by Sophia Nash
A long silence intruded. The sound of Miss Kittridge turning the pages in the old book filled the void. He looked at her intelligent brow and wondered at the direct funnel of knowledge she could obtain from the printed word.
“It offers little information, just suggestions of care for the new foal,” she said, closing the volume. “Is there another mare nursing now? May we transfer the foal when he stands?”
Nicholas called out for Stevens, who returned in moments along with the small group of stable hands. The group gawked at the prone mare and her foal, who was trying out his legs for the first time. In a moment, Nicholas arranged for the foal to be removed to another brood mare who was with milk.
“Be she dead, yer lordship?” asked the carrot topped Scottish lad, nodding to the dam.
“No. But it is probable she is soon to be. I’ll stay with her now. Until… “ The words stuck in his throat.
“I’m very sorry we could not save her,” Miss Kittridge whispered.
He would have bowed down to her as a peasant to his queen for her efforts if not for his infernal leg. He looked at her blood-splattered person. “I’m sorry about your gown. Of course, we will see to its replacement. It is the very least I can do to thank you for your efforts,” he said, as he looked to the group behind her. “I’m afraid I was about to end our exertions and forsake the possibility of new life when you came upon us.”
“Please, my lord, let us not talk about the gown. It doesn’t matter,” she said, as she walked to the stall’s doorway. “I’ll bring some warm compresses to comfort her in a short while. I don’t know what else to do to ease her discomfort. But I shall do a bit of research and ask my father.”
Nicholas looked down at the horse. “I don’t know how to thank you.”
He looked up to see her bow her head and walk away. No one uttered a word until she was gone.
The Scottish stable hand shook his head. “An’ me Da, he would be a sayin’ that pigs would sooner fly than a pip of a girl would no’ faint clear dead away to be performin’ the likes of what tha’ mere slip of a female jus’ did!”
A young man who looked like the other, although shorter, responded. “Yes, and Da would clobber us o’er the head if he knew we stood by like a pack of fools and did naught to ‘elp her!” That brought a round of laughter, which lightened the mood.
Stevens raised the book he held clutched in his hands. “Well, a fat lot this helped us. Thank the Lord for Miss Kittridge.”
“Yes, store that book with all the others will you, Stevens?”
Nicholas closed his eyes as he remembered Miss Kittridge’s lovely, smiling countenance. Yes, they should all say a prayer of thanks for Miss Kittridge tonight.
He was so very handsome. A slight shiver ran down her back. The three riders in the distance were just coming over the last hill before the deep valley, and she could finally discern that it was, indeed, he along with James and Lord Edwin Knightly. His shoulders were broader and his posture more commanding than that of the other two gentlemen. Her vision blurred as Charlotte put down the delicately enameled theater glasses. She hastened to shake the wrinkles from her gown and smooth back her mussed hair in the off chance the threesome turned in her direction.
It had been two days since she had seen him last. Two days of longing for even a mere glimpse of him. She was behaving like a silly goose. She refused to do so. She would behave in a normal fashion. She would converse naturally. Yes, she would return to her previous pursuit of gazing at birds. She moved back to the prickly hedgerow. The familiar scent of hawthorn and dog rose teased her nostrils. She refused the urge to look toward the riders again. Instead, she closed her eyes and picked up the distinctive call of the cuckoo. Cu-ckoo-cu-rico. And then the pounding sound of hoofbeats muffled out the birdcall. She opened her eyes.
“What’s this? Charlotte! I thought you were with His Grace.” James and the other two riders came to an abrupt stop in front of her.
“I was earlier, but Father ordered me to take some air.”
“You were looking a little green about the gills after nuncheon,” James replied. “But then, perhaps it is just the reflection of your gown.”
She looked down at her green gown with embarrassment. It was a very ugly shade now that it was faded.
She turned toward Lord Edwin. “Good afternoon, my lord.”
“It is a lovely day, is it not? I hope you have not taken your brother’s unkind remark seriously, Miss Kittridge.” He turned and gave a sweeping glance toward Lord Huntington.
