Lakeshire Park

by Megan Walker

  “Did you miss your family while you were away?” I asked. The familiarity with which he spoke of France made me wonder how long he’d spent there.

  “I missed Georgiana. She wrote to me often. My mother and I have never gotten along, not really. And my father . . . he worked quite a lot. Even at the end.” Peter stared ahead, letting out a breath.

  Curiosity led me to prod. “Were you close with him?”

  Peter glanced at me, hesitating. “I knew him well, and we were close. But my mother’s happiness was always his priority. There were many times I wished to know him better. To feel more of his care. His opinion mattered much more to me than my mother’s.”

  “Is she alive, your mother?” By the way he alluded to her, I’d thought she too was gone from his life.

  “She is.”

  I waited for him to continue, but in vain. Stealing a peek, I saw his lips were pursed, eyes set ahead. “Have I silenced you at last?” I jested.

  Peter cast me a rueful grin. “Paris is a more appealing subject than my parents.”

  I understood wanting to avoid something painful, so I did not press him. We walked a few paces in silence, my mind mulling over these new revelations from Peter. He’d known disappointment in his life after all, that much was evident. His mind must have been working as well, for his feet carried him faster, pulling me along at a racing speed.

  Before long, we reached the base of the hill. Just in time for me to realize the ache in my feet.

  “Slow down, Peter. We are practically at a run already.” I panted as he tugged me upward. Nearly there, my lungs heaved, protesting the climb. Whatever the surprise was, at this pace, it had better be worth it.

  “Close your eyes.” Stopping, he released my arm.

  “Why?” I stepped backward, glancing over my shoulder.

  “It is a surprise, and I want to see your face precisely when you see it.”

  “I will not walk blindly like a fool, Peter.” I thought of blindman’s bluff and how he’d laughed at me. I folded my arms tightly.

  “Just close them.” Peter tugged my hands loose, and the strangest warmth radiated from his soft grip. “Trust me.”

  Something about the kindness in his eyes pulled me in, begging me to trust him, to follow his lead. But still, I hesitated. I knew I owed Peter this afternoon, but could I trust him?

  Tightening my hold on his hand, I closed my eyes, focusing on each step as Peter led me a few paces upward. I held up my skirts with my other hand, waiting for the moment I would collide with a rock or a tree. But the path was clear, easy, and brief.

  Peter steadied me with his strength, the sounds of his excited breaths between us. I was so close to him our legs brushed as we walked, shooting sparks to my toes and my chest. What was this strange feeling? The climb was making me dizzy.

  Peter let go of my hand, and I waited, listening for any clue, a rustling, a voice, a smell, to reveal his secret surprise.

  “All right,” he said finally. “Open them.”

  Something was running toward me, a small brown spot on wobbly legs.

  “Is that a foal?” My smile grew instantly, and Peter’s eyes sparkled.

  “Indeed. A colt. He is barely eight weeks old. Curious little one already. Born to that mare there.” He pointed to the horse in the distance.

  By the time he’d finished his thought, the little foal had reached me. Only he wasn’t quite as small as he’d looked before.

  I knelt down beside him, taking off my gloves and rubbing his sleek coat. He was a light shade of brown with a blond mane, and within seconds he was nudging his nose all over me.

  “Peter.” Laughing, I tried to lean back from the colt, but he was so persistent and strong I quickly became pinned beneath him. “Peter!”

  “Get off, you,” he scowled. “If you are wanting this, you’d best behave yourself.” He shook a bag of what I assumed was oats, and the colt jumped and pranced around him. Had Peter planned this adventure for me?

  “His name is Winter, and I’m told he’ll eat straight out of your hand.” He poured a handful of oats into my palm. Feeling his bare fingers brush mine sent another wave of heat to my chest, which allowed Winter to nearly knock me over again in his eagerness.

  The feel of Winter’s rough, unsteady tongue, and the nearness of chomping teeth was both nerve-racking and thrilling. I petted his smooth mane as he devoured the oats in my hand, until Peter gave me more and more to fill him with.

