Saved By A Lady (Preview)

Chapter One

Where did she leave it? Sylvia ducked under a hanging branch and nearly tripped on a hidden root.

“It gets me every time,” she muttered to herself. “You would think I would remember it after the millionth stumble.”

Could she convince herself that the tree was one of the legendary tree spirits of old and was purposefully moving its roots to confuse her? No, probably not. Sylvia didn’t believe in those tales, not anymore. If she did, she would cry every time a tree was cut down or attempt to rescue it. 

Manoeuvering her foot in her right shoe, Sylvia secured the slipper before continuing on. It had drizzled the night before, and before long, the lacy hem of her morning dress would bear the evidence of her traipsing through the woods. Betty was going to have a field day once she saw the state of Sylvia’s dress.

Sylvia sighed at the thought. Well, it would be worth it if she could just find her book. 

While the rain had been but a light smattering that had hardly penetrated the earth, parts of the ground were still damp because the sun could not reach these spots under the thick canopy of overhanging trees.

The relationship between the sun and water was an odd one. They were complete opposites, and yet they worked well together. One wouldn’t think so because the sun soaked up water, but doing so allowed the rain to form and wet the earth again. Were relationships between men and women similar?

Shivering slightly, Sylvia hugged her shawl tighter around her shoulders. It was already midday, but the onset of autumn had significantly changed how much one could feel the sun’s warmth, especially when under the trees. While she welcomed the cooler weather after some months of heat, Sylvia wasn’t looking forward to the start of the hunting season.

Hunters would arrive in their droves, fan themselves out around the surrounding land, and shoot at poor creatures that had no way of defending themselves. Sylvia loathed the sport with every molecule within her. Pausing, Sylvia mouthed the word ‘molecule.’ Was that the word Henry had used?

Her cousin, Henry Staffords, was an organic chemist who closely followed the works of other chemists like John Dalton and Alexander Crum Brown. Henry had once used the phrase “with every molecule within me” in her presence, and of course, Sylvia’s curiosity had been awakened. She had asked him to explain the phrase and had taken it as good enough for her to borrow on occasion.

“Where on earth did I put that book?” Sylvia asked herself, placing her hands on her slender hips. “Papa will have my head if I cannot find it.”

She should have never left it in the woods in the first place! 

Sylvia had a short attention span and tended to get distracted quickly at times. The Botanic Garden by Erasmus Darwin had kept her interest for some time before her belly had protested and forced Sylvia from her comfortable position. She had hidden the book in a tree hole, expecting to return to it later in the day, but she never did. Instead, she had played several games of charades with her sisters.

Alexandria and Rowan were not terribly good at the game, but they were getting better. They preferred Spillikins and Bullet Pudding, but Sylvia had had enough of them.

Pushing her short, dark hair away from her face, Sylvia had a sudden moment of doubt. Had cutting her long hair been the best decision after all? She had cut it without permission two months ago and had earned a shrieking scolding from her poor mother before the woman had become almost faint with distress.

Sylvia believed she looked better with the shorter hair, but apparently, it wasn’t as becoming as long hair. She often had to brush away wisps that had glued themselves to her face or use little combs to keep them back. It was still better than feeling like she had a ton of weight on her head, but the downside was that Sylvia couldn’t do much with it. Her hair had grown long enough to brush her shoulders, but she still couldn’t do typical hairstyles where a woman’s tresses could be piled on her head with manipulated curls hugging the sides of her face.

On second thought, the loss of certain hairstyles wasn’t such a bad thing, after all. Sylvia didn’t have fine, pale hair like her sisters, but thick brown hair that had often given her headaches after a night of dinner and activities.

A high-pitched scream halted her steps, making her look around her wildly. What on earth was that? The only thing that could scream like a banshee were foxes, but Sylvia hadn’t seen any yet. She usually saw them during her daily walks, but today not one had appeared. That was rather strange. Why hadn’t she noticed that before?

The screaming turned into little cries as though the creature was tired. Was it hurt? Sylvia abandoned her book search and followed the noise, ignoring her own safety. Injured animals tended to attack out of fear, but she wasn’t worried about that. She was focused on finding what she assumed was a fox who needed her help.

