Keeping the Castle - By Patrice Kindl Page 0,56

he given any indication of an interest in me. I had wanted him to marry Miss Vincy, for heaven’s sake!

So why, since the Baron was to marry Charity and Mr. Fredericks apparently to marry Miss Vincy, was I far more upset by the latter than the former?

Lord Boring was a shallow, weak man, no better than a cut-out paper doll. A few sighs, a tear or two, and I had done with grieving for his loss. But Mr. Fredericks . . .

I once had believed his Lordship to be all that was noble, cultivated, and worthy and Mr. Fredericks to be an ignorant, ill-mannered, pestilent boor. My opinions were now reversed. It was Mr. Fredericks who was the man of culture and character, not the Baron.

And I also realized that I no longer wished him to marry Miss Vincy. In fact, I wished she would remove her hand from his arm. At once. I stared after the runaway couple with narrowed eyes and heaving breast. How could they? Without even discussing it with me?

In order not to have to dwell upon the irrationality of my mental and emotional state, I put Fido down and began to follow them. This was not easy to do unobserved, as the path they took led over a treeless field which was inhabited by a flock of sheep. I supposed that they were taking this less conspicuous route to the village of Lesser Hoo, where they might engage a coach to take them to York or perhaps even Gretna Green in Scotland, so they could be married immediately. I went after them, but kept to the woods along the edge of the field, to avoid being detected. This entailed a great deal of stumbling over logs, twisting my ankle as I stepped on loose rocks that shifted under my weight, and being slapped across the face by tree branches. My muffled squeaks of irritation and pain so unnerved Fido that he barked in alarm.

“Oh, hush!” I ducked behind a tree as the others turned their heads in our direction.

Interested by the small commotion in one corner of their pasture, the flock of sheep began to drift towards us, like a large, barely sentient cloud. Fido regarded them with attention. He was a miniature spaniel, a breed more noted for hunting birds than herding sheep, but ever since the day at the Screaming Stones he had developed a keen interest in this woolly minded species. Quite obviously he thought they would be great fun to chase.

“No! No! Don’t you dare!”

The sheep drifted closer. Several of them baaed. Fido quivered all over.

“No!”

The wind shifted in our direction. Fido evidently got the scent of the flock full in his nostrils, for without another glance in my direction he burst from cover and flung himself upon the sheep, barking joyfully. The sheep reacted with exaggerated alarm, as though a pack of wolves, muzzles wet with lamb’s blood, had erupted from the wood; first they bunched up and ran as a group, then they scattered all over the field. Fido was everywhere, running and barking, hysterical with excitement.

Fido had none of the training of a sheep dog, but he could run very, very fast. He ran rings around those sheep, bunching them down into an ever smaller milling, baaing knot of animals.

And in the center of the knot stood Mr. Fredericks and Miss Vincy. There could not have been a more effective method of getting their attention had I been laboring for the past twenty minutes with no other end in view.

Mr. Fredericks made himself heard over the clamor of barking and baaing and the thud of sheep hooves: “Miss Crawley, you might as well cease skulking behind that tree. We know that Fido’s presence implies yours. Come out and show yourself.”

I ought to have made an appearance, apologized, called my dog and gone away. However, at that moment Miss Vincy cried out in a tone of great distress, “Oh please, Miss Crawley—Althea—come with us if you will, but do not delay us, I beg of you! Every moment is a torment.”

“Miss Vincy, what is it?” I asked, emerging from the wood and wading through a river of agitated sheep in order to reach her. “You are ill. You must sit down and rest a moment.”

“No! I must go on.” She turned and, pushing sheep out of her path, continued to make her way across the field.

I was perplexed, to put it mildly. If this was an elopement, it was