by Dorothy Mack
Coming home had been the right thing to do. That deepening restlessness and malaise that had overtaken her in London must have been the result of the constant need to deal with an unending stream of people. There was no privacy in a city. One week at the Oaks and she felt like a new person, relaxed, confident, contented. Though social contacts were much fewer, her interest in the people around her was rekindled. Drucilla was delightful company, fitting happily into the quiet country life for the present. Her curiosity and interest in every aspect of country living gave Vicky a new outlook on the existence she had always known.
They had not been entirely without social contacts this past sennight. Lady Lanscomb and Miss Fairchild, escorted by Sir Hugh, had called a few days ago with cheerful tidings of Mr. Massingham’s progress. The squire’s lady, accompanied by her two daughters, had dropped in one afternoon to welcome their neighbour home. Without her aunt’s presence it wouldn’t be possible to do any extensive entertaining at the Oaks, but she and Drucilla would surely be able to accept invitations from the genteel families in the vicinity for evening parties. It might not be London society, but Drucilla would not find Leicestershire devoid of attractions.
Mr. Mortimer, Drucilla’s uncle, had replied to her letter in civil though slightly grudging terms. He had expressed his gratitude for her intervention in the elopement attempt and agreed that his niece might remain in Miss Seymour’s care for a time to lend credence to the story of a visit to an old friend. Fortunately, Mrs. Mortimer had had the presence of mind to give a visit as the explanation for her niece’s absence after she had discovered Drucilla’s note, so the household had not been set in an uproar before the advent of Miss Seymour’s letter, and they thus had every hope of avoiding gossip. Vicky had wondered on receiving Mr. Mortimer’s cool reply if he had read the notice of her broken engagement in the papers. Though it seemed unlikely that a devoutly religious merchant would be interested in society news items, it would adequately account for his coolness. She was persuaded her lifestyle would appear scarcely more commendable than Mr. Massingham’s in Mr. Mortimer’s eyes. Drucilla, when shown her uncle’s letter, had not even noted the absence of warmth in her pleasure at obtaining permission to remain with Vicky. She had written an explanation and apology for her hasty action in eloping and now danced away to write another note expressing her gratitude and requesting a larger portion of her wardrobe.
Once settled at the Oaks, Vicky had found time to send one additional letter, a detailed account meant for the delectation of her aunt of her adventures with runaway heiresses, fortune hunters, and highwaymen. So far, she had not had any reaction from the outspoken Lady Honoria, but that was one missive she was watching for with mischievous anticipation. Picturing her aunt’s chagrin at missing all the excitement brought a little smile to Vicky’s lips now as she slipped into the stables to pick up a snaffle bridle for Shadow. She exchanged a few pleasantries with two of the stable lads and was caught when her voice reached the ears of Manley, her father’s head trainer. He was convinced she would wish to check on the progress of a mare with a sprained tendon. Since it was always quicker in the long run to go along with the testy Irishman than argue with him, Vicky dutifully examined the mare’s leg and agreed that the swelling had gone down considerably. She advised him to continue the cold treatment, which he would have done in any case, listened with concealed impatience to a list of supplies that were urgently required, and at last made her escape when one of the grooms came up to speak to Manley.
Safely outside once again, Vicky wasted no more time admiring the autumn scene. She had left Drucilla contentedly practicing on the pianoforte, but it would be uncivil to abandon a guest indefinitely to her own devices. No longer humming, but whistling a march tune, she speeded up her footsteps directed toward the field where Shadow grazed.
A sense of wellbeing softened the lines on the face of the man riding up an avenue of large trees. A perfect day for his first substantial outing, a good horse under him and no more than a tenderness in the wounded leg; all conditions contributed to this momentary contentment. He slowed to a walk, ambling along the avenue admiring the handsome oaks and the lush green fields on either side of him. Pleasant country, Leicestershire. His enforced stay had certainly offered compensations. Life at Meadowlands this past week had been relaxing and serene after the frenetic pace of the last few months and the tense period that had followed his abortive elopement. Physically he was nearly recovered, and mentally he had been soothed and warmed by the companionship of the family at Meadowlands. Lady Lanscomb was a marvellous hostess, fully attuned to her guests’ comfort without hovering over them or infringing on their privacy. Hugh was a good chap too, a trifle pedantic perhaps and overly conventional, but with a good-natured acceptance of others’ differences. Miss Fairchild also contributed to the pleasant atmosphere. Although too big for his taste and much quieter than the females of his acquaintance, she was an agreeable companion and he liked her modesty and complete lack of affectation. Not a girl to expect a man to cater to her whims. Not very exciting, but would undoubtedly make some fellow an unexceptionable wife.
His hosts had conspired to keep him sedentary for several days, though his leg had rapidly grown stronger. He had not been permitted to accompany them when they had returned Miss Seymour’s call.
