“Hell’s teeth, Freddy. That’s what elegance is.” Bruno had thrust his hands into his pockets and stared out the window at the undulating hills, shapely as a woman draped across the contours of the earth. “Elegance is… it’s style and uniqueness. Not many women could look as stunning as Sophia Cranston with a random piece of fabric wound about their hair.”
“This is what you call elegance,” Freddy had answered, leaning forward to run his hand over the sculpted haunches of an aristocratic-looking greyhound.
And perhaps Freddy was more perceptive than he, Bruno, had given him credit for. Elegance was too cool, too severe a description for Sophia Cranston, he thought now, remembering how she’d glowed against the dusky, cramped interior of the village store. He did not think elegance would excite him as much as Sophia in her sky-colored coat buttoned over a topaz gown, a glint of gold in the filmy scarf about her throat.
Chapter Ten
Mr. Cavanaugh seemed impervious to the steady drizzle that dripped from the brim of his hat and misted the shoulders of his coat. Watching him ride alongside the carriage in tune with the elements, Sophia felt again the pull of his personality. With just a few words he had reinforced her altered perception of Annabelle and encouraged her to review her own role in that miserable incident. He had eased the burden of guilt she’d carried for so long.
While he touched her on a purely intuitive level, at the same time she was moved by something so physical she could barely resist reaching out to touch his face, his hand, his hair, or lean close to breathe in his smell. But she could not tell whether he returned these feelings, for he retreated at the first sign of intimacy that might breach the boundaries of the ‘brotherliness’ he pledged.
She sank back, only partly aware the rain had stopped as if a tap had been turned off by a heavenly hand. The sky gleamed like pewter. The way ahead narrowed just before the lane began to climb a slight gradient near Horton’s Farm. On one side of the rise grew a stand of beech; the other side sloped away down a grassy incline and eased out into a broad, flat meadow.
A group of caravans clustered beside the bend in Shutter’s Stream bounding the meadow to the east. Sitting upright, Sophia recognized one of the caravans as belonging to Gabriel and his family. It was a relief to know he was in the vicinity, for his presence meant she could solve the short-term difficulty of purchasing some of the items Annabelle needed for her coming out, along with decent frames for the paintings she hoped would end up at the Academy. She determined to arrange a meeting with him at the first opportunity.
They were halfway up the hill with the greys pulling easily, when Sophia heard a frightened cry from the clearing below. Peering through the window, she saw a small boy standing stock still as Farmer Horton’s prize bull lumbered into the field towards him. It was Gabriel’s nephew, Jem! The boy’s red shirt sang out against the grassy background while the iron ring in the bull’s nose gave off a dull gleam. Steam rose from his muscled flanks.
“Freddy! Stop!” Sophia rapped hard on the roof of the carriage. With her other hand she grabbed the door handle and had the carriage door open even before Freddy pulled his team to a halt.
She knew the bull had already gored one of the farm hands, who’d almost lost a leg as a result. Bob Horton had agreed to keep the beast penned but the animal must have escaped and now looked bent on savaging the boy. A breeze swept across the meadow, rippling the grass and bringing the odor of bovine excrement.
A stream of people from the encampment came running, waving their arms and shouting, trying to divert the huge animal. Although they were moving fast, it did not seem possible they could make the distance in time to rescue the lad who seemed paralysed with fright.
Sophia heard Freddy curse. “Damn gypsies shouldn’t be allowed to camp there. That boy’s a goner.”
Mama gave a horrified gasp and looked the other way.
Thinking only of joining the rescuers, Sophia tumbled out of the carriage, tripped, and fell into the dirt. The air vibrated with the sound of thudding hooves approaching fast. From the corner of her eye, she caught a blur of motion. The smell of hot, sweating horseflesh filled her nostrils. As she dragged herself up from the ground a splash of mud caught her on the cheek.
Mr. Cavanaugh had spun his mare around and sent the animal full tilt down the slope. At first Sophia thought the horse had no rider, then she realized Cavanaugh was riding so low in the saddle he was barely visible.
