Well, at least the case of the missing butler has been solved.
I wear a wool gown and a heavy, hooded cloak to ward off theevening chill. Stepping as lightly as I can, I cross the library, carrying mycane under my arm. I pause at the French doors, and check one last time for anysuspicious noises, but there are none.
Everything safe, love? Do you need my help?
No. Be there in a moment, Tom.
Once I am outside, I close the door, and turn to find him a fewfeet away. We embrace briefly and then walk to where he tied his horse in theorchard. Tom helps me step up onto a tree stump.
“We’ll use it like a mounting block,” he says aloud. “So it’seasier for you to get on the horse.”
He guides the animal over to where I stand on the stump. I patthe horse gently, missing my own poor Jem.
I don’t think I’ve ridden this one before. Is it a he or ashe?
“Technically a he. Dad bought some geldings at auction a fewmonths ago.”
I rest my hands on Tom’s shoulders, enjoying my increasedheight while standing on the stump. We must be nearly eye to eye. Would youplease use telepathy?You know the clairvoyant rules.
Sorry, love. I always forget them.
Yes, you do. What’s his name?
Whose name?
The horse, Tom.
He laughs softly. It’s Banquo.
Pulling some sugar cubes out of my pocket, I turn to Banquo andoffer him the treat. The horse blows on my hand, his breath warm and moist. He eatsthe sugar and brushes my palms with his smooth, nibbling lips. Nice fellow.That’s right. Tom trains his equines well, and this one is no exception. Banquostands quietly as I take hold of his mane and swing my leg upwards onto hisback. Tom gives my backside a boost until I’m sitting astride. No saddle for ustonight. I push my skirt down to cover my knees, and Tom hops up behind me.
He makes a clicking sound and the horse begins to walk. Tom’s armsencircle me as he holds the reins. We’re a good ways from the estate when webreak into a gallop. I can’t imagine anything more thrilling than this. I amspeeding through the wind, arms outstretched, cloak flapping. Free ofspectacles and stays, I might add. My hair is undone, flying out behind me.
And into poor Tom’s face. He grabs some of my tresses, holdingthem with one of his fists. When I think up something especially mischievous,Tom laughs and gives my hair a slight yank. I do not know our destination, butthe journey itself is pure joy.
The ground grows steep, and Tom directs his gelding to theright to avoid sliding backwards. Cool, damp air. Night creatures in thedistance. Mountain sage.
Where are we going?
Stonehenge, love.
To town?
No. The rocks.
Why?
I prod him a few more times. Tom applies gentle pressure to myhair until the back of my head rests against his chest. I tilt my face up, andhe kisses me.
Patience, Hettie. You’ve heard of that, haven’t you? Intheory at least?
Smiling, I relax my body, content to be held close and warm.After traveling east for a few miles, we arrive at Stonehenge, or Old Stoney,as the locals call it. I have only been here on rare occasions, and it is stillrelatively unknown to me.
“What a harvest moon,” Tom says, as he dismounts. “The rocksglow in its light.”
He helps me down, and we walk to the natural formation whichmany say resembles the Stonehenge in England. It sits atop a bluff and the windsweeps down from the mountain above, blowing my hair in all directions. Ishiver and pull up the hood of my cloak. Tom and I circle the area inside thering of stones, and I create a kind of grid in my head to estimate its widthand length.
Tom leaves me and goes back to the rim of the henge. I tune outthe wind, kneel, and strike the ground with my hand. Vibrations spread outward,bouncing off the rocks, painting a sound picture in my head. Tom slaps thepillar closest to him and then moves on to the next one. What’s he up to? Ilift my face, tracking his movements as he hits each stone. What’s the distancebetween us? Twenty-five, maybe thirty feet?
Returning to me, Tom drops something on the ground near myfeet. It has a metallic rattle. I poke at it with the toe of my boot and find arectangular case. Tom takes an object out of it, and slips a thin handle intomy grasp. He guides my finger down the flat side of a blade, approximately sixinches in length. The weapon is narrow and feels perfectly balanced.
A knife, Tom?
A throwing knife, love.
I cannot resist testing its sharpness. Just a little. Theresult is a tiny nick. It barely stings but Tom puts the tip of my finger tohis mouth, sucks the blood away. Then he checks the scratch over and drops myhand.
Must you always touch things, Hettie?
You know I’m the curious sort. Why the knife?
I want you to learn to defend yourself.
Tom takes the weapon back, slides it into something. A sheathprobably. He puts it into my hands, and I run my fingers over sleek leather. Twoother knives are stored inside the sheath. Tom presses the attached straps andbuckles into my palm.
Lady’s boots aren’t high enough to conceal this. You strapit on your thigh. Where it won’t slip on the stockings.
How does one begin to respond to such a gift?
My love kneels down, and I hear a scratch, a flare, and thensmell the faintest whiff of sulfur. It’s a Lucifer being lit. Metal clanks and glassrattles. Must be the old bulls-eye lamp that usually hangs in the Craddockbarn. How did it get up here? Did Tom prepare this location ahead of time? I supposethat’s romantic. In a way…
He switches out of
