CHAPTER 7

When she slid somberly from Roxton’s adoring arms, from the warmth of his big bed, early the following morning, his pensive eyes followed her every move. He lay still on the mattress, knowing he should be preparing for his own busy day, but instead he tried to gauge her mood. Even off the plateau the woman managed to perplex Roxton to his wits end.

Later, after she had bathed, Roxton continued to watch as Marguerite moved through his room in her robe, a towel drying her damp hair. He tried to reach her, calling for her, advising her in a way that always brought about a reaction.

Marguerite merely half-smiled at the light-hearted comment he made. She then stood and stared for a time before the door to her own adjoining bedroom. Hesitantly, Marguerite turned the knob and looked inside. “Was this closed this morning when we first awoke?“ she asked, disturbed.

“Yes.” Roxton replied. Marguerite must have closed it before she joined him last night.

Distracted, she backed up and sat on the edge of his bed, still staring inside her semi-darkened chamber, drying her hair.

Roxton gazed to where her focus was directed and wished he could get inside of Marguerite’s head. It was as if she was trying to determine something of great significance but could not make up her mind if it was really as important as she thought it was.

“John,” she whispered softly, nearly hypnotically, “have you ever had a nightmare that seemed so real that you thought it just might …?” she trailed, still staring in the room.

Roxton sat up and gently placed his hands on her shoulders. It was time for his own soak, the water wouldn’t stay warm forever, but Marguerite was so tense and her mind was in such a distant place - where he could not envision - that he hesitated to speak. He ran a hand over her taut back, rubbed her shoulders and gently caressed her damp hair. “Is something wrong, Marguerite?” he asked, “Did something happen while I was away?”

Shaking herself, appearing a little alarmed that he should imagine such a thing (real or not) Marguerite suddenly smiled and quickly attempted to dispel his fears. She turned on the bed to look at his concerned expression. Anywhere but on the plateau a dream was just a dream, no matter how many times it haunted your slumbering moments. Marguerite told Roxton she had the day on her mind. “Just nerves, darling. It’s going to be busy and chaotic.”

“Are you sure?” he urged, knowing her better than she thought.

She put on a face of mocking indifference, “As long as I can avoid your many past girlfriends I’ll be fine, Lord Roxton.” she assured with a somewhat forced tease. She then patted his hands.

Her nervousness did not escape him yet the fact she was trying to assuage his fears meant Marguerite was returning to herself. He was a little less concerned but also disappointed.

Roxton knew there was more. Perhaps, when she was ready, Marguerite would reveal what she was hiding but, for now, he was - to some extent -satisfied. Pleased to see her smile. Roxton was about to drolly ask Marguerite who it was she was talking about, what girlfriends could she possibly mean? But before he could speak she quickly got up off the bed.

Making a decision, Marguerite entered into her own room to finish getting ready for the day. “Chop-chop, Roxton. We have a fox hunt to win today.” she called. “I expect to see a new trophy on our mantel by the end of the day ...” Marguerite trailed off as she opened her closet doors and stepped inside.

Roxton’s smile lessoned now that she was out of his sight. Honestly, it made sense for Marguerite to be in a world of her own, with thoughts of the hectic day to come. It was her first large function as “Lady of the House” -- and it was opened to the public. All eyes would be on her. Indeed, her whole demeanor was reasonable under the circumstances, probably giving her a fitful nightmare last night, although she would never admit it. He would have been thoroughly satisfied to let his inner disquiet rest but there was only one problem …

She tossed her hair.

It was a simple thing - really - but something he understood as a sign of deep torment; far more serious than mere worry.

Earlier, upon waking, Roxton had been delighted to find Marguerite in his bed, her long, supple limbs wrapped about his, her head on his shoulder and a palm laying on his bare chest. He decided she must have roused during the night, saw she was alone, and came to the master bedroom to snuggle close during the cool evening. They had been parted far too long to be separated during the nights so soon.

Never one to dismiss an opportunity, Roxton gently touched her temple with his lips then moved to her inviting sleep-warm cheek.

Yet, when Marguerite had awakened, after some gentle and sensuous coaxing from him, her expression had grown anxious and distant. She looked up at him, nearly startled, but then - realizing who she was with - Marguerite caressed the slight stubble of his chin and kissed him deeply.

Soon, they were making love and any concerns he might have had at that moment, any warning flags that his mind’s eye saw, quickly vanished as her body molded to his own. She maneuvered herself atop him, fervent and nearly impatient, calling for him with her moans and movements.

