a rough motion, making poor Patience startle and take a nervous step to the side, forcing the marquess to let go of her head. The distance between them helped to soothe Annis’s feverishness, to ease the ache in her belly. She said, more sharply than she intended, “I’m perfectly well, my lord. Isn’t it nearly time for luncheon? We should be on our way.”
It occurred to her, as she watched him leap easily up into his own saddle, that he was as relieved as she was. He didn’t look at her again, or speak. He put his heels to Breeze’s flanks and led the way back down the path toward the coombe.
Could he be experiencing the same weird brew of feelings she was? Did it mean something? None of it felt natural. None of it felt right.
Annis let Patience have her head to follow Breeze as she gazed off toward the sun-bright sea and wondered what could possibly be happening to her.
Once luncheon was over, the company disappeared, each to their own preference. The elderly couples went up to sleep until tea. Lady Eleanor excused herself to meet with her housekeeper. Frances vanished without explanation, and Lord Rosefield did the same, bowing to the company, departing without ceremony. Annis felt a terrible moment of disorientation, glad to see the back of the marquess and at the same time wishing she could run after him.
She hesitated in the foyer. The servants all seemed to be busy elsewhere. The sun was already on its westward journey, leaving the house sleepy and dim. Annis didn’t feel sleepy in the least. She felt—she didn’t know what she felt. Itchy. Restless. Wanting something without knowing what it was.
As she hesitated at the foot of the staircase, she experienced a sudden, inexplicable urge to go outside. The impulse surprised her, building into a compulsion. She felt as if someone had called her name, though she had heard nothing.
Swiftly she slipped out through the doors, closing them behind her as quietly as she could. The impulse felt like a command, one she couldn’t refuse. It drew her to her left, along the stone porch to a short stair leading to the west lawn. There she turned left again, pulled as surely as if she were on a longe line. Her skirts in her hands, her uncovered hair flying in the afternoon breeze, she dashed down the sloping lawn behind the house, where a narrow gravel path led to a funny little building. It was round, pillared, open to the air.
A folly, she thought. Though she hadn’t seen one before, she had read of them in novels. She had the impression they were usually bigger, but this one was charming, with an enormous rhododendron shading one side and weeping roses growing opposite. The inside was fitted with a stone bench running half the circumference.
A woman rose from the bench as Annis approached. She wore a plain walking suit with a thick jacket, and she was tall, dark haired. Familiar.
Annis slowed her steps and released her skirts so she could push her hair out of her eyes. Her heart began to pound with this new, confounding development.
“It’s you,” she breathed. “It’s you! Whatever are you doing here?”
19
Harriet
Harriet hadn’t issued a summons in a long time, and she had worried it might not work. But here was Annis, breathless from having run down the lawn, her pupils expanding with shock at finding Harriet waiting for her. Annis looked as if she might crumple in a faint, if she were that sort of girl.
She made it instantly clear that she wasn’t at all the sort of girl to faint. She steadied herself with a hand on one of the pillars as Harriet said, “Yes. It is I. I should introduce myself at last.”
“You’re the herbalist!” the girl breathed. Her color rose in a wave and then receded, leaving her cheeks ice pale beneath her smattering of tiny freckles.
“I am that,” Harriet said, trying to speak in a bracing manner. “I’m also a relative of yours, Annis.”
“You know my name?”
“I do. Perhaps you should come and sit—”
Annis blurted, “You’re a relative? Are you an Allington?”
Annis had already, Harriet could see, suffered some confounding emotions. She wished she could put her arms around the girl, but that would hardly be welcome. She was still, essentially, a stranger. She said, “No, I’m not an Allington. My name is Bishop. Harriet Bishop.”
“My mother’s name was Bishop.”
“Yes. My sister Lily was your grandmother. You are my