He brandished his hat in his hand, slapping it on his mount’s flanks, to one side and then the other, whooping and emitting high-pitched yelps as he charged towards the rapidly narrowing space between the boy and the bull.
Confused, the bull swung towards horse and rider but Cavanaugh did not even pause. Boots out of the stirrups, he cleaved to the side of his horse as if he was part of the animal itself. He tore into the gap, looped one arm out, scooped up the boy and regained his seat in one smooth movement. It had all happened so quickly, Sophia could almost not believe what she had seen.
Bruno sped forward for several more yards then hauled on the reins and wheeled around, aware of a commotion behind him. The boy quivered against him. The bull pawed the ground, observing the advancing men through small, brutal eyes. Strings of saliva dripped from his leathery maw. One young man, broad-shouldered and with a powerful chest strode ahead of the rest, brandishing a blood-red scarf at the animal.
“Hey-yah!” he shouted. “Over here, y’ cruel devil!”
The bull swung his massive shoulders towards him, but the disappearance of his quarry, the flapping piece of red fabric and the earsplitting racket had confused him. With a violent twist of his wrist the gypsy made the fabric snap and he marched straight towards the bull with no sign of fear.
The creature retreated a couple of steps, shook his head and snorted. Loud voices behind him made him swerve uncertainly and when he saw Bob Horton and a couple of his lads come over the brow of the hill, he threw a last baleful glance towards the gypsy and lumbered in their direction.
A woman separated from the group, picked up her skirts and raced across the grass. Her bare feet flashed brown beneath her petticoats. A green and gold scarf held her hair back from a strong, dark face. She did not acknowledge Bruno but held her arms up to the boy. “Jem! How many times have I told you not to wander away from camp!”
The boy wriggled. Bruno loosened his grip and allowed him to slip down into the waiting arms. The woman kissed the curls on the top of his head then looked up at Bruno. She neither curtsied nor inclined her head. Her black eyes were large and thickly lashed. “Thank you, sir,” she said. “That beast would have killed Jem for sure.”
Bruno was about to respond when the gypsy with the red scarf came striding forward. Behind him the rest of the group dispersed, the men inclining their heads at Bruno in silent acknowledgement before heading back to their camp.
Bruno narrowed his eyes. The man moving at pace across the meadow wore black trousers and a loose white shirt topped with a black leather jerkin. His black curls glistened against the gold ring gleaming in his ear and Bruno found himself looking down into the bold, smiling face of the young man depicted in Sophia’s picture. Gabriel. The gypsy grinned and held out his hand.
Bruno supressed a flash of envy at the thought of the hours this young rogue and Sophia Cranston must have spent together for her to catch the tilt of his head, the charm of his smile, the swarthy gleam of his skin.
He took the proffered hand and found his own taken in a hard, confident grip. He couldn’t help but like the young man’s forthright manner and he admired the sheer courage he’d just witnessed.
“Gabriel Heron,” the gypsy introduced himself. “I’m no’ a sorry horseman myself, but I’ve rarely seen a man ride like that. That murderous beast would have slaughtered my nephew for sure. You saved his life. Thank you.”
The woman gave a swift smile and ducked her head. The gold coins sewn onto her scarf glittered. Without another word, she swiveled away and headed bac
k towards the encampment. The boy raised his face from her shoulder and peeped at Bruno from brimming brown eyes beneath a mop of curls. He raised a chubby hand and waved shyly then snuggled his face back into his mother’s shoulder.
Bruno smiled. Casting his eye over the encampment, the smell of woodsmoke sharp in his nostrils, he saw how easily the young Sophia would have been captivated by such a scene. Holding the little boy, he’d felt a sharp surge of protectiveness. He’d made no small fortune by his own endeavors and now he was in possession of English lands and wealth—an event that had staggered him. But holding the small boy in his arms as he’d once held Garrett, made all the rest seem worthless.
“I need no thanks,” he said gruffly. “Any man would have done the same.”
Heron shook his head. “Not for the likes of us, they wouldn’t. There are some folks’d be happy to be rid of every last one of us.”
Bruno frowned.
“Gypsies,” said Heron by way of explanation. “Except for harvesting time, most of them around here would have us gone if they could.”