“Marguerite … Marguerite ….” Roxton whispered her name ardently, helping to lift the night dress over her head, never tiring of the sight and feel of her body, touching her, his beloved’s hands guiding his own ... His body, mind and soul feeling all those incredible sensations only she, in all her feminine uniqueness, could bring.

Their love-making was hot and sweetly intense; he welcomed her fervor with a fiery enthusiasm of his own. How had he done without this for so long? How had he managed to stay in India for months and not go mad, knowing she wasn’t there for him to love?

Then, crying-out his name, she tossed her hair. The only time Marguerite ever tossed her hair during the act of passion was when she was hopelessly distressed. It was one of those little discoveries couples learn about one another after months of living and sharing intimacy together.

It happened initially after a verbal fight they had a few weeks after their wedding. It was over something silly his Uncle had said. Marguerite felt his comment an insult but Roxton brushed it off at the time. He could see his dismissal had hurt her and after a few days, reconsidering, Roxton agreed to have a talk with Andrew. Roxton and Marguerite made loved that evening and, as they piqued, she tossed her hair. They had made up but he sensed even then that she was deeply troubled.

The second time it happened was the last evening he and she discussed his voyage to India … and then again this morning.

For some women it might be natural to use such a movement when abandoning themselves to their lover. Marguerite’s approach, however, was different. When they found themselves in this position she always leaned forward, allowing him to caress her face with his hands and lips and she would allow Roxton to push her hair away from her face, pursuing the mane with profoundly affection strokes -- and he would thrill at her generosity, allowing him this reward, to fondle her hair, dragging his fingers through it -- but not now. At least, not at that moment.

Only when they had reached completion, when she lay atop him with her head resting on his upper chest, when they heard the birds chirping the morning in, as he lifted his hands to stroke her smooth back, to run gentle but firm fingers over the birthmark on her shoulder blade, did he touch her hair.

He could have swore he heard her sob, that her body had trembled against him. And then he heard her whisper something but could not make out what she said.

In retrospect, as he bathed, listening to Marguerite in her own bedroom humming something which reminded him of an old Gaelic tune, Roxton realized what his adored spouse had murmured.

She had said: “You deserve so much more ….”

***

She was gorgeous as she made her entrance from the top of their long staircase.

Of course Marguerite was always beautiful but now she was a vision in red, matching the color of his riding pinques. Her hair was braided tastefully to the back of her head, an elaborate design one of her maids helped her with, and a red studded headband - which was all the rage these days - was also present. Marguerite wore it much like a tiara. Her dress was adorned with ruby-like stones that shimmered when light touched them. The dress itself came down just past her knees but five inches was added by an abundance of thin red and white fringe. It nearly sparkled as she descended.

She had out-done herself -- and he told her so only fifteen minutes previously.

“You like it then?” she had asked him prior to her entrance, with a smile that spoke of a common and comfortable repartee between them. He came up behind Marguerite in her bedroom as she was clipping a small ruby earring into place. She saw his approach in the full length mirror she was standing before and smiled.

Roxton was pleased that she seemed a bit more like her old self as the morning progressed. “Dazzling.” he said, honestly, and gently kissed her neck.

“Good, I’m glad you like it because it cost you a fortune.” She turned to him then and ran her hands over the lapels of his jacket. “And you look quite the dashing gentleman, all dressed up for the hunt, Lord Roxton.”

He chuckled, “Well, I am glad you think so. I know it’s tradition but I always feel a little foolish in this get up.” he said.

“Give you an old hat, an open collar shirt and a worn pair of jodhpurs. That makes you happy.”

“True enough.”

The couple looked at one another for awhile, smiling, remembering both the love and tension this morning. They then reluctantly broke apart. Guests awaited.

“I’ll go down first and give you a chance to make an entrance.” Roxton said.

“Now, what makes you think I want to make an entrance?” she asked, mock offended.

“Don’t you? “ He chuckled when she hesitated, “Then do it for me. I want to show you off.”

“Like some sort of trophy to …”

“Marguerite, you know better than that”

She winked at him, “So sensitive, John.”

Slightly sheepish, he nodded, “Sorry.”

Marguerite reached forward and touched his firm chin, now shaven and smooth. A pang of sorrow and near nostalgia over-came to her. There were times when Marguerite really missed the disheveled Roxton from the plateau.

***

“Next to my faithful steed, Rasputin, your mount is indeed the strongest, John.” Sherman Travers, a fair haired and lanky aristocrat called over to Roxton as he made his first appearance on the bottom floor common room.

The double doors to the front of the estate were splayed wide. Men, women, children and servants were moving about as if the Roxton estate was hosting a carnival. And, in a sense, that was what it was.

