“This is it?”
She nodded.
Her father rapped on the carriage roof. Their pace slowed still further and the carriage came to an obedient halt.
They climbed down from the traveling chaise. Vickery seemed even tenser, his face tight and expressionless.
The second carriage, bearing their servants, rolled to a halt behind them.
The farmhouse where Vickery had been born was a modest one. Its yard was small and muddy and no place for two traveling coaches-and-four. “The carriages can turn half a mile ahead,” Georgie murmured to her father.
“Drive on,” Lord Dalrymple told the coachman. “Find somewhere to turn and come back for us. There’s no rush.”
The coachman was too professional to show his surprise, but the footman on the bench seat at the back was younger and less well-trained; he glanced at the farmhouse and then back at them, astonishment on his face.
The first carriage moved off. The second followed. The clatter of hooves and jingle of harnesses faded. Georgie heard the clucking of hens. A dog barked distantly.
“Shall we?” Lord Dalrymple said.
Vickery gave a short nod.
They stepped into the farmyard. Hens squawked and bustled out of their way. Georgie lifted her skirts, glad she’d worn half boots. Mud squelched with each step she took.
They halted in front of the farmhouse. It was built of gray stone, two-storied, small and plain, with a gray slate roof and whitewashed window frames and a whitewashed door.
“You were born in that room,” Georgie said, pointing at the topmost window on the left.
Vickery stared up at the window. She saw tension and curiosity on his face.
At that moment a dog barreled around the side of the house, barking, hackles raised, teeth bared.
Vickery grasped Georgie’s arm and thrust her behind him so forcefully that she almost lost her balance.
Hard on the dog’s heels was a man dressed in farmer’s garb: a smock shirt, leather leggings, wooden clogs. He scowled at them. “Who are you? What d’ you want?”
Vickery had no hackles like the dog, no sharp teeth, but his stillness was dangerous. His hands were curled almost—but not quite—into fists. He looked like a man ready for violence.
Lord Dalrymple touched Vickery’s arm lightly and said, sotto voce, “Let me handle this.”
Vickery didn’t move, didn’t say anything, just stood there looking dangerous. His gaze was on the dog, not the man.
Lord Dalrymple stepped forward and inclined his head courteously. “Good day,” he said. “Are you the owner of this property?”
“I am,” the man said, arms akimbo, belligerent. “What of it?” At his feet, the dog growled, a low thread of sound.
“There was a family lived here thirty years ago,” Lord Dalrymple said, his voice mild. “Do you know anything about them?”
“The Prowses? Don’t know nuthin’ about ’em. ’Cept they’re dead.” The farmer spat into the mud, as if to punctuate this statement.
“Yes,” Lord Dalrymple said. “We are aware of that. Could you perhaps direct us to someone who can tell us about them?”
“Try old Bill Kernow. He’s got nuthin’ better to do than talk.” The man’s tone made it clear that he had a great many things to do and that they were wasting his time.
“Thank you,” Lord Dalrymple said, and inclined his head again. “Good day.” His quiet courtesy cast the farmer’s rudeness into stark relief, and the man noticed. His face reddened slightly.
They made their way across the muddy yard towards the road. Georgie wanted to pick up her skirts and run, but she matched her pace to her father’s, unhurried and calm, while her shoulder blades prickled with awareness of that growling dog. Vickery fell in behind them. Guarding them?
They reached the road. The carriages were nowhere in sight. Georgie glanced back; both man and dog were gone.
She blew out her breath, and turned to Vickery. “Were you really going to fight that dog?”
“If it attacked.”
“But it would have torn you to pieces!”
Vickery shrugged.
Georgie stared at him, so appalled that she was speechless.
“Old Bill Kernow,” her father said. “I wonder where he is?”
Georgie’s Faerie gift told her. She stared at Vickery a moment longer, searching for the right words to tell him exactly what she thought of his even thinking he could fight a vicious dog, gave up, and answered her father’s question. “He’s at his cottage, beyond those far trees.”
“Oh?” Her father turned and eyed the row of trees, a quarter of a mile distant. “Then let’s visit him.”
They walked three abreast, back along the cart track that they’d rattled and jolted over less than five minutes ago. Georgie looked around her, noting the hedgerows and the green fields, the glimpses of the sea. What a beautiful place to be born.
She glanced past her father at Vickery. He no longer looked dangerous, but he didn’t look happy, either. He was wearing the same expression he’d worn in the carriage: frowning, closed, deep in thought.
Georgie studied the hedgerows again, the fields, the sea, and tried to see them through Vickery’s eyes. What did he feel at this moment? Why was he frowning?
The carriages caught up with them just as they reached the row of trees. Lord Dalrymple gestured ahead, to where the cart track widened slightly. “Wait for us there.”
“Yes, sir,” said the coachman.
Behind the row of trees was a cottage, basking in the mid-morning sun. It was a very small cottage. Georgie, familiar with the cottages in Eype, could tell at the glance that it had only two rooms, and most likely a dirt floor. Even so, it looked welcoming. The whitewash glowed in the sunshine and red hollyhocks were vivid against the walls. The door stood open and an old man sat on the doorstep, a pipe in his mouth and a dog at his feet.
The dog didn’t lunge to its feet and bark at them as they crossed the yard. It didn’t even growl. Instead, it thumped its tail on the dirt.
The old man took the pipe from his mouth and squinted up at them. “Good day to yer.”
“Good day,” Lord Dalrymple said, and Georgie dipped a curtsy and echoed his words: “Good day, sir.” Vickery said nothing; he nodded his greeting.
The dog heaved itself to its feet, tail wagging, and came to greet them, touching its nose to each of them in turn. Georgie patted its head.
Satisfied, the dog returned to its place at its master’s feet.
“Those your rattlers just drove by?” the old man asked, resting his hand on the dog’s head. “Lost, are yer?” A clatter of crockery came from the open door behind him. Georgie smelled woodsmoke, tobacco smoke, and the scent of baking bread.
“They are our rattlers,” Lord Dalrymple replied. “But we’re not lost. We’re looking for you, if you’re Bill Kernow.”
“Oh, aye?” the old man said. His skin was leathery, creased into a thousand wrinkles from a life spent outdoors. “That’s me name.”
A hen strutted out the open door, gave a comfortable cluck, and began pecking at the dirt. The dog paid it no attention. Neither did the old man.
“Mr. Kernow, can you tell us anything about the Prowse family?”