Sylvia pushed a few branches away as the woods grew thicker until she was forced to get onto her knees and crawl. Most of her dress would be ruined at this point, but that didn’t concern Sylvia. It was one of her older dresses that had been let down along the hem some time ago when she had had an unexpected growth spurt.

Sylvia had gone from being a tiny thing at four-foot-eleven to an unimpressive five-foot-one. Her younger sisters were five-foot-four and five-foot-five, but their father towered over them all at 

five-foot-nine. He wasn’t what others would call tall, but most people looked like giants to Sylvia. Her father’s mother had apparently been a petite woman, but Sylvia couldn’t recall her. She had died when Sylvia was three, but Sylvia had often been told that she resembled the woman in appearance.

Sylvia would have preferred to have the Nordic looks of her parents and sisters, but one did not get simply by wishing.

A thorny bush snagged on her skin, tearing it slightly. Three bright droplets of blood surfaced almost immediately, causing mild concern before she wiped it on her dress and continued her search. The bush she was crawling through was getting too thick and would stop her progress soon, but Sylvia moved on, ignoring the sting of multiple cuts across her exposed arms and palms. She could still hear the creature crying, but the whining sound was becoming softer by the minute.

“Just hold on, little one,” Sylvia whispered, crouching even lower when she felt a pull on her hair. “Just a little longer.”

The wailing stopped, but fortunately, Sylvia was able to find the animal. It was indeed a fox that lay just out of her reach. It was shivering and so hurt that it hadn’t noticed Sylvia yet. She forced herself to move forward towards the animal, gaining the fox’s attention. It shrank back and gave a small cry before collapsing, alarming Sylvia.

“I’m not going to hurt you,” Sylvia cooed, holding out her hand, palm upwards.

The fox stared at her hand but made no move towards her. Sylvia didn’t blame it. It was hunting season and soon people would fill the area with rifle shots all in the name of sport.

Sylvia kept her hand stretched as she inched closer until she could see what was causing the fox to cry. It looked like an arrow had skimmed it above the left shoulder blade, causing some bleeding. The animal appeared tired, and judging from its laboured breathing, it wouldn’t be able to defend itself if it needed to.

Sylvia couldn’t leave the fox because that might give it an indirect death sentence. But what if it attacker her? She pushed the thought aside as she slowly forced herself across those last few inches, still keeping her hand outstretched. The fox cowered for a moment, but Sylvia remained patient. Her patience was rewarded when the animal stuck its nose in the air and sniffed before tentatively pushing its snout into her palm. Sylvia took that as an invitation to stroke the fox’s face. She grew excited when it leaned into her palm and briefly closed its eyes.

“That’s it, little one,” she encouraged. “I’m not going to hurt you. Let me help you.”

Sylvia used her other hand to pull her shawl off and lay it over the fox, never faltering as she continued to stroke the animal. Careful not to hurt its injury, she gently pulled the fox towards her, only feeling slight reluctance from the animal. Fortunately, it was weak enough that it gave up quickly, allowing Sylvia to bundle it up and crawl backwards through the thicket until she could get to her feet.

How was she going to sneak it into the house without being seen? Sylvia’s father had expressly forbidden her to bring home any more animals after the last one ruined her mother’s favourite cushions.

“I cannot leave you here,” she told the fox, stroking its head. “But if I take you home, I’ll have to hide you.”

If she could just get to her room without being seen, she might have a chance. Her safest passage into the house would be through the servants’ entrance and up their stairwell. Mrs Granger might complain, but the housekeeper usually gave in to Sylvia’s fervent pleadings. It was Mr Carlisle that she had to worry about. The butler was a stickler for following rules and would likely inform Sylvia’s father of the fox.

“I might have to ask Geoffrey to hide you in the stables,” she informed the animal. “But I would much rather have you nice and warm in my chamber. Perhaps Betty will help me if I promise to give her my share of pudding for the week.”

The chubby maid had a liking of sweet things and often kept hard-boiled sweets in her pocket to suck on throughout the day. She was one of three maids in the house, not counting the stable hand, butler, and housekeeper, and the one Sylvia usually roped in (sometimes against the maid’s better judgement) to undertake tasks that Sylvia couldn’t trust others to do. Betty wasn’t keen on animals, but she had a soft spot for anything in need. 

With that matter somewhat sorted, Sylvia bundled the fox a little more snugly in her shawl and cuddled it in the crook of her arms before setting off for the house. The book would just have to wait another day.