“Brothers can never be counted on to behave properly, you know.”
She could not think of a way to contradict his mean sentiment without appearing as abominably rude as the younger brother. Charlotte dared to look fully at Lord Huntington. “And how is the mare today, sir?”
“She lives. But I am uncertain whether she will ever recover. She has a dazed look in the eye, still.”
“I will stop in again to look at her then,” she said.
“Are you out bird-watching, dearest?” asked James, motioning to her theater glasses. “Find any unusual feathered friends?”
“It is the first chance I’ve had since arriving.” Charlotte’s senses heightened under Lord Huntington’s serious gaze. “I was searching out a cuckoo. He is hiding somewhere in the hedge, as they are wont to do.”
“Ah, the infamous cuckoo. The usurper of the nesting animal kingdom,” said James.
“Do tell, Miss Kittridge,” said Edwin Knightly, after a small yawn.
“Oh, I would not presume to keep you from your afternoon ride.”
“No, no. We are all agog,” he insisted with a charming smile.
“I am afraid it is an ugly story. The mother cuckoo’s modus operandi is to find another bird’s nest, wherein she places one of her small eggs.” She motioned toward a nest barely visible in the hedgerow. “And the mother cuckoo—”
“Or the hatchling nudges the other bird’s eggs or baby birds from the nest, thereby ensuring the young cuckoo’s complete care and protection by the host mother bird,” finished Lord Huntington as he removed his beaver hat and ran a hand through his sweat-streaked hair. “I did not know you were fond of bird-watching, Miss Kittridge.”
She watched the beautiful layers of his hair rustle in the slight breeze. There were so many different shades of brown ranging from sun-streaked to the darkest end of the spectrum. She had dared to stroke his hair several times when he had been asleep or delirious in the sickroom. She knew exactly where the fine strands became coarse below his temples.
Before she could find her tongue, her brother interrupted. “Actually, Charlotte is more interested in sculpting the bird forms she studies in the field.”
Charlotte could feel her cheeks warming. She detested being made to stand center stage. She moved the small sketch pad she held to behind her back, and felt the knot in her stomach tighten.
“Miss Kittridge, you amaze us all every day. Your talents are boundless,” replied Lord Edwin, laughing. “Where do you find the time for all these wonderful pursuits?”
“They are just that, pleasurable pursuits that I engage in whenever an hour or two of liberty presents itself. I fear my efforts are not in the talented realm as you suggest.”
“Perhaps we could take a lesson from you one afternoon, my dear. It would be a wonderful diversion for a dreary day. Or at least my brother and sister should join you, as they seem to be the more artistic members of the family tree. Never an interest in the written word had you, Nicholas?” Lord Edwin said before turning the subject. “But always the willing hero. Much more important that.”
Charlotte turned to catch the granitelike expression on Lord Huntington’s face.
“I daresay we are interrupting Miss Kittridge’s solitary pursuit. Let us ride on,” replied Lord Huntington. “If we dally any further, we won’t have the chance to inspect the planting in the far fields and the herd of cattle.”
“Well, I for one, have had enough of a rid
e to last me a fortnight. And I suspect Kittridge is of the same mind.” Lord Edwin looked toward James. “Care to ride back to join the ladies for afternoon refreshments? My brother will keep us out here until nightfall with his infernal interest in all things agricultural.”
James looked indecisive. “Well, all right, I suppose. That is if you don’t mind, Lord Huntington?”
“Not at all,” Lord Huntington replied, looking relieved by the promise of solitude.
She wanted to ask about his leg, as she could see him rubbing it. But she did not want to embarrass him. She could tell by the taut skin of his cheek and the beads of sweat on his brow that he was in serious pain. It was far too early for him to be riding. It had been only four weeks since his arrival, and he had broken his leg a month before that time. At least he still wore the stiffened bandage.
The threesome began to move off. “Charlotte, dearest, best retrieve your bonnet, lest a freckle or two appear,” her brother said in mock playfulness.
