Miss Ryder's Memoirs

by Laura Matthews

  “No, but I won't stop him.” Another thought had occurred to me and I turned from Lofty to ask him. “Did Sir John ride out early this morning? About dawn? Or perhaps earlier?"

  There was a slight hesitation before he answered. “Can't rightly say, miss. I weren't in the stables yet. A touch of the stomach. You could ask Cooper. He'd know for sure."

  How strange, I thought. Jed used to spend every waking moment at the stables, stomach upset or not. I'd even seen him more than once with terrible toothache working away at the brasses. But the matter immediately disappeared from my mind when I went in search of Cooper. He's been in charge of our stables for as long as his wife has been our cook, and he's almost as attached to us young folks as she is, having put us on our first ponies.

  I found him in the large tack room, repairing a saddle that had seen better days. The walls were hung with brasses and terrets, horseshoes and harness. When Cooper looked up I was struck for the first time by how white his hair had become; he was getting old. His eyes were a bit rheumy but his fingers moved as nimbly as ever over the leather. When I asked him my question, he scratched his head.

  “Well, now, seems everybody and his brother took an early ride. That Mr. Cummings was out before I came down, and then Sir John showed up before dawn was full broke.” He frowned. “And I ‘da sworn Antelope had been ridden, too, ‘cept who was there to take her out but you?"

  Antelope is my mother's favorite. Mr. Cummings, my Cousin Bret, rides Thunder, though no one really considers him a good-enough rider to be up on the magnificent mount. Robert would have taken the horse to town if we hadn't all known London was no place for such a restless animal. Thunder needed to be ridden regularly, and hard, in order to keep him in good shape and spirits. I wondered if Sir John would offer to take him over for the duration of his stay. It would be a treat to see Sir John up on that powerful beast.

  “Well, I certainly didn't ride Antelope. I don't go out riding in the middle of the night.” But he'd made me wonder. “Why did you think she'd been ridden?"

  “Oh, she'd been rubbed down, and all, but I know that little mare. She had the look of hard ride under her belt, if you take my meaning."

  I did. “Didn't Jed say whether he'd rubbed her down?"

  “He don't answer questions like that, miss. Not for me nor nobody."

  “But why? What has he to hide, for heaven's sake?"

  “Begging your pardon, miss, but I wouldn't know. He's a law unto himself that one, and your ma won't hear of him being dismissed."

  “Well, I should think not,” I replied, indignant. “He's the best groom we've ever had. But I can't imagine why he wouldn't answer some simple questions."

  “Mayhap they ain't so simple,” the old man muttered, patting the saddle with a kind of finality.

  Seeing that I wasn't going to get any more out of him, I took myself off. There was entirely too much mystery suddenly cluttering up the place. Hastings is, usually, just an ordinary and uncomplicated spot, comfortable and rather dull, actually. For some reason, the prospect of a mystery didn't excite me as it might have. I could smell trouble. And trouble wasn't what we needed right then, since Robert was heir apparent to an earldom.

  My father was the younger son of a younger son of a not-very-prolific family. By the unassuming way he lived, no one would have guessed he might become an earl during his lifetime. He was more interested in his books and crops than in the lineage of his family or the privileges the aristocracy could claim.

  But Papa died before his great-uncle, which left Robert in line for the earldom.

  The earl, Lord Stonebridge, is more than eighty years old and could pop off at any time. He's a very high stickler and would have produced an heir if he could. It galls him that not one of his three wives managed to provide a living heir. There were a few sickly babies, I believe, but none of them survived.

  Lord Stonebridge likes to treat Robert as if he were some sort of medieval retainer, insisting that Robert drop everything and hurry off to Stonebridge Castle at the slightest hint from his highness. Stonebridge says Robert has a lot to learn before he'll be ready to accept the mantle of his aristocratic heritage. Robert laughs at this, of course. He can be whatever kind of person he wishes, whether he's a lord or not.

