Susan Krinard - Lord of the Beasts

“You must have been hurt very badly,” she said, softly enough so that only he would hear. “I pity you, Doctor. I pity you more than I can say.”

Fleming blanched. For once he seemed unable to think of a suitably cutting response. Cordelia’s heart clenched with a pang of regret. Had she not spoken too rashly, out of pride and anger? Had she not sworn to herself a thousand times since returning to England that she would never again allow passions of any kind to rule her life?

She had opened her mouth to offer some sort of apology when a furious scratching began at the door. A moment later the door burst inward, and the dogs from the yard rushed toward Cordelia like a pack of wolves.

She braced herself, half expecting the pain of fangs tearing at her flesh. But the dogs, all nine or ten of them, simply ran around her and pressed against their master, licking his hands and whining as they milled about him. It was if they had sensed his distress and responded to it in the only way they could.

Their devoted attentions freed Fleming from his preoccupation. He met Cordelia’s eyes for only an instant and then walked past her to the door.

“Forgive me for this disturbance, ladies,” he said. “The animals of Stenwater Farm are accustomed to an unusual degree of liberty.” Something in his voice, and in the halftwist of his lips, suggested that he counted himself among the fortunate beasts. “May I offer you anything else before you return to York?”

The dismissal was gentle, and absolute. Theodora rose, her fingers pinching the folds of her skirt. Cordelia smiled at her reassuringly and led her toward the door. The time for apologies was past.

Dr. Fleming showed them the courtesy of escorting them to the road and summoning the coachman. The dogs watched from the porch, ears pricked and bodies quivering. The cat and her kittens leaped up on the drystone wall bordering the road and regarded Cordelia with haughty disapproval. Even the pigs heaved out of their wallow, complaining like old men grudgingly roused from a sound sleep.

Fleming’s expression was mild and disinterested as he handed the women into the carriage and wished them a pleasant journey. It was as if he and Cordelia had never exchanged a single barbed comment or harsh word. Cordelia brooded for all of a half-mile before she signaled the coachman to stop.

“This will not do,” she said. “This will not do at all.”

Theodora touched Cordelia’s arm. “Perhaps it is for the best,” she said quietly. “Surely you can find another veterinarian for the menagerie, one who is more congenial.”

Cordelia frowned. “Did you find him so unpleasant?”

“Not unpleasant. Unusual, perhaps.” Two vivid spots of color rose in her cheeks. “He does not seem to need anyone.”

“You notice more than you admit, my dear.”

“I noticed that you did not dislike him as much as you pretended.”

“Oh?”

“Forgive me, but it is true that you are not used to being refused. If that is the only reason you would … I mean …” She sank into the seat, avoiding Cordelia’s gaze.

Cordelia tapped her lower lip and stared out the window. Green, rolling hills marched away from the road, dotted here and there by clusters of sheep. She opened the carriage door and hopped to the ground without waiting for the coachman to let down the step.

“I think I’ll take a turn about that meadow,” she told Theodora. “The wildflowers are quite lovely. I shall only be a few minutes.”

Theodora offered no protest, and so Cordelia started at a brisk pace for the wall at the side of the road. She found a stile and entered the meadow, her skirts brushing the petals of cow parsley, yellow celandine and buttercup, blue forget-me-not and speedwell. Bees filled the air with their droning. Cordelia climbed to the top of the hill, letting her mind wander between the remote beauty of the Dales and the vexatious puzzle that was Dr. Donal Fleming.

She saw the figure in the white dress while it was still some distance away. At first Cordelia couldn’t judge either age or appearance, but as the girl came nearer it became apparent that she was no shepherdess or farmwife going about her daily chores. The young woman’s black hair fell loose about her shoulders. She wore no gloves or bonnet. Her gown was simple but well-cut, adorned with lace at bodice and sleeves, and the ruched skirts were too full for those of a working woman. She was walking directly toward Stenwater Farm, and a small brown-and-white spaniel trotted at her heels.

Curiosity aroused, Cordelia descended the hill to intercept the stranger. The young woman saw her and stopped, her slender form frozen as if she were considering flight. The spaniel pressed against her skirts.

“Good morning,” Cordelia said.

The girl, whose soft and pretty features proclaimed her to be no more than seventeen or eighteen years of age, performed a brief curtsey. “Good morning, ma’am,” she said. Her voice was cultured and held no trace of the local dialect that had been so distinct in Fleming’s servant.

“I hope I have not disturbed your walk,” Cordelia said. “I am a visitor to this county, but I have seen no one since I left Stenwater Farm.”

The girl’s bright blue eyes flew to Cordelia’s face. “Stenwater Farm?”

“Yes. Do you know it?”

“Yes. That is, I …” She stammered in confusion, lifted her chin, and thrust out her lip in defiance. “I am a friend of Dr. Fleming.”

“Are you indeed? I have just spoken with the doctor about his traveling to Gloucestershire to treat the animals in my menagerie.” She noted the dismay that briefly crossed the girl’s face. “What a charming little dog. What is his name?”

“Sir Reginald.” She looked to the west. “I beg your pardon, but I must—”

“How remiss of me,” Cordelia interrupted, offering her hand. “I am Mrs. Hardcastle.”

The girl’s grip was a bit too firm for strict courtesy. “I am pleased to make your acquaintance, Mrs. Hardcastle,” she said without sincerity. “I hope you will enjoy the remainder of your visit, but I must be on my way.” She had taken several steps before Cordelia caught up with her.

“Are you going to Stenwater Farm?” she asked. “I would be more than happy to conduct you there in my carriage.”

The girl cast Cordelia a frowning glance. “I often walk across the fells,” she said. “It is no trouble to me.”

“But you will ruin your lovely dress.”

Once more the girl seemed flustered, almost as if she had been caught in a lie. Without another word she rushed off, the hem of her skirts already stained green from the grass.

For reasons even she did not understand, Cordelia hurried back to the carriage and instructed the coachman to return the way they had come. Once the coach was within a few hundred yards of the lane to Stenwater Farm, Cordelia called another halt and climbed one of the hills that circled the farm to the east, moving as stealthily as her confining garments would allow.

She crested the hill just as the girl and her dog were approaching the byre from the rear. The young woman looked this way and that, obviously afraid of being seen, and entered the byre.

Cordelia weighed propriety against instinct, and for once she gave instinct its head. She half slid down the hill, watching for Fleming or his servant, and reached the bottom undetected. She found the back door to the byre and entered cautiously.

There was no immediate sign of the girl, but a flash of white in the darkness caught Cordelia’s eye. She found the grass-stained gown draped over the edge of the hayloft. When she was satisfied that the young woman had left the byre, Cordelia crept through the front door and looked across the yard.