  “Do you like him?” he asked.

  Winter nuzzled his nose into my hand, awkwardly trying to taste the oats. It would not be long before he mastered the skill. I gave Peter a full smile. “I like him very much. Thank you for bringing me here.”

  “Of course. Your smile is worth every effort.” He knelt beside me, brushing his hand through Winter’s mane.

  I swallowed, smoothing my skirts. Surely Peter only meant to be kind. Perhaps we were becoming friends after all.

  The colt finished his oats and was laying on the grass, letting me rub his back. His mother was a few paces away, watching over him. Something about the way the sun reflected in her mane looked so familiar.

  “Is that—?”

  “Summer? Yes.”

  “Summer just had a foal?” My eyes widened.

  “Explains a lot, doesn’t it?” Peter looked ahead, picking a blade of grass. “The reason Mr. Beckett had to take her back early yesterday was because she needed to feed Winter.”

  “Well, now I feel absolutely awful for hurrying her like I did.” I frowned. Had I known she was a nursing mother, I would have refused to ride her entirely. Summer must still be exhausted.

  “Mr. Beckett would not have allowed her out if he did not think both she and Winter were ready,” Peter said knowingly.

  I nodded, admiring Summer in the close distance she kept.

  “That was very kind of you,” I said to Peter. “Yesterday—helping Cook pick blackberries for Mr. Gregory.”

  “You sound surprised.” Peter tilted his head. “Am I so incapable of charity in your eyes?”

  I smiled shyly at him. Were my opinions that obvious? “I thought you more likely to buy blackberries at a market. Not to pick them yourself.”

  “You think my money defines me,” Peter said, his eyes clouded by some new emotion. Sadness, perhaps. Or pain. “I can assure you, at the end of the day, I am only the thoughts in my head and the doings of my hands.”

  I pondered his words, touched again by the eloquence of his opinion. Could Peter be in earnest? He’d flaunted his money so easily in the glove shop, offering to buy all manner of things for Clara. And he had left us with quite the bag full of ribbons. Then again, I had not heard him speak a word of his fortune since arriving at Lakeshire Park.

  “I would guess from your description of Lord Gray you know the burden of work only too well.” Peter leaned in, scratching Winter’s side.

  “Perhaps,” I agreed. How I wished money did not define my life, and yet it did. What would it be like to live free of constraint? Free of suffocating circumstances? To choose for myself without thought to society and what I lacked?

  Suddenly, Winter stood as though someone had called his name. He jumped around, biting at the wind, chasing after what appeared to be a fly.

  Peter and I knelt together, laughing as he played.

  “What delight, to be so free.”

  “Go chase after him, then.” Peter smiled mischievously. “Your freedom awaits.”

  “Do not tempt me.” I laughed, half-considering the notion. I thought of Father and Mama and Clara, of our little estate in Kent. Oh, the adventures I’d had. But it was foolish to act like a child at my age. The time for freedom was long past.

  “I shall close my eyes, if it will help,” he said, covering them with both hands and smiling.

  “I cannot.” I
poked him teasingly, and he rubbed his arm with a playful scowl. “How cruel you are.”

  “Fine. Then you can watch me.” He stood up, grasping my hand and tugging me beside him.

  Leaving me standing close by, he darted toward Winter, who leaped wildly as Peter tapped him on the back. Winter retaliated by nipping at Peter’s knees. Peter dodged his nips and kicks as though dancing an exotic dance, and I held my waist, laughing, as he reveled in freedom. It became too much to merely watch. The need for a similar carelessness swelled within me.

  Timidly, I stepped toward them, and Peter grinned, pushing Winter in my direction. Winter immediately engaged, jumping around me and nipping at my skirts. I gently tugged at his ear in an effort to deter him, but he chased me in circles around Peter.

  “Run, Amelia,” he called through a laugh, and I pushed Winter toward him.

