by Wilma Counts
“Not at all, though I doubt that horrid beast will agree to keep to even our most challenging pace. I have seen him in action. He is difficult to control.”
Quint leaned forward and patted the stallion’s neck. “Don’t listen to her, Luce. She cannot mean to speak so meanly of such a fine fellow as you.” The horse lifted his head arrogantly and pranced impatiently.
Harriet shared a knowing glance with Phillip and the other two riders. The five of them set off at a fairly sedate pace, the groom Dolan on a gelding whose name, Etna, had once fit him, but those days were long gone when he had had a tendency to “explode” unpredictably. These days Etna was considered one of the most dependable riding horses in the Sedwick stables. Gibbons was mounted on an equally fine example of the previous earl’s eye for a fine horse.
“Me an’ Etna been goin’ out regular with the colonel an’ Mr. Gibbons,” Dolan informed Harriet and Phillip as Quint and his friend quickly pulled ahead of the others.
“I am glad the colonel is willing to take on that animal,” Harriet said. “He is dangerous—but oh so magnificent—and your father loved him dearly, Phillip.”
“I know. Aunt Harriet, I’ve been thinking—and I talked about it with Dolan here—it’s time I moved up from this pony to maybe Etna there. What do you think? Maybe let Sarah have Toby for hers now?”
“I told his lordship he should ask you,” Dolan put in quickly.
Harriet glanced over at her nephew. Every once in a while, there would come a moment when she was forced to recognize the inevitable march of time. All too soon this boy would be an adolescent, then a man. “I think,” she said slowly, “that would be fine if your uncle approves. As your guardian, he has the last word on such things. Ask him. But if you feel comfortable doing that, he should have no objection.”
She considered the boy’s slight figure. Phillip had been a rather sturdy toddler, but had suffered a bout of fever when he was three that had set him back—and worried his parents prodigiously—but he had recovered fully and nothing ever seemed to hold him back in terms of activity or stamina since. Still, his build was more lithe than husky, though Harriet supposed that soon enough Phillip would develop that adolescent growth spurt with which young men seemed always to surprise their friends and families overnight. How sad that Anne and Win would miss witnessing that in their son. And such changes in the others as well.
“Look at them go!”
Phillip’s cry interrupted her musing. She looked up to see Quint and the black stallion take off at a hard run, the rider bent low over the horse’s neck, apparently urging the animal on. Low rock fences separating fields of grazing sheep offered no obstacles as the stallion sailed smoothly over them. Perhaps it is not just Lucifer who needed the utter freedom of this run, she thought. The rest of them followed at a more leisurely pace, often going around, not through a field, but finally they caught up with the stallion and its rider, who had stopped at the edge of a cliff overlooking the river that ran through one section of the Sedwick property.
“That was great, Uncle Quint!” Phillip said.
“You make an admirable team.” Harriet gestured at man and horse.
“He is a handful,” Quint said, “but I think he’s worked out the kinks for a bit at least. He should be an amiable companion for your pony on the return ride, Phillip.”
“Oh, very good, sir.”
Harriet caught Quint’s gaze. Knowing that Phillip was torn between developing a full-blown case of hero-worship for his uncle and feeling apprehensive about the question of school, she wanted to scream at him, “Don’t you dare hurt this boy!” However, she merely smiled and not only pulled her mount back to ride beside Dolan and Gibbons, but deliberately set a slower pace to put more distance between them and thus allow the colonel more privacy with his ward if he wished it.
“Captain Gibbons,” she said, making conversation, “did I or did I not detect a slight bit of the Scot in your speech, sir?”
“Ah, aye, lassie, ye did, ye hae caught me oot, ye hae,” he said with a laugh.
She laughed with him and went on, “And is not Gibbons the family name of the Laird of Aberdeen?”
“Why, bless my soul,” he said in exaggerated surprise, his hand over his heart, “I do believe it is.”
“Doing it too brown, Captain,” she said. “I assume that means you are of that Gibbons lot?”