She groaned in dismay when she noticed a bit of the fox’s blood was seeping through her shawl. Blood was a much harder stain to remove– she should know with all the scrapes she had gotten herself into over the years. 

“The arrow didn’t just skim you, did it?” she said, adjusting the fox in her arm.

Its weak yelp of pain went straight to Sylvia’s heart. How could anyone hurt such a sweet creature?

Burning anger simmered below the surface as Sylvia guessed the reason for the fox’s injury. 

Recently, many of the local boys had taken to hunting in the hopes that they would catch some game before the affluent Ton arrived and took over the sport. The local boys were essentially poaching, an offence that carried a heavy punishment. If Sylvia wasn’t so worried about their parents’ reactions to their sons being punished, she would tell the authorities about their shenanigans.

“I know of one boy who chooses to use his bow and arrow to hunt with,” she muttered. “He must have hurt you.”

Thank goodness the fox managed to run away before Thomas McKinney could make his final killing blow. 

What was the use of hunting? What kind of people thought it great fun to hunt helpless animals for enjoyment? Sylvia hated the sport and the Ton with equal measure.

“Fops, the lot of them!” she growled under her breath, not wanting to startle the fox.

Sylvia eventually arrived at the servants’ back entrance in little under half an hour, glad when she found Betty busy with a basket of laundry.

“Betty!” she called, keeping her voice low.

The plump woman turned to her, her face quickly conveying dismay when she saw the shivering bundle in Sylvia’s arms.

“Oh no, Miss Spencer,” the woman wailed. “Not another one. And look at your dress!”

“Hush, Betty. ‘Tis only an old dress. I need to get to my chamber, but I cannot have Mr Carlisle seeing me. Would you keep watch while I sneak up the stairwell?”

“I do not have much choice, do I?” the maid asked.

“Everyone has a choice, but I hope you choose the right one,” Sylvia said smoothly. “This fox needs my help. That Thomas McKinney must have injured it, but luckily it got away. How I hate this hunting season.”

Betty sighed, putting down the basket. “Very well. You go ahead, and I’ll keep watch. Oh!” the woman suddenly exclaimed. “I almost forgot that your father wishes to see you. He has asked everyone to tell you the moment we see you.”

That never boded well for Sylvia. “Did he say why?”

“No. He has no reason to discuss personal matters with the help, you know,” said Betty. “Best you get that fox to your chamber, change your dress, and see him in his study before he sends out a search party. He seemed a little bothered when I last saw him.”

Sylvia groaned, pressing her lips to her nose. Her father probably had a lecture to give. What could it be about now?

“I’ll be as quick as a lightning strike. Only keep watch until the fox is safely in my chamber. Oh, and please bring two bowls of water. One cool and the other hot enough with a rag to clean the fox’s wound.”

“Yes, miss,” Betty replied. “Go now before Mr Carlisle comes. You know he has his tea at this time.”

That was enough to send Sylvia running for the servants’ staircase. Thankfully, no one was about when she branched off on the second floor and crept to her room, closing the door behind her with a soft click. Now, where could she hide the fox while her father gave his speech? She turned in place, searching high and low, although high would probably put the fox at risk of falling off. 

Finally, Sylvia stopped near her bed. The space between it and the pedestal was warm and appeared secure enough for the creature to remain safe while she was gone. She could also put a frame in front of the area in case of any drafts.

Arranging the fox in its corner, Sylvia quickly took off her dress, washed her face and hands, and put on a new dress. It was also white, and if she was lucky, neither her mother nor father would realise that she had changed gowns.

Sylvia was still adjusting the ribbon below her bust when she arrived outside her father’s study door. She knocked with a double-tap and clasped her hands in front of her, waiting for David Spencer’s voice to give her entrance. It came quickly and loudly as per his usual self, but a smile soon showed on the man’s face when he saw Sylvia.

“Come in, dear,” he said, indicating a chair. “You were out for some time today.”

“Not much, Papa. I intended to stay a little longer, but the woods were a little chillier than normal. I should have carried a coat.”

“You’ll know for next time, dear,” her father assured. “Shall I summon a pot of tea?”

“No, thank you, Papa. I’ll have a little later, I think.”

