Miss Tate responded with a polite smile, then motioned for them to move on. “This way,” she said mysteriously, already walking ahead.
She passed several empty stalls before stopping at one. Jonathan approached cautiously, placing himself at a safe distance from her. She had the air about her of someone preparing to reveal a surprise. And he had had enough surprises for one day, thank you.
“Do you remember?” Miss Tate pointed to the name engraved on the brass plate fastened to the stall door.
Jonathan came a step nearer and, bending closer to see, read aloud. “Bucephalus.”
He straightened abruptly, drawing in a sharp breath. “Bucephalus.”
The animal, hearing its name, came forward and nudged Jonathan’s arm.
“He remembers you,” Miss Tate said.
His first impulse was to correct her. How could a horse remember after thirteen years? Most people could not.
The horse nudged him again. Jonathan lifted a hand and stroked its snout. He had grown into a fine animal.
The horse dropped its head over the gate and nosed Jonathan’s pocket. “My God,” Jonathan whispered. “He does remember me.”
The horse repeated the action, more insistently. Jonathan patted the animal’s neck. “Sorry, fellow, no treats today.”
Beside him, Miss Tate said, “I brought something from the larder.”
Jonathan had almost forgotten her presence. He turned to see her holding a single fat, red apple by its stem.
“Here, take it.”
Without thinking, he held out his right hand, the stiff joints curving his fingers inward as though he already grasped the apple. Miss Tate gently lowered it onto his palm, careful not to touch his fingers with her own.
The horse shoved its head between them and wrapped its lips around the fruit, then turned away, making indelicate sounds as it consumed the treat. They both laughed at the animal’s bold greed.
“Bucephalus?” Miss Tate looked puzzled. “How did you think of such an unusual name?”
“That was Alexander the Great’s horse.”
He watched Miss Tate immediately color. She was obviously embarrassed, though he couldn’t think why.
“I was thirteen when I named him.” He lifted a shoulder in a diffident shrug, feeling his own face heat beneath the mask. “At that age I fear I had overblown expectations of my future exploits.”
Bucephalus swung his head over the stall gate and bumped Jonathan’s arm with enough force to send him sideways a step. Jonathan turned to face the horse and scolded it mildly. “Alexander assuredly received greater deference from his Bucephalus.”
“Here.” Miss Tate reached into her skirt pocket and produced another apple. “Perhaps this will buy you some respect.”
Jonathan held out his hand again, smiling in thanks until he realized the mask hid his face. How could he have forgotten?
“You are a veritable cornucopia.”
She blushed at his words, and this time he frowned beneath his mask. For the life of him, he didn’t understand her embarrassment, or what faux pas he might have committed to cause her discomfort.
She placed the apple in his hand. Neglecting her former fastidiousness, she allowed her fingers to rest briefly against his palm. It was such a light touch, he barely felt it through his glove, and yet it sent a shock, quick and sharp, up his arm. The fact that Miss Tate seemed completely unaware of what she’d done in no way lessened the sensation.
Jonathan started to offer Bucephalus the treat, then thought better of it, and held the apple toward Miss Tate instead. “You deserve the respect more than I.”
“Oh, dear me. No.” She took a step back, shaking her head.
He couldn’t put his foot right, whatever he said or did.
“I’m afraid of horses,” she admitted ruefully. “They’re so . . . their teeth are so big.”
“He’s more interested in the apple than your fingers.” Jonathan held his hand toward the horse, who obligingly proved the point by snatching the fruit away and consuming it noisily. “Though it must be said, he has terrible manners.”
Miss Tate laughed, rather too politely, Jonathan thought. He leaned against the gate to scratch the horse between its ears.
“Will you . . . ” She hesitated. Jonathan looked at her over his shoulder, waiting for her to go on. “Will you ride your horse again?”
He stroked the horse’s neck in farewell, then stepped away from the stall. “I think not.”