  It was like a game of tag. One minute the colt chased Peter, the next I raced him until I couldn’t breathe. On and on and on. Laughing as easily as I breathed, like I hadn’t a care in the world.

  “He’s gone mad.” I leaped away from Winter, bouncing him back to Peter like a ball in a game. “Give me something. You must have more food.”

  Winter nuzzled into my skirts, and I pushed him backward.

  Peter was breathing hard, his cheeks flushed from laughter, his wavy brown hair framing his face. He shoved away the colt and linked his arm with mine. “His mother can feed him. Shall we escape?”

  “To where?” I swiped a loose curl away from my eyes.

  We started down the hill, and I tightened my hold on his arm, bracing myself so as not to slip. Peter didn’t seem to mind, pulling me closer. His coat smelled like the woods mixed with soap and oats.

  “I can show you the orchard, if you like. You missed it on the tour,” he said pointedly, smiling.

  I remembered our first picnic together, when he battered me for information on Clara and chased me up this very hill. I did not know who to believe: the glove-stealing, scheming, arrogant man of our first meeting, or the amiable, carefree, kind man I’d witnessed of late. Both were undeniably handsome. But which was the most genuine Peter Wood? I rather liked his friendship this afternoon, but I supposed it did not matter. Either way, I was stuck with him.

  “Then shall today’s owed afternoon be accounted for?” I teased with feigned exasperation. The truth was, I’d had more fun with Peter today than I’d had in years.

  Peter’s grin dropped for so slight a moment I thought I imagined it.

  “Worried about keeping me at my word?” His voice was heavier than usual as he gazed across the beautiful, sunlit view that seemed to go on for miles. “The orchard first, and then I shall release you.”

  We walked a few paces in silence. Had I said something to offend him? I shot him a sideways glance, wondering if he would react to my goading.

  “Good. I expect it will take me hours to fix my hair after all this horseplay today.”

  He raised a brow, looking at me with narrowed eyes and a smile on his lips. “Are you attempting humor, Miss Moore?”

  I pressed my lips together, trying to remain serious. “I believe it was less of an attempt and more a success. Though I cannot say I find messy hair all that funny.”

  He chuckled. “For what it’s worth, I think horseplay looks rather good on you.”

  I shot him a look of playful derision. At least four curls had loosened from their pins during our escapade with Winter. “Your joke is not as funny as mine, Peter.”

  “What would Lieutenant Rawles think?” he asked, peering at me through his lashes.

  I raised my chin. “I am sure I do not know. Perhaps we should stick to proper conversation on our journey to the orchard.” Especially if Peter meant to continue this conversation.

  “That would not suit me. And I believe I have the final say in our afternoons, do I not?” Peter tilted his head. The orchards were just coming into view, with darkened clouds lulling overhead.

  Powerless, I frowned. Was everything a game to Peter? These afternoons were becoming more than I’d bargained for. “I do not remember creating rules. I also do not remember having much choice in the matter at all. You were the one insistent on these afternoons.”

  He looked straight at the leafy orchard as we approached. “It was necessary, was it not? You cannot have me distracting Sir Ronald. And I cannot have you encouraging your sister.” He said the words flatly, without sincerity, and I wondered if he had another motive. Something more personal, perhaps.

  “Is that all?” I asked.

  He released my arm, thumbing tiny fruit on the apple trees. “What other reason could there be?”

  I studied his unreadable expression to no avail. Of course there was no other reason. Peter and I were enemies, two people on opposing sides of a battle. Only sometimes it felt like his compliments were earnest, his attentions given out of care. I shook my head. My inexperience with men made Peter’s tiny compliments feel much bigger than they were. It was clearly Peter’s nature to smile freely and flatter as he wished. Yet another difference between us.

  “We share that priority, then. Loyalty to our sisters.” I picked a jagged leaf off the nearest apple tree.

  “Indeed.” Peter said with as much indifference as though he’d spoken to the wind. That was what I’d wanted to hear, was it not? At least now we were both at an understanding. I wouldn’t have to wonder about Peter’s intentions with our bargain, for they mirrored my own after all.

