The Rocking Horse: A Regency Novella

by Holly Newman

  Tarkington extended his hand forward. "We had best join the others before Aunt Bayne takes it upon herself to look for us," he said, avoiding her question.

  "Yes. But a moment, my lord. I have a boon to ask of you. I know you are set upon making the rocking horse entirely by yourself, but I was wondering if you would allow me to assist. I have some measure of talent with a paintbrush, I am told, and I have painted many a piece of furniture with dioramas of historical events that Father wished to preserve. I should like to make that my gift to you and Lady Anne for this Christmas visit. Despite Lady Mary's illness, I am enjoying myself."

  "In what way?"

  "The peace of the estate. The observation of life. The relaxation of appearance. Oh, I don't know that I can completely explain it to you, my lord. It is merely part of the warm and quite strange feelings I have experienced since being here. This morning I sat in a chair by a window in my room and looked out across your estate. I looked at the land rolling away toward the river, I watched the people coming and going on estate business, I listened to the silence." She sighed, then self-consciously laughed. "I have not had experience with the country, my lord. Perhaps it is merely the novelty."

  Tarkington looked at her thoughtfully, then a slow smile pulled on his lips and crept into his gray eyes, burnishing them to a silver gleam. "Perhaps indeed, Miss Maybrey. Perhaps indeed. And asked in that pretty fashion, how might a man refuse? Truly I should relish your talent, should you be serious. Time is short. But come," he said, taking her arm as they descended the stairs. "To your next novelty . . . Mrs. Bayne!"

  "Ah, here they are. You see, Clarice? I told you they would be here momentarily," Lady Tarkington said brightly. Her expression directed toward Tarkington and Jocelyn was the antithesis of good humor, however. Frustration and anger sparked like steel on flint in her blue eyes. But as quickly as it appeared it disappeared, so that the mien she turned toward her sister-in-law remained determinedly cheery.

  Clarice Bayne nodded ponderously. "Tarkington, I was just telling your mother that I do not believe in gossip and I do not care to receive it. In your case, however, I have of late seen that it is more than gossip. It is truth."

  "And what is that truth?" Tarkington asked, strolling over to the burl-veneered credenza to pour himself a pre-prandial drink. He looked inquiringly at Jocelyn. She shook her head.

  Mrs. Bayne pulled her wool shawl closer about her gaunt form, then puffed out her narrow chest like a bantam hen. "It is my sorrowing duty to point out to you your mental deterioration. Of late you've lacked the proper understanding of your duties as head of the family."

  "Clarice!" gasped Lady Tarkington.

  "I'm sorry, Martha, but it must be said—and I hold you responsible for allowing this situation to persist. Tarkington is not the man he was prior to Diana's death."

  "And that is to the bad?" Tarkington asked quietly, not looking at her, his attention ostensibly centered on the glass he rolled between his hands.

  Lady Maybrey reached out from the small sofa where she sat to grab Jocelyn's hand and pull her down to sit beside her. Jocelyn looked quizzically at her mother. Lady Maybrey shook her head, warning Jocelyn against curiosity.

  "It is lamentable, particularly as you have a young daughter to coach in the ways of society and her proper place in it. This morning I saw you running about the garden with her like a peasant with his child." She shook her head sadly. "Most distressing. You have your station to consider."

  Jocelyn could scarcely countenance what she was hearing, or that the dowager countess and her mother should remain so silent!

  "And my station would suffer from giving my child some small moments of laughter?" Tarkington asked quietly.

  "Yes. Such things are cumulative. You must realize that, Tarkington. When your people see you without your dignity, they lose respect for you and fail to do their proper duty."

  Tarkington laughed. "If that were all it took to reduce their opinion, then I'd say their opinions are well past redemption, for I've done more than play in the garden, Aunt Clarice."

  "This levity of yours is unseemly," she said severely. "You are a widower, after all."

  "And I should still be in mourning? If that is your contention, Aunt Clarice, then I will have you know, and be done with it, that I disagree. It is nearly Christmas! This is not the season for morose introspection. But what of you?"

  "Me?" Mrs. Bayne looked up at him, and Jocelyn thought she saw a fleeting expression of hate cross her pinched features.

