Pip asked, “You promised your horse never to tell? But didn’t you name her?”
“Actually, my uncle Smythe-Ambrosio named her when he was there on a visit at her birth. She was not pleased, but there was little I could do except shorten it to S.W. She swore me to secrecy.” She made a small X over her chest. “One should never break an oath to a horse.” She saw Mr. Ramsey coming down the stairs and rose. She smiled down at each of the children, turned, and walked without a backward glance back into the drawing room.
Miss Elphinstone was all the children could talk about, what her initials stood for, what her mare’s initials stood for. As they stuffed themselves with scones, P.C. said, “Miss Elphinstone liked you, mayhap too much, Barnaby. I must think about this. Should I tell her you are too young for her? Should you give me an engagement ring to ward her off?”
Grayson held in a laugh and said, his voice serious, “P.C., your fingers are going to grow with you. I think it’s too soon for Barnaby to give you a ring.”
P.C. thought about this, nodded. “All right. But, Barnaby, I will be watching her, even though I think she is marvelous,” P.C. said. She turned to Grayson, frowned. “And you, sir, you belong to my mama, so do not look at Miss Elphinstone with any stronger emotion than polite friendship.”
Pip, who had no interest in marital sorts of things, announced he wanted to ride in the home wood when they returned to Northcliffe. This was agreed upon. “Without adults,” Pip added, his voice firm. “I promise we will be careful, Papa. You will not worry about us. You don’t have to worry about us either, Mr. Ramsey.”
Olafar slowly nodded. “I think they will be safe, Mr. Sherbrooke. There are clearly marked trails. There are no tigers or lions to eat them.”
The children found this hilarious and could talk of nothing else as they walked through the small village, visited the old Norman church, and joined a ragged old man who told them they could help him chant for the sun to chase away the blackening clouds and coming rain. The children chanted their hearts out, but the black clouds remained. However, it didn’t rain.
During their ride back to Northcliffe Hall, Grayson reined in Garth next to Mr. Ramsey’s gelding. “Have you yet met the Virgin Bride? My son tells me her name is Mathilde and she misses her little dog, Arthur.”
Olafar Ramsey jerked on the gelding’s reins, and he pranced to the side. He leaned down and spoke to the gelding as he stroked his neck. Battle snorted, calmed. Ramsey nodded, stroked his neck again. “She came to me the second night of my employment at Northcliffe Hall. She told me who she was and that she would protect the children with her life—rather, with her death, however that would be. I suspect she wanted to be certain I would not harm them. I did not know her name, and I asked her. Mathilde, you said?”
Grayson nodded. “She never told me her name either—why, I don’t know. Maybe because we’re adults, but how does that make sense? But she told my son Pip. I’ve been told it’s unusual for her to visit any males in the house, but I never believed it. I’m pleased she came to welcome you.”
“As I said, I think she’s suspicious of me. But I believe I relieved her mind because she came to me again three nights later, told me—well, she thought to me—that she would believe, for the moment at least, that I loved the twins. She also liked my name, Olafar. She thought it over and over and thought to me that she’d never heard such a wonderful name before. She is very beautiful.”
“Were you afraid when she suddenly appeared the first time?”
Olafar cocked his head at Grayson, surprise in his dark eyes. “Why, no. Well, that is to say, I was taken aback, but she seemed very gentle, very shy, really. I made the error of asking his lordship about her the following day, and I believed he would choke on his brandy. He looked at me like I was an idiot, told me it was likely Cook’s turnips that did me in.” A pause. “Of course I didn’t believe him. The Virgin Bride—Mathilde—has visited him as well. She told me she had. She said his lordship refused to accept anything not firmly planted on the earth. I believe I heard a smile in her voice.”
Grayson said, “You’ve been with the twins for four months now. Does she visit you often? And the twins?”
Olafar nodded. “Yes, nearly every night. We’ve spoken of many things. I asked her if she liked to ride. Still, I am not sure she trusts me entirely.” The words were no sooner out of his mouth, when he turned his head away and coughed, called out, “Barnaby, don’t sing to Pickle. He isn’t a music lover, and he’s liable to kick you. When you dismount, you can walk away, and sing your heart out.” Sure enough, Pickle, the small dun pony, had flattened his ears and was swishing his tail. Barnaby immediately stopped singing in Pickle’s ear. The pony’s tail went back up, and his ears pricked forward.