She started to say something, then stopped. Such reticence was familiar to him, Jonathan thought bitterly. He had experienced it many times, when others—even his mother—would censor their conversation in his presence for fear of offending him. It was best to act as if he hadn’t noticed.
Jonathan gestured toward the door. “Shall we continue our walk?”
Outside, he took the lead this time, guiding her away from the house, putting the ruined western wing at their backs. After his earlier warning, it was doubtful she would express a wish to explore the ruins. At the same time, he didn’t want to risk her doing so. She had surprised him at every turn today.
They walked along in silence for a while. He wanted to thank Miss Tate for what she’d done, but was at a loss for words.
“How did you know—”
She cut him off. “Joe told me.”
They walked several more paces before she stopped and turned to face him. “I hope you don’t mind. I mean, it wasn’t my intention to pry.”
“On the contrary, I . . . ” Once more, words failed him. He shook his head, then started walking again.
They crossed the meadow in silence. By the time they reached the other side, Jonathan was eager to get out of the sun. He found some shade beneath the wide canopy of a burr oak tree, then waited for Miss Tate, who had fallen behind.
“Shall we rest here a moment?” he asked.
She looked dubious. “I think the grass may be damp.”
Of course, he thought, she would hesitate to soil her skirt.
Jonathan undid the single button, carefully pulled the sleeves past the cuffs of his gloves, then shrugged out of his jacket. Grasping the collar, he shook the jacket to spread it evenly across the grass. The loop of chain fastening his pocket watch to his waistcoat swung lightly as he bent over.
“Please.” Standing upright, he gestured toward the jacket. When she hesitated, he urged her gently with what, after all, was the truth. “It’s quite warm. I’m glad to have an excuse to shed a superfluous article of clothing.”
She nodded, then lowered herself to the ground, modestly tucking her legs under her. He started to sit across from her at a safe distance, but she protested, patting the tail of the jacket that protruded from beneath her skirt. “There is room for us both.”
Trapped by his own flamboyant gesture. How could he refuse without appearing rude?
Jonathan reluctantly sat beside her, uncomfortably aware that their elbows were practically touching. He drew his legs up, hugging his knees to his chest, and supposed he should be grateful that scars had obliterated his sweat glands. Otherwise, his underarms would most certainly be drenched with nervous perspiration.
He stared at the toes of his boots, his mind a blank slate, until the silence grew unbearable. “I’m afraid I make poor company, Miss Tate.”
“No, sir. Not at all.”
He ignored her objection for the polite fiction that it was. Perversely, he wanted to force her to admit the truth. “Come now. We both know the only reason you endure my presence.”
He had not meant to sound bitter, but now that he had spoken, he was forced to acknowledge the feeling.
“And what would that be?”
He heard the indignation in her voice and congratulated himself. He would goad her into admitting her true opinion.
“You have no choice. You are in my employ.”
She rose up on her knees and glared down at him. He’d had no idea he could rouse her so easily.
“I dar
esay you would never choose my inferior company had circumstance not forced you to do so.”
He blinked up at her, appalled by the way she had turned his own argument against him. “You are putting words in my mouth. Have I ever implied that I consider you inferior?”
“Have you ever given me reason to believe you do not?” She sank back to the ground, wilting like a dying flower. “I’m sorry. I was sharp with you.”
He found no pleasure in her defeat. His anger subsided as quickly as it had arisen.
“I deserved your remark.” He paused. “But you should know, I prefer the keen edge of truth to the dull comfort of lies.”
She looked at him out of the corner of her eye, then turned to face him, having decided, he supposed, to accept his weak apology. “Always?”
“Of course.”
A slow smile brought a dimple to her cheek that until then he hadn’t noticed she possessed. “I’ll remember that,” she said, “and keep my speech well honed.”
He laughed, relieved at her readiness to forgive. “Take small slices, if you will, or there shall be nothing left of me.”
