The Seventh Miss Hatfield

by Anna Caltabiano

  Henley was busily talking with the stableman and pointing at a beautiful, spirited-looking black horse with a dazzling white splash exactly in the middle of its face. ‘Saddle up Cedric for Miss Margaret, please, Wellesley,’ he said. The stableman nodded and began to prepare Cedric for me to ride.

  ‘Ah, wait a moment, please, Wellesley,’ I intruded. ‘I’d prefer to choose my own horse, if the two of you don’t mind.’ I felt silly insisting upon this, since I knew virtually nothing about the creatures, but a brownish-red mare had caught my attention, and she looked rather lonely in her stall. I felt an outing would be good for her, and somehow, I knew I could trust her. I pointed towards the mare. ‘I’d much rather ride that one, if I may.’ I looked at Henley for his assent. His face was inscrutable all of a sudden. What’s he hiding from me now? I wondered.

  ‘Oh, but, miss,’ Wellesley interjected, ‘you don’t really want to ride—’

  Henley held up his hand. ‘Oh, I rather think she does, Wellesley. It’s fine – saddle up the roan for her.’

  Roan? Oh, so that was what a horse of that colouring was called. I smiled, pleased that I was going to get my way and had already learned a couple of ‘horsey terms’ I’d been unfamiliar with prior to our outing.

  ‘Yes, sir,’ said Wellesley, but he muttered to himself the entire time he was saddling up the roan. Her name was Bessie, I discerned from the plaque on the wall beside her stall. ‘Can’t understand why anyone would want to ride the oldest horse here, out of all the better choices—’

  ‘Tut, tut, Wellesley,’ Henley admonished. ‘Bessie might be slow, but perhaps that will suit our Miss Margaret to a T.’ He turned and favoured me with one of his wonderful smiles. ‘Bessie’s getting close to the end of her service here with us. Lately, we’ve been speaking of, ah …’ It was obvious he’d said more than he meant to.

  My eyes widened with horror. ‘Oh, don’t tell me you’re going to do something awful, like sell poor Bessie to a glue factory or some such barbaric thing?’ I cried.

  Henley smiled, but I could tell that he empathized with me to a degree. Doubtless he’d seen many a horse put out to pasture – or worse – when they’d outlived their usefulness.

  ‘Bessie’s an excellent choice, Margaret,’ he assured me. ‘And since you’ve decided to champion her cause, I’ll ask Father not dispose of her, but allow her to live out her days in retirement here with us. In fact, you shall be her final rider, as long as you’re here in the country with us. Then she’ll just relax and get fatter and sassier. What do you think about that?’ He grinned as he mounted his own horse, a beautiful white with an Egyptian motif on its halter.

  ‘I think that’s civilized, and so does Bessie, don’t you, girl?’ I patted her neck, and just before putting my foot into the stirrup, I whispered to her, ‘I bought you some more time. The least you can do is return the favour and not let anyone know I don’t have a clue about riding.’ Wellesley gave me a boost up, and before I knew it, I was seated atop Bessie, feeling surprisingly safe and at ease. I was thankful that Henley had bought me a special skirt that allowed me to ride astride, rather than side-saddle, as I feared I’d otherwise break my neck. Henley had joked that this was the very latest fashion, and in wearing this, I would be one of the most modern young women around.

  Bessie’s broad back was steady as a rock beneath me, and she nickered very softly, as though she was agreeable to my secret request. I watched how Henley was holding the reins and copied him. How hard could this be, after all?

  Henley clicked his tongue in a ‘giddy-up’ sort of way and gently tapped his heels to his horse’s flanks. I leaned forwards and whispered to Bessie, ‘Follow that horse, there’s a good girl.’ I patted her neck again and leaned forwards a bit. Surprisingly, she appeared to understand me and followed Henley and his horse out of the stables.

  ‘All right back there, you two?’ he called over his shoulder.