They spoke of Oxford, where Mr. Ramsey had been in Trinity College, Grayson in St. John’s College, several years before him. Mr. Ramsey said, “My father wanted me to open a stud. He is horse mad, you see.” He flushed and changed the subject to one of Grayson’s more hair-raising Thomas Straithmore adventures. “It fair to curdled my blood.”
Grayson said, “It is always my aim to curdle a reader’s blood, Mr. Ramsey. Tell me, are you horse mad as well? Like your father?”
Mr. Ramsey nodded but said nothing.
Grayson said easily, “I happened to see a beautiful black stallion at midnight my first night at Northcliffe, racing out of the home wood to drink in the pond. Have you seen the horse? Do you know who he belongs to?”
“I haven’t the faintest idea, Mr. Sherbrooke,” Olafar said and continued to look between his horse’s ears. “I haven’t seen such a horse.”
“My uncle told me this beautiful bay gelding you’re riding wasn’t broken, that he was supposedly vicious and everyone called him Battle. Yet, I was told, you petted him, spoke to him, and he blew, butted your shoulder. He said all the stable lads were astonished when you mounted with no trouble, and Battle actually pranced about the stable yard.”
Mr. Ramsey said easily, “I suppose I inherited my father’s way with horses.” Olafar ran long fingers down his neck. “Battle is a splendid lad. Actually, he is peace-loving. He was only afraid when he first arrived at Northcliffe. He soon realized all the stable boys saw his fear as aggression. He likes that.” Grayson would swear the gelding nearly purred.
How, Grayson wondered, did Mr. Olafar Ramsey know the pony Pickle didn’t like music?
CHAPTER SIX
Later that afternoon
When the small cavalcade returned to Northcliffe Hall, the sun was shining brightly again, much to the amazement of the adults. The children saw the sun as a sign. “Sir, please, let us ride for another hour. Only an hour, we promise. We’ll be good. We’ll keep our ponies on the trails. Please.”
Who could withstand P.C., with Barnaby and Pip singing a nonstop accompaniment, like a Greek chorus? Grayson looked to Mr. Ramsey, who nodded. “If Mr. Sherbrooke agrees, I will agree as well. No more than an hour, though, children. Then you must come back for your dinner. Cook worries, you know.”
Promises were made. Both Olafar and Grayson watched from the western garden as Barnaby, P.C., and Pip rode sedately into the home wood.
An hour later, Pip and P.C. came running into the drawing room, out of breath. “Sir!”
“Papa! Barnaby’s gone.”
Grayson roared to his feet, as did the earl and countess. P.C. told them Pip wanted to play find-me-if-you-can, one of his favorite games. True enough. Pip always ran to hide somewhere in the house or on the grounds at home.
P.C. said, “It was Barnaby’s turn to hide, but we couldn’t find him, sir. He wasn’t anywhere. Pip and I were at the edge of the home wood when Pickle came running out, but he didn’t have Barnaby.” Her voice caught on a sob. “We must find him, sir, we must, or I will die a spinster, alone and unloved, and everyone will blame me forever for losing Barnaby, and I will have to take the blame because it is my fault. Please don’t blame Pip—he’s only a little sprat and doesn�
�t have a brain that works well yet. Please, sir, please, we must find Barnaby.” And P.C. burst into tears.
Alex pulled her close and comforted her while the earl and Grayson gathered six men and rode into the home wood.
It was growing dark, the thick end-of-summer maple and oak leaves still canopying, cutting most of the sun, casting shadows on the floor of the wood. They spread out, each man taking a separate trail, each man with a gun to fire if he found Barnaby. Grayson was surprised to see Olafar dismount and lead Pickle, Barnaby’s pony.
Olafar said only, “Mr. Sherbrooke, Pickle knows where Barnaby is. He’s a smart pony.” Grayson watched Mr. Ramsey and Pickle fork to the far-left trail. He heard Pickle snort.
Not five minutes later, a gunshot rang out. Birds flew out of trees and bushes. Grayson knew, without even thinking about it, that Mr. Ramsey had fired the shot. He’d found Barnaby. He said a quick prayer of thanks and rode to the east.
Henry, a stable lad, rode beside him. “Mr. Sherbrooke, I remember now—there be a small gully twenty yards that way. I think—” But he didn’t finish. He was suddenly thinking of what they could find, namely a dead Barnaby.
