No Other Love

“Of course.”

He had spoken quietly to her mother, who later insisted that Nicola drink some nasty tonic that a doctor had given her. Nicola had then gone to her bedroom, certain that she would never be able to sleep, but wanting some blessed solitude while she waited out the long, dark night. She had been surprised to find that she went to sleep almost immediately, and the next day, when she woke up, it was almost noon. She realized then that her mother must have given her some of her laudanum, doubtless on the Earl’s suggestion.

Shaking off her grogginess, Nicola had ridden back to the gorge and searched it from one end to the other in the daylight. But there was no sign of Gil. She went back home, hoping that there had been some word from Gil that he was all right, but there had been no message for her. She refused her mother’s tonic that evening and as a consequence spent a long, restless night, remembering each detail of Gil’s plunge off the cliff and repeating to herself all the reasons why Gil might still be alive. He was young and healthy, and obviously he had fallen into the water instead of onto the hard rocks. The pool was deep, so he would not have hit the bottom. And he had told her that he was a strong swimmer. He had to have survived. He had to.

But as the days passed and no word had come from Gil, the knowledge that he must be dead had weighed more and more heavily upon her. If he were alive, she knew that he would have contacted her somehow. She had managed to think of reasons why he might have delayed contacting her—he was delirious, perhaps, or lying unconscious somewhere, or had broken his arm so that he could not write. But as time went by, even those gloomy hopes faded.

Day after day she had waited, and no message had ever come. Nicola knew then that Gil was indeed dead. She had sunk into depression, not eating, not sleeping, refusing some days even to get out of bed.

The magistrate had come and asked her a few gentle questions, and she had told him that yes, the Earl had reached down to grab Gil, but he had slipped out of Richard’s grasp, that yes, it had been an accident. She had realized after a time that the magistrate believed that Nicola and Richard had been out for a ride together, with Gil along to take care of the horses. She had started to protest, but then she realized that it didn’t really matter. Nothing mattered anymore.

One day, two weeks later, her aunt had come for a visit and swept Nicola back to London with her. At first Nicola had not wanted to go, still clinging to a faint, desperate hope that one day Gil would get in touch with her. But her aunt had refused to take no for an answer, and Nicola had realized finally that she could not continue to stay here, soaking in her misery, surrounded by all the places and things that reminded her of Gil and their brief love.

She had taken one last ride up to Lady Falls to say her farewell to Gil. She had stood for a long time at the edge of the Falls, looking out over the green gorge, then down, following the silver spray of water to where it splashed into the gorge below. Finally, she turned away, and as she did so, a flash of gold just below the rim of the gorge caught her eye. She looked again, her eyes focusing on the small, thorny bush that grew out of the cliffside less than a foot below the edge. She spotted the wink of gold again, and she dropped down onto her knees at the edge of the cliff, her heart beginning to pound. There, caught in the thorny foliage, was the ring Gil had given her. When Richard had torn it from her neck and tossed it away, it must have fallen into this bush and caught. It had been here for all these weeks, just waiting for her!

Almost sick at the thought that she had almost missed the ring, Nicola lay down flat on the ground and inched forward, reaching down over the edge of the cliff until she could reach the little bush. Her fingers closed around the ring, and she wriggled backward, clutching it in her hand. This much, at least, she had of Gil; she would always have it.

She had pocketed the ring, her heart less heavy than before, and had ridden back to Buckminster. The next day she had gone to London with her aunt.

NICOLA TURNED AND WALKED AWAY from the Falls, her hand going unconsciously to her pocket, where the ring lay. It had been her habit through the years to wear the ring hidden from the eyes of others on a long chain underneath her dress, except when she wore a dress, as she did today, that would have revealed the ring. At first it had served as a kind of talisman, a reminder of Gil that comforted and strengthened her, helped her through the worst days of sorrow and pain. Now she had worn it so long that it had become almost second nature, something she rarely thought about.