  Anyhow, it wouldn't do to have something untoward happen at Hastings, because Lord Stonebridge has spies in the very gateposts. When one of our horses went missing for a few days, he heard about it and wrote to tell Mama that she was not handling matters properly. He said he knew just the man Robert should appoint to oversee the stables. Instead, I accepted the responsibility myself, and no one has had any cause to complain.

  We would not pay Lord Stonebridge the slightest notice, except that he has a habit of writing letters to the newspapers, which almost always see fit to print what he has to say. Not because of the wisdom of the letters, I'm convinced, but because these letters invariably prove a great embarrassment to someone. Quite often us. No one at Hastings will forget the day the Morning Post arrived with a letter by the earl deriding the state of the countryside when a family in Cambridgeshire could mismanage their stables so badly that their horses simply strayed off for a day or two. It made us the laughingstock of the neighborhood.

  So I'd rather things remained placid here until the old fellow meets his Maker, and his three previous wives.

  I ran into Cousin Bret on my way back to the house. He hadn't made it down to breakfast—he seldom does before ten—and he'd obviously just heard that Amanda was off with Sir John for the day.

  “How could your mother let her go off with a virtual stranger?” he demanded on seeing me. “We don't know the first thing about the fellow and he seems a bit of a loose screw to me. You won't credit it, but Hughes and I discovered him that first day hanging about the pond, as if he owned the place. Wouldn't even present his letter to us."

  There's nothing I hate more than to be in agreement with Cousin Bret, so I pretended that I wasn't. “If he's a friend of Robert's, I'm sure he's perfectly harmless."

  “Hah. You haven't the slightest idea what your brother gets up to in London."

  “Do you?"

  “No, but I'm sure he's no angel there. And this one,” said he, giving his head a thrust in the direction of the departed curricle, “I'm sure I've heard his name and that his reputation is that of a rake and a gambler. Your mother shouldn't have allowed a delicate young thing like Amanda to rush off with him, and only his groom in attendance. His groom, you will note. Not one of Hastings’ grooms. Not that there aren't those at Hastings who would be less than useless, either."

  I knew he wanted me to ask which, but I refused to give him the satisfaction. “They've only gone to Overview Stables, and to have a picnic on their return. No harm will come to Amanda."

  “How can you possibly know that?” he sneered. “She's the most trusting creature. And so easily influenced."

  He said this with approbation, and I nearly laughed at him. Amanda, trusting! Not a bit of it. And she's about as impressionable as a major in the Horse Guards. Except where Sir John was concerned. And he wasn't going to make any headway with her. Amanda has her principles. She would allow him no liberties until they had stood together before a man of the cloth. What was I thinking! She was not going to marry Sir John. Not if I had anything to say to it!

  “Amanda has more sense than you credit her with,” I said.

  His sneer deepened until his nostrils flared. “You are so naive, Cousin Catherine."

  He turned away from me and stalked off, which was perfectly all right with me.

  * * * *

  Sir John and my sister didn't return for hours. I sat in the arbor, waiting for them. Not that I intended to spy on them; I was waiting for the return of the picnic basket. I had learned at our cold nuncheon that Mrs. Cooper sent the last of her raspberry tarts for their picnic. No one makes better raspberry tarts than Mrs. Cooper, and I'd been anticipating another since they disappeared from the dining room the previo
us evening.

  What could be keeping them all that time? It would have taken Sir John no more than a few hours to drive and learn the history of every horse at Overview Stables.

  So their picnic, near the river, under a stand of larch trees—as I learned later—had lasted for several hours as well. And what had they done during all that time? Surely no more than talked to each other. Perhaps Amanda had flirted with him a little, lying on the ground on the rug I'd seen peeking out from under the curricle's seat. She would have blinked up at him and smiled, her loveliest, shyest smile. Several of the neighborhood boys were captivated by that smile.

  And what would he have done, that rake in gentleman's clothing? He would have regarded her with those expressive eyes, all admiration and appreciation of her beauty. Certainly not of her wit! She would have told him about how she spent her days, netting purses and helping Mama plan the menus and overseeing the church's charitable activities. She might have told him about how remarkable her old horse Daisy was. If Sir John had seen it, he would know just how deplorable the old nag had become, but he would be wise enough not to mention it. Amanda would also, no doubt, tell a few tales about me. She can no more resist telling tales about me than I can resist taunting her.