“No one would stand by and see a child savaged,” argued Bruno.
“Maybe not where you come from.” Heron’s smile held little humor.
But where did he come from, wondered Bruno, suddenly conflicted. Here, where the countryside was a patchwork of neat fields divided by stone walls and hedges, or across the Atlantic in a land so vast the whole of Britain could fit into it many times over. Was he certain he belonged here, where the people themselves were tightly constrained within layers of society according to their birth, or in America where fortunes and futures mostly relied on a man’s own ability to flourish or falter?
Unsettled by his ruminations, he raised his glance to the roadway. Sophia Cranston stood at the edge of the slope. Her bonnet hung down her back and the breeze swirled her hair about her face. He knew he was not being rational, for she was too far away for him to smell her scent, but he could have sworn the fragrance of lemons and almond blossom drifted across the meadow towards him.
He glanced down. “There’s no need for thanks. I was glad to help.” He touched a finger to his hat and gathered up the reins. Loping up the slope he was aware of Gabriel Heron watching him thoughtfully from behind, and before him, the flash of Sophia Cranston’s golden gown as she scrambled back into the carriage.
Chapter Eleven
“Stop, Mama!” Sophia pulled away from her mother’s handkerchief-coated finger. “You will scrub my cheek raw.”
“Why must you always act the hoyden, Sophia? Throwing yourself out of the carriage into the mud! Mr. Cavanaugh must think you quite deranged.”
“I care not a jot what Mr. Cavanaugh thinks,” Sophia lied, caring so much what Mr. Cavanaugh thought it caused a piercing ache in her heart. She’d known a moment of terror when he’d intersected the raging bull’s path, but his horsemanship had been astounding. Less than a minute must have passed in between her first sighting of Jem and the instant Mr. Cavanaugh scooped him away from danger.
“By jove!” she heard Freddy exclaim when Mr. Cavanaugh drew rein alongside him. “I’ve never seen the like! Neck or nothing, eh, Bruno?”
Mr. Cavanaugh responded gruffly and although Sophia could not catch his exact words she sensed he was underplaying his role in the incident. Her own heart had been in her mouth and she knew if he had been toppled from his horse no force on earth would have prevented her from tearing down the hillside to be by his side. She leaned her head against the carriage window and stared at his back, visualising the musculature concealed beneath his coat.
It was not much longer before he reined in his mount to fall back when Freddy swung the carriage between two graceful stone pillars decorated with carved birds. Sophia sat upright and stared ahead as they clipped along a broad avenue lined with grand old oaks.
“Oh, Mama. Just look. How perfect!” She could not help but exclaim with pleasure when Fernleigh’s Neo-classical lines came into view. Situated in a tapered valley amongst rolling countryside, the compact two-storey building occupied the same slightly elevated site as its predecessor, which had been demolished and hauled away more than two years before.
“It seems rather insignificant,” countered Lady Cranston, used to the sprawling dimensions of Foxwood, and more in awe of great houses such as Enderby and Northbridge Castle.
“Professor Paget is something of an architect and he designed it himself,” said Sophia. “I understand it has all the modern conveniences including running water in the kitchens and two water closets!”
She could not suppress a smile as Mama declined to comment on so delicate a subject, merely giving a “Haruumph” as they veered into the carriage circle. The rain had stayed away and a pale light warmed Fernleigh’s rose-pink sandstone walls.
Sophia marveled at the clean, elegant lines and sharp limestone facings that presented architecture in a wholly modern light. Freddy drew the greys to a halt at the base of a broad flight of shallow stone steps leading up to a terrace beyond which a pair of tall round-headed doors already stood open.
On various excursions through the countryside, Sophia had observed Fernleigh Hall’s construction with keen interest but the family had not long moved into the new residence and this was her first opportunity to view its interior.
As they alighted, Mr. Cavanaugh pulled up alongside. Sophia noticed, but did not acknowledge, the expressive signal he aimed at Freddy, causing her fiancée to relinquish the greys to a groom with evident reluctance and hurry over to offer Sophia his arm.