  ‘Never better,’ I responded cheerily, though keeping my balance while riding dear old Bessie was taking a bit more concentration than I’d expected. I had no clue why I wanted Henley to think I was an old hand at this; some bizarre feelings left over from school about having to be as good at things as boys probably had something to do with it. Cynthia had never played much with boys – or indeed with anyone other than her dolls, I faintly recollected – but she’d never allowed herself to feel intimidated in new situations, and neither would I. There I go again, I thought to myself, acting as though I’m a totally separate person from her. I snickered silently as I glanced down at my adult body and these strange Gibson Girl clothes, realizing that I truly was different from Cynthia in every way.

  Henley gently called to his horse, ‘Whoa, Jasper,’ and they ambled to a stop to wait for me and Bessie to catch up. When we did, he looked me up and down. ‘Well, you sit on a horse quite well, considering you’ve never ridden one before,’ he said.

  ‘What? How did you know …’ My voice trailed off. Why did I have such a hard time hiding things from this young man I was growing so fond of?

  He grinned. ‘Your right hand gives you away when you’re nervous. You make a fist and open it again, about three times in rapid succession, and then you’re fine. I’ve noticed it a couple of times before, but only figured out what it meant today. You do it when you’re in new situations, am I right?’

  I clucked my tongue at Bessie, and we rode along side by side in silence. All the while, Henley was observing me with a bemused smile. Well, he certainly was right about new situations – everything about this situation was new to me, including riding a horse. But I was disappointed I hadn’t proved to be a better actress. How on earth was I going to fool him when it came to stealing the painting and getting back to Miss Hatfield?

  Finally I broke my silence. ‘Well, since you’re so smart, give me some pointers about riding, please, sir,’ I murmured demurely.

  He laughed. ‘I’ll be happy to, but you’re doing quite well, actually.’ He reached over and patted old Bessie’s neck. ‘She’s the perfect horse for you after all. May I?’ he asked as he held out his hand for the reins. ‘It’ll probably be easier for you to get comfortable if you let me lead her for a while.’

  I was grateful for his kindness and handed him the reins with a nod of thanks.

  ‘So, where are we off to, then?’

  He inclined his head towards a bend in the path just ahead. ‘That path leads to an old abandoned sawmill on the property. I used to love to go there as a boy, just to think and play. It was a true source of comfort for me when we came here in my youth.’ His eyes turned serious. ‘It still is, at times. I’d like to show it to you.’

  ‘That would be lovely,’ I replied. How could I shake him out of his reverie and the sadness that had suddenly descended upon him? Ah, I had it. ‘Henley, you were right after all.’ I sighed.

  ‘Right? Right about what, pray tell?’ He raised an inquisi- tive eyebrow at me.

  ‘Why, about my being able to run faster than our Miss Bessie here!’ We both burst into gales of laughter at that and I felt uplifted, having been successful in shifting his mood, suspecting that his melancholy had something to do with the loss of his mother at such an early age.

  When we arrived at the sawmill, Henley helped me down and then tied Bessie and Jasper to a hitching post in front of the old mill. The buildings were in great disrepair, nearly crumbling. I was astonished they’d been allowed to decompose to such a great extent rather than being torn down. Mr Beauford was normally so intent on everything looking just so. Henley read my mind, as he was becoming all too good at.

  ‘You’re wondering why Father didn’t have this mill torn down completely a long time ago,’ he stated, rather than questioning me. ‘It was one of the few things I’ve ever begged him not to do, and he actually honoured my request.’ He took my arm and gestured towards a small stream to the side of the mill. ‘One of my favourite thinking spots is right there, under that old oak next to the stream. I believe there’s plen
ty of room for two beneath it. Just for a little while – do you mind?’

  I shook my head. ‘Not at all.’ I was touched that he wanted to share this special place with me.

  We walked in comfortable silence until we reached the tree, and then he dusted off the ground a bit before helping me to sit. He plopped down beside me and stretched out, leaning back, propped up on his elbows.

  ‘I used to love gazing into the stream and daydreaming, when I was a boy. The sound of its movement was mesmerizing. It made all my troubles fade into nothingness, if only for a few minutes.’ He was getting that dreamy-eyed look again, but it wasn’t quite sadness I read there this time. More like a wistfulness. ‘It makes me remember that time is a river and will always go on. There’s no turning back, so you might as well live life to the fullest.’ I wondered what he might have said if I’d corrected him and told him the truth. Would he have believed me?

