Hidden in the Heart by Beth Andrews Read Free Book Online Page A

and old Mrs Plumpton were both fast asleep by the time the two hands on the clock pointed heavenward, so Lydia slipped from her room and wandered the house at will, leaving it through the side door of the kitchen.
    She flattered herself that she would not be recognized, even if anyone happened to be about at this hour. As Providence would have it, Aunt Camilla had taken in some clothes to darn before distributing them amongst the poor of the parish. Out of this miscellany, Lydia had purloined a pair of rough pantaloons, a shirt and a short coat. In this attire, she looked more like an urchin than a young lady of seventeen.
    Striding down the lane in the moonlight, the only one who noticed her was the neighbor’s cat, Cecilia. This curious feline followed at her heels for awhile, before a movement in the underbrush attracted her attention and she disappeared in search of a hapless mouse.
    Within ten minutes, Lydia reached the edge of the town. She leaned against an oak tree and waited. The stillness was almost palpable, and more forbidding than she had anticipated. It was with relief that she heard the thud-thud of hooves and observed John leading his horse, Scapegrace, toward her.
    ‘Well met, my lad!’ John greeted her in a loud whisper when he drew near enough.
    This reference to her male costume did not discompose her. She merely replied, ‘I thought skirts would be very much in the way.’
    ‘I do not disagree with you.’ He helped her up onto Scapegrace before mounting behind her. ‘But for a moment I thought you had sent someone else in your place.’
    ‘And miss this adventure?’ He must be mad. ‘There is small chance of that!’
    They rode slowly at first, and then at a pretty brisk gallop. Lydia was not really accustomed to being on horse back, but she found it quite exhilarating; nor was she in the least afraid, with John’s arms about her and his broad chest for support.
    ‘What is that house there?’ she asked, seeing a silver silhouette rising above a neat expanse of parkland.
    ‘That’s Bellefleur, Sir Hector Mannington’s place.’
    ‘I’ve heard my aunt speak of him.’ Lydia looked more intently, though not in expectation of seeing anything. ‘He is something of a recluse, is he not?’
    ‘And old as Methuselah,’ John added.
    ‘They say that he is mad as a hatter, and treats his servants shamefully.’
    ‘They also say that there are ghosts haunting Wickham Wood,’ he reminded her.
    She acknowledged the good sense of this remark, refraining from further comments. A few minutes later, John reined in his horse and dismounted. He reached up and helped Lydia down as well.
    ‘From here, we walk.’
    ‘Is it far?’ she asked, watching him tether Scapegrace to a sturdy tree trunk.
    ‘Less than a mile.’
    ‘But why stop here?’
    ‘Because,’ he answered, turning back to her, ‘something as large as a horse is difficult to hide. If there are smug glers in the wood, we don’t want to announce our presence, do we?’
    ‘No indeed.’
    For the next fifteen minutes, they walked silently together through the fields in the moonlight. Scrambling over stiles and navigating ha-has, they gradually made their way toward a patch of impenetrable darkness outlined against the sky. At length John broke the silence with a loud whisper.
    ‘This is where Mr Cole was found.’
    Lydia almost jumped out of her pantaloons as she looked down on a patch of ground which showed evidence of a recent fire. To think that some of those ashes beneath her feet might actually be the remains of a dead man! Even the smell of the place was unpleasant: the scent of desecration, perhaps? It was an eerie feeling indeed, and she was conscious of a desire to quit the spot as soon as possible.
    ‘Poor man!’ she declared sententiously. ‘I hope that he did not suffer too much.’
    ‘My father said there was hardly a patch of skin remaining on the bones.’ John’s statement was dispassionate, as if he were describing