  "Yes. Is it proper, since that is what you think I should be, that you should ignore the guest who entered the room with me, not encouraging an introduction?"

  She laughed. " 'Twas not necessary. I know who she is. She is the woman my Charles is to marry," she said with great complacency.

  "I beg your pardon, Mrs. Bayne, but nothing has been voiced to that effect," Jocelyn burst out, thoroughly annoyed with this woman. Lady Maybrey frowned at her.

  Mrs. Bayne smiled, her narrow face now condescending in its expression. She nodded toward Lady Maybrey. "A most proper observation, Lady Maybrey. You are to be commended for your daughter's delicacy of spirit. It is regrettable that Charles did not accompany you. My son is a man of great responsibility, else I am certain he would not have let you come here alone. He understands responsibility."

  Tarkington slammed his glass down on the credenza. "Does he, Aunt Clarice? Does he know what responsibilities a father owes his daughter? Does he know what a landlord owes his tenants? Does he know what it is to have a thousand souls dependent upon him? Does he know what it is to be so consumed with politics that family and estate are forgotten? Does he knew what it is to miss seeing his daughter take her first steps, say her first words? Does he know what it is to arrive at his wife's deathbed only in time to say goodbye? Does he know what it is to love?"

  "You are overwrought, Tarkington," Mrs. Bayne snapped, all semblance of kind patience flying away. "I suggest a laudanum dose. You are exhibiting proof that you are no longer capable of running this family."

  "Ah, I see how it is. You think as Prinny has become regent for his father, so Charles could for me? Perhaps you had rather I be assigned to Bedlam?"

  "There is no need for an emotional display, Tarkington. That will be quite enough," Mrs. Bayne declared. "Really, Martha, you are entirely too weak. To allow him to digress to this extent! Have you called in Dr. Linden to consult? Well, I hold myself accountable as well. I should have insisted on removing Lady Anne from his influence as soon as I detected this change in him."

  "No!" Jocelyn cried out. She surged to her feet, her body quivering with anger.

  Four pairs of eyes swiveled in Jocelyn's direction.

  "I have spent time with Lady Anne and Lord Tarkington. Theirs is a loving relationship! That we all should be so fortunate. How much time have you spent with either of them, Mrs. Bayne? You say you do not countenance gossip, yet I perceive it is the gossip you are creating that guides you!"

  "Jocelyn!" protested Lady Maybrey.

  "No, Mother, I shall not be hushed. I understand from all I have seen and heard here that the marques is not the same man he was prior to his wife's death. He has changed. But not, to my observation, for the worst!"

  "Young woman, how dare you speak to me in that manner! I shall have to talk to Charles!"

  "Do that!" Jocelyn countered, burning with anger.

  "Er, my lord, dinner is served," intoned the butler from the doorway.

  "I'm sorry. I find I cannot join you for dinner. I seem to have developed a splitting headache!" Jocelyn said, twirling around to run from the room.

  "Miss Maybrey!" the marques called after her.

  She ignored him, fleeing up the stairs and down the long carpeted corridor to her room. She slammed the door closed behind her and collapsed into the chair before the fire, feeling suddenly and inexplicably chilled.

  The next morning oppression lay heavily on Jocelyn. Listlessly she allowed Miss Barnes to dress her,
voicing no protest when the woman added more jewels to her toilet than was seemly for day attire. She stood like a doll, her mind whirling from her previous evening's idiocy. She wished she could spirit herself back to London, back to the world she understood, to the formal rules, the little plays, the shallowness of communication. It was not a world that required—or even liked—sincerity and love. It was a safer world. She could see that now. With leaden feet she left her room and went downstairs for breakfast. And that was nearly beyond her ability. It was only the knowledge that her mother and Lady Tarkington would still be abed and that Mrs. Bayne would be back at her home that gave her the strength to venture down to possibly face the marques and her own folly.

  To her relief, the breakfast room was empty, one setting already removed with only a trace of a drop of coffee on the white tablecloth to show anyone had sat there. The realization that the marques had already eaten and left felt like a weight leaving her shoulders. With a lighter heart she filled her plate, for this morning she was sharp-set.