Sylvia could see her father was buying time. What did he have to say that had given him that worried look?

“Good, good,” the man said, linking his fingers on his desk. “Well, I do have something to tell you, dear. It’s rather important, so I ask you to listen carefully before passing judgement.”

This was not a good start to whatever he had to tell her. She could ask to have that tea after all just to prolong her father, but that would not change what he had to tell her.

“I’ll most certainly try, Papa,” she said sincerely.

Her father nodded. “I know you will, child.” He took a deep breath and let it out slowly before continuing. “As you know, I’m not getting any younger.”

Sylvia’s father had undoubtedly grown greyer in the last five years, turning his pale hair white. It suited him well, giving him a distinguished look that had evaded his boyish looks for all his life. David Spencer was eighteen years older than his wife, having married Sylvia’s mother when she was twenty and he was thirty-eight. Strangely, it had been love at first sight for them, and they had married within three months of meeting each other.

“You do not look a day over fifty-five, Papa.”

The man chuckled. “I suppose that is a good thing, but I certainly feel my age. Unfortunately, with age comes certain topics that must be discussed, no matter how unpleasant. One of those is my eventual death and what will become of you, your mother, and your sisters when I pass on.”

That wasn’t a topic that Sylvia liked to dwell on and she told her father as much. The man waved away her concerns and continued his speech.

“You know that Cousin Magnus will receive my estate upon my death, and your mother only has a little inheritance to live on. She will not be able to take care of you and your sisters.”

Sylvia could tell where this conversation was going, but nevertheless, she tried to avoid it.

“I have often said that I do not mind taking up employment as a governess, Papa.”

Her father shook his head. “We may be middle class, dear, but I do not want my daughters working for their keep. I would prefer to have all three of you married and taken care of by good men.”

Sylvia’s family was of the lower gentry lot, earning a small income from the farmers who rented their land. She had often begged her parents to allow her to work and become independent, so she was no longer a burden on them, but they had steadily refused. Marriage was the only option available to Sylvia and her sisters, whether she liked it or not.

“And if I cannot find a man that I love enough to marry?” she asked. “What then?”

“Who said anything about love, dear?”

Sylvia bit the insides of her cheeks, stopping the immediate retort that rose to her lips. She wanted to declare that she would not marry without love, but she had had this conversation once before with her mother. It hadn’t gone very well.

“Security is more important, Sylvia,” her father said, carrying on. “Marrying for love is foolish in the face of uncertainty.”

Well, that about got her hackles up! “What do you mean?” she questioned. “Was it foolishness when you and Mama fell in love despite the age gap? Why should I settle for less when you didn’t have to?”

“Because not everyone is as fortunate,” snapped the patriarch. “What your mother and I have is not common, and few are able to find it. I cannot have you searching for love while your well-being hangs in the balance. Love can come with time, dear,” her father said, his voice gentler. “Marry a good man, and eventually, you’ll come to love him.”

Gossip said otherwise. Sylvia had heard countless stories where wives were unhappy in their marriages and wished for freedom. She didn’t want to become like them! Sylvia wanted to have a happy married life, not one of drudgery and boredom. Why was this not possible?

“Think about your sisters, child,” her father pleaded.

“What do you mean?”

“If you marry well, there is every chance that they will have suitable matches as well. You will be an example to them and others who take an interest in them.”

This was emotional blackmail at its finest. Sylvia’s father was willing to do anything for Alexandria and Rowan, but could she marry for the sake of security? She didn’t know. 

Disappointed, Sylvia asked to be excused. Her father let her go with the promise that she would think about his words. That would likely be the only thing she thought about for days to come.

She was glad to return to the fox, finding the water and rags she had asked for. Betty had even brought bits of cold meat from breakfast, hiding everything under a sheet.

Gently drawing the fox out, Sylvia began to clean its wound, applying a little salve to keep it from attracting flies or developing into a pus-filled lesion.

“You will soon be well, little one,” she cooed. “I want to give you a name, but I might get too attached and not want to release you.”

That had happened before, so Sylvia knew better, but she found herself naming the fox Flame anyway. It was some consolation for going through an unwanted conversation about a marriage of convenience. Who on earth did her father expect her to marry? None of the dandies she had met were suitable, and she had yet to meet a gentleman who made her think about marriage.

Needless to say, her day had gone pear-shaped rather quickly.

