“Piers.”
They walked toward one another, until they stood on opposite sides of the lamp she held. She wore her night rail and a dark cape, hastily tied. One look at her face told him something was gravely wrong.
“What are you doing down here at this hour?”
She sniffed, and her voice caught. “I . . .”
“You’ve been weeping.” He put his hand on her shoulder. She trembled under his touch. “Charlotte, what is it? What’s wrong?”
“I’ve lost it. It’s gone. I’ve searched everywhere in the house I could think of, and then I remembered I’d been here earlier. But I’ve been looking for an hour now, under every bench and bush. It’s not here, either. It’s gone.”
She pressed her lips together and turned her head, as though to keep herself from crying. Her chin quivered.
“Come here.” He took the lamp from her hand and hung it from a nearby trellis. Then he guided her to sit on a bench. “Let me help you. Tell me what it is you’re searching for.”
“It will sound so silly. You’ll laugh at me.”
“Never.”
Over the past week, the girl had been accused of loose virtue, accosted by a cutpurse, and held briefly at gunpoint—and she’d taken it all in relative good humor.
He’d never seen her like this.
Whatever she’d misplaced, it must mean the world to her.
“It’s small.” She formed a rectangular shape with her fingers. “Just a scrap of flannel with ribbon edging and a bit of stitching on it. I use it to mark the place in my books. I know how inconsequential it must sound, but it’s important to me.”
Piers knew better than most that even small, humble-looking items could be of great importance. “You’re certain it isn’t in your bedchamber?”
He hated to sound like a scold, but considering the state of her other possessions . . .
She shook her head. “This isn’t like stockings or shawls. I’m untidy, but I’m never careless about this. It’s either in my book or under my pillow at all times. But this evening, when I settled down with my novel it wasn’t there. I searched everywhere. My chamber, the drawing room. Then I’d recalled I’d been out here reading this afternoon.”
“Where did you sit?”
“Over there.” She indicated a stump tucked under a bit of ivy.
“Then it’s likely still in the garden. Or perhaps you lost it somewhere along your path back into the house.”
“Oh, Lord.” Her hand fluttered in her lap. “If the wind took it . . .”
“Charlotte. Don’t fret so.” He put an arm around her and drew her to his chest, holding her close. Both to soothe her and to calm himself. His heart ached to see her so distraught. He pressed a kiss to the top of her head. “We’ll find it.”
“But I’ve searched everywhere.”
“We’ll find it.”
“You can’t promise that.”
He tilted her chin so that she faced him. “I can, and I will. It’s probably still in this garden. If not, it’s somewhere on this estate. But if it’s that important to you, I’d search Nottinghamshire, the whole of England—even the world—if that’s what it took. You’ll have it returned to you. Do you believe me?”
She nodded.
“Here’s what we’re going to do,” he said. “We’ll begin at the gate and move clockwise about the garden together. One of us will search while the other holds the lamp. If we haven’t found it by the time we return to the gate, then we’ll widen our search. Agreed?”
He held out his hand, and she took it.
“Agreed.”
They searched for hours. Piers tried to keep up a reassuring patter and maintain a steady pace, so that she didn’t become upset or anxious. He’d never appreciated how many plants, shrubs, and flowering vines could be in one garden. Together they checked beneath every bush and branch in one section before moving on to the next.
They’d reached eight on their makeshift “clock” of the garden, and it was likely closing in on five o’clock in the actual morning. The sky began to turn from black to gray. The bit of light made searching easier, but the wind had picked up and the occasional sprinkle of raindrops made itself felt. Piers just hoped they could locate this thing before the rain started in earnest.
He turned to scan a wall covered in thick ivy, parting each cluster of vines and leaves to peer within. He began at the base of the wall and worked his way upward.
“I don’t think it could possibly be up there,” she said as he stretched his arms to push through a clump of ivy overhead. “No gust of wind would have blown it that high.”
“Wind isn’t the only force at play in nature.”
“No, you’re right. There’s rain as well. We should move on to the path, perhaps. Or it will end up washed away and buried in mud.”
“Give me a moment.”
Piers had a hunch, and he wasn’t ready to abandon it quite yet. Patience rewarded thoroughness.
At last, in the corner where wall met wall at nine o’clock, he parted a thick patch of greenery to find what he’d been searching for.
A bird’s nest, hidden within the branches just at shoulder height. Some clever wren had crafted a deep, hollow bowl of branches and bits.
“Did you find something?” Charlotte approached.
“Perhaps.” He reached into the nest gently, reluctant to disturb any eggs or feathery occupants therein. His fingertips skimmed over a variety of textures. Wrens would line their nests with any soft material they found. Downy feathers, moss . . .
Yes.
“Aha.” He grasped the corner of flannel and pulled, turning to offer it for Charlotte’s examination. “Is this it?”
She stared at the meager scrap of ribbon and fabric for a moment. Then she clapped a hand to her mouth and sobbed into it, leaning forward to bury her face in his chest.
He’d take that as a yes.
He wrapped his arms around her and stroked her back and hair. The night of sleepless searching had caught up with her all at once. It wasn’t surprising she’d be overwhelmed.
However, his own emotions were a puzzle to him. He’d ached for her when the thing was missing, but he could not share her relief. Quite the reverse. He felt as if her small fist had reached inside his chest, gripped his heart, and wrung it. He should have felt triumphant to have found her treasure.