  She was finishing a second rasher of ham when she heard a sound behind her. She turned to find large brown eyes looking up at her from under a plain, dark blue bonnet.

  "Hurry!"

  "Hurry?"

  The little head bobbled, and a tiny gloved hand reached for hers. "Papa's getting my pony cart."

  "That's nice, Lady Anne, but what...." Then Jocelyn remembered. She had promised to accompany Lady Anne today. But she couldn't. Not now, not after the way she'd made a fool of herself last evening. She wished she had fallen victim to Lady Mary's malady so she could keep to her room until after the holidays and it was time to leave. She could not face Tarkington. What he must think of her! Her cheeks burned in memory.

  "Oh, my dear, I can't . . ." Her voice trailed off helplessly as she stared into Lady Anne's guileless young eyes. A promise had been made. Lady Anne was too young to understand casually made and casually broken promises. Jocelyn would not begin her education.

  "I forgot to bring down my outdoor garments. I shall have to fetch them first," Jocelyn told the child as she rose from her chair. She would use the time to gather her wits and secure some mask that could see her through the day.

  "Emmie brung them."

  "Brought them," Jocelyn corrected without thought, then started. "She did?"

  Lady Anne's head bobbled again as she pulled Jocelyn out of the breakfast parlor. "See?" She pointed at Emmie standing near one of the pier glasses that flanked the front entrance. Worse, she was speaking with the marques.

  Jocelyn felt her heart descend into her stomach. There would be no reprieve, no chance to order her mind or adopt any mien that could see her through her embarrassment. She stared at him, vulnerable to the slightest look or word.

  "Miss Maybrey, you should not have let Anne take you away from your breakfast."

  Jocelyn blushed and looked wildly around, searching for inspiration, for the right words to say.

  "We would have waited," the marques finished.

  Jocelyn whipped her head back to look at him. He was smiling only slightly, but the expression reached his eyes. She blinked, bemused.

  "That's quite all right. I was finished. Really."

  The marques nodded, took her cloak from Emmie, and held it out for her. Numbly Jocelyn walked toward him and allowed him to put her cloak around her. She only woke from her dazed state when it appeared he would take her hat from Emmie as well. The thought of his hands placing her hat on her head and tying the bow under her chin galvanized Jocelyn to action. She dived under his arm to seize the hat first, then turned toward the pier glass to settle it on her head. The marques stepped away, but through his reflection in the glass Jocelyn saw the odd way he compressed his lips and the light in his eyes glow brighter. He was laughing at her!

  "Well, Lady Anne," she said briskly, "shall we go for a ride in your cart?"

  "I'm afraid we won't be using the cart," the marques said as they descended the stone steps before the manor.

  "But, Papa!" protested Lady Anne.

  "Hush. This is much better. See? I instructed the grooms to harness one of the small estate wagons. How else can we bring home the Christmas greens your grandmother wishes us to gather?"

  "You, my lord?" Jocelyn heard herself ask.

  Tarkington laughed. "Yes, Miss Maybrey. It seems the house servants are considered to have more important matters to attend to. I, as the most frivolous of the lot, am free for garland and boxwood and mistletoe gathering."

  Jocelyn smiled despite herself. "Frivolous, my lord?"

  "Decidedly frivolous." He stopped by the wagon. "You first, Miss Maybrey."

  "What? Wait—"

  The Marques's hands were firm about her waist. He lifted her high as if she weighed no more than Lady Anne. Instinctively her hands grabbed his forearms for security. He set her on the worn padded wagon seat. He would have dropped his hands immediately if it were not for the firm grip Jocelyn maintained. Guiltily, and flushing once again, she released her grip, her hands sliding self-consciously away.

  Jocelyn's breath clouded against cold morning air, but inwardly she felt a new glowing warmth almost like banked coals. It was a curious feeling, not altogether unpleasant, though the thought of what might fan those banked coals to flames unsettled her.

  Their eyes held a moment longer, then the marques turned to lift his little daughter for Jocelyn to settle between her and where the marques would sit on the wagon bench seat. Afterward, Jocelyn's breathing felt tight, as if a band constricted her chest. She turned her attention toward Lady Anne, seeking some solace in the child's bright chatter as the marques turned the wagon down a trail paralleling the river.

