by Joan Wolf
I pulled my hand away. In the darkness I could feel him smile. I have to get away from him, I thought. I have to get away.
* * * *
Mr. Putnam, one of the young men I had danced with at the ball, arrived at my uncle’s home in Berkeley Square the next afternoon to take me driving in Hyde Park. Five o’clock was the magic hour when London society emerged into the daylight, to walk and to drive, to see and to be seen.
I assessed my escort’s horses after he helped me up into the high seat of his phaeton. They were a matched pair of grays, well-proportioned and well-groomed. I regarded the young man with more interest than I had previously shown. He looked rather like a rabbit, but a man who had horses like these must have hidden depths.
“I like your horses, Mr. Putnam,” I said.
He smiled. “I’ve only had ‘em for a month,” he confided. “Got ‘em from Ladrington when he had to sell off his stable after playing too deep at Watiers.”
We discussed the horses for the rest of the drive to the park. The late-afternoon streets of London were filled with horses and tradesmen’s wagons, but Mr. Putnam handled his reins with skill. My opinion of him went up another notch. We reached the park and entered into the flow of fashionable traffic.
The wide path that bordered the Hyde Park lake was filled with a stunning array of vehicles. There were beautifully appointed traditional carriages containing stylishly dressed ladies attended by footmen in lavish livery; there were high-perch and low-perch phaetons driven by gentlemen like Mr. Putnam; there were barouches and cabriolets and curricles; there were beautiful Thoroughbred horses under saddle, ridden by ladies in elegant habits and gentlemen in top boots and leather breeches and kerseymere tailcoats.
Hyde Park at five o’clock during the Season was a horse lover’s dream, and Mr. Putnam and I comprehensively discussed every individual animal as it paraded by. I was thoroughly enjoying myself when a phaeton pulled up alongside of us.
“Putnam!” said an imperious voice. “Stop for a moment, if you please.”
Mr. Putnam stopped his horses. The high-perch phaeton that was behind us swung wide to avoid a crash. “Lord Stade,” my escort said with bewilderment, and I narrowed my eyes and stared at the man for whose sake my father had made that fatal last visit to Newmarket.
The Marquis of Stade was a broad-shouldered, bull-headed man whose unwinking brown gaze was all over me as he talked to Mr. Putnam about the upcoming races at Newmarket. My escort was obviously torn between gratitude for the attention of the marquis and discomfort with the way he was looking at me.
“And who is this young person?” Stade finally rapped out, gesturing to me.
Mr. Putnam gave me a perturbed look. “This lady is Miss Fitzgerald, my lord,” he said. “Lord Charlwood’s niece.”
Stade feigned great surprise. “Are you Daniel Fitzgerald’s girl, then?”
“Yes,” I said, regarding him steadily. “I am.”
“Now that I look at you, I can see the resemblance.” He had been doing nothing but look at me for the last five minutes. Stade turned now to my escort and said disdainfully, “This chit’s father was nothing but an Irish horse-trader, Putnam. Don’t let yourself be fooled into thinking she’s eligible goods on the marriage mart.”
Mr. Putnam looked horribly embarrassed and began to blink like a frightened rabbit. Stade looked once more at me. I held his gaze and said calmly to my flustered escort, “I am ready to drive on, Mr. Putnam.” He raised his reins immediately and the grays started forward with a jerk. Behind us I could hear Stade’s harsh, unpleasant laugh and my fists clenched in my lap.
“I’m s-sorry about that, Miss Fitzgerald,” Mr. Putnam said. “I didn’t even think Stade knew who I was!”
That was interesting news. The marquis had stopped, then, because of me.
“His stable has been doing very well of late,” Mr. Putnam ventured after a few moments. “He won the Guineas two years ago, and the three-year-old he has this season looks a sure bet to win it again. That stud of his is proving to be a surprising success.”
“Do you mean Alcazar?” I asked.
“That’s the one.” The sun was glinting off the brass buttons on Mr. Putnam’s blue coat, and I blinked as a flash caught me in the eyes. He said, “Horse had a mediocre career himself, but he’s certainly come up trumps as a sire.”