It was a beautiful, bright day and the estate was bustling in a sea of scarlet pinques, tall ebony hats and high black boots. Men and women were talking, looking about at the course, calculating and - no doubt - placing bets on the winner. In the distance Roxton could hear the hounds being prepared, possibly presented with the scent of the fox as the riders organized themselves for the sport to come.

In the far distance a misty fog lay at the trunks of brown and yellow leafed trees. The route would take them into the outskirts of those trees and, if the fox was motivated enough, even further.

“Travers, both you and I know that Thunder is the best mount in the territory.” Lord Andrew Roxton boasted, “And John is one fine rider. If he doesn’t win the prize he will certainly come damn close.”

Roxton shook his friend’s hand in greeting as his uncle spoke. He had forgotten how competitive Travers and Lord Andrew were but Travers had room to brag. Before Roxton left for South America the man had incredible success with three of his last five hunts. There were rumors of cheating but there always were with high powered men who were exchanging large sums of money.

“Possibly but remember, old boy, John hasn’t been around to work with Thunder for a couple months. That puts him at a disadvantage.” Travers then looked through the open doors to the stables in the distance and sighed. “But you are so right, Lord Roxton.” He spoke once again to Uncle Andrew. His steed is superior in every other way.” he admitted.

“Well, you have a good point too, Sherman.” John inserted, “Rasputin is the horseflesh to beat. We will just have to see how it goes on the field today.”

“John,” Challenger approached, cheerful, as Travers and Lord Andrew parted. He was not dressed for riding, never having a taste for the sport, and wore a handsome tweed suit. “I want to wish you well.” He extended his hand. “Be careful out there.”

“Thank you, George.”

“By the way, I want to ask you something …”

It was only a few moments later that Lady Roxton made her way down the staircase, producing an impressive entrance as she intended. Both men and women made approving noises and gestures as the statuesque Marguerite descended.

And, of course, Aunt Nora was the first to fully voice her appreciation. “My dear, you look perfectly lovely!” she announced and a quiet applause rippled through the house.

“Thank you, Nora.” Marguerite smiled brightly and kissed her softly on the cheek.

“Indeed!” Lady Clara, tall and slender wife to Roxton’s cousin Stephen piped as the others watching went about their own conversations again. “Although you do look slightly tired, Marguerite. Did you have trouble sleeping last night, dear?” Clara was dressed for the hunt, sporting her own pinques, and a somewhat superior (and jealous) attitude that Marguerite had grown used to but nevertheless loathed.

Marguerite’s tone lowered slightly as she tried hard to keep the sarcasm from her voice. “I slept like a baby, Clara. But thank you for your concern.”

“Well, your health is always our greatest worry … dear.” the woman purred, patting the back of her blond head, just underneath the riding hat. She then moved on.

Marguerite glowered, looking after her. Lady Clara knew exactly what to say to get under her skin. She was not the worst of the lot but Clara, like the others, knew something Marguerite wanted hidden and they loved to needle her.

“Oh, never mind her, darling. Clara is feeling insecure.” Aunt Nora touched Marguerite’s shoulder as they watch the woman talking to guests and, generally, working the room.

“That creature has never been insecure.”

“Don’t let her fool you. Remember, before you returned home with John she and Stephen and whatever child they might have together would have inherited John’s fortune.”

“They may not but their child will. They should be happy with that.”

“Not if you and John have a child.” A smile spread across Nora’s face, “Now Marguerite, about that …”

“Aunt Nora …” Marguerite’s teeth clenched.

In a conspiring tone Nora leaned in and spoke, “The time is now, Marguerite. John is home and if you and he make an announcement by Christmas ….”

“And that‘s it, right?” Marguerite suddenly hissed at Nora. “That is the only contribution I can make that matters?”

Taken aback, Nora blinked and stood numbly, staring at Marguerite.

Normally she would not have allowed her temper to get the better of her during a time such as this but Marguerite was nervous enough without having to contend with John’s meddlesome Aunt. There came a time when the air needed to be cleared and, as mad as it seemed, this was it. Marguerite glanced around to make sure she and Nora were speaking privately. “I have had enough, Nora. You keep insisting that John and I have a baby. It’s not going to happen. I don’t want children. I … I don’t like them. John Roxton understands this … so do not bring it up again. Do I make myself clear?”

Her tone was too harsh and Marguerite regretted her irritability the moment it surfaced. Nora’s eyes were wide. The old dear truly meant no harm …

“I’m sorry.” Nora recoiled and was contrite.

“Oh, Nora I …“ Marguerite could see the ache in her eyes and felt heartsick. “Nora …” How to explain it to her; the fear and self revulsion. Aunt Nora did not understand. How could she when Marguerite had not told she or any of the others another of her many secrets, one she hoped to keep from the Roxtons, particularly her cherished husband, indefinitely.

