the carriage earlier, she had heard the wheels rumbling over a bridge—and Miss Martin had confirmed her observation. Was it likely the walkers had crossed this bridge? Was Horace leading her to them? Or had they gone somewhere else? Was she lost? For a moment she felt panic well inside her. But that would be silly. She knew from stories her papa had read to her that heroines did not panic but were very brave. And all they had to do was turn around and go back the way they had come. Horace would know the way back. And once they were close, she would hear the sound of voices. She bent down to talk to Horace, but at the same time she got her foot caught in the leash and tipped over until she was sprawled on the ground. She did not hurt herself. Horace came close to make bleating noises and to lick her face and she put her arms about his neck and hugged him. “You silly dog,” she said. “You have come the wrong way. You are going to have to lead me back again. I hope nobody will have noticed that we were gone. I shall feel very foolish.” But the trouble was that by the time she got to her feet and brushed her hands over her best dress to make sure no grit clung to it and repossessed herself of the dog’s leash, she was not sure which direction she was facing. She let Horace decide. She pulled a little on his leash. “Take us back,” she commanded. It did not take her long to realize that they had gone the wrong way. She could feel the coolness of shade on her face and arms and sensed that it was not just that the sun had gone behind clouds but that there were trees overhead—she could smell them. There had been no trees the other side of the bridge. And then Horace must have seen or heard something off to one side of the driveway and went darting off over rough ground and among the trees—that was soon obvious to Lizzie—dragging her with him. He barked excitedly. And then he was moving too fast for her and she let go of the leash. She found the trunk of a tree and clung to it. She realized, as her hair came cascading down about her face, that she had lost her hair ribbon. It was without doubt the most frightening moment of her life. “Miss Thompson!” she yelled. “Molly!” But she had known some time ago that this was not the way Miss Thompson and the girls had come. “Papa!” she shrieked. “Papa!” But Papa had gone to the house with Miss Hunt. “Miss Martin!” And then Horace was pushing at her elbow with his cold nose and whining at her. She could feel his leash swinging against one of her legs. “Horace!” She was sobbing, she realized as she caught hold of the leash. “Take me back to the driveway.” If she could just get back there, she would stay on it. Even if she chose the wrong way to walk, she would surely get somewhere eventually, or someone would find her. It was not far away. But which way? Horace led her onward, much more carefully than before. He seemed intent upon making sure that she did not collide with any of the trees or trip over any of their roots. But after what must have been several minutes, they had not arrived back at the driveway. They must be going deeper into the woods. Lizzie thought about her story, the first one Miss Martin had written down for her. Panic was hard to hold back. She was sobbing out loud. And then Horace stopped, panting as if in triumph and Lizzie, feeling with her free hand, felt a stone wall. At first she thought that by some miracle they had arrived at the house, but she knew it was impossible. She felt along the wall until she encountered first a door frame and then a wooden door and then the doorknob. She turned it, and the door opened. “Hello,” she called, her voice teary and shaking. She was thinking of witches and wizards. “Hello. Is anyone there?” No one was. There was no answer, and she could hear no breathing except her own and Horace’s. She stepped inside and felt about. It was just a small hut, she discovered. But it had some furniture in it. Did someone live here? If so, perhaps they would come home soon and tell her which way to go. Perhaps they would not be evil people but would be kind. There were not really evil people or witches, were there? She was still sobbing aloud. She was still consumed by terror. She was still trying to be sensible. “Please come home,” she sobbed to the unknown owners of the little hut. “Please come home. Please!” She could feel a bed covered with blankets. She lay down on top of them and curled up into a ball, one fist stuffed against her mouth. “Papa,” she wailed. “Papa. Miss Martin. Papa.” Horace jumped up beside her and whined and licked her face. “Papa.” Eventually she slept. 18
Joseph sat in the drawing room at Alvesley for all of half an hour, conversing with Portia, Wilma and George, and the Vreemonts, cousins of Kit’s. It was admittedly cooler indoors and a great deal quieter, but he was annoyed nonetheless. For one thing, Portia said nothing about feeling faint from the heat and looked a little surprised when he asked solicitously about her health. It had all been Wilma’s little ruse, of course, to draw him away. She would have considered it his duty to pay more attention to his betrothed despite the fact that the whole entertainment had been planned for the children and most of the other adults were exerting themselves to amuse them. For another thing, he had had to break his promise to take Lizzie for a boat ride. He would do it as soon as they returned, but even so he was powerfully reminded that she was always going to have to take second place to his legitimate family, to be fitted in for his attention whenever they did not need him. For a third thing, he had felt like planting McLeith a facer when he had taken Claudia Martin walking. The man was going to wear down her resistance and persuade her to marry him—which conclusion ought to have made Joseph rejoice. It seemed to him more and more as he thought of it that she yearned for love and marriage and a marital home despite all she said about being happy with her school and her lonely existence as its headmistress. But he had wanted to plant McLeith a facer. They made their way back to the picnic site eventually. He was going to take Lizzie boating as soon as possible. It would not seem strange that he do so—a number of the other adults had been entertaining her, making sure that she was involved with various activities and was enjoying herself. But just as they were approaching the picnic site and he was looking eagerly about for his daughter, a voice spoke loudly above all the hubbub of other voices—it was the strident voice of a schoolmistress accustomed to making herself heard above a tumult of schoolgirl chatter. “Where is Lizzie?” Miss Martin wanted to know. She was getting up from a chair beside McLeith’s, Joseph could see. He was instantly more alert. “Where is Lizzie?” Her voice was louder now, less controlled, more panicked. “Good God!” he exclaimed, pulling his arm free of Portia’s and hurrying forward. “Where is she?” A hasty glance around failed to find her. So did another. Everyone had been alerted by the cry, and everyone was looking around and speaking. “She is playing circle games with Christine.” “That was ages ago.” “She is with Susanna and the baby.” “No, she is not. That was some time ago. I had to go and feed Harry.” “Perhaps she went for a ride in a boat.” “Lady Rosthorn took her over to be with the archers.” “She must have gone walking with Eleanor and a crowd of the older children.” “No, she did not. She came with me instead to examine the bows and arrows. And then she went to join some of her friends.” “She is definitely not with Miss Thompson. Look, they are coming back and she is not with them.” “She must have gone up to the house.” “She must have…” “She must have…” All the time Joseph looked wildly about him. Where was Lizzie? Panic seized him and pounded through his veins, robbing him of breath and any chance for rational thought. He was at Claudia Martin’s side without even knowing how he had got there and was clutching her by the wrist. “I have been at the house,” he told her. “I went for a walk.” She stared at him, not a vestige of color in her cheeks. They had left Lizzie alone. It was Bewcastle who took charge of the situation, followed closely by Kit. “She cannot have gone far,” Bewcastle said, materializing from somewhere and standing in their midst with such a commanding presence that they all fell quiet—even most of the children—though he had not noticeably raised his voice. “The child has wandered away and cannot find her way back. We need to fan out—two to follow the lake this way, two that, two to go in the direction of the stables, two to go to the house, two to…” He continued to marshal them all, like a general with his troops. “Syd,” Kit said, “go straight to the stables and look there. You know all the hiding places. Lauren and I will go to the house—we know it best. Aidan, go…” Joseph strode to the water’s edge and gazed out at a returning boat, one hand shielding his eyes. But neither of the two children in it was Lizzie. “Lizzie!” He threw back his head and bellowed her name. “She cannot have gone far.” The voice, soft and shaking, came from beside him, and he realized that he still had a death grip on her wrist. “She cannot have gone far,” Claudia Martin said again, and it was obvious to him that she was trying desperately to get herself under control—a schoolmistress who