“The air has only brought a pleasing color to your sister’s cheeks, Mr. Kittridge,” said Lord Huntington. He looked at her for a moment before turning away from the others to canter off through the valley.
She waved her hand, a silent good-bye on her lips. A pleasing color. He thought she had a pleasing color on her cheeks. She touched her face in wonder. She would not replace her bonnet now for her life.
Her brother and Lord Edwin made their good-byes, and she was left to ponder the meeting in the afternoon’s glorious sunshine.
She placed the sketch pad at the bottom of a nearby shaded stile and clattered to the top. Seating herself on the old timber, she retrieved a small volume from her pocket. Lady Rosamunde had lent it to her one evening as she sat watch over the ailing duke. She ran her fingers over the gilt lettering, Pride and Prejudice. She couldn’t wait to read it. So much for her vow to stop nurturing her newly formed romantic turn of mind. The devil with it. If she would never have her heart’s desire, at least she could live vicariously through the mysterious “Lady’s” characters. Ah yes, the Devil was very clever in providing excuses for her behavior.
Chapter Five
“I do not want people to be very agreeable, as it saves me the trouble of liking them a great deal.”
—Letters of Jane Austen
WE would accomplish two goals, Nicholas decided the next morning, his leg stiff from evening’s slumber. He would exercise his leg again, despite the pain, and he would contemplate a solution to the sorry state of affairs he had witnessed yesterday afternoon in this little corner of Christendom. Nicholas also rode out, he admitted to himself, to escape the hours of dreary conversation at the abbey with people whose only contentment in life could be found in discussing other people and events instead of ideas that could improve the mind.
He had risen at his customary hour before dawn and hastened below to the kitchens, hidden away from all of the upstairs household’s eyes save his. The scullery maid, there early to stoke the fires, spied him and returned to her work with a blush. Nicholas took the bits and pieces that would make up his breakfast and left before Cook discovered him.
He saddled his own horse with the help of a sleepy stable boy intent on impressing the heir. Nicholas worked the aching muscles in his mending leg as he rode past the acres planted with hay, wheat, and other crops for future fodder. After touring the pastures and village the day before, an idea had simmered in his brain. He had noticed that many of the fields lay fallow.
He had also observed a steady trickle of returning soldiers flowing through the village. The honorable, worn, and wearied soldiers had a certain bleakness in the eyes he had not encountered while they faced the French army’s guns. This was hopelessness. Each had a similar story to tell, one of farms lost to the enclosure acts, displaced families, and abject poverty dogging their trail home.
Nicholas had stopped one haggard fellow wearing his regiment’s rifleman green and bought him a meal at the inn. The soldier told a sorry tale about how the parish had done everything possible to deny honorable men a supplement, humiliating and challenging each soldier’s qualifications to be on the roll. It was a disgrace. Some of these disheartened souls he had seen in his childhood, some he had seen on the battlefield, and some he had never seen before as they were wandering without a place to call home. Something needed to be done before desperation turned to looting and looting turned to gaol or worse.
He must speak to Edwin and the steward about the idea of planting barley and hop vines. This was the beginning of a solution, he was convinced. From that, it was just a harvest away from a brewer’s dream. The valley would be an ideal place for a brewery. The water from the spring flowing through the estate had long been declared the best in the county. It would take a while for the hop vines to produce pistillate catkins of the same high quality as those found in nearby Kent, but they could be purchased until then. And a brewery could provide employment for these men as well as the others living on the edge of poverty.
Nicholas rode by a series of laborers’ dwellings in deplorable conditions. Edwin would condemn the idea of any lowering sort of industry on the estate. Perhaps the inducement of a steady flow of ready blunt would soften the blow to his brother’s pride. He doubted it. But before he returned to his regiment, something must be done for these poor people who were barely scratching out an existence. As he passed a small cottage, a scrawny child of three or four years of age, dressed in rags, tossed a tiny handful of grain to two of the sorriest-looking chickens Nicholas had ever seen.