“I’ll go see if either Andrew or Stephen are in need of my help …” And she was off before Marguerite could apologize.

“Hell.” Lady Roxton cursed under her breath, watching as the wounded matron moved through the double doors to their outside veranda. Nora was her only real friend in the house and now she had alienated her. ‘I’ll make it up to you later.’, she silently promised.

With a sigh, she sought and met Roxton’s eyes. He was with his Uncle Andrew and another man, not quite able to break away. She smiled at him from across the room and he nodded, acknowledging his wife and sending silent signals of affection.

“Marguerite!” A giddy Gilda Sleet came from her right and called in a slightly shrill voice. Her dress was frilly, colorful and a bit too tight. The ostrich feather in her headband threatened to disfigure anyone who was unaware and ventured too close. “I’ve never been to a fox hunt. Isn’t this exciting?!” Abruptly, Gilda grasped Marguerite’s hand as if the two were old friends, sharing an adventure.

“It’s very intriguing and dare I say a little ostentatious?” Marguerite smiled tiredly with raised eyebrows. She actually liked Gilda, despite her disproportioned background -- or perhaps because of it. The woman was a little too loud and some might even say she was a bit common but she kept Harold in line. Marguerite found it amusing how Gilda would tell her man to “straighten up” after he had drank one or two too many nightcaps … even though she was often a bit tipsy herself. Or if Harold were to tease a family member, she would elbow him, telling her intended not to be so “irksome”.

“Come here, I want to show you something.” Gilda urged and pulled Marguerite several meters to the entrance of the drawing room.

Marguerite looked over her shoulder to see if Nora was somewhere close.

“She arrived this morning. Do you know who she is?”

Ambivalent, Marguerite looked where Gilda directed. The room was empty except for a lone woman. She appeared to be around Marguerite’s age although not quite as striking. She was tall, blondish and wore a dusty pink dress with belled sleeves and a pearl trimmed collar. The hat-cap she wore was the same color pink with sheer netting over her eyes. She was looking out a large window, at the events in the garden, while puffing convulsively on a cigarette placed in a long silver holder. “She is quite elegant.” Marguerite conceded.

“And she looks a bit sad.” Gilda added as if appraising a mistreated puppy. “She’s a writer. Mystery books. I’ve read a couple and she told me that she finds inspiration in old estates like this.”

Marguerite stared at Gilda a moment actually a little surprised that the woman read books. “The Roxtons invited her?” she asked.

“She’s an old friend of the family.”

“What’s her name?”

The woman turned, obviously knowing she was being talked about. “My name is Agatha Christie*.” she said.

Marguerite walked into the room and lifted a hand to take the woman’s in introduction. Gilda followed right behind. “Forgive me, Mrs. Christie.” Marguerite said.

“Not at all, Lady Roxton. I should have introduced myself much earlier, rather than hiding myself away like this.”

“I read The Secret Adversary** and it was very good. I like the idea of a husband and wife detective team. I‘m not certain that has been done before.”

“Thank you.” She smiled in appreciation.

“Is Colonel Christie with you?” Marguerite then asked and grew puzzled when the woman averted her gaze and took a long, thoughtful puff on her cigarette, “No, I am afraid he and I have separated.”

“Oh, I’m so sorry. Excuse me.”

“Not at all.” her smiled returned, “I suppose I came here to relax and enjoy the scenery. Sometimes the city can be a bit daunting, reminding us of matters we would rather put in the past.”

“Marguerite loves London.” Gilda suddenly piped, “I’m sure she would live there full time if Lord Roxton would agree to it.”

Marguerite shot the woman a look that clearly indicated that Gilda should keep quiet.

“Isn’t that always the way,” Mrs. Christie chuckled, ironically. “Those in the country want to live in the city and those of us in the city are eager to get to the country.”

“I take it you are not going to hunt with us today?” Marguerite asked.

“No, I just came to watch …”

“… and to get ideas.” Gilda added.

She smiled indulgently at Gilda, “I recently spent some time in Italy and am considering a new detective.”

“An Italian?” Gilda cooed, “You are already writing books featuring that delightful Frenchmen. …”

“Belgian***.” Mrs. Christie corrected, “It still needs some work; may have something to do with an estate and a séance gone bad but I’m not certain yet.”

“Do you believe in the occult, Mrs. Christie?” Marguerite abruptly - possibly too quickly - asked.

“No, not especially. Why, do you, Lady Roxton?”

Marguerite paused and met her eyes before saying, “No, of course not.”