She answered his laugh, and Jonathan thought he had never heard such an enchanting sound. “And you?” he asked. “Do you prefer the truth?”
She touched her fingers to her lips, a gesture he had seen before, one he had concluded to mean that she was considering her words.
“I think . . . ”
She briefly trailed her fingers across her lips before dropping her hand. He stared at her mouth, wondering why her simple gesture unsettled him as it did.
“I think I am not possessed of your certainty. I would have to know what the truth was before I could decide whether or not I prefer it.”
He twisted around to face her. Miss Tate’s comment excited him. It offered the promise of a good philosophical debate. “There are those who say a woman is incapable of any straightforward decision.”
She rose to his challenge, tossing one back at him without a moment’s hesitation. “And they are every one of them men who haven’t the subtlety of thought to understand that not all questions can be answered with a simple yes or no.”
“Then you deny the concept of absolute truth?” He was grinning beneath his mask, enjoying himself too much to take offense at the aspersion she cast against his gender.
She smiled, too. “That depends.”
He laughed. “Am I to understand that you consider truth a pliable commodity? Like potter’s clay?”
She bit her lower lip thoughtfully. Again, he found himself staring at her mouth.
“Not so much pliable as fluid. Like a river, because truth is often as difficult to grasp.”
“Heraclitus,” he murmured, nodding, liking her answer. “You have yet to answer my first question. Do you prefer the truth?”
“Absolutely.” She giggled, then sobered almost immediately. “Actually, that depends.”
“Here we go again.” Though he said it good naturedly, she sought to explain herself.
“Seriously. If you mean truth in the abstract sense, of course I do. But if you mean frankness, as between two people—”
“As between ourselves.”
She looked at him steadily, and he began to feel uncomfortable, thinking he should not have introduced this personal aspect to their discussion.
“I prefer frankness if it is delivered out of kindness. But not if it is given out of malice.”
Jonathan rested his chin on his knees and stared at his boots again. “You would make me consider my motive each time I speak.” He cast a sideways glance at her, but quickly lowered his eyes, unable to hold her knowing gaze. “I fear I will become completely tongue tied in my conversation with you.”
She leaned around, forcing him to look her in the eye. “You shall never need to censor your speech on that account. You always mean to be kind, at heart. I see it in your eyes.”
“My eyes?” He laughed incredulously. “That is all you have to judge by, is it not?”
“It is, but it is sufficient.”
The gentleness in her voice offended him. “Please.” He returned her unflinching gaze, pushing down the familiar anger, understanding she was not its proper target. “Please, don’t pity me.”
The color drained from her cheeks. He watched her eyes lose their sharpness and marveled at the rapid retreat of her personality. He was witnessing a death of sorts, a human soul withdrawing into itself. For a moment, he thought she might faint, but then she rallied and, clutching her hands together in her lap, she shook her head.
“I wonder,” she said in a thin voice, “will you pity me, when you know me better?”
“Don’t be ridiculous.” He said it with a gruffness he hadn’t intended. Unsurprising, then, that she met his remark with silence. He was a damned fool.
“We should return to the house.” Jonathan pulled out his pocket watch and read the time. “It’s almost noon.”
“The others will be back soon,” Miss Tate agreed eagerly.
He understood. She was tired of his boorish company, and with good reason.
She rose up on her knees and brushed at her skirt, preparing to leave. He followed her lead. They were angled toward one another, both of them kneeling, when a capricious wind gusted out of nowhere, catching the wide brim of her hat. She cried out when it tugged painfully at her hair, where the hat was anchored with a long pin.
Without thinking, Jonathan grabbed for her hat to save it. Miss Tate reacted with the same unthinking reflex. Her hands landed on the crown of her hat, holding it down, while in the next instant, his hand fell atop hers. For one long moment, they both froze, too embarrassed to move.
Jonathan recoiled. “Forgive me.”