  ‘Why was it so important to you that the mill remained standing? Were you ever tempted to ask your father to have it restored, make it a going concern again?’

  ‘Oh, heaven forbid!’ he exclaimed. ‘That would have been the last thing I wanted. This old relic has always been one of the only places where time slowed down for me, where I could sort through my thoughts in solitude and quiet … There’s far too much busy industry going on at the steel factory, noise and soot, smoke and grit.’ He took a deep breath and indicated I should follow suit, which I did. ‘There! Nothing like the fresh country air to clear the mind and the lungs, eh?’

  ‘Yes, I quite agree.’ I nodded. ‘So, Henley, you prefer to let the mill just disintegrate naturally, rather than destroying it for progress’s sake?’

  ‘Something like that,’ he replied. ‘It felt like the kindest thing to do would be to let it return to dust in its own time, rather than knocking it down and forcing it.’ He got up and foraged around on the bank of the stream. I followed to see what he was searching for.

  ‘Here.’ He handed me a smooth, flat rock, one of about six stones he’d found and was holding in his other hand. ‘Have you ever skipped a rock before? Don’t fib – I can tell if you do, you know.’ His tone took on a chiding mock-schoolteacher tone.

  ‘Yes, I’m learning that about you,’ I said. ‘No, actually, I’ve never skipped a rock. Please, kind sir, give me a demonstration.’

  ‘Happy to oblige, as always,’ he said, and took a mock bow before squatting down a bit to assess the best place to make his throw. He dropped all but one of his rock treasures onto the ground beside him, then cocked back his arm and smoothly let the stone fly with a flick of his wrist. I watched, enchanted, as the rock skipped one, two, three, four times before disappearing beneath the stream’s surface.

  ‘Oh, bravo, Henley!’ I applauded, and nearly dropped my own rock in the process.

  He bowed again, like a proud performer. ‘It’s all in the wrist, really. Just pick your spot on the water’s surface, imagine the rock smoothly sailing across it, and then release the rock as you flick your wrist. Go on – give it a try,’ he encouraged.

  ‘All right,’ I said, not feeling particularly confident. ‘But if I can’t learn how to do this, please don’t put me out to pasture with Bessie, I beg you.’

  A burst of laughter escaped from deep within Henley’s core – a true belly laugh the like of which I’d never yet heard him utter. ‘Oh, my – you are a card! Come on, then – show me what you’re made of.’ He’d returned to instructor mode.

  Taking a deep breath, I did my best to emulate his every move and, to my surprise, my little rock skipped three times before diving down under the water.

  Now it was Henley’s turn to applaud. ‘Quite the natural skipper, you are,’ he said as he bent down to pick up two more rocks. ‘Now, let’s alternate and send these other little fellows skipping in after them.’ He handed me my next small missile. ‘Ready? Ladies first,’ he said with a gallant half-bow.

  This time my rock did four skips, and not to be outdone, Henley’s managed six. ‘Quite impressive!’ I cheered.

  He picked up the last two stones and handed one to me. ‘No time to rest on our laurels – last round. Ready, go!’ he commanded.

  My last little rock was more of a skimmer than a skipper, barely managing two brief skips before sinking. Henley pretended not to notice and flung his own immediately after it, making it skip only once. I believed he’d purposely not done his best, so as not to make me feel bad.

  We laughed and went back to sit under his oak. He talked for another hour or so, periodically picking up a stick to draw in the dirt, as though to illustrate a point. This intriguing young man had so many interesting philosophies about life. He told me how he’d always loved to write, and at one time had wanted to become a teacher. It soon became apparent that the last thing he wanted to do was take over the family steel business.

  ‘We’d best be getting back, I suppose,’ he said with a sigh. ‘It’s nearly lunchtime. Here, wait a moment.’ He bent down and peered first at one of my ears, and then the other. ‘Oh, good,’ he said, as though to himself.

  I looked at him, puzzled. ‘What on earth is wrong with my ears, if you don’t mind me asking?’

  ‘Oh, I simply had to check and make sure I hadn’t talked them off,’ he teased. ‘You let me go on and on about myself again, and I learned nothing about you. I hope I didn’t bore you too terribly much.’ He cast his eyes downwards as we approached the horses.