 
Chapter Two

 

There was nothing better than lugging his musket around in the woods, and being far away from his mother’s constant badgering about marriage. Landon had had enough of his mother hinting that she wanted him married and settled soon. She seemed to have this idea that she would be dead before he could give her grandchildren… if he had any.

Several footpaths indicated that people frequented the woods that edged his estate, but Landon hadn’t seen anyone walking about and assumed it was safe enough to hunt. Keeping an eye out for people seemed wise, but hunting foxes would remain his main priority. It was one of the few activities he had enjoyed doing with his father before the old earl passed away some years ago.

“Where are they?” Landon muttered to himself.

It was still early into the hunting season, and red grouse was the preferred game at the moment, but his estate was usually teeming with foxes. Shooting a few kept the population down and avoided unnecessary problems with farmers and their animals. Once, a tenant had lost nearly all his chickens to a few pesky foxes terrorising the area. Landon and his father had invited a few friends and had gone hunting for the animals, wiping out two-thirds of the foxes. Now, there was just enough to hunt on occasion.

Landon’s sharp eyes spotted something peeking out of a tree hole that didn’t match its brown bark. Curious, he sauntered over and was surprised when he pulled out a book.

“The Botanic Garden,” he read. “What the devil is it doing here?”

Running his fingers along the lettering, Landon tried to guess how the book could have landed in a tree. It was slightly damp but otherwise undamaged by its exposure to the elements. Whoever had left it evidently did not respect books.

Flipping through the book, Landon found that it was filled with poetry about plants, or so it seemed.

“I’ve never seen plants described quite like this,” he mused, stopping on a page. “‘With rival love for fair Collinia sigh,

Knit the dark brow, and roll the unsteady eye.

With sweet concern the pitying beauty mourns,

And soothes with smiles the jealous pair by turns.’”

No, this wasn’t a typical book about plants, but it certainly was interesting. Landon could keep it and read it later when he had nothing else better to do. He was glad to be away from London and had waited with waning patience for Parliament’s recess and the subsequent end of the Season.

If he ever saw another woman drop her handkerchief at his feet or pretend to fall into his arms in a supposed faint… Landon didn’t know what he’d do. Not to mention dodging eager mothers with their debutante daughters in tow.

Landon’s time in London this year had by far been the worst to date, which he found rather amusing considering that gossip continued to plague his life.

An eerie scream sounded to his left, drawing his attention. Landon paused, listening for the cry again before moving forward. If one wasn’t knowledgeable about animals, they might think that the scream belonged to some otherworldly creature, but it was simply a fox communicating.

He slowed down when the animal’s cry stopped, cursing under his breath. Just a few more seconds, and he might have found the elusive creature! Landon wasn’t much of a tracker, not like his father. The old earl had been able to look at an animal’s tracks and tell which direction it had come from and where it was heading.

Landon had enjoyed hunting with his father, but he wasn’t such a keen huntsman. He had simply enjoyed spending time with his father and associated the sport with him.

Landon was better on a horse and any endurance sport, often spending his time outside in the sun. His skin remained dark as a result of the frequent sun exposure, but his pale brown skin with its gold undertone made his hazel eyes and white teeth stand out. Women found it exotic and fetching and often asked if he had something other than English mixed in his ancestry line. Landon usually assured them that he was as English as they come, but sometimes he would pretend to be a Spanish count until his mother would chide him and make him fess up to the lie.

There it was again, that eerie cry. Landon fought the urge to verbally express his excitement when a fox come into view. It looked behind before scurrying off towards a bush where it disappeared.

“I have you now,” Landon whispered, inching forward.

Hunting foxes was undoubtedly better than keeping company with people who liked to subtly throw in their two cents worth of speculation regarding his father’s past and now Landon’s current life. What could be said about a society that insisted on believing that the earl had been unfaithful to his wife? Landon believed that his father would never do such a thing, but that didn’t stop the gossip. How could a family be respected and disrespected at the same time?

No evidence had ever surfaced about the alleged affair, but false rumours were supposedly enough to convince some people. These people were the very same ones who smiled in Landon’s face and pointed fingers at his back when it was turned. How could anyone live in such an environment? If he hadn’t been wealthy, mothers would not have been so keen to associate their daughters with him.