He leaned away, waiting for her surprised expression to be replaced by the inevitable revulsion at his touch. Inappropriate though it was, he couldn’t help noticing how, with her arms lifted, her breasts changed shape beneath her blouse. It occurred to him for the first time that she didn’t wear a corset. That, contrary to fashion as he remembered it, her breasts were unbound.
Jonathan stood, backing away from her as she got to her feet. He quickly stooped to retrieve his jacket, folding it over his arm as he straightened again, careful to hold the jacket so it would cover the embarrassing result of his lascivious observations. Sweet Christ, he thought, nothing like this had ever happened to him before.
He allowed her to walk ahead, following a half pace behind until they reached the house. Miss Tate thanked him as they stood awkwardly in the entryway, neither of them knowing what to say. He bowed, then watched her go before turning toward the stairs and the sanctuary of his private rooms.
Without a doubt, this had been the strangest morning of his life.
Chapter Twenty
Isabelle sighed, laying aside the book she’d been trying to read for the last hour. Sunday had been a happy day for her, and such days were rare enough. After coaxing Mr. Nashe out of doors that morning, she had enjoyed a welcome if tearful reunion with Jenny in the afternoon. With these successes behind her, she had begun the week with uncharacteristic optimism.
She should have known better than to hope her situation here would become easier. She should have known when Monday came and went and Mr. Nashe did not present himself. When Tuesday, then again Wednesday he failed to make an appearance.
Nellie assured her he was taking his meals regularly. His absence could not be ascribed to illness. Or worse, to his addiction.
Her old anxieties returned twice over, especially her fear that Mr. Nashe found her inadequate for the job. Increasingly, too, she worried that she had somehow offended him during their Sunday walk.
She’d spent hours in the library the previous evening, hoping she might chance to meet Mr. Nashe there. But her hopes had come to nothing, and she fell asleep on the broad leather couch, book in hand. It was well past two in the morning when she finally woke, disoriented and with a stiff neck.
She had come to the parlor at the usual ap
pointed time to wait on Mr. Nashe, having no particular hope that he might appear. It was Thursday, the day Dr. Garrick always came to dinner. She had considered informing him of her lack of occupation but decided against it, at least for the time being. If she complained too often, he would think her tiresome.
The mantel clock chimed five. Isabelle was debating whether to wait another hour when the door behind her opened, and Mr. Nashe entered the room carrying an armful of papers. Isabelle rose from her chair, but before she could offer to help, he had already come around to the front of the desk. Without a word of greeting or explanation, he lowered his arms and let the papers slide into a jumbled heap before her.
Isabelle dropped onto her chair and stared at the mound of paperwork, feeling a little like the miller’s daughter who had been locked into a roomful of straw and ordered to spin it into gold.
“What is this?” she asked, unable to hide her dismay.
“Notes for recopying,” he answered tersely, collecting and stacking the papers into neat piles according to some logical order known only to him.
“I see,” Isabelle murmured, even more dismayed.
“Richard won’t be able to complain that I haven’t given you enough work.” He straightened the final stack, then took a nearby armchair that was directly in front of her.
Isabelle didn’t know what to think. His manner had changed, dramatically so, though his animated behavior was too overblown to appear convincingly natural.
“I don’t know where to begin.” And that was stating her quandary in the mildest possible terms.
“Anywhere.” He waved a hand in the air with a dismissive gesture. “Anywhere, it doesn’t matter. I’ll order the notes after you’ve finished.”
Isabelle picked up a sheet of paper and stared at it, then turned it top to bottom, with the result that the markings made somewhat better sense. Though only just.
“And when do you need them to be finished?” She was understanding more and more how the miller’s daughter must have felt.
“However long it takes you.” He brushed away her concern with another wave of his hand, then leaned forward in his chair, intent upon explaining. “I think I’ve hit upon a good procedure. If I give you a quantity of work each time, then our meetings need be less frequent.”
A Bed of Thorns and Roses Page 13