“Yes, Miss, I am, but I do not trade on the family name—nor do I wear the military title any longer since I’ve given up the uniform. Plain mister will do for me.”
She gazed at him, sure there was good deal of pain behind the warm sincerity in his tone. She nodded her understanding. “It shall be as you wish, Mr. Gibbons.”
When the entire group arrived back at the stables, Harriet thought that both Phillip and his uncle seemed rather subdued, but neither said anything to her or to each other that seemed out of the ordinary. At breakfast Quint announced that, weather permitting, their picnic would take place during the next week.
“Picnic?” His mother was confused. “I know nothing of a picnic.”
“Next week?” Maria and Phillip uttered in unison, turning crestfallen expressions toward him.
“Yes, Mother,” Quint explained. “A family picnic at the Abbey ruins—like we used to have. The subject came up yesterday.”
“A family picnic,” she repeated, “and you were indeed thinking of inviting me?”
“Of course.” He paid little heed to her exaggerated tone. “You and Mrs. Hartley.” He gestured at Maria and Phillip. “What’s with the long faces on you two? I thought you welcomed the idea of a picnic.”
The two youngsters looked at each other and Maria said hesitantly, “We did—we do—we all did—do. It’s just that we—uh—we thought it would take place today or tomorrow—”
“We never set a time, did we?”
“Well, no, but—”
“It cannot be this week,” Quint said, rather tersely, Harriet thought. “Today is your grandmother’s tea; tomorrow, Phillip is visiting tenant farmers and cottagers; the next day, he is touring the mills; the following day is market day; and the one following that is Sunday and church—so, you see, it must be next week.”
“Well, yes, one can certainly see that now,” Maria said, sounding as imperious as the dowager herself. Harriet smiled inwardly and kept her eyes on her plate, knowing the colonel was not used to answering to children.
“It sounds like a pleasant outing,” the dowager said. “And it gives me an idea for an entertainment for my house party some weeks later, if the weather remains fair. I will speak with Mrs. Hodges later.”
* * * *
Quint retreated to the library after breakfast. He wanted to go over those figures yet again before trying to share any of that information with Phillip. No sense worrying a twelve-year-old overmuch, but the boy needed to have some inkling of what he would one day be taking on. A tap at the door interrupted him.
“Colonel Burnes, may I have a moment of your time?”
“Of course, Miss Mayfield.” He rose behind the desk and gestured at a chair in front of it, which she took.
She wore a blue-gray dress trimmed with wide satin ribbons of the same color that not only caught and reflected the light as she moved, but also enhanced the color of her eyes. She has to know the effect those eyes have on a man! He still could not decide whether he thought they were more blue or gray.
“What may I do for you?” he asked, sitting back down.
“It’s about your taking Phillip to see the cottagers and the mills.”
“You do not approve?”
“Oh, no. It is not that I do not approve. I think Phillip should know the people for whom he will be—is—responsible. Win and Anne often took the children—especially Phillip and Maria—with them when they visited tenants.” She paused and held his gaze directly. “I—uh
—I should like to come along. That is, with your permission, of course,” she finished hurriedly.
“What?” He was caught off balance. He leaned forward in his chair and stared at her. “Cottagers? Woolen mills? Those are not exactly places for ladies of your sort, you know.”
She continued to hold his gaze. “As I am sure you must know by now, sir, I am not one to remain fixed on what those of ‘my sort’—whatever that may be—should and should not do. However, it strikes me that you are proposing to introduce Phillip to precisely the folks I need to meet to give my series of essays the vitality and energy I want it to have. I promise that I will not embarrass you or Phillip or in any way tarnish the Sedwick name.”
“Hmm.” He tore his gaze from hers, only to have it directed at a corner of the ceiling painting that depicted the judgment of Paris. He ran a knuckle along his jaw. “As to that, enough of the Sedwick line have achieved that end already. You do know that my mother and her lot would be apoplectic at the very idea of what you are suggesting?” He raised a questioning eyebrow at her.