“Hooray for money,” he murmured, his tone dripping with sarcasm.

There was no use getting too close to the bush for fear that the fox would make its escape before Landon had a chance to line up his shot. The fox hadn’t caught his scent yet because the wind was blowing in Landon’s favour, but there were no guarantees. That was probably what made hunting such a popular sport. One never knew what could happen from day to day, so it was that much more exhilarating and worth the first few missed shots when one made a kill.

Of course, when one became more skilled, there were fewer shots missed, but the thrill of the hunt was always present with the hunter.

“Come out, my beauty,” Landon whispered, getting to his knees.

He placed the book beside him, raising one knee as he adjusted his musket. The fox would have to come out eventually, or, if he was lucky, there might be more than one fox hiding in the bush. That would raise his odds of making a kill.

The same fox came into view again, and this time Landon picked up that it wasn’t as graceful as its kind typically was. It appeared to be walking with a limp, indicating a recent injury. Had someone tried to kill it and missed? Well, they probably weren’t going to be pleased once they knew that he had been the one to claim the honour of delivering the killing blow.

Landon shifted slightly, aiming his musket at the fox. It seemed a shame to kill such a beautiful creature, and perhaps there was some guilt to taking a life, but it was a sport at the end of the day. Hunting was one way of keeping the game population in check, so who was he to judge?

The fox moved, forcing Landon to change his position. His knee ended up partially leaning on the book, but it helped him settle his gun in place. With his finger resting on the trigger, Landon hardly drew breath as he kept the fox in sight. When he felt confident, he pulled the trigger but found his bullet hitting a tree behind the fox as his knee slipped on the book. The fox froze for just a second or two before diving back into the bush.

Cursing, Landon quickly reloaded his gun and went with an offensive attack. The fox now knew he was nearby and possibly guessed it wouldn’t be able to outrun a bullet, so hiding was its next option. 

Landon marched forward, keeping his eyes on the bush while he reloaded. He could just about see the fur of the cowering fox peeping through the little spaces in the bush. Unfortunately for the animal, this would be an easy kill for Landon. He wasn’t going to miss a second time.

Lifting his musket in place, he aimed it at the fox and slowly squeezed on the trigger but jerked when a woman unexpectedly ran in front of him, holding her arms out as though protecting the bush.

“Stop!” she yelled, her chest heaving.

If only he could.

 

Alexandria and Rowan should have come along for a walk! Today had to be the best mixture between warm sunshine and a cool breeze. It was neither too hot nor too cold, but just right.

Sylvia chuckled at the description, recalling how Rowan had complained about her porridge this morning. Apparently, it was too hot to eat immediately but quickly grew cold and developed a skin that tested her gag reflexes. Pastries were Rowan’s preferred breakfast because they were ‘just right,’ but her argument did not win the young woman a change of breakfast. Instead, their mother had charged her with being the family’s official ‘Porridge Tester.’ The Spencer matriarch certainly had a warped sense of humour at times.

“And they wonder where I get mine,” Sylvia mused.

It wasn’t a wet day today, which meant a good chance of returning home with relatively clean clothes. After ruining a dress, shawl, and a pair of shoes in one day, Sylvia had promised Betty that she wouldn’t go traipsing through the woods straight after rainfall. It had been a difficult promise to make, but the maid had kept Sylvia’s secret about Flame and helped to set him free without anyone ever knowing that the fox had lived in her room for several days.

Flame had been back in the wild for a few days now but had become so accustomed to her that he usually came out to greet her whenever she took a walk in the woods.

However, the fox hadn’t appeared yet, surprising Sylvia. Had he moved somewhere else? Sylvia doubted that. Flame was probably exploring the surrounding area. The woods extended quite a distance, bordering the land belonging to the Earl of Bath. The earl also had his own woods, and Sylvia had sometimes wandered there on occasion when she knew the man was not about. She had never met him, neither did she ever want to meet him.

Sylvia wasn’t keen on the affluent and titled English population, finding them frivolous, reckless, and disgustingly hedonistic. Living in excess showed a lack of willpower and common sense, which the Ton exhibited with wild abandon. Sylvia hoped a time would come when such behaviour would be scaled back, and righteousness restored once again in England. She didn’t consider herself as perfect or better than the next person, but goodness! Anything had to be better than the rumours of debauchery she sometimes heard Mrs Granger talk about with the maids.

