Susan Speers Read Free Page A

challenge. “Marchmont,” he pronounced. “You’re on my land.”
    “I’m not,” Dickon protested. “Marchmonts don’t own every acre hereabouts.”
    “You’re ignorant.” Jeremy dismissed Dickon. “Ignorant and insignificant. Come along, Clarissa.” He pulled me by the hand. I had only a moment to smile at Dickon, before Jemmy dragged me back into the woods, away from the friendly boy he termed an intruder.
    *****
     
    I spent more hours at Willow’s little cottage every day. Jeremy’s quest began to exhaust my good nature and his obsession frightened me a little. Our tramps had only one purpose now. He ignored Hethering’s other riches. Willow welcomed me kindly and would not hear a cross word against him.
    “He’s afraid he’ll be sent away before he finds it,” she told me. Daft or not, Willow had a fey wisdom that often saw what others missed. She poured more tea into my cup and passed a generous plate of cakes.
    “I don’t think the lost folly exists.” Several helpings of pastry had not dimmed my resentment.
    “I think it may exist,” she said, her green eyes closed to slits, “but not where he expects to find it.” She said no more despite my sudden plague of questions. If we found the fifth folly, Jem would be at peace, and things could return to normal.
    One lazy afternoon, I played with Belle on my bridge, humming a little tune, lost in the slow buzz of dragonflies and the heated torpor of the air. Jem had unearthed crates of forgotten papers and could not be enticed away from library. I wondered if he cared more for the hunt, now, than the prize.
    “Cla — ri — i — ssa!”
    Jeremy’s shout broke into my reverie about a dark prince’s who rescued me from peril. His footsteps pounded across the bridge. I left Belle to sun her linen clad body on the wide rail and waved. Jem was quite a sight. Dust matted his black hair and grimed his face. His clothes were filthy, but his expression held pure joy and I smiled at his happiness. His smiles were so rare and so sweet.
    “Jemmy, what?”
    He thrust to catch his breath and thrust an old pasteboard folder at me. There was a wisp of cobweb stuck to its string and I backed away.
    “Clarry, there’s a map,” he gasped, and pushing me aside, opened the folder, shoving its length along the rail in front of me.
    I had only a moment to appreciate the delicate watercolor images of a long ago Hethering, when he jogged it impatiently with a grubby finger. “Look here,” and disaster struck.
    The folder’s edge knocked Belle from her perch and I screamed “No!” as she plummeted. I threw my body over the rail to grasp at her skirt. Jemmy saw me lose my balance and dropped his precious find to grab my waist. In a slow, terrible motion, the maps slipped from their folder, and they wafted down on the thick air into the water.
    Belle’s splash didn’t alert the under gardener, but my scream and Jeremy’s anguished howl did. By the time Jem launched the rickety rowboat and dived off it into the weedy depths, our butler informed my father.
    I was running back and forth at the pond’s edge, screaming after Jem, certain he would drown. He surfaced over and over, tiring from his lengthy dives and struggles to kick free of the weeds. Belle had sunk like a stone and the maps, heavy with water, disappeared before he could reach them. I’ll never forget his last dive. He was so long under water I was certain he’d been caught and was drowning.
    I stripped off my shoes and stockings in a panic. I wasn’t a good swimmer, but I was going to plunge in after him.
    Then there was a ripple in the water, and hand over hand, Jemmy pulled himself through the weeds to the shallows, where he lay on his back gasping for breath, a sodden bundle at his belt.
    He’d saved the maps.
    Tears blinded me as I pulled him up out of the muck. My throat was as raw as if I had fought for every breath with him.
    “Oh, Jemmy.” I knelt beside him when his legs gave way.