  Remnants of the night's frost glistened on the north face of rocks sheltered from the sun's warmth by the tangled briar from summer's berries, clumps of pine, and evergreen shrubbery. Winter wrens flew up before them to settle on branches overhead. Their feathers puffed out against the cold, and they cocked their heads from side to side, their bright dark eyes watching them pass. Once they saw two male wrens fight over a large red berry, so preoccupied with their war they scarcely had time to fly out of the horse's way. Lady Anne laughed at their antics. Her laughter eased the tightness in Jocelyn's chest, and she laughed at the child's delight.

  When they crossed a narrow wooden bridge over the river, Jocelyn instinctively clung to the side of the wagon, fearful they'd come to mischief on so narrow a structure. She disliked bridges. They always made her nervous. Once on the other side the marques stopped the wagon and told her she could relax her grip. She meekly apologized, color rising in her cheeks.

  "Do not apologize, Miss Maybrey, It is not necessary. That was a narrow bridge and to one unfamiliar with it or without control of the reins, crossing can seem daunting. I myself do not like others to drive me across. I prefer to be in control on such a structure."

  "Thank you, my lord, but I confess I do not like bridges at all. An inexplicable failing of mine, I'm afraid," she said with a shaky laugh and offhanded gesture.

  "Miss Maybrey! I wish I had known! There was no need for us to go to the wood across the river for greenery. I merely thought to take you to this wood because of its high vantage point. In my vanity I wished you to see Bayneville from the top of the hill ahead that borders the wood."

  "Please, my lord, do not overly concern yourself. I'm fine."

  "But will you be fine when I confess there is no way back to Bayneville lest we cross the river again?"

  "I gathered that, my lord," she said dryly. "Rivers this wide and deep don't vanish in the next mile or so."

  "True, but I can at least ensure that your crossing not be disturbing in quite that manner."

  Jocelyn laughed. "Nothing can make a bridge less disturbing."

  The marques smiled as he lifted the reins and urged the estate horse on. "We'll see, Miss Maybrey."

  Jocelyn was touched by Tarkington's concern. It was relaxing in a manner she'd never experienced.

  "Are w
e almost there, Papa? Are we almost there?"

  The marques laughed. "Almost, poppet. Beyond that line of spruce is a grove of holly. We'll start there."

  Together the three of them cut and gathered the holly, then boxwood and other greenery until the back of their wagon was full.

  "What about the mis'toe, Papa?" Lady Anne asked as Tarkington once more boosted her on to the wagon seat.

  "We have to go farther for that," he said, picking up the wagon reins.

  "I know what mis'toe is for," Lady Anne confided to Jocelyn.

  "Oh, you do?" Jocelyn said to the dimpling child.

  Lady Anne nodded, then giggled behind her gloved hand. "It's for kissing!"

  "My goodness! Are you sure?"

  "Don't stand under the mis'toe or you'll get kissed!"

  "Well, I shall certainly take your advice. Imagine, being kissed!" she said. Then her eye caught the Marques's tense gaze. All humor left her lips. Unconsciously she licked them. The Marques's eyes narrowed briefly. In confusion Jocelyn blushed and looked away. She was attracted to this man. Dangerously attracted. How foolish! A tingling rose in her chest, catching in her throat and zinging throughout her body in a form of panic she'd never felt before. She was about to be betrothed to his cousin—though perhaps not. Mrs. Bayne would likely do her best to squelch the match. She considered that consequence and knew it wasn't the cause of her panic. She knew the worst last night, though only now would she put the feeling to thought. If she married Charles Bayne, her life would continue in the fashion she'd grown up with. Unfortunately she was beginning to realize she did not want that life for herself: an endless round of parties, of late nights and late risings, of maintaining appearances, of being somewhere just to be seen there, of listening to gossip, of laughing at some ridiculous joke, or clucking one's tongue at another's misfortune. That was her parents' world, and they thrived in it. She now knew that as a child when she'd observed them—from a distance, the way society deemed children were meant to—she had enjoyed that distance, that vicarious participation, far more than she'd ever enjoyed its actuality for herself.