“Perhaps they will be—after the fact.”
“Ah, Miss Mayfield, you may steal my heart yet,” he said lightly, stalling for time, trying to foresee any consequences. Then he sighed. “All right. It is against my better judgment, but all right. Dig out the plainest, most nondescript garment you own—best we not make a show of too much finery in these places.”
Her smile literally took his breath away.
“Thank you, sir. Thank you. Thank you.”
Even as she closed the door behind her, he wondered how wise that decision had been. When Chet joined him for another round with the books, Quint informed him of the next day’s outing and added, “You’d better come along too, Chet.”
“What? You suggesting one of Wellington’s finest ain’t up to protecting a woman and a boy on the boy’s own property?”
Quint rolled his eyes. “We have footmen for that task. But I might suggest that cheeky employees tread on thin ice.”
Chet pulled at an imaginary forelock. “Yes, sir. I shall keep that in mind, sir. What can I do for you, sir?”
“You can help look out for Miss Mayfield—see that nothing untoward happens to her or some unsavory type does not accost her. I shall have my hands full with Sedwick, I am sure. But mostly, I’d like you to have that trusty little notebook of yours handy. You know the sorts of things we are looking for—know them better than I do, as a matter of fact.”
“Helps when one’s daddy owns a mill or two,” Chet muttered.
“I’m sure,” Quint said absently. “By the by—how long do you intend to hide away down here, my friend?
Chet grinned at him, blue eyes twinkling. “Caught me out, eh? Thought I’d see you settled in before going off north to beard the lion. Lions. Me da and both older brothers. Plus an uncle or two. I’m the black sheep o’ the family, you know. Sent down from university. Shipped off to his majesty’s army. Probably best forgot by now.”
“Balderdash! You always had plenty of mail whenever it came in.”
“My sister Mary. She always manages to keep me informed.”
“So? What does she tell you now? Is all forgiven? I am not merely prying, Chet. After all these years, I am quite used to relying on your eyes and ears. I would hate to lose you, though I suppose the Sedwick steward is competent enough.” Quint shuffled through some papers on the desk. “What is that fellow’s name? Old Falmouth retired in ’08.”
“Stevens.”
“See?” Quint held his friend’s gaze inquiringly.
“I’ll hang on here until I see you settled in firmly,” Chet said. “I am in no hurry to set myself up for more rejection up north, though I’d not mind seeing my baby sister again. Been a long time.” He sighed. “She’s nineteen now.”
“In any event,” Quint said emphatically, “you are to stop hiding away in your room and in the servants’ hall and take your place in this household as what you are: my friend and my guest. Is that clear?”
“Aye, aye, sir.”
* * * *
Lady Margaret, Dowager Countess of Sedwick, had begun to talk of this afternoon tea within three days of her son’s arrival home. Quint was not sure whether she was using the occasion to announce his return to the environs or her own emergence from deep mourning and return to the helm of this little frigate of society. It was, according to her ladyship, to be a deliciously elaborate informal gathering of as many as fifty of the “best people” of local society. Quint groaned inwardly, but steeled himself to perform his required role.
In the event, the weather gods smiled upon the affair and the afternoon turned out gloriously warm. Tables and chairs and colorful umbrellas were set up in the garden off the morning room and the library. The dowager and her son greeted their guests, who then mingled at their leisure, imbibing lemonade and tea and munching on cucumber sandwiches and other delicacies as well as Mrs. Hodges’s famous ginger biscuits. Footmen had wheeled out a piano, which Harriet, Sylvia Hartley, and several other ladies traded off playing. Lady Margaret had finally shed her dismal black bombazine for a plainly styled gray linen gown, over which she had consented to wear the shawl her grandchildren had given her. Quint overheard her brag to another matron about the gift and he knew Harriet had persuaded her to show herself in the nursery wearing the shawl.