  Anyhow. They arrived home all smiles, and with everything in the picnic basket totally devoured. Not even a few polite crumbs to assure Mrs. Cooper that there had been more than enough for them to eat. Sir John alone could not be blamed, for although Amanda's appetite wasn't all that hearty, she adored cream buns and the aforementioned raspberry tarts.

  They stopped to speak with me on their way into the house. Amanda's eyes widened with surprise. “What in heaven's name are you doing here?” she asked. “I expected you to be out on Lofty pounding through the countryside on such a day."

  That was just to prove to him, no doubt, that I'm the greatest hoyden in nature and would scarcely be caught dead swinging on the lattice seat in the arbor like an ordinary girl. “I was waiting to see if you brought back any raspberry tarts,” I replied.

  “Nary a one,” Sir John assured me cheerfully. “I think I must have eaten three of them myself, and your sister..."

  “Yes, yes, I believe we did finish all of them.” She gave him a coy, scolding look as she spoke. “I'll not be called to task for eating a few raspberry tarts."

  ''No one would dare call you to task for anything,” he assured her. Really, it was quite sickening, the sweet looks they gave each other. What the devil had gotten into Amanda, anyhow? Couldn't she see what he was? Why, if she knew about him at the pond, or how he'd spoken to me that very morning, she would blush deep as a beet and likely never speak to him again. Our vicar had convinced her that the righteous never associate with the devil, lest they become infected with evil. He has a way with words, our vicar.

  Amanda waved her fingers at us and continued on toward the house, but Sir John sat down across from me on the other swing. When she was out of sight, he said, “She's the most agreeable young woman I've met in years. So unspoiled!"

  “And I suppose you have every intention of spoiling her,” I snapped, plagued by the knowing look in his eyes. “Well, you'll catch cold at that, my dear sir. She's something of a prude, and certainly not anyone to tolerate the slightest indiscreet move on your part."

  “I'm well aware of it."

  “Ha! You've done nothing but make up to her since you arrived."

  “I'm well aware of that, too."

  I refused to be drawn by him, since I was convinced he meant only to tease me. It might have been a good time to ask him what he was up to, but I couldn't bring myself to do it. Certainly he wouldn't have answered me honestly. With a shake of my riding costume's skirts I jumped up and glared at him. “I'm off for a ride, then. Don't bother to see me to the stables. You will want to change and spend some time with Mama, making yourself agreeable to her."

  “Yes,” he agreed as he rose. “That's precisely what I intend to do."

  “Robert has obviously fallen into bad company.” I turned to leave him, only to feel his hand on my arm. Surprised—nay, shocked—my eyes flew up to his. He considered me for a long, intent moment while his hand remained warm on my flesh. A rueful smile formed at the corner of his wide mouth.

  “Later,” he murmured.

  “Humph!” I retorted, and stalked off.

  Chapter 5

  That evening at dinner it seemed to me that there was nothing so smug as Sir John, with Mama smiling warmly at him and Amanda hanging on his every word. I did not lend myself to this oozy scene. Amid their gaiety, I was solemn, busy with my own thoughts. If he chose to believe I was bored with his conversation, so much the better.

  After dinner we played at cards until the tea tray was brought in. Mama and I were winning, but it only seemed to agitate her. Usually she found a hand at whist relaxing, though I could remember several occasions on which this wasn't true, especially right after my father died. She would be gazing at her cards when suddenly her head would snap up and she would stare straight at the fireplace, or at a panel on the wall or a window covering. And she would mutter to herself.

  Well, let me be entirely truthful. When she muttered, it was not to herself. This is a rather difficult thing to admit, but my mother talked to ghosts. And not just since my father died, actually. There had been earlier occasions when I had come upon her in some dark reach of the house, earnestly speaking to ... a blank wall.

  My mother was not mad. She had simply developed a rather unique conception of religion. Her inspiration came from our country church, by way of her own idea of the hereafter. She believed that we were all surrounded by the dear departed all the time and that you could speak to them and they would hear you.