He found himself very curious about the establishment he was approaching. It had been apparent from the luxurious travelling coach that his erstwhile nurse was not purse-pinched, and her clothes, though restrained in style compared with those of other ladies of his acquaintance, were of the finest fabrics and workmanship. Lady Lanscomb and Miss Fairchild had been much impressed by the size and air of settled elegance about the Oaks. Hugh had divulged that he was astonished at the scope of the horse-breeding operation still carried on by Miss Seymour since her father’s demise, and astounded to realise the extent of her personal involvement in the business. Miss Victoria Seymour was apparently a woman of parts. This unusual background undoubtedly accounted for that arrogance and unfeminine decisiveness that was so unnatural in a young woman. Not that she was all that young, of course. Though she looked scarcely older than Drucilla and Miss Fairchild, there was a certain distinction and an air of assurance that set her apart. That might be attractive to some men; certainly Hugh appeared to be completely enchanted with the woman, but it was otherwise with himself. He infinitely preferred females who stayed in their own orbit and left the decisions and the business enterprises to their menfolk. Drucilla was much more in his style, even if she was silly and frivolous at times. His own mother had been a capable woman, but she had never left one with the impression that she considered herself entirely capable of conducting her affairs without consultation or assistance from any man.
Small wonder Miss Seymour remained unmarried despite her undeniable beauty and tangible assets. What discerning man would care to take on the burden of a wife who clearly thought herself his superior, be she ever so beautiful and well-endowed? He would not. It was supremely ironic that he should have discovered a woman with looks, birth, and fortune who shared his chief interest in raising horses and yet remained totally ineligible in his eyes. If his doddering but dictatorial great-uncle could see past the tricky Melissa, he would consider Miss Seymour the ideal bride and himself a certifiable madman for not having a touch at the heiress.
Not that she would give him a second look, of course. From the very first clashing of eyes in that inn dining parlour, instant and mutual antagonism had flared up between Miss Seymour and himself, which, when one stopped to ponder the matter, was a fairly bizarre reaction between civilised persons of the opposite sex. He frowned suddenly, a swift gathering of black brows, and for a moment was oblivious of his surroundings while he pursued an elusive thought, but presently he concentrated on smoothing his expression. The matter was too unimportant to warrant pondering. Why was he wasting time thinking about that irritating female in any case, when it was Drucilla he had ridden out to see today? If he was to co
mbat the insidious effect of Miss Seymour’s disapproval, it was vital that he continue to see his fiancée as often as possible. Fortunately, the two households appeared to be in the process of consolidating the new relationships formed so accidentally. As a guest at Meadowlands he would naturally be included in communal activities, but he had elected to take his attack to the enemy unaccompanied on this first visit, in case Miss Seymour’s attitude caused undesirable speculation amongst the Meadowlands ladies. He had taken the precaution of not mentioning his destination when he had ridden out an hour ago.
Somewhere to his left, movement and colour brought Mr. Massingham to a new awareness of his position. While lost in thought, he had not observed the thinning of the trees or the presence of another living soul, but now he realised there were two creatures in addition to himself enjoying this beautiful day. He reined in to watch a magnificent black horse cantering about in a large fenced-in field on the left of the avenue. The horse was being ridden bareback by a youth, and the communion between the two brought a smile of empathy to Mr. Massingham’s lips as he automatically headed his horse toward the near fence to get a better view.
The cantering pair made a splendid splash of colour in the green field under intense blue sky. The observer could not see a spot of any other colour on the black horse. No blaze or stockings interrupted the pure ebony of his glistening coat. His rider provided abundant contrast in fawn breeches and white shirt under a sleeveless brown vest. The youth also wore a flat cap of some kind in a startling clear red crushed down over his hair. The colours became a blur as, under the appreciative eye of the newcomer, the black stretched smoothly into a gallop at an unseen command from the rider crouched low over his neck. Around the entire perimeter of the field the two flashed in perfect harmony.
Mr. Massingham gave a soft whistle. “My God, what a turn of speed! If that animal belongs to Miss Seymour, she’s got herself a winner!”
Horse and rider were slowing down now. The black trotted past the nearest spot to Mr. Massingham’s position and the latter could sense the residual elation in animal and jockey as they headed for a spreading tree at the corner of the field.
“Well done, lad!” shouted their admirer impulsively.
Mr. Massingham surprised even himself by his exuberant compliment, but the effect on the unknowing pair was electric. The black had almost come to a stop, and the rider was easing back from his position on his neck when the lusty shout rang out on the still air. Before Mr. Massingham’s horrified gaze, the startled horse planted his forefeet and kicked out with his back legs. His rider, caught between positions, changed direction and went flying over his head, landing with a thump that whitened Mr. Massingham’s cheeks. He was off his own mount and over the fence in an instant, ignoring the twinges of protest in his weak leg as he sped toward the still figure on the ground. He thought, he hoped, it was only a case of having the wind knocked out; it didn’t seem as though the lad had hit his head in landing. There could be broken ribs, though; the boy was slightly built. A stream of medical possibilities including the necessity for finding splints for broken bones was jumbling through Mr. Massingham’s head as he reached the fallen boy at the same time the black horse reached down and nuzzled the ear of his rider.
“Stop that, you brute, you might hurt him!” growled Mr. Massingham, pushing the velvety nose aside unceremoniously as he knelt beside the prostrate form and reached for a wrist.