As a young man, he had endured more than one social event of his mother’s engineering. Such had been his expectation of this one: something to be endured. Instead, he was pleasantly surprised. First off, he was genuinely interested in getting to know these people he knew would be his neighbors for the next several years or more. He began immediately to try to sort through the characteristics they exhibited and subjects they talked about so he could greet them intelligently at some future date.
Among the first people who came to his notice was the vicar. Mr. Justin Powers turned out to be a man his middle thirties, dark-haired, with a firm handshake and an athletic build. He was accompanied by his wife, Emma, a slim brown-haired beauty of an age with her husband. Ten minutes of conversation with the couple quickly disabused Quint of his previous ill-founded prejudice about the literacy of local vicars—at least of this one.
He turned away from the Powers couple to see Harriet Mayfield coming toward him. He drank in the sight of her. She had not gone so far as to offend the dowager by casting off all semblance of mourning, but she had donned a plainly styled dress of a deep jade green trimmed with metallic-looking bronze lace appliqués with the same lace repeated at the sleeves and square neckline. On her left shoulder she wore the flower brooch the children had given her. He smiled as she approached.
“I saw you talking with Justin and Emma Powers,” she said.
“And you just could not wait to come and say ‘I told you so,’ could you?” he asked.
“I just wondered—that is, I hoped—”
He gave her a deep, mocking bow. “I bow to your judgment, oh woman of wisdom. They are very bright, very charming people. I shall enjoy getting to know them better.”
She impulsively laid a hand on his arm and held his gaze. “Good. I am so glad you like them. They are among my very favorite people in the neighborhood. Emma and Anne were quite close—they came here the same year, both as new brides.”
“Is that so?” he murmured, trying to cope with the intense physical reaction her touch and direct gaze were having on him. He welcomed the distraction of another guest.
Thus it was that this particular social event of his mother’s brought another matter to the attention of Colonel Lord Quinton Frederick Burnes. He found himself surprised, intrigued, and—no! surely not jealous. Over a woman he hardly knew? Ridiculous. But there it was. No. It was just a sense of protectiveness and propriety toward a person temporarily under his care, so to speak. That was it.
Among his mother’s guests were two men who immediately ca
ught Quint’s notice because of their attentions toward Harriet Mayfield. Sir Desmond Humphreys, a rather portly widower in his late forties with thinning blond hair, fawned over the dowager’s hand, welcomed her son “home from the wars” in booming affability, then made his way ostentatiously to the side of Harriet, who was engaged in conversation a few feet away.
“Ah, Miss Mayfield,” he called and hurried toward her. “My dear girl, I only this morning learned that you had returned to our midst. I have a new curricle. It is truly the jolliest of vehicles. You simply must allow me to take you out in it. Say tomorrow afternoon?”
She excused herself—reluctantly, it seemed to Quint—from the other folks with whom she had been talking and he was unable to hear her response to the man, but he did hear his mother’s comment.
“I don’t know why Harriet does not put him out of his misery and accept the man,” the dowager said. “At her age, she is not likely to find a much better prospect.”
“What? Are you telling me that fellow is hanging out to marry Miss Mayfield?” Quint was appalled.
His mother shrugged. “Did you not recognize his name? Humphreys. Owns those woolen mills that used to belong to the Leeds family. Your father wanted to buy them, but Humphreys beat him out. The man’s a cit. His wife died four years ago and he wants to marry up this time. Thinks Harriet’s connections will do it for him.”
“That sounds rather crass to me,” Quint said.
“My dear boy, the marriage mart is crass,” his mother said, and turned to greet another guest.
The other man whose attentions to Harriet Mayfield caught Quint’s notice caused him more concern, though he was perhaps not ready to admit to his own level of interest yet. This man was Captain Cameron Morris, late of His Majesty’s Naval Service. Captain Morris was on an extended visit with his sister, Edith, wife of Squire William Douglas. The captain, with black hair and eyes so dark as to be almost black themselves, had the bearing and experience of a fellow military man. Quint immediately identified with the man and found much to like about him.