They met at the top of the gully, dismounted, and looked down, but it was nearly dark now and hard to see. No one had thought to bring lanterns. “I’m down here,” Olafar shouted. “Barnaby was unconscious, but he’s coming around.”
Barnaby felt hands lightly stroking his head, heard Mr. Ramsey’s voice, gentle and soft, repeating his name over and over. He opened his eyes to see Mr. Ramsey leaning over him. “Good, you’re awake. Now, Barnaby, I know your head must hurt badly. Do not move until you can talk to me without your head pounding. I have you now. Pickle brought me to you. He loves you and was worried.”
Olafar called up, “He’s awake now. I’ll need a stout rope to bring him up.”
Grayson called down, “Gem is riding back to get one. Tell Barnaby it won’t be long now.”
Barnaby’s head hurt worse than when P.C. once put out her foot and he stumbled into a briar patch. He felt nausea swim in his belly. No, he wouldn’t throw up. He wouldn’t. He opened his mouth, but only a whisper came out. “Mr. Ramsey, you’re here. Thank you, sir.”
“As I said, Pickle brought me here straightaway.” He held the boy against him and began repeating words over and over, the same words, like a chant. Barnaby didn’t understand, but soon his head no longer felt like it would jump off his neck and roll away. He no longer wanted to throw up his innards.
Slowly, with Mr. Ramsey’s help, Barnaby managed to pull himself onto his knees. He cleared his throat and gave it his all. “I’m all right, sir.” Pause, then he burst out, “Sir, it was a branch, and it whacked me right in the head, tossed me over Pickle’s rear parts, and I fell and started rolling, down and down, and then I guess I hit a rock. Will I live, sir?”
“Oh yes, Barnaby, I daresay you will live to be a hundred. Don’t worry now. We’ll have you home and in bed in a trice.”
And it wasn’t an hour later the group returned with Barnaby, held close in Grayson’s arms, Pickle walking beside Battle, who didn’t seem to mind the small pony periodically poking his nose against his neck.
P.C. burst out of the hall, running down the front steps, her skirts hiked up above her knees, Pip on her heels. “Barnaby! Are you all right? Where did you hide, you looby? You will not die. I won’t allow it. Think of the future, our future.”
Barnaby groaned. “She sounds all worried, Mr. Sherbrooke, but I know when I’m all right again, I won’t want to live after P.C.’s done with me.”
“Don’t worry, Barnaby. If she yells at you, tell her you feel faint and for her to stroke your brow with rose water. She’ll forget she wants to pound you, all right?”
CHAPTER SEVEN
The next morning
Grayson knew, as did every other Englishman, that in England, if you predicted rain, it was rare you’d be wrong. He stood at the large window in his bedchamber, staring at the rain slashing against the glass. He thought of the panic all the adults had felt when Barnaby had gone missing, thought about Mr. Ramsey and how he’d walked with Pickle, Barnaby’s pony, how he’d seemed to know exactly what to do. Well, it was over. Barnaby had spent a restful night, with Aunt Alex’s dose of laudanum, and he was quite fine this morning. P.C. had sat beside him, stroking his forehead, and Pip had offered to play guessing games with him so his brain would keep working. All was well. Still, the bone-deep fear remained.
He stared at the cascading rain. It was just as well. He didn’t want to take any chances with Barnaby. Better he stay quiet today. He’d still worried, wondered if they should fetch the Sherbrooke doctor, until the Virgin Bride had assured him Barnaby was fine. He believed she’d spent the night hovering over him.
His uncle Douglas’s valet, Mortimer, was assisting him, which he appreciated. Ponsonby, his own rheumy-eyed valet—who was always telling him he planned to retire to the seaside, even though he was reminded he already lived near the sea coast—hadn’t come with them, since walking up and down stairs pained him. After Mortimer assisted Grayson into his coat, Grayson thanked him and took himself to the nursery. He paused. No sound of children shouting, arguing, laughing. He heard nothing at all. He felt immediate alarm and opened the schoolroom door. Mr. Ramsey was reading at his desk. He looked up to see Grayson, nodded in welcome. He said in a quiet voice, “Barnaby is fine, even ate a large breakfast with P.C. and Pip. I offered to help Barnaby dress, but he wouldn’t hear of it. They’ll be out in a moment.” He paused, smiled. “I believe Pip told him and P.C. ghost stories, the same stories you’d told him when he was young, which he isn’t now because he’s five.”
