Hortense wasn't experienced at soundless reconnaissance, but she flattered herself she was doing reasonably well. Of course, this... skulking (surely there must be a more dashing word for it?) took all of her concentration, causing her to move slowly. The man from the castle had quite disappeared by the time she flitted across the street and into the copse.
Disappointed, she decided to press on and see if she could spot him around the back of the inn. There were a few fits and starts, and an appallingly intimate encounter with an all-too-excitable ground squirrel, but Hortense soon found herself ensconced behind a gratifyingly leafy bush that boasted a clear view of the kitchen garden.
As she paused to catch her breath and untangle some rather forward twigs from her hair, she surveyed the scene before her. Spring's sunshine highlighted pale green sprouts, chickens clucked, and a bird sang cheerily nearby... everything was disappointingly pastoral. No intrigue in sight. Somewhat crestfallen, it occurred to Hortense that she may have been mistaken. Papa always did tease her about needing spectacles - maybe she had imagined the whole thing.
As the bird suddenly took flight, Hortense heard somewhat muffled angry voice approaching. The back door of the inn flew open "- And you'll fetch me them eggs with none of yer mewling, you bird-witted girl! Do I has to do everything around here?" A maid of all work was shoved out the door, and scrambled over to the chicken pen as the owner of the angry voice continued to stand at the door and heap abuse on her head. From the content of the diatribe, Hortense divined that the voice must belong to the Marie that Mrs. Pomfret thought "could've done a lot better" than Tom Forkley. Apparently Marie felt the same way, because a large part of her monologue consisted of bitter invective directed against the "cow-handed provincials" and how things were different in The City. The cowed maid hustled back into the inn with her eggs, and the door closed behind them, depriving Hortense of hearing the end of a potentially interesting sentence about "ale-drapers who choose to set up in the back of beyond".
Busily committing a few of the more choice phrases to memory, Hortense straightened and turned to leave. She took only one step before slamming into a hard, warm surface. Dazed, she stumbled backwards. Strong hands caught her and set her firmly on her feet. "Learn anything interesting, Madam?"
Hortense raised her eyes to meet an accusatory forest green glare. Her heart began beating faster, and her breath came unaccountably short. "I do not care for your tone, Sir."
"I don't care what you think of my tone. What are you doing crashing about in the underbrush, watching people? And who the devil are you, anyhow?"
Hortense stiffened. She may have been caught in the teensiest bit of a compromising situation, but No One was to speak to her that way. "I am a lady. You may be unfamiliar with decent manners, but it is considered extremely rude to swear at a person when you've never even been formally introduced. I will excuse your immoderate behavior on the grounds of ignorance, and I will bid you good day, sir."
He moved to block her exit. Pity, that. She had almost managed a credible haughty swish. "I hardly think a muddy eavesdropper with leaves in her hair is in the best position to lecture me about manners. A trespasser, too - weren't you traipsing on my land yesterday? Your name and your business here, madam."
Hortense fumed. Really, it was enough to make a girl speak in capital letters. "I was certainly not eavesdropping OR trespassing. I am exploring and Soaking in the Bucolic Vistas of the Countryside. My cousin is very interested in Natural Beauty, and wished to make a Study of the Landscape. We had no idea yesterday that we had ventured off our property in our harmless woodside ramble."
He caught her arm as she attempted to brush by him once again. "Come now, madam, that's doing it a bit too brown, don't you think? A packed earth chicken coop is hardly a fount of poetic inspiration. And yesterday, the sight of Radulf Castle didn't serve as a hint that you were on someone else's front lawn?"
Hortense felt unaccountably warm, and strangely aware of the feel of his hand on her arm. She stared pointed the hand until he released her. That was better. She took a deep breath, looked up and fixed him with her most Formidable Stare. "Sir, I do not have to suffer your impertinent questions. I would hate to have to mention your ill-bred conduct to the vicar and to the ladies of the neighborhood. I am quite finished with this improper conversation. Good day, sir."
This time he made no motion to stop her as she left. Good. The Formidable Stare had always worked wonders on the local butcher, as well. Papa had always affectionately said that there was no tradesman that his girl couldn't whip into shape. As she hurried back across the street to the vicarage, she snuck a quick look back. He still stood there, eyes narrowed, studying her. She quickly averted her eyes forward, and tried not to feel as though the weight of his stare was a physical sensation of warmth on her back.
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