“That’s not a usual thing, is it? I know my father was very surprised when he found out that Alcazar had sired the colt Stade won the Guineas with.”
“Everyone was surprised,” Mr. Putnam returned, “but Alcazar’s no one-day marvel. The horses Stade ran last year were very good, and this year’s colt is remarkable.”
“Do you race your own horses, Mr. Putnam?” I inquired, and he spent the rest of the drive happily regaling me with his plans for setting up his own stable.
* * * *
The following day my uncle told me that he had arranged to take Greystone to a village near Winchester in order to view the sword that was supposed to have belonged to King Alfred. I didn’t pay a great deal of attention to this plan until Friday evening. That was when my uncle informed me that he had learned that someone else wanted to purchase the sword and that he was going to ride ahead to insist that the owner not sell until Lord Greystone had had an opportunity to make an offer.
“You must accompany Greystone, Kate,” my uncle said. “I will write down all the directions for you and I will meet you at Squire Reston’s. If I delay until tomorrow afternoon, that sword will be gone.”
I did not understand my uncle’s sense of urgency and protested, “Surely a few hours is not going to make that much difference, Uncle Martin.”
“I have just told you that it will, Kate. The squire sent word to me that he has another buyer.” He gave me a look of disarming frankness. “I have a particular reason for putting Greystone in my debt, and I badly want to be the one to find him this sword.”
I had a deep distrust of that look. “Well, then, why cannot I simply give him these directions and let him go by himself?” I inquired reasonably.
“Because I wish you to come as well.” How could so soft a voice be so full of menace? “I have a good friend whose estate lies near Winchester, and he has a son I would like you to meet. Bring some clothes and after we have seen the sword we will pay them a visit.”
I was not overly pleased with this plan, but I did not want to argue with my uncle. I was not overly pleased with my own cowardly behavior, either, but I couldn’t seem to help it. There was something about the man that made me extremely nervous.
The Earl of Greystone arrived to collect my uncle promptly at eleven o’clock the following morning. He was dressed in a four-caped driving coat, which made him look enormous, and he was not happy to discover the change in plans.
“I am driving my phaeton,” he said. “There is only room for one other person. Miss Cranbourne would be unable to accompany you.”
“Uncle Martin will be waiting for me at Squire Reston’s,” I assured him. There was skepticism in the earl’s eyes as he scanned my face. “It sounded a hasty scheme to me too, my lord,” I admitted, “but my uncle was quite concerned that this other buyer would beat you out of the sword.”
Silence.
“I promise I will be no trouble,” I said, and bit my lip as I heard the pleading note in my own voice.
He looked at me with hard gray eyes, then he shrugged. “Very well,” he said. Pause. “You do realize that this is a five-hour drive, Miss Fitzgerald?”
“I am not a hothouse flower, my lord,” I said with dignity. “I can withstand a five-hour drive in fine weather.”
For the first time I saw the hint of a smile in his eyes. “Very well.” He glanced significantly toward the street. “I would prefer not to keep my horses waiting.”
“It will take me but a moment to get my pelisse and bonnet,” I promised, and ran out of the room.
* * * *
I am not usually shy with people, but as we drove wes
tward out of London I definitely felt shy with Greystone. It was not his looks that overset me—after all, I had spent most of my life looking at Papa—it was his reputation as a war hero that did it. He had had three horses shot out from under him at Waterloo, and then, even though he was injured, he had led some sort of cavalry charge that everyone talked about for months.
It was hard to think of war on such a beautiful May morning, however, and by the time we were clear of the city traffic my unusual attack of reticence had disappeared. I have always found the best way to make friends with people is to ask them about the things that they like, so I asked him about his interest in King Alfred.
He replied easily, “My principal seat is near the Berkshire Downs—Alfred’s own country—and I developed an interest in him when I was a boy. It was my mother who got me started actually collecting. She had a great interest in our Saxon heritage.”