Janet Paget herself strode out from between the oaken doors, her statuesque form clad in a smart fustian gown. Its rich chocolate color made a pleasing contrast to the thick fair hair that curled beneath the lace edges of her matching cap. Sophia could not help but smile. Mama had indeed chosen wisely when selecting the colors for Mrs. Paget’s bonnet.
“Welcome to Fernleigh.” Their hostess’s smile warmed her brown eyes. No footman or butler appeared to be present, although a trim woman in a severe navy-blue gown stood in attendance.
With a gracious gesture, Mrs. Paget waved them inside. “Do come this way.”
They entered a spacious, but by no means vast, tiled hall at the far end of which two flights of stairs winged upwards to a landing that appeared to span the entire breadth of the building. Light flooded the area through a glazed dome set into the roof.
The light, airy space filled Sophia with admiration. She was further delighted when, instead of leading them up the stairs to where they might expect to find a drawing room, Janet Paget ushered them into a bright room on the ground floor. Its southern aspect and generous proportions lent the area an ambience that was both welcoming and elegant. Above a white marble fireplace, a substantial gilt-edged mirror reflected the space and walls of palest sage echoed the greens outside. The center pair of windows stood open onto a flagged terrace and the spicy scent of pinks pervaded the room.
“Tea in front of the windows, I think, Mrs. Bentwood. Let us take advantage of the sunlight.” With a quick smile Janet Paget directed the trim dark woman in an unceremonious manner, which caused Lady Cranston’s eyebrows to reach for her hairline.
But the informal command brought efficient results, for they had been seated only long enough to introduce Mr. Cavanaugh and exchange the briefest of pleasantries when tea was delivered and set at Mrs. Paget’s side with the least amount of ritual. Sophia loved the unpretentious atmosphere.
“I must apologize for my husband’s absence,” said Janet Paget when tea had been poured and comestibles handed around by a sturdy young maid with copper curls peeping from beneath her cap and a mass of freckles scattered across her cheeks. “He has been in Shropshire on business, but I am expecting him home before too long.”
“I’d be very pleased to meet your husband,” said Mr. Cavanaugh, helping himself to a savory lamb pie. “I understand he’s a skillful architect.”
“Indeed.” Janet Paget took a sip of tea from her gold-rimmed cup. She s
miled. “My husband designed this house down to the most minute detail.”
Sophia leaned forward. “It is absolutely charming,” she said. “So up-to-the-minute, and so much light! Do you not think so, Mama?”
Lady Cranston inclined her head graciously, although Sophia could see she was not convinced.
“It is by no means as large as the previous house that stood here,” said Janet Paget. “We have only six bedchambers. But every modern convenience has been installed.”
“Foxwood is so large there are rooms I have never even entered,” said Sophia, selecting a chunk of fruitcake. “Much of the house is dreadfully gloomy and in a sad state of disrepair. I should very much like to live in a more compact space.” Constructing an especially ingenuous smile she turned to Lady Cranston. “Do you not agree, Mama?”
Unable to disagree without appearing churlish, Lady Cranston allowed a tight nod.
Janet Paget smiled and set her cup back into its fluted, gold-rimmed saucer. “My husband is distantly related to the architect, Sir Charles Monck and has long taken an interest in the design and construction of contemporary buildings.
“Indeed, he spent some time with his cousin in Athens when Sir Charles was formulating his designs for Grecian-style architecture in England, and was inspired to pattern our new home along those lines.”
“With an excellent result,” Sophia said with a smile. “I am convinced such a well-designed home must be so much more comfortable and more efficient to run.” She swallowed the last cake crumb. “We rarely use the library at Foxwood because it is dark and cold. Even in the summer it smells musty. The long gallery is a gloomy, icy space, so we do not go there. We cannot afford to entertain so we rarely have visitors.”
She heard her mother’s outraged gasp. Voicing concerns about one’s means, or lack of, simply was not done. But at that moment, Sophia had little mind for etiquette. Observing Janet Paget’s expression of alert interest, she was certain her hostess was not particularly scandalized by her revelations.
The Beaumont Betrothal: Northbridge Bride Series Book 2 Page 13