Gilda looked from one lady to the other. She could have added to the conversation but instinct told her it might be a good idea to keep her mouth shut this time.

****

Marguerite remained in the drawing room even after Mrs. Christie left with Gilda, who was dying to show her off to a few of Clara’s society sisters. She did not envy Agatha Christie the women’s cloying and questions but supposed she was used to it. Fame had its rewards but also its disadvantages.

Lady Roxton looked out of the large window and watched her guests move about, talking, finishing breakfast, and preparing themselves for the hunt which was to start in the next half hour. It was a fun and chaotic atmosphere and she knew she should be apart of it but felt this moment of solitude was needed. Marguerite was not sure why she felt as she did. Despite her blunder with Aunt Nora everything so far was going quite well. Yet, a sliver of trepidation still sliced through her mind.

Perhaps if it hadn’t come so close to Roxton’s return home, from her finding he had been injured, and her own nightmares, she would feel more relaxed. But now she could only wish the day was over.

John sensed something was not right, that she was keeping secrets from him again, but Marguerite just wasn’t certain how to approach him right now. Eventually, he would have to know she relented -- not just of her nightmares but also what had happened before and after Rosetta had visited.

As her husband and loved one John had the right to know. Yet, she feared what he might think or do once she told him what had happened. A vague recollection of her discussing Master Xan with Roxton a couple years ago remained with Marguerite. He had been so angry and she feared their relationship would never mend during that bleak period. In retrospect, Marguerite found that wretchedly amusing considering there was a time in her life when having Roxton think the worst of her was exactly what she wanted. That seemed like a million years ago.

Marguerite watched as Aunt Rose walked across the well manicured lawn, parking her ample bottom on a stone bench where a few other polite society ladies were discussing the events of the day. She could not hear what they were saying but she could see Rose’s expression as a few of the women’s grandchildren approached, asking for sweets or some other favor. Rose was not exactly annoyed at the intrusion but seemed a little melancholy. She had never married and Marguerite wondered if that now weighed heavily on the woman. No husband, no children, no grandchildren …

And Marguerite wondered, however briefly, if she and John might feel that same regret one day. He loved her and Marguerite had no doubts about their union. She never would have agreed to marry him if there was a possibility it was wrong … She most certainly loved Roxton in return. It had taken awhile to manifest itself but it was absolute. Yet, over the years would that really be enough? If she failed to produce an heir for him would John feel cheated?

Marguerite and Roxton had gone over this very question early on, even before he had asked her to marry him, and even though Roxton swore she would be all he would ever want and need, Marguerite still had her doubts.

Her heart grew heavy. Perhaps this is why she had such odd nightmares and had seen …

She gulped, recognizing the voice. It couldn’t be. Not here and now.

Slowly, she turned. A flicker caught her eye, growing into the shape of a man -- and her teeth began to chatter.

He stood tall and sure, not four meters away from her. His chest, as it always was in her nightmares, was splashed red from the gun shot wound which had killed him.

“Why are you doing this?” she implored. “You cannot be real!”

And the vision faded away, as if it had never been there at all.

Marguerite’s breathing grew heavy and for a moment she felt dizzy enough to lose her footing. But there was no time for it -- She needed to keep her senses. William, or whatever it was, had left her with a warning Marguerite could not disregard. “John …” Marguerite could feel a panic overcome her. The last time she had seen him he was walking up to where the others were organizing for the hunt, his horse settled and raring to go. “JOHN.”

Marguerite ran from the room to the stables.

***

Thunder stood right beside Roxton on the outside of the paddock. He lifted a hand to gently rub his steed’s long patrician nose as the others began to leave the enclosure and move to the starting line. “No, I don’t think so.” he spoke to his company.

“I know it sounds crazy, John. But it’s important . Please ….”

“You know, I think you’ve gone completely over the bend his time.”

In his hands Challenger held a strange apparatus consisting of wires and suction cups, extending from a small black box. “It will monitor both your heart rate and that of the horse. It’s science, John. Nothing to fear here.“

“Yes, you told me that before on the plateau -- just before I received a massive electrical charge through my fingertips.”

Challenger rolled his eyes, “Have a backbone, man. Gallwin and I worked on it all night together. It truly is a brilliant device if I do say so myself.”

“Mathew Gallwin? Our electrician?”

“The man is an electronic genius, quite before his time. He’s had a little troubled financially, I believe, but someone I am proud to call a peer. Now John, if you will just …” Challenger moved forward once again.

“NO, George. I have a hunt to go on and don’t want to be your guinea pig, thank you very much. Why don‘t you try one of the other more guilable riders?”

“You were a lot more audacious on the plateau.” Challenger huffed, his disappointment obvious.