  Chapter Ten

  Thunder rolled threateningly all evening, preceded by sharp lightning. I’d awoken to the storm several times, and now that it was morning, I hoped the sun would soon break through and dry up the ominous rain clouds atop the hill.

  Our room was dark and dreary even with the curtains pulled back. I dreaded spending an entire day indoors with little chance of escape, but as I peered out into the darkened morning, my thoughts turned to Lord Gray. I became keenly aware of my breathing, how smoothly my lungs pulled in air and blew it back out again.

  How was Lord Gray this morning? Had he slept at all? Many nights I wondered as much, having awoken to his coughing throughout the night. How much time did he have left? His home had been a haven for my mother, but a source of misery and pain for me. Perhaps I should feel grief knowing his illness was worsening, but I felt so little emotion, no hope other than for Clara’s future. If she was happy, and we were together, then nothing else mattered.

  “Is it morning already?” Clara’s voice was hoarse with sleep, her eyes still closed.

  “Just barely. It appears it will be a rainy day.”

  “Good. Then the men will have to stay in,” she answered.

  I peered out our window, listening to the pitter-patter of rain hitting the glass. She was right. I could hardly avoid Peter today. But at least indoors we would not be alone together. Perhaps then I would not kiss his hand or run wild on a hill or loosen my tongue and tell him even more of my secrets.

  “Perhaps I will go down,” I whispered. Being up early meant I could excuse myself later. “Will you sleep another hour?”

  “Or two.” Clara rolled over, tightening her covers around her.

  The only person in the drawing room was Lady Demsworth, who looked disheveled with a messy braid and a loose morning coat about her shoulders. I’d known her to be casual in company, but this was quite unusual. What had prompted her to rise so quickly without first dressing?

  “You’re awake early, Miss Moore. Is everything all right?” she asked as I entered the room. Only a few candles were lit along with the hearth at the back of the room.

  “Quite. I fear I’ve overslept these past few days. I am finally well enough rested. Might I ask you the same question? Are you well?”

  Lady Demsworth yawned politely. “A tree was struck by lightning in the night. It felled a fence and loosed a herd of cow. A few
of the horses got out as well, likely scared by the storm. Mr. Beckett alerted Ronald a few hours ago. He is fortunate to have so many dear friends staying with us. All four men have gone out to assess the damage. I am sure they will also assist our servants in repairs and in rounding up the animals. Ronald never could sit idly by. As for me, I could not sleep for worry of the cost if he cannot recover the animals and mend the necessary repairs on his own.”

  “Heavens.” But weren’t the Demsworths wealthy? Why would Lady Demsworth be so distraught over the cost? At any rate, I had not expected such severe news. “I am terribly sorry to hear it.”

  “Ronald will get it sorted out. I am sure I worry for nothing, but I am his mother. It is my life to worry over him, being that he is my only child.”

  “Of course you worry. That is natural. He is fortunate to have you, Lady Demsworth.”

  She sighed, brushing her skirts and thin coat. “Forgive my appearance. If you are awake, the others will soon be joining you. I should go and be properly dressed.”

  “Of course,” I said as she stood. I wanted to tell her I did not mind one bit if she dressed properly or not. Given the circumstances, there were more important things to worry about. She did not have to pretend or put on a face with me. But before I built up the courage to speak, she’d gone.

  Left alone in the drawing room, I moved to a chair facing the window. Raindrops slid down as though racing for a finish line, and for some reason, between the crackling of the hearth and the flashing of lightning, I thought of Peter.

  Was he out there in this storm?

  Was he safe?

  The women gathered in the breakfast room one by one as the storm began to dissipate. More candles were lit to combat the dreary bleakness outside. We ate together without the men, who were taking a stressfully long time to return.

  “Should we worry over them?” Beatrice paused before taking another bite of ham.

  “I think not,” Lady Demsworth replied in a tone that failed to reassure the group.