Liberty and the Pursuit of Happiness by Deb Marlowe Page B

opened beneath her and she walked a tightrope toward her doom.
    She made several wrong turns, but found her way eventually to the center chamber.  The soft light and gently drifting branches of the willows there belied the confusion on some of the faces gathered about, and the sly animation on others.  Heads were bent together.  Some people whispered while others called for action.  Behind her, Brodham arrived.
    Jane stood at one of the benches, a piece of parchment in her hand.  She held it out to Liberty.
    On slow feet she moved to take it.  One scrawling note in a bold hand covered most of the page.  She looked at Brodham’s bloodless expression and read it out loud.
     
    You were right.  About most everything.  We cannot wait.  Have to do this right and want to do it now.  Heading North.  Follow your own advice, will you?
     
    In one corner, a smaller, more delicate hand had written something.
     
    Thank you for everything, Miss Baylis.  Your help has assured our happiness.
     
    “What does it mean?” someone asked.
    “Gretna Green!” Sir Benjamin answered.  “Heading north, it said.  For the Scottish border.  What else?”
    Titillated chatter broke out all around.
    “Did you aid them, Miss Baylis,” Sir Benjamin demanded.  “Is that what you’ve been up to?  It’s not as bad as it might have been, I suppose.”
    She jerked her gaze to his.  “No, sir.  It might have been as bad as lavish promises left unfulfilled.”
    He sputtered in response.  Everyone ignored him.
    “That’s not what it means,” Jane insisted.  “Miss Carmichael would not elope.”
    What did it mean to Brodham?  That’s what Liberty wanted to know.  He’d sunk down onto the other bench, his hands locked behind his head, after she read the first part of the note. 
    “Not Gretna,” he said now, to his knees.  “Cumberland.  That’s all.  They’re going to her family.”
    “Of course,” Jane said.  “Mr. Gardiner must have proposed.  They must wish to clear it with the girl’s mother.”
    Liberty approached Brodham and held out the note.  “Here.  It was meant for you.”
    He didn’t answer, didn’t move to take it.  He would not even look up at her. 
    She blinked back tears.  He was shutting her out again.  She’d done what she’d shouldn’t, pushed him too far, expected too much.
    Jane reached to take her hand.  “Perhaps we should take Charlotte home.  Someone should notify Lady Ridgley.”
    Liberty waited a moment.  Brodham never moved.  He just sat there, breathing deep. 
    Waiting for her to depart?
    “Yes,” she said at last.  “I believe the battles have all been fought.  The war is over.  Let’s go.”

 
    Chapter Eight
     
    Cateswood’s stables were not in good shape.  Old, shabby and warped, they didn’t match his memories.  Casualties of so many years the family had spent elsewhere, neither did they match the visions he’d been having since he got back, fleeting images of his children and their children, thriving here, enjoying the improvements he meant to make, carrying on the careful management he meant to begin.
    A lovely idea.  He was enamored of it. Only one thing spoiled it.  Young or old, boy or girl, in his mind, all the children laughed up at him through clear, green eyes.
    He cursed under his breath.  “Tear it down,” he said curtly.
    Beside him, his land manager started.  “Sir?”
    Brodham knew what he wanted.  He’d seen the most modern stables in the world, traveling in Austria and Spain.  Clean and spacious, with smooth courtyards and strong stone walls. 
    He turned to his agent.  “There are men in the villages looking for work, yes?”
    The man nodded.
    “Hire them.  Divide them into crews.  One can build temporary stables in the old hay barn at the back pasturage.  The other can demolish this.”  He waved a hand.  “I know a man who can build us the best stables in England.”  He paused. “I’m going to go write to