He shook his head and continued on past the far acres to an untouched parcel of land his maternal grandparents had deeded to him a long, long time ago. This, perhaps, might prove to be the true answer. The land, adjoining Wyndhurst Abbey’s acres, had been purchased by his maternal grandfather who had loved him. He’d given the parcel to Nicholas at age ten because as he had put it, “It has everything a boy could like; fields for riding, roaming and hunting, a very good, clear stream for bathing and fishing. I find nothing wanting, and everything good in nature.”
Nicholas surveyed the vast acres with a critical eye. This land would have to be the solution if Edwin could not be convinced to aid the poor people of Wiltshire.
The dew had burned off the bracken bordering the small path when Nicholas rode toward Dr. Kittridge’s cottage an hour later. If only the sharp thread of pain emanating from the point of the break in his leg would ease. But he had made a promise to the doctor, and he would keep it.
He knocked on the small wooden door and looked up at the uneven patches on the thatched roof. It looked greenish and moldy in places. He must speak to the steward about the upkeep. Several of the laborers had complained to him of similar conditions at their families’ cottages. He shook his head as he entered.
The maid-of-all-work, Doro, bobbed a curtsy and bade him to wait in the small sitting room. The eastward window allowed the sunny day to invade the blue room filled with books from floor to ceiling along one long wall. A few volumes had escaped their cramped quarters and lay in small stacks near the base. The sight of them always brought a deep sense of longing coupled with fear. The secrets encoded between the covers fascinated him, yet he dreaded being around the printed page lest someone call on him to read aloud.
While he waited, Nicholas moved to the window to peer outside. His hand nudged an object in the window box. It was a little brown spotted wren made of fired clay, no doubt one of Miss Kittridge’s creations. Its little mates, posed in different positions, were clustered all around a real nest with three speckled clay eggs inside. The sight reminded him of all the joys of boyhood in the spring when he had been able to escape the confines of a housebound winter to look for signs of new life.
He heard the greedy screeching of a blue jay beyond the open window as Dr. Kittridge entered the room.
“Ah, my lord. I am delighted to see you,” the small man said, bowing. “I was just about to hasten to Wyndhurst to examine you and His Grace. You have saved me half
a trip,” he said, rubbing his tired-looking eyes and replacing his spectacles. He paused and peered over the rim of his eyeglasses. “You have not decided to forgo the examination, have you?”
Nicholas waved the doctor’s doubts away. “No, no.” He moved to the chaise the doctor motioned to him. “I rode here for the exercise.” Nicholas extended his leg at the doctor’s approach.
Dr. Kittridge ran his hand over the contours of Nicholas’s bandaged thigh. “And how is the pain, my lord? Has it abated at all?”
“The wound has healed, as you know. There is still some pain from inside.”
Dr. Kittridge nwrapped the outer bandage and pressed deep into the sides of his leg. Nicholas forced himself to breathe slowly and not flinch.
“Hmmm,” murmured the doctor. “The bone splinter seems to be less prominent. I do think it will indeed heal itself without having to rebreak the bone. I must caution you, though, to take more care. If you overuse your limb more than the prudent amount, you might find yourself bedridden once again. I had suggested mild activities such as a short turn in your garden, not riding.”
“Consider the admonishment complete, sir.” Nicholas smiled. The doctor rebandaged the leg and Nicholas got to his feet awkwardly, before limping toward the window.
“I shall want to examine the leg again in another two weeks—for a final decision.”
“Agreed,” said Nicholas, as he pushed aside the frayed edge of the muslin curtain. Miss Kittridge was coming up the walk, carrying a basketful of greenery in her delicate arms. He swallowed as he remembered her gentle touch.
“And my father, sir? How do you find him? I must soon make plans to return to my regiment when I am well enough and if he rebounds.” As he spoke, he gazed at Charlotte. She was almost childlike as she hastened up the flagged stones. There were grass stains on the front of her plain gray gown, and a smudge of dirt on her cheek. He felt old and unworthy in the face of such sweet innocence. Nicholas turned to the doctor when there was no reply.