The housekeeper had a sister who worked for one of the biggest gossipers of the Ton, Lady Warwick. The woman had no objection to sharing knowledge with her servants because it was the fastest way to spread gossip and have every household in England talking about sensationalised information. The baroness was also paid hefty sums to keep her tongue in her mouth and hold the secrets of some influential people close to her generous bosom.

Sylvia bent down until her face was buried in a clump of flowers. Their mild scent was intoxicating and might just be the thing to liven up the dinner table this evening. She put her hand to the stems to break off a few flowers, but paused as she second-guessed her idea. 

Sylvia might enjoy splashes of colour in the house, but her mother preferred ‘tame’ flowers that she could arrange in vases and dot about the home. Perhaps wildflowers would clash with the arrangements of roses, sweet peas, hydrangeas, and snapdragons that her mother had painstakingly put together to celebrate the last of her summer flower garden. Soon, it would be flowers like violas, snowdrops, winter Jasmine, and camellia bringing colour into their home.

Perhaps picking a few to give the servants would be the better option. They could put some in the kitchen and in their rooms to liven up their living space. Mr Carlisle probably wouldn’t appreciate what he considered ‘woman’s apparel’ in his private chamber, although Sylvia didn’t understand what flowers had to do with clothing. Flowers were flowers, and clothing was…Oh! Sylvia almost laughed when the answer dawned on her.

“I see!” she exclaimed. “Women attach flowers to their attire. Albeit fake flowers, but I suppose I see why he thinks they’re too feminine for him.”

Goodness! Why did some men have strong aversions to anything remotely feminine? Sylvia rather liked many things considered manly such as silk neckties and the ability to grow a moustache, although she did know of a woman or two who could grow one as well.

One of their female servants, Tally, had a few hairs on her chin that she always tried to hide by looking at the floor when talking to a person. Sylvia found the extra hair fascinating and always asked the shy maid if she could touch her chin. There was something about soft skin and the texture of facial hair that appealed to her.

Sylvia touched her own face, feeling the faint peach fuzz above her upper lip. She had once darkened it with coal and strutted about the house with her self-made moustache until her mother had stopped her and commanded Sylvia to wash it out. Women were apparently not supposed to have facial hair, which Sylvia found rather odd because they had hair everywhere else.

Was she the only one who thought so? Perhaps.

Feeling a little tired, Sylvia sat down on a moss-covered tree stump. She had probably been walking for over twenty minutes, yet Flame had not appeared. Somewhat disappointed, she crossed her legs and sat with her chin in her hands as she observed her environment.

Each day that passed brought a new change to the woods as autumn seeped into nature. Soon, the ground would be covered in gold or crimson leaves, and many trees would be bare until spring.

Sylvia had already noticed a flock of nightingales making their way south to warmer climates and she would likely see swallows, swifts, and cuckoos doing the same.

Sometimes, Sylvia imagined flying with them and heading to places like Africa where she could explore dense jungles and paint gorillas or lions. She had once seen a tiger in a cage and had felt sorry for the creature. No one deserved a life locked away without the hope of freedom.

The memory triggered Sylvia’s thoughts about the conversation she had had with her father some days ago. Marrying for anything less than love would make her feel like a caged animal. Why did her father think that a marriage of convenience was acceptable?

Sylvia understood that many women prioritised security over love, but she didn’t feel that desperate. There were other options to becoming someone’s little wife.

“I could write that book I’ve always wanted to write and become a novelist,” she told the trees, not feeling at all silly about it.

That was a respectable occupation, wasn’t it? Or what about becoming a companion or chaperone? Sylvia had the luxury of breeding to consider the position of governess, but her mother wasn’t too keen on the idea. Teaching was a noble profession as far as Sylvia was concerned, but perhaps she would grow bored of teaching the same mundane things she had learnt until she grew out of the schoolroom.

Needlework, deportment, art, music, history, globes, reading, writing and arithmetic were the things Sylvia had learned, but she had felt somewhat cheated when she discovered what her male cousins were learning off in boarding school.

Studying languages had been Sylvia’s favourite part of her school day. While most girls were reciting French grammar and phrases, her father had allowed her the chance to learn Greek and Latin as well. If only he was as generous about his marriage demands.