The delicacy of this wrist and the almond-shaped nails on the white hand below it almost rocked Mr. Massingham off his heels. His incredulous gaze flew past the black’s head, which was still nuzzling the figure on the ground. The horse had dislodged the red cap that had tilted over its wearer’s right eye after the fall. Golden hair spilled from under the cap over the brown shoulders and the green grass.
Disbelief, heart-stopping fear, and black rage struggled for mastery in Mr. Massingham’s breast for a second of acute paralysis until the necessity to act attained the ascendancy. He concentrated on counting the pulse in the limp wrist still in his hand. Relief coursed through his body at finding it nearly normal. He carefully replaced her hand at her side and started to examine her limbs for possible broken bones. All this was accomplished with patient unwinking precision, and until he had satisfied himself on this score, he kept his eyes on his probing fingers. He ascertained that shoulders and collarbones were also intact before reluctantly turning his eyes to the colourless features of the girl on the ground. A muscle twitched in his cheek, and his teeth were clamped tightly together. Just for a heartbeat, her stillness revitalised the fear that was driving him, but her breasts beneath the silk shirt were stirring slightly and regularly. He brushed a tendril of hair from her lips, noting as he did so that the waxy pallor was being replaced by a faint returning colour in her cheeks. Long brown lashes, golden at the tips, stirred, then lifted slowly. Golden-brown eyes stared dazedly into intense grey-black ones, closed again in murmured protest. “Oh, no!”
“Oh, yes, Miss Seymour. You are still amongst the living despite that foolhardy stunt.”
“If I am still amongst the living,” the victim replied in a voice that was rapidly gaining strength, “it is no thanks to you! I suppose it was you who shouted and spooked Shadow?” When her eyes opened this time, the haziness had disappeared, to be replaced by animosity.
He glared back at her. “I admit my yell was ill-timed, but what were you doing trying to ride that brute bareback? Of all the perilous, ill-advised, bacon-brained, unfeminine —”
“Nonsense!” she interrupted this catalogue briskly. “Shadow and I understand each other perfectly, and if you don’t mind, I’d prefer to hear the lecture standing on my feet.”
As she struggled to rise, the angry face just above hers came even closer for a second. Despite the best will in the world to offer battle, her weakened condition prompted an involuntary retreat from the danger therein. Long lashes sank, and she could not control a faint tremor in her lips. She turned her head aside to hide her weakness and set herself the enormous task of getting to her feet again. This effort, however, was denied her as two strong hands grasped her shoulders and stayed her progress while their owner hoarsely demanded, “Does it hurt to breathe? There is a possibility you may have damaged your ribs in that fall.”
Vicky managed a negative shake of her head, though she was actually none too sure that everything inside her was functioning correctly. There was a very odd sensation in the pit of her stomach for one thing, and her breathing was peculiarly ragged, though not precisely painful.
A moment later, when she had been set gently on her feet, she could add dizziness to her list of symptoms. She closed her eyes to shut out the disturbing vision of the oak trees whirling against the sky and would have buckled at the knees had the band of iron across her shoulders been removed. Thankfully, it was not, though Mr. Massingham did shift his other hand from her shoulder to her chin, which he lifted. She felt strangely defenceless under his intent scrutiny of her wan countenance but was too taken up with fighting the giddiness to raise objections.
“Are you all right, no pain anywhere?”
“I’m fine, thank you.”
In proof of this brave statement, Miss Seymour gathered all her resources and stepped back from her rescuer’s arms. She opened her eyes cautiously. To her infinite relief, the world had stopped spinning and her legs were bearing her weight again. She raised her chin, which felt chilled now that his hand had been removed, and attempted a smile.
“Thank you. I am feeling more normal every minute.” She reached a hand up to pat the neck of the black, which had not moved off throughout the entire rescue operation. “Poor Shadow is trying to apologise for his behaviour just now. In general he is a perfect gentleman, you know. You startled him.”
“Yes. I apologise. He’s a beauty, and built for speed. Nice small head and sloping shoulders, plenty of heart room behind that deep chest, I’d say.” Mr. Massingham gentled Shadow and walked all around the motionless colt. “N
ot short of bone, and good rounded quarters; good, clean, well-defined knees; in fact, beautiful conformation altogether.”
This knowledgeable praise of her favourite brought a glow of pleasure to Miss Seymour’s lovely face. For once, she was totally in charity with Mr. Massingham. “He’s a magnificent animal and has a generous disposition, too.”
“How old is he?”
“He’s two.”
“A young two, surely?” said Mr. Massingham, seizing the colt’s bridle and looking at his teeth.
“Yes, he was foaled in June. My father was alive then, and he predicted from the start that we had bred a champion. His dam is descended from the Godolphin Arabian.”
“Do you intend to enter him on the circuit next year?”
“I hope to, if he continues shaping well.”
“You shouldn’t be riding him, especially without a saddle. Let him get used to a jockey who can race him for you.”
“I intend to train him my way,” said Miss Seymour, her tone revealing her objection to this gratuitous piece of advice.
Mr. Massingham shrugged. “You could ruin a good horse that way, but there’s no denying he’s yours to ruin.”