Leading her horse to a rock, she mounted and rode away from the Falls. She turned toward the village, riding cross-country until she reached the country lane that led to the village from the south. She stopped at the vicarage first, politely calling on the vicar’s wife. But she kept her visit short, know that the amiable, gentle vicar’s wife would have no answers to any of the questions she was filled with.

As she was leaving, the housekeeper came around the side of the house to intercept her. It seemed that the cook had come down with catarrh, and the scullery maid had a bad case of chilblains. Nicola went around to the side door and gave the cook a tonic containing hyssop and elder flowers, and the maid a small tin of arnica cream.

“Yer a sweet girl, Miss Falcourt, and that’s the God’s truth,” the housekeeper said, smiling broadly. “Me sister Em told me how you cured the itchin’ on her feet for her last month, and I told Cook as soon as I saw ye this afternoon that ye’d do the same for her.”

“Your sister Em?” Nicola asked. “Are you Mrs. Potson’s sister?”

Nicola wouldn’t have thought it possible that the woman’s smile could broaden any more, but it did. “That’s right! Ain’t you the downy one?”

“How is your sister?”

“Feeling pretty well these days, though she gets down in her back sometimes, but that comes from lifting too much. I tell her, time and time again, to let that girl of hers do more of the work, but she lets that Sally twist her round her little finger, she does. Ah, well…” She shrugged expressively. “There’s no tellin’ her.”

Nicola smiled. She wouldn’t have thought anyone could twist the redoubtable Mrs. Potson around her finger. She certainly ran her large, quiet husband and the rest of the household, as far as Nicola could see.

Her first stop after the vicarage was the inn. It was owned by Jasper Hinton, a man as thin and small as his wife was tall and large. They were unalike in most every other way, as well, he being a nearly silent man with more liking for numbers than for people, and his wife Lydia a gregarious soul who would rather talk than eat—and it was obvious that she enjoyed her food a good deal. The inn and adjoining tavern were a natural location for local gossip and news, and Lydia’s consuming interest in people and everything they were doing made it even more of an information center.

It would also be a natural place to rest and drink something refreshing after her ride—and there was always a serving girl or ostler or scullery maid who was ill and in need of one of her remedies.

When she turned into the yard, Nicola was greeted with a great roar of delight from the head ostler, who hurried across the yard, shoving one of the boys out of his way so that he could help Nicola down himself. “Miss Falcourt! I heard you was up at Tidings these days, but I didn’t believe it. Not there, I says, never known her to go there, and she were here at Buckminster only a month ago.”

“I know. But I came back to visit my sister.”

“That’s good of ye. Here, Jem, come take the lady’s horse—and rub him down good, I’m tellin’ ye. I’ll be checkin’ to see how ye’ve done.” He handed the reins of Nicola’s horse over to the youngster he’d shoved aside and walked with Nicola toward the door of the inn. “How is your sister? She’s a good lady, though we don’t see her much.”

“No. I am afraid Deborah doesn’t get out a lot.” Nor had Deborah ever had the same interest in the common people that Nicola had had, though she was offhandedly kind and reasonable with the servants. “How is your eye, Malcolm?”

The older man looked immensely pleased. “Now, isn’t that just like ye to remember a little thing like that? It’s fine now, thanks to that salve you give me. Worked like a charm, it did.”

“I’m glad to hear it.”

“There’s no one with your touch with cures, miss—not now that Granny Rose is gone, God rest her soul.”

“I’m afraid I will never know as much as she did.”

The ostler nodded. “She were that good. Why, she could walk through the woods and name every flower and plant in it—and what you could use it for. Learned it from her mam, and her mam from hers before that, and so on. They were always healin’ women.”

They reached the front door, the end of the ostler’s domain, and he bade Nicola a cheerful goodbye, turning back to the yard and bellowing an order at one of his hapless charges. Nicola smiled and went into the inn. Lydia Hinton was already hurrying down the hall toward her, wiping her hands on her apron, her face wreathed in smiles.