“Sorry.” Roxton looked down at his feet but was more amused then insulted.

“Is Challenger playing mad scientist again?” Marguerite approached, deceptively calm, from their right.

Roxton glanced in her direction and blinked, surprised to see his adored spouse. Despite the humorous question Marguerite seemed a bit nervous although, to everyone but him, she hid it well. “He wants to turn me into a Frankenstein’s monster+.”

“If you will excuse me, Marguerite,” Challenger sulked, pulling the contraption to his chest, “ I need to find a man with a bit more intestinal fortitude.” He snapped then turned on his heel, walking away.

He left his friend chuckling behind him.

After a moment, Marguerite looked up at Roxton and found she could not speak.

Sensing her apprehension he started for her, “Can’t stand to keep me out of your sight for even a few minutes, My Dear?” His smile was gentle but he could easily see she was now visibly distressed, “What is wrong, Marguerite?”

“You’re going to think I’m mad.” she whispered, looking from him to the tall green hedges near the paddock..

“You? The sanest woman I know? Hardly.”

“John …” she gulped slightly and returned her focus to him, “I don’t want you to go on this hunt today.”

He looked into her eyes for a moment, gauging her, thinking it must be some strange joke, “Weren’t you the one this morning expecting a cup on the mantel?” he asked, confused and trying to see the wit.

She grasped his hands to emphasize the seriousness of her words, “John, you once told me that I have a great sense of self-preservation and that if I felt worried about something then everyone should. Please believe me when I say I have a VERY bad feeling about this hunt. Roxton I …”

He squeezed her hands gently, “Marguerite, I’ve been on over thirty fox hunts, both here and on other estates. You have nothing to worry about …” He faltered when he realized her eyes were growing red, misting over when she saw her appeal was apparently being heard by a deaf man.

“John, listen to me!” she said in a voice now ripe with frustration and emotion. “Don’t ride today. You can hate me later but I need you to do as I say.”

Roxton stared. She was pleading and she was so upset and grave … “All right, Marguerite. I won’t ride today.” What else could he say?

She pulled herself into his arms and hugged Roxton firmly, “Thank you. John, I’ll try to explain it to you later, when matters have calmed down on the estate but - for now - just put it down as one of many foibles of your strange new wife. Tell the others that if you feel you must …” Now she looked warily up at him, relieved.

He cupped her neck with his left hand and caressed her cheek with his thumb, “Marguerite, if not riding in some showy fox hunt is a way to make you content, to cause that beautiful face to light up like Big Ben at Christmastime, I will miss a hundred or more if you ask me to.”

Then she did smile for him and relaxed as he held her firmly.

Thunder whinnied beside them.

**

There were still a few clusters of men and women wandering about, the hunt now called by one of the judges for ten minutes, but most were ready to see the show. Marguerite followed the tall hedge back to the observation area stationed only a few meters before the courtyard in front of the estate. The guests, who were not riding, were either seated, drinking tea and munching on breakfast cakes, or standing, talking and waiting anxiously for the hunt to begin.

However, when Marguerite passed by a group of ladies, seated in a circle and finishing their morning tea, she could not help but stop and listen in. The hedge blocked them from seeing her which was good, as far as Marguerite was concerned, or they might have suspended their conversation. And it was such an interesting topic too.

They were talking about the new Lady Roxton.

“She’s lovely and it’s about time John married.” said a pretty auburn haired woman who appeared to be in her late twenties. She was happily sipping on a glass of champagne, enjoying her breakfast despite the threat of inebriation..

A thin, pale girl in a strange multi-colored hat spoke in a rather high pitched tone, “But she is so mysterious. They say she’s an heiress but no one really knows anything else about her.” The young woman held her teacup with a pinky-finger extended and reminded Marguerite of an upper-class hopeful, trying very hard to fit in with her social group but, instead, she came off as just a silly girl.

“Heiress or not, it’s been said that Lord Roxton had to pay off her debts.” an older woman, possibly the girl’s mother, commented. Her voice was an unpleasant rasp.

“Do you think she gambles?” asked the girl, leaning forward, anxious for some interesting gossip.

‘If they only knew.’ Marguerite thought.

She, Roxon and Challenger’s return to what most refer to as civilization was met with great fanfare; a little too much attention was tossed in their direction as far as Marguerite was concerned. There were still people, especially in Shanghai and Berlin, who would have liked to seen her dead. All the radio and newspaper headlines did not make it easy to hide out whilst attempting to tie up the loose strings of her complicated life.