I knew very little about King Alfred myself and asked him a dozen more questions, all of which he answered with perfect good humor. It was just lovely to be out of London in the spring sunshine, and, defying convention, I took off my bonnet so I could feel the sun’s warmth on my face. The road we were driving along was flanked by stretching fields of corn, and I admired the flush of green wheat that waved gently in the soft breeze. The grassy verge at the roadside was sprinkled with brilliant patches of lady’s grove, blue speedwell, and yellow primroses. I was glad that I had made Greystone take me.
After we had finished with King Alfred as a subject, I asked him how France was recovering from the war. While he talked, I inhaled the fresh air, watching the way the sun shone on his uncovered hair, and forgot about my uncle.
Then he said, “Now it is your turn to tell me about yourself, Miss Fitzgerald. I have heard from several sources that your father was an incomparable judge of a horse. Is that indeed so?”
I was delighted to have an opportunity to talk about Papa. Greystone was such a good listener that I was still talking when we stopped at a posting inn to rest the horses, and I kept on talking while he hired a private parlor for us to partake of a luncheon. Over the cold meat and cheese I found myself telling him about the way Papa had died.
“It was such a strange thing for him to say—I didn’t think that he suspected I knew. I keep thinking about it, my lord, but it doesn’t make sense. Whom could he have been referring to?”
“Perhaps he had drifted away in his mind,” Greystone suggested in a surprisingly gentle voice. “I have seen dying men do that, Miss Fitzgerald.”
I did not think that Papa had drifted away, but I forbore to press the point. I didn’t know what had made me talk about Papa’s words with this man anyway. I certainly had never mentioned them to anyone else.
After luncheon we returned to the road, driving southward into Hampshire. We were about an hour away from our destination and progressing smoothly along a deserted country road—scarcely more than a lane, really—when the phaeton suddenly wobbled and then pitched over on its side. It was the passenger’s side that went down, but fortunately I was tossed clear of the accident.
I landed abruptly in a roadside ditch, startling a fox that was curled up in its bottom, peacefully asleep. The fox streaked away, and I lay still for a moment, regaining my breath. Then I got slowly to my feet. I have fallen from enough horses to have learned how to land, so, though I collected a few bruises, I was otherwise unhurt. As I brushed the dirt off my new blue pelisse, I heard Greystone shouting my name.
“I’m all right!” I called back. My straw bonnet was hopelessly mashed, so I abandoned it, lifted my skirts, and began to scramble up the steep side of the ditch. Greystone appeared above me when I was halfway up and he bent to offer assistance. I reached my hand up and was pulled effortlessly back to the road.
“Are you certain you’re all right, Miss Fitzgerald?” he demanded brusquely, taking in my torn and dirty clothes.
“I’m fine.” My hair was coming down and I pushed it away from my face. “What happened?”
“The wheel came off,” he answered tersely. “If you’re really all right, I had better see about getting the horses out of harness. They’ve contrived to get it all tangled.”
He had managed to keep his matched bays from running away, but they were snorting and stamping and throwing their heads around, and I went to help him. We put the leather halters he carried on them and I offered to hold them while he tried to fix the wheel.
He gave me a worried look. “Can you hold two horses?”
“Yes.” Without waiting for further comment from him, I led the horses to the grass margin that lay along the side of the road. As soon as they saw the grass they put their heads down and went to work.
A field of wheat lay to the left of the road, and to the right was pastureland upon which grazed a herd of cows. Bands of butterflies flitted here and there in the grass, and bees hummed among the clover. Nowhere was there any sign of a human person.
Ten minutes later a grim-faced Greystone appeared at my side. He had removed his coat and rolled up the sleeves of his white shirt. There was a long white scar on his bare right forearm. His shoulders were very wide. There was a sheen of perspiration on his forehead, and he was scowling. “The axle is broken.”
“Oh dear.” I looked at the peaceful, rural scene that stretched all around us. The white tail of a rabbit bobbed in a clump of nearby hawthorns. No one had passed us on this road yet. “You can’t fix it?”
