The Deathly Portent Read Free

lady’s long-suffering companion. Or if she had grasped it, she had forgotten it within minutes, enlivening every attempt at conversation with a refrain that at last alienated even his wife’s wide tolerance.
    “You should think of getting married again, Ottilia. You cannot be mourning your lost love forever.”
    In vain had his poor Tillie, virtually shouting into the old lady’s ear trumpet, protested her new state. It proved of no avail to point Francis out as her husband, for whenever hewalked into a room where she was, Lady Edingale invariably took immediate exception to his presence.
    “Who is this? What’s that? Francis, you say? Know him? Of course I don’t know him. Never seen the fellow before in my life.”
    Nevertheless, it had been foolhardy to set out in these conditions, despite the early promise of the sun. Annoyed with himself for giving in to Tillie’s insistence against his better judgement, Francis was aware of being driven to vent his spleen unfairly. He moderated his tone.
    “Tillie, I’m hungry and hot and frustrated.”
    A faint smile flickered on her lips. “And sadly out of temper.” She lifted the gloved hand in which her collection of wildflowers was still clutched and rested it lightly against his chest. “Could you truly have endured another such night of creeping about in the dark?”
    Francis felt his irritation melting away. Lady Edingale’s steadfast refusal to acknowledge their marriage had resulted in furtive assignations in either one of their allotted separate bedchambers. His fingers came up to grasp her hand as he lifted a teasing eyebrow.
    “To tell you the truth, I was rather enjoying the romance of it all.”
    He was rewarded with the gurgle that never failed to affect him.
    “You should have mentioned that at the outset,” said Tillie. “Such an argument might well have persuaded me to remain.”
    “What, and miss this adventure?”
    “How well you know me!”
    He had to laugh. “Wretch!”
    Tillie leaned up, and Francis obligingly kissed her on the lips.
    “Am I forgiven?”
    He gave an elaborate sigh. “I suppose I must be magnanimous.”
    “Especially considering I am the newest of brides and entitled to a deal more latitude than might normally be the case.”
    “Latitude? I am more like to end by locking you up and forbidding you to leave the house under any circumstances.”
    “I should call on your friend George to throw a rope ladder up to my window,” returned his wife with scarcely a tremor in her voice. But the mischief in her eyes drove away the last of his irritation.
    “Is that the best you can do?” he scoffed. “For shame, Tillie. And here I thought I would provide you with puzzle enough to tax your ingenuity to the utmost.”
    Before she could retaliate, a hail from behind drew Francis’s attention. Releasing his wife, he turned to see his groom reentering the main road from the little lane into which Ryde’s steps had been directed by the local whom Francis had earlier accosted.
    “Ah, there you are at last.”
    A s Ryde crossed the road towards them, Ottilia noted a look of perturbation in the man’s face.
    “All is not well, I think,” she murmured.
    Her husband cast her a frowning look but made no comment, instead turning his attention back to the groom. “Had you no success? Don’t say there is no blacksmith at this village after all.”
    A faint smile twisted Ryde’s lips as he came up. It struck Ottilia as grim. A dour fellow at the best of times, the groom was nevertheless, so Francis assured her, one of his household’s greatest assets. He had served his master from Lord Francis Fanshawe’s earliest years and, like his valet Diplock, had followed him through his soldiering adventures. Ottilia had learned already to trust the man’s judgement.
    “There’s a blacksmith, all right, m’lord,” he responded, removing his hat and wiping his hand across his grizzled and sweaty head. “Only he’s dead.”
    Ottilia saw