“Miss Falcourt! Bless the day! I never thought to see you back so soon. When that chit Susan told me you were in the yard, I didn’t believe her. Come into the private parlor and rest.”

Mrs. Hinton believed in the proper order of things, and she would have been horrified to have sat down with Nicola in the kitchen for a good gossip. A young lady belonged in the private parlor, and she would never think of sitting down with Nicola until Nicola let her bring her food and drink—and then only if Nicola insisted on her doing so. So they went through their usual ritual, with Mrs. Hinton helping her off with her cloak, bringing her tea and cakes, and not making a move toward a chair at the table until Nicola asked her to join her and overrode her first refusal. Then, at last, as they had both known she would, Lydia settled down in the chair opposite Nicola for a cup of tea and a nice hour of gossip.

There were the usual amenities to be observed first—Nicola inquired about Mr. Hinton and their children, and the workers at the inn, listening with interest to the other bits of local gossip that Lydia found of particular importance—before Nicola could get down to the question that burned in her mind. But at last there was a pause in the conversation as Lydia sat back in her chair and took a sip of tea.

Nicola set down her own cup and asked casually, “And what of this highwayman, Mrs. Hinton?”

“Highwayman?” Lydia repeated innocently, and Nicola could almost see her mind racing behind her carefully blank eyes.

“Yes. The highwayman,” Nicola repeated a bit wryly. “He stopped my carriage last night, you know.”

“No!” Mrs. Hinton set down her cup with a clatter, looking genuinely shocked. “Now, he hadn’t ought to have done that, Miss Falcourt. Not to you. I mean, it’s one thing when it’s his—” She stopped abruptly, then added lamely, “Well, there’s no call to be stopping a lady like yerself.”

Nicola smiled faintly. “If you are worrying that I might tell the Earl anything you say to me, you needn’t. Exmoor and I are not on the best of terms.”

“It’s clear you haven’t visited them before all these years…” Lydia admitted. “But blood is thicker than water, they say—”

“Exmoor and I share no blood!” Nicola snapped, her gray eyes suddenly silver with emotion. “My sister’s foolish decision to marry the man does not bind me to him in any way. I think you know me well enough to know that I have no interest in hurting anyone. Did I ask how young Harry got shotgun pellets in his thigh last month when it was clear as day that he must have been poaching? Did I tell Lord Buckminster or his gamekeeper that I had given him salve after his father had dug out the pellets and left him with a raging infection? I did not. I put it on and bound him up and never said a word to anyone. And Bucky is my dear cousin—if I did not tell him, you can be sure I would never reveal anything detrimental to Lord Exmoor, whom I despise.”

Lydia flushed. “It’s that sorry I am, miss. I know you wouldn’t be tellin’ on anyone. It was just, well, you know, you are livin’ at Tidings now, and your sister is his lady.”

“I know.” Nicola smiled at her. She understood the woman’s innate distrust of a member of the aristocracy. No matter how well one might get along with the common people, there was always the possibility that, when it came to something important, one would revert, would come down on the side of one’s “own kind.” “But I’ll tell you this: even though he robbed me, I did not give a good description of him to the Bow Street Runner.”

“Runner!” the other cried, alarmed.

Nicola nodded. “Yes. The Earl has hired a Runner to investigate the highwayman and his gang. His name is Stone, and I talked to him this morning. He looks a hard man. I did not like him.”

The other woman shook her head. “The Gentleman shouldn’t be taking such risks. I knew he’d go too far one day and his lordship would go after him. The Earl’s not a man to be crossin’, is what I say.”

“No doubt you are right about that,” Nicola agreed. “You sound as if—do you know this man? Have you met him?”

Lydia shifted in her chair, looking uneasy. “I don’t know him, exactly. I’ve, uh, well, he’s known around here.”

“I don’t understand.”

Lydia sighed, then straightened, looking Nicola in the eye. “He is liked, miss, that’s what I’m sayin’. He’s done things for people. He helps them out.”