Grayson laughed. “Yes, my son, the old man.” Grayson turned and quietly opened Pip’s door. He was seated on the side of his small bed, pulling on his boots. Grayson leaned down to straighten his collar and kissed him. “Barnaby is fine, so no more worrying. I’ll be going down to breakfast, Pip. I’ll see you soon.”
When he went back into the schoolroom, he said to Mr. Ramsey, “When the children are ready for polite company, please let me know. I believe it best Barnaby rest today. I know a word game they might enjoy playing. I imagine my aunt Alex knows more games to keep them from driving all of us mad.” He added, looking toward the rain splashing against the schoolroom windows, “I’m glad it’s raining. Otherwise, we could have a riot on our hands.”
“I fancy the rain won’t last much longer,” Olafar said matter-of-factly. “The Virgin Bride assured me Barnaby would be fine. We are not to worry.”
Grayson wondered why she hadn’t come and thought it to him. After all, he’d known her all his life. He said, “Miss Elphinstone was supposed to go riding with us today—” Grayson shrugged. “We’ll see.” He left the schoolroom and went down the wide front staircase to the dim entrance hall. Maximus wasn’t to be seen. However, to his surprise, when he walked into the small dining room, Miss Elphinstone was enjoying breakfast with his aunt and uncle. She didn’t look at all wet, and she was smiling at him.
His uncle Douglas called out, “How is Barnaby after his adventure?”
“He is fine, sir. He said if he appears weak, and places a hand against his head, it is his defense to keep P.C. from smacking him for being careless.”
Both Aunt Alex and Uncle Douglas laughed. He said, “My boy, do join us. Miss Elphinstone arrived for the promised visit to Sir Thomas Bowlin’s stud farm, but alas, I doubt it will come to pass now. She has been telling us she feeds carrot juice to her horses at her home in Antwerp.”
“That’s right, my lord. I have found horses are mad for carrot juice, all except for my own sweet mare S.W. She spits it out, looks at me like I’m trying to poison her.”
“So what do you give her to drink?” Alex asked, waving her slice of toast loaded with blueberry jam.
Miss Elphinstone laughed. “She likes goat milk, nice and warm, fresh from the goat. And to eat, you’ll not believe it, but S.W. loves to chew on lico
rice. Ah, good morning, Mr. Sherbrooke.”
“Good morning, Miss Elphinstone.”
“Do call me R.M. My aunt and uncle send their felicitations. They are quite in a dither about their party for me tomorrow night, the sweet dears. I am pleased Barnaby survived his adventure.”
Grayson said, “If you tell me what R.M. stands for, I might tell you what P.C. stands for.”
“I do not like ‘mights,’ Mr. Sherbrooke. Will you tell me?”
Grayson grinned. “On second thought, I fear P.C. would throttle me in my sleep were I to do so.” He began spooning scrambled eggs onto his plate.
When he turned to the table to sit down, Miss Elphinstone said, “I would too.”
Douglas laughed. “All these initials. Wait, would you look at this—it was storming, thunder booming, but now the rain has stopped. Is that a speck of sunlight coming through those dark clouds?” He shook his head in wonderment. “I’ve never seen English weather cooperate like this before. You must be magic, Miss Elphinstone.”
They heard the children in the entrance hall, voices high and excited, even Barnaby’s.
Douglas’s voice boomed out, “Children, come here.”
Pip immediately ran to his father. “I forgot to tell you, Papa. When Mr. Ramsey woke us up, he told us we were going to visit a stud farm today, if Barnaby felt all right, and Barnaby swears he’s in the pink. What’s a stud farm, Papa?”
After a beat of silence, Miss Elphinstone said, “It’s a lovely place where boy horses meet girl horses and perhaps they get married.”
Barnaby frowned, turned to Grayson. “But horses don’t get married, do they, sir?”
“I understand there is the occasional ceremony. Let’s ask Miss Elphinstone if horses get married in Belgium. Ah, where is your tutor?”
“Not exactly in the way we humans get married, Barnaby, but horses fall in love and they have children—colts and fillies. You’ll see beautiful horses today at Bowlin’s stud farm. Sir Thomas is renowned for his, ah, horse facilities.”
The Virgin Bride of Northcliffe Hall Page 3