“It can’t be fixed. It needs a new axle.”
He was looking extremely grim. “Well,” I said as cheerfully as I could, “then we must just go on to the next village and get the blacksmith to come back to replace the axle.”
“According to my map, the next village is eight miles up this road.”
I looked at the two horses, who were eating grass as if they hadn’t seen food in a week. A bee buzzed around my ear and I brushed it away. “Can we ride these bays, my lord?”
“To my knowledge, they have never been ridden. Considering that we do not have either saddle or bridle, I do not think it would be wise to make the attempt.”
I chewed on my lip. “I suppose not.”
He looked around the bucolic landscape. “I cannot leave you alone here, Miss Fitzgerald.”
“There is nothing wrong with my feet, my lord,” I said tartly. His grim look was beginning to annoy me. “We can each lead a horse.”
He ran his fingers through his disordered hair and consulted the sky. Wordlessly, I extended one of the horses’ lead ropes to him. He took it, and, still in silence, the two of us began to walk down the road.
It was almost two hours before we saw the first sign that we were approaching a village. A little squat church, with neither spire nor tower, appeared on our right, fronted by a small enclosed churchyard. Next to the church, rising from behind an orchard and a forest of overgrown shrubberies, two chimneys jutted toward the sky.
“A church and a rectory,” Greystone murmured. “The village must lie directly ahead.”
I devoutly hoped so. The boots I was wearing had been chosen for style, not for comfort. They were definitely not the footgear I would have elected had I known I was going to be walking for eight miles.
A few minutes later we did indeed enter the tiny village of Luster. It did not take us long to discover that the sum total of Luster’s amenities was one inn, The Luster Arms, which consisted of a taproom with a single bedroom above it. The landlady was out in front contemplating her one rosebush when we came limping up to her. She fetched her husband, who informed us that the village’s sole blacksmith was out shoeing horses at someplace called Farmer Blackwell’s..
I said to Greystone, “The first thing we must do is find a place to stable these horses.”
He gave me the only approving look I had earned from him since the accident.
The landlord promptly offered to put the horses in his own stable for the evening. Next he informed us that we were in luck, his one room was not rented.
“Ye can stay there for the night. The wife will put clean sheets on the bed and we’ll gif ye a grand supper, we will. In the morn Smith can fix yer axle.”
It was the first time that I realized the full extent of our dilemma. My eyes flew to Greystone. He was giving the landlord an absolutely devastating smile. I blinked. “I am Mr. Grey,” I heard him say, “and this is my sister. We appreciate your help, landlord, but is there no way the axle can be fixed today?”
“Smith is staying at Blackwell’s for the night.”
Impossibly, the smile gained in power. “I will make it well worth his while to do this job for me.”
The innkeeper was not unmoved, but he could offer no help. “Smith’s likely too jugged by now to do anything,” he said frankly. “Farmer Blackwell makes grand ale.”
“I see.” The bay Greystone was leading chose this moment to nuzzle his pocket, obviously looking for a treat. The earl gently pushed him away. “Perhaps I can stay with you, and my sister can stay with your parson and his wife.”
“Parson’s a widower,” came the reply. “Wouldn’t be proper for a young woman to stay with him.”
Rueful gray eyes turned to meet mine. “It seems as if we have no choice, Kate.”
I said to the innkeeper, “Surely there is someone else in this village who can fix an axle!”
“Nope,” the innkeeper said cheerily. “Nary a one.”
“Damn,” I muttered under my breath.
Greystone removed the lead rope from my hands. “Go upstairs with the landlady, Kate,” he said. “You must be aching from that fall, and you need a wash. I will see to the horses.”
“Oh, Jem will see to them, Mr. Grey,” the landlord said cheerfully.
We all looked around for Jem. The landlord shouted his name. After a minute, a skinny young man came out the front door of the inn. At the landlord’s direction, he took both of the horses’ lead ropes and led them away.
“If your taproom is open, landlord, I think I will have a beer,” Greystone said. He sounded as if he needed one.