  ‘Not even one little bit,’ I assured him. ‘I’m thoroughly enjoying getting to know you, Henley.’

  He sent me a quick grateful smile. ‘Yes, but you’re still a woman of mystery. I must stop all this pontificating and coax you into telling me more about yourself!’ He untied the horses, keeping hold of Bessie’s reins to see if I’d let him help me mount. My stubborn pride prevented me, however.

  ‘I quite like it when you pontificate,’ I responded as I swung up onto Bessie’s back. I was surprised how easy it was, and Henley looked surprised as well.

  ‘Well done!’ he said, mounting Jasper. ‘Let’s away to the house … Father will be wondering what’s become of us, I’m sure. I’ll have Wilchester walk them back to the stables to save us a bit of time. Shall we?’

  ‘Yes, let’s! C’mon, Bessie, old girl!’ I kicked her ever so slightly and, to my great surprise – and probably Henley’s as well – she broke into a bit of a trot and easily kept pace with Jasper all the way back to the house.

  ‘You’re a good judge of horses, Margaret,’ he said as we dismounted. ‘The old girl obviously has life in her yet. Wilchester!’ he called out, and the man was there in what felt like an instant. How could he possibly intuit so quickly where and when he’d be needed? I wondered. ‘Here, Wilchester.’ Henley handed him both sets of reins. ‘Take the horses back to the stable and ask Wellesley to give them a good rub-down and some extra hay and carrots, would you, old man?’

  ‘I’ll see to it, sir,’ Wilchester replied, walking away with a horse following on either side.

  Henley dusted himself off, and I did the same. What would Mr Beauford think of us, showing up for luncheon all dusty and a bit late? My question was answered almost immediately, as Henley’s father met us at the door.

  He looked us both up and down, shook his head slightly from side to side as though in confusion and sighed. ‘Henley, my boy, why do you insist on neglecting your studies? You know I intend to introduce you to the board of directors next week, and I want you to feel prepared and comfortable.’

  ‘Oh, Father, I’ll be prepared, never fear.’ Henley patted his father’s shoulder with loving respect. ‘How comfortable, on the other hand, I can’t promise.’ He winked at me behind the old man’s back, and I knew there was more to his words than a mere jest. He really didn’t want that to be his life path. ‘Besides, someone must think about Cousin Margaret’s interests, you know.’

  Chapter 15

  I wish I could say I came up with a plan to grab the painting and run that very night follo
wing our ride to the mill. Believe me, I wished many times after that day that I’d found the courage and ingenuity to pull it off. But there I still was, four days later, feeling in many ways more lost than ever and growing increasingly frustrated.

  Despite Henley’s protestations that he wanted to entertain me a bit and escape from his studies at the same time, the routine had been the same for the past three days. Meals would pass with the servants silently filling our plates, then removing them as we finished eating. The food was always delicious, but after the second day I gave up commenting on it, since neither Mr Beauford nor Henley appeared to be much concerned with conversation at mealtimes. In fact, Henley was retreating further into himself every time I saw him. His days were consumed with hour upon hour of study with his tutor; and although Mr Beauford’s health seemed to be improving, he spent his days primarily in his study, so there was never much opportunity for me to look at the painting, much less abscond with it.

  And what of my own days? Well, I walked the property and pondered many things, between breakfast and lunch, and again from lunch until dinnertime. No one appeared to notice – or care, for that matter. But as the days passed, the strange feeling I was experiencing only intensified. Being in this time for so long was beginning to make me feel uncomfortable, and with each passing day, the unease was evolving into a constant queasy nervousness in the pit of my stomach. It was as if my body was turned against me … as if nature itself was turning against me.

  I made sure to visit the stables each day, and to give Bessie a carrot or a cube of sugar. I confided quite a lot to that dear old horse, knowing she’d never betray my most peculiar confidences about being a time traveller who often felt about as much at home as a fish would out of water.

  ‘You’d best be careful,’ I heard Henley’s voice behind me say one day. Startled, I turned around from Bessie’s stall door to see him standing there, holding a small bouquet of wild flowers. He extended them to me, and I took them with a smile. I’d missed him terribly, but didn’t dare let him know how much.