Roxton, of course, was there for her. He told Marguerite, as they were sailing on the same ship back to England - after she revealed a few of the problems she faced - that he knew people who would help her if he gave the word. Of course, she initially declined, certain she could take care of it herself, but when an unknown assassin took a shot at she and Roxton in Hyde Park, Marguerite relented.

Marguerite was never really certain what it was Roxton did, who he contacted and who they called on in turn, but when the word came down that she was under Lord John’s protection matters settled in a matter of weeks. There were no more attempts on their lives and Roxton assured Marguerite there would not be in the future. And he also told her it was probably better that she did not ask why. After all the secrets she had kept from him and others Marguerite decided to let Roxton at least one or two of his own.

She was well aware that Roxton’s background was as adventurous as her own. He had probably earned favors over the years that came in handy from both friends and enemies alike. The difference between he and her was that Roxton never allowed himself to be tempted by his darker side -- whereas Marguerite found herself treading on the edge of that fine line more times than what was comfortable.

“Whatever the case, she seems like a very dangerous woman. What did that American, Mr. Malone, call her? I know I read it in the newspaper …”

The woman with the champagne glass replied, “He said she was dangerous but he also said there was no one more capable of saving herself and the rest of their party from the dangers on the plateau. He said he was proud to call her a friend …”

“Friends with a handsome young reporter? Someone other than our Johnny? Sounds rather sorted if you ask me.” came a clipped yet sophisticated voice. Marguerite could see her profile through a break in the hedge. She was a somewhat withered old prune and was looking at another woman Marguerite could not see, her back to the hedge. “Despite how she fancies herself up on the outside, how lovely and cultured she may appear to the opposite sex, I don’t believe there to be much lady in Lady Roxton.”

Marguerite’s heart sank a little at the reproving words. It wasn’t so much that she was being called unladylike but that she had been pegged so easily. Marguerite thought she was putting on such a good show.

Roxton had called her a natural. But, of course, he would..

“Well, I think you are horrible and jealous.” Declared another voice, the lady she could not see. Yet, Marguerite knew her. It was a familiar voice. It was Nora of course. Who else? “Marguerite is beautiful, smart and when she’s not wearing men’s trousers, she is very elegant and very much a lady.”

Marguerite’s eyes widened. Not Nora but … Aunt Rose?”

“Honestly Rose, she is a woman of the world. Everyone knows it. Just because she’s an heiress does not make for a good pedigree. You‘ve said yourself that, on occasion, you have had doubts about her …”

“I have been able to watch her over these past few months …“ Rose faltered slightly, then her voice grew firm again. “She’s accomplished, ladies -- and John needs her. That is all that really matters. And that is the last I want to hear of it.” Aunt Rose, stood made a move to the stands, then stopping she looked at the youngest woman in the group, at her gaping expression, and said to the woman beside her: “By the way, Vulnavia, I think your daughter’s hat is ugly.”

Marguerite could barely hide her chuckle.

***

Challenger saved her a seat. He stood, as did a few other men, when Marguerite stepped up to the wooden platform reserved for family and important guests.

The last call horn had just sounded and as she sat, feeling much better about her day, Marguerite’s gaze took in where the riders had lined up, ready to make chase the moment they were given the go. The horsemen were a bit off in the distance so their audience could not see each individual clearly but there was no mistaking the eager horses, pawing at the moist ground beneath them --or the sea of red, black and white riding pinques.

‘So George, did you manage to find someone willing to be made famous by your experiment?” Marguerite asked with an amused smile.

“Baron Isenstien from Palsdorf. He is young and eager to cooperate. Especially when I told him the experiment was endorsed by Lord Roxton who thought the Baron an ideal candidate for its trial test ...”

“George, you fibbed.” she murmured in confidence.

“Well, maybe a little. After all, it was John who told me to find someone else …”

Marguerite rolled her eyes and looked beyond the horses to the forest. The fog was lifting and she was pleased. That would make it a little easier to see the hunt progress from their vantage point. She looked about and noted the men and women, some with pearls, straw hats and others with opera glasses.

The event reminded her a bit of Ascot++ but without the British Royal Family.

“I can’t see John … or Thunder.” George mentioned, narrowing his eyes as he searched the line of horsemen.

“And you won’t. I asked him not to ride.”

Challenger lifted his brows and looked at Marguerite. He was about to comment when the crowd roared and stood.

The fox had just been released. Terrified, the small creature scrambled across the great lawn toward a wooded area cattycorner from the spectators. Shortly thereafter the hounds were freed, barking and baying to their hearts content, yet firm in their quest for the prize.

Then, with pounding hooves, the horses were released and the audience applauded wildly, calling out to their favorites. The riders concentrated on the hounds and where it was they might lead them and none beyond the audience spotted the late entry as he raced about eighty meters behind them.