  We have all done it, in a way. Consider: you are in the sitting room doing a little repair work on a bonnet whose ribbon has become frayed. If your mind happens to wander off to your dead Aunt Sophy, you might, if you are so inclined, think something like, Dear Aunt Sophy, I do miss you. Those plum cakes you used to make were so exquisite, and you were always so kind to remember me on my birthday. In Mama's case, she simply said these things aloud.

  When he was alive, my father made it quite clear to Mama that she must curb this kind of behavior when other people were around. Mama herself didn't understand this; it seemed the most natural thing in the world to talk with ghosts. However, Papa was the one person in the world she really wanted to please, and she ordinarily behaved acceptably. She had not, for instance, embarrassed us before Cousin Bret.

  Her little quirk only became problematic, really, after Papa died and she took to believing that he spoke to her. Now I was alarmed to see her slip into an absent reverie right in front of Sir John. I gave her a nudge under the table, and I saw Amanda grab hold of her wrist.

  Sir John pretended that nothing out of the ordinary was happening. It was his turn to play a card, and he went straight ahead and tossed it onto the table, assuming, I suppose, that such a movement would draw Mama out of her unnatural preoccupation.

  Nothing of the sort!

  “Yes, Harold, I am well aware of it,” she said, still staring at the empty grate. Harold was my father's name.

  “Mama, it's your turn,” Amanda whispered urgently, poking Mama in her side.

  But Mama was not to be deterred from her little conversation. “He seems a nice lad, and obviously well-enough-to-do,” she explained to my father. No one around her doubted that she was speaking of Sir John; Amanda flushed an alarming shade of crimson. “Well, of course Robert has not always had the best judgment in his friendships, but I'm sure this time is different."

  “Would you like another cup of tea?” I asked the baronet. Amanda was speechless. Making a great rattle with the cups and saucers was no trouble for me, but it failed to rouse Mama from her trance.

  “I believe I will,” the baronet said.

  “A splendid idea,” Amanda gushed, recovering herself. “That was milk and two sugars, was it not?"

  He agre
ed that it was, but he never took his eyes from Mama. She had ceased talking and was listening with an earnest countenance, occasionally nodding or frowning. After some time, she said, “Oh, don't leave,” and then looked crestfallen. Her attention never did return to us, though. As if the hand were finished, she pushed her cards toward the center of the table and rose.

  “A lovely game. We must certainly play again. If you will excuse me, Sir John, I'm a trifle fatigued. The girls will entertain you.” She walked off in a daze, rubbing one hand softly against her brow.

  Sir John was on his feet, a polite expression on his face. No one said anything after the door closed behind her. Amanda looked as though she wished to hide under the nearest chair. After a moment I cleared my throat and said stoutly, “You must forgive Mama's inattention. Ever since Papa died, she has been a little distracted."

  “Oh, yes, indeed,” Amanda agreed. “Poor lamb. She was so exceedingly devoted to him that it has ‘distracted’ her a little, as Catherine says."

  Sir John resumed his seat and gathered up his cards. Without a word he shuffled the deck and glanced kindly at each of us. “Shall the three of us have a hand at loo?"

  Which was the essence of good manners, I supposed, but I knew he was storing it all up in his mind. For whatever purpose. Who would not?

  Sir John said good night to my sister very prettily, taking her hand between both of his and lifting it to his lips. I could have sworn that he winked at me when he was kissing her plump little fist, though, which served to confuse me more than ever. One thing I did decide was that he was trying to hoodwink us all in some way or other, and I determined to keep a vigil again that night, especially since I was certain he had gone out the night before, when I'd been too exhausted to do more than fall into my bed.

  My method of spying was simply to place myself right around the corner from his room. I dragged a covering from my bed and made myself as comfortable as possible, wishing that I dared to light a candle and read for the duration. Fortunately, the floor is not comfortable, and I knew I would rouse easily with the slightest sound. To be ready for immediate action, I wore my riding clothes, hoping that I would not be called upon to saddle Lofty myself, as I was not particularly quick about it and had never done it in the dark.