Margaret had been counting heads and carriages. “Good—we can all fit.” She glanced at Minerva. “Are you coming?”
She waved the list of guests. “I need to attend to this, and a few other things. I’ll ride down later and perhaps join you for tea.”
“Very well.” Margaret looked to the table’s head. “And you, Wolverstone?” Ever since he’d agreed to their house party, Margaret and Aurelia had been making an effort to accord him all due deference.
Royce shook his head. “I, too, have matters to deal with. I’ll see you at dinner.”
With that settled, the company rose from the table. Conscious of Royce’s dark gaze, Minerva hung back, letting the others go ahead; he and she left the dining room at the rear of the group.
They halted in the hall. He met her eyes. “How long will you take?”
She’d been swiftly reviewing her list of chores. “I have to see the timber merchant in Alwinton—it might be best if you meet me in the field beyond the church at…” She narrowed her eyes, estimating. “Just after three.”
“On horseback, beyond the church, at just after three.”
“Yes.” Turning away, she flung him a smile. “And to make it, I’ll have to rush. I’ll see you there.”
Suiting action to her words, she hurried to the stairs and went quickly up—before he asked how she planned to motivate him to browbeat the aldermen into submission. The sharp jab she had in mind would, she thought, work best if he wasn’t prepared.
After speaking with Cranny about rooms for the latest expected guests, and with Retford about the cellar and the depredations likely during the house party, she checked with Hancock over his requirements for the mill, then rode into Alwinton and spoke with the timber merchant. She finished earlier than she’d expected, so dallied in the village until just after three before remounting Rangonel and heading south.
As she’d expected, Royce was waiting in the designated field, both horse and rider showing their customary impatience. He turned Sword toward Harbottle as she ranged alongside. “Are you really planning on joining the others in Harbottle later?”
Looking ahead, lips curving, she shrugged lightly. “There’s an interesting jeweler I could visit.”
He smiled and followed her gaze. “How far is it to this footbridge?”
She grinned. “About half a mile.” With a flick of her reins, she set Rangonel cantering, the big gelding’s gait steady and sure. Royce held Sword alongside despite the stallion’s obvious wish to run.
A wish shared by his rider. “We could gallop.”
She shook her head. “No. We shouldn’t get there too early.”
“Why?”
“You’ll see.” She caught his disgruntl
ed snort, but he didn’t press her. They crossed the Alwin at the ford, water foaming about the horses’ knees, then cantered on, cutting across the pastures.
A flash of white ahead was the first sign that her timing was correct. Cresting a low rise, she saw two young girls, pinafores flapping, books tied in small bundles on their backs, laughing as they skipped along a track that led down a shallow gully disappearing behind the next rise to their left.
Royce saw them, too. He shot her a suspicious, incipiently frowning glance, then tracked the pair as he and she headed down the slope. The girls passed out of sight behind the next rise; minutes later, the horses reached it, taking the upward slope in their stride, eager to reach the crest.
When they did, Royce looked down and along the gully—and swore. He hauled Sword to a halt, and grimly stared down.
Expressionless, she drew rein beside him, and watched a bevy of children crossing the Coquet, swollen by the additional waters of the Alwin to a turbulent, tempestuous, swiftly flowing river, using the rickety remnants of the footbridge.
“I thought there was no school in the area.” His clipped accents underscored the temper he held leashed.
“There isn’t, so Mrs. Cribthorn does what she can to teach the children their letters. She uses one of the cottages near the church.” It was the minister’s wife who had brought the execrable state of the footbridge to her attention. “The children include some from certain of Wolverstone’s crofter families where the women have to work the fields alongside their men. Their parents can’t afford the time to bring the children to the church via the road, and on foot, there is no other viable route the children could take.”
The young girls they’d seen earlier had joined the group at the nearer end of the bridge; the older children organized the younger ones in a line before, one by one, they inched their way along the single remaining beam, holding the last horizontal timber left from the bridge’s original rails.
Someone had strung a rough rope along the rail, giving the children with smaller hands something they could cling to more tightly.
Royce growled another curse and lifted his reins.
“No.” She caught his arm. “You’ll distract them.”