Feeling well-rested, Sylvia jumped off the stump and dusted her dress. The sun was still high in the sky, so she could walk a little further into the woods and still make it to the light noon meal the servants usually served in the drawing-room. Her mother used that time to make Sylvia and her sisters play on the pianoforte or practise dancing.

Today, Sylvia would insist on being the male suitor instead of playing the instrument. She had hurt two fingers on her left hand a few days ago and had kept it from her parents for fear they would put more constraints on her activities. Perhaps jumping out of trees would not be the sort of activity they would deem acceptable for a young lady.

Strolling along a footpath, Sylvia noticed bees and butterflies hovering over little clumps of yellow-green flowers. She watched them for a little while and moved on, not wanting to disturb them too much. Perhaps on another day, she might have sat very still on the ground and allowed the butterflies to come to her, but Sylvia really wanted to see Flame and to eat a few blackberries on her way home.

She had seen dozens of bramble bushes along the way and looked forward to picking big, juicy blackberries and helping Cook turn them into cakes, crumbles, and jams. It was the one time that Betty didn’t mind the stains because she benefited from Sylvia foraging for the delicious berries.

“Wild raspberries, sloes, rosehips, elderberries…” Sylvia listed, her mouth already watering. “I’ll probably eat the lot before they reach the kitchen!”

Perhaps she could sell a bucketful of the raspberries to Mrs Rushmore for some of that pretty material she had seen hanging in the woman’s shop window the other day. Sylvia had ideas to turn it into a lovely dress and wear it to the harvest celebration that the farmers’ wives organised every year.

Sylvia soon came to an abrupt standstill when she heard a shot reverberate through the woods. Birds took off out of the trees, their wings beating wildly amid their frightened squawks. Had the hunters returned from London and begun their season already?

Sylvia wasn’t sure where the sound had come from, but she had to run to safety or risk getting shot. She took off without a thought to direction, brushing past branches and foliage.

She came to a bit of a clearing and immediately noticed a man loading his musket. What was he shooting at? Wildly looking about, she gave a soundless cry when she recognised Flame cowering in the bushes. The poor thing had managed to dodge the first shot, but he wouldn’t be so lucky the second time.

The man got into position and pointed his musket straight at the fox, his arms steady. Sylvia didn’t think twice as she ran with all her might, ignoring the sharp twigs and stones that dug into her feet through her thin slippers. Oh heavens, let her make it in time!

Was it just her, or could she hear the man’s finger squeeze the trigger? Terrified, Sylvia ran even faster, her chest burning with every step. This could lead to her death, but she threw herself in front of the fox anyway, flinging her arms out.

“No!” she screamed, her voice hoarse but loud.

The hunter jerked, and a shot went off, turning Sylvia’s knees to jelly. Had she just been shot?

---

“Saved By A Lady” is an Amazon Best-Selling novel, check it out here!

Sylvia Spencer loves living in the countryside and upon coming across an injured fox, her calling comes to life as she nurses it back to health. When a hunter is after it, Sylvia rushes to its aid, much to the hunter’s surprise. She obviously cannot help but immediately dislike him, but despite being wary of the man, he talks her into a picnic. Strangely intrigued by him, Sylvia meets Landon day after day in the woods… However, her duty of marrying an appropriate suitor is wandering above their growing connection.

Can these two opposites be brought together in harmony?

Despite their clashing opinions, Landon’s kindness and willingness to learn manage to win Sylvia over. Nevertheless, this wonderful relationship is put to a test when he is taken aback by her disdain for affluence and class. Seeing no other choice in order to maintain his special encounters with Sylvia, Landon decides to keep his identity secret. Despite being caught up in their euphoric moments though, the exposure of his deceit is lurking around the corner…

If only lies were the only obstacle threatening to ruin their chance at happiness though…

Just when Sylvia lets her guard down, and Landon considers a future with her, a woman with her eye on Landon does all she can to make him hers. Sylvia and Landon are pressed on every side and struggle to remain together, but their love is truly tested when the truth becomes inevitable, and accusations are thrown. Can they overcome their challenges and be together, or will their love become just a heartache?

“Saved By A Lady” is a historical romance novel of approximately 80,000 words. No cheating, no cliffhangers, and a guaranteed happily ever after.

Get your copy from Amazon!