Challenger called over the din, “Marguerite, I thought you said Roxton wasn’t riding.”

“He isn’t.” she called while applauding.

“But isn’t that Thunder?”

Marguerite stopped clapping and her head quickly snapped in the direction the professor indicated, to closely view the last horse and rider. Her eyes widened. Thunder and his impressive master were closing the gap. John had lied to her. He was riding after all. Marguerite’s legs began to feel weak. How could he have did this to her? He promised.

“Looks like he’s having trouble.”

Marguerite heard the comment from an older gentleman, a stubby thumb brushing over his grey mustache, just in front of her.

Indeed, galloping at full speed she saw that Roxton appeared to be reaching down, seeming to check on a loosened strap near his left boot. He appeared to be unaware that he and his steed were approaching a length of bush, a barricade, specifically place there for jumping. The others on the hunt had already cleared it but Thunder, apparently unused to this style of horsemanship from his master - who hadn’t ridden him for awhile - began to buck. Then, just before the hedge, Thunder stopped suddenly, firmly in place and threw the man awkwardly to the ground.

“No!” Marguerite shouted in despair.

Her cry was merely muffled by the other spectators who had also witness the fall and the fact the man, laying at an odd angle on the ground, was not moving.

A few men, including Stephen, Uncle Andrew and Dr. Wrapple raced out onto the field to lend aid. Marguerite and Challenger, needing no urging, made their undeterred way off the stand in seconds and also ran to where he lay.

The doctor was leaning over the body, checking for a pulse, heartbeat and apparently something about the man’s neck. He looked up and watched as Lady Roxton approach. Solemnly, he called, “His neck is broken. I’m afraid he’s dead.”

“Dead …” Marguerite’s paced slowed and she nearly lost her footing. She was in a fog now, hardly able to comprehend what was going on around her. She might have collapsed to the ground if Challenger had not been right behind her, holding Marguerite’s shoulders and sharing grief.

“What I don’t understand,” Dr. Wrapple scooted back to reveal the rider was not who they thought he was, “If that‘s Lord Roxton‘s horse why wasn‘t he riding it?”

“Wait, that’s Sherman Travers!” Stephen exclaimed.

“Why was he riding Thunder?” Challenger repeated what the doctor had asked.

“I’m not sure but I did not give him permission, poor devil.”

Marguerite would know that voice anywhere. Quickly coming out of the fog, she turned, saw John Roxton walking the lawn behind them and she ran to meet him. “Oh, God.” she cried and, exquisitely relieved, threw herself into his arms.

“I’m fine.” he assured, holding Marguerite. Over her head he said, “I gave Thunder to the stable boy to take back to his stall. What Travers was doing with him I don’t know …”

“John,” Challenger had moved to picked up the saddle where it had fallen on the lawn. “It’s the strap. It came apart.” He showed it to Roxton and the others who were observing. It was a heavy piece of leather that kept the saddle from sliding while a horseman rode. “And it didn’t just break.” He ran his finger over the cleanness of the separation, “It was cut by a very sharp tool.”

“What?” Marguerite pulled herself away from Roxton and looked at what Challenger presented. “You mean someone ...”

“Lord John,” Agatha Christie approached the group, having listened in and took in what Challenger introduced, “I believe someone has made an attempt on your life. I’m afraid Mr. Travers here…”

They all looked at the now covered body of the aristocrat.

“ … was merely the unfortunate victim.”

Marguerite had fainted only one other time in her life. When it happened it was into the arms of the man she was standing beside right this moment. And now, experiencing a sensory overload, an eerie fog once again pushed over and into her, like a dark shroud of doom, and she collapsed once again, his arms catching her ebfore she hit the ground.

Some, who did not know this woman as well as Roxton and Challenger, would say it was a reasonable thing to have happened. Lady Roxton had thought her husband died, just to see him alive, then she learned he was nearly the victim of murder. Any sensitive, delicate woman might crumple at such an experience.

But, truth be known, it wasn’t just this that caused Marguerite to lose her senses. As she stood, watching and listening to all that was happening around them, she saw another man. He was standing off in the distance and he was staring directly at her.

He did not look as if he was accusing Marguerite of any wrong-doing but he did appear disconsolate. His warning had saved John but another died in his place … The wound on William's chest, the one she frequently saw in her nightmares, was now bleeding profusely. His hands lifted to hide it or to even stop the flow ...

And … standing beside him, appearing as ashen and depressed as Avebury‘s apparition … was the ghost of Sherman Travers.

****

FINAL CHAPTER: "THE REVEAL" COMING SOON ....

***