by Jane Ashford
Jean started to object—anything to keep Geoffrey from throwing a tantrum. But in fact she was quite hungry. She didn’t relish the thought of a morning’s ride on an empty and almost certainly growling stomach.
To the manifest surprise of every adult in the room, Geoffrey quieted at once. He gazed first at his father, and then at Jean, as if consulting some inner reference. “We never have any guests,” he said.
“Well, now we do.” Lord Furness seemed displeased by his own words. “For a short while.”
The boy cocked his head like a wild creature catching an unfamiliar scent. He had the face of her chocolate-box phantasm, Jean thought, but his inner workings were a mystery. “Can I have a muffin with her?” Geoffrey asked in an ingratiating tone.
His father snorted. “You may have one.”
Geoffrey walked over to Jean. “There’s blackberry jam.” He smiled up at her.
Even though she’d seen him painted red and chopping at her with a hatchet, Jean’s heart nearly melted. She prepared a muffin to his specifications before filling a plate for herself.
With the gentlemen looking on, Jean didn’t linger over her food but ate as fast as good manners would allow. She was surprised to see Geoffrey savor rather than bolt his muffin and jam. They finished at the same time, and the group headed for the stables together.
Half an hour later, Benjamin paused to consult his memory of the route. He felt as if he was guiding a caravan. His uncle and Miss Saunders rode on either side of him. Tom and Geoffrey, on a sturdy gelding, were a little ahead, at Geoffrey’s impatient urging. Further back, the nursery maid rode pillion behind a young groom; she looked nervous at her sideways perch. The fellow, Jack his name was, led a packhorse with the supplies for their picnic. As Benjamin’s apparently infallible gardener had predicted, it was a sunny day, warmer than it had been for some time.
“Are we going to those hills?” asked Miss Saunders.
She looked at ease in his mother’s old saddle. As she closed her eyes and turned her face up to the sun, a twist of brown hair sprang from beneath the tricorn hat and curled down her temple. Benjamin was startled by an intense desire to reach over and tuck it back into place. And then, perhaps, to trail his fingertips along the glowing skin of her cheek. He blinked and turned away. “Yes, the gorge cuts through them.”
“The Mendips,” said Benjamin’s uncle. “A curious word. Your father told me that no one is sure where it comes from.”
Geoffrey was flapping his elbows and kicking at his horse’s sides to urge him on, an ineffectual gesture because his feet didn’t reach the stirrups. Tom the wanderer had a steadying arm around him.
Benjamin wondered how he had ended up out of his house, with this oddly mixed party, on such a quixotic expedition.
They rode on, reaching the small village of Cheddar after an hour in the saddle and passing through it into a long, winding gash in the hills. Stony gray cliffs rose vertically on either side of the trail, enclosing them in towering walls. The gorge looked far too deep to have been cut by the stream flowing through it, but Benjamin understood this was its origin. Trees grew where they could find purchase, giving way to grass on the steeper parts. The place wasn’t as verdant as it would be in the summer, but there was no wind here at the bottom. When the sun reached its zenith and the shadows drew back, the temperature would be pleasant.
The horses picked their way along the flowing water, avoiding fallen boulders and ruts. Their riders exclaimed over the dramatic scenery. Rounding a sharp bend, they came to a wider place in the gorge. A swerve in the cliff formed a space like a lawn, with the stream running along one side. “This looks like a good spot for our picnic,” Benjamin declared, pulling up.
“I want to ride all the way to the end,” protested Geoffrey.
“That’s too far,” Benjamin replied. “A good five miles. And the road is rough. The gorge looks the same all the way along.”
“But there are caves!”
And Benjamin had chosen this place precisely because the caves were not here. Young Tom seemed quick and trustworthy, but confronted with a cave, Geoffrey was all too likely to plunge in and lose himself.
“I could ride a bit further,” said Miss Saunders.
“Must you always say the most unhelpful thing,” Benjamin muttered.
She heard him. He hadn’t meant her to, or…he didn’t think he had. She looked surprisingly mortified. He could never set a foot right with this young woman. “This is where we picnic,” he declared. “Or, we can turn around and go home again.”
Geoffrey looked mutinous.
“You wanted to come to the gorge, Geoffrey. This is the gorge. Perhaps a little gratitude is in order.” Benjamin frowned at his son.
“Come along,” said Tom. He jumped down and lifted his small charge off the horse. “Let’s look about.” He gave Benjamin a wink.
The two servants unloaded the packhorse. Benjamin and his uncle unsaddled and tethered their mounts while Jack began to collect wood for a fire.
Helping Lily the nursery maid spread blankets on the grass and set out hampers, Jean watched her host move about the area. His tall, athletic figure drew the eye. No one observing their small party would fail to see that he was in charge.
“Heigh-ho,” came a shrill cry. “Look at me!”
Everyone turned, and searched, and discovered Geoffrey clinging to the face of the cliff many feet above their heads. He appeared to be standing on a narrow ledge, a tiny figure against the towering wall of rock. As Jean stared, he let go with one hand and waved to them. Appalled, she ran over to stand just below the boy. Lord Furness came up beside her, his face pale and set. His uncle, on his other side, looked equally concerned.
Tom had his hand on the cliff. “I turned away for one minute, and he swarmed up there like a monkey,” he said. “I’ll climb up and fetch him.” A flake of rock came off under his fingers and rattled to the ground.
“I don’t think this stone will hold your weight,” said Lord Furness. He pulled at a small outcropping; it came free and fell. “And how would you carry him down?” He examined the cliff and murmured, “How the deuce did he get up there?” He raised his eyes, let out a breath, and spoke more softly. “An amazing feat, Geoffrey. Can you come back down now, please?”
Geoffrey grinned with pride. “You can’t get me.”
“No. You’ve outdone us all. Truly astonishing. But come down now.”
“All right.” The boy lifted a foot and felt about as if trying to find to place to put it. Lord Furness reached up futilely, then waited with spread arms. Geoffrey found no purchase. He frowned. “I can’t,” he said in a much more subdued tone.
“I’ll go up,” repeated Tom. “I was supposed to be watching him.”
“That won’t work,” Lord Furness replied.
Words burst from Jean. “You can’t leave him up there!”
She received a searing look in response and a turned back.
After a moment, Lord Furness gave a nod and said, “All right.” He strode away. “Jack, help me saddle Blaze. Quickly.” The servant jumped to aid him.
“My arms are tired,” said Geoffrey.
In a few moments, Lord Furness sprang onto his horse and guided it over to the cliff beneath his son. He still couldn’t reach him. Jean didn’t see what he’d accomplished by mounting up. “Tom, get up behind me,” he said. “And then climb onto my shoulders.”
The youngster grinned. “Yes, my lord.” He leapt onto the horse’s withers and then drew up his feet. Carefully, he stood. Lord Furness controlled the nervous horse as Tom maneuvered onto his shoulders. Seated there, his ankles hooked in the other man’s armpits, Tom reached upward. His fingers brushed the heels of Geoffrey’s boots. “You’ll have to let go,” he said to the boy. “And I’ll catch you.”
“No,” said Geoffrey. He was clinging to the cliff now, and
he looked like a scared little boy rather than a triumphant scamp.
“I’m right here,” said Tom. “I can almost reach you. I won’t let you fall.”
“No.” Geoffrey’s voice trembled.
“Geoffrey,” said Lord Furness.
The boy twisted his head around to peer down at him.
“Look how bravely you climbed up.” His voice was soothing, encouraging. Startlingly so, Jean thought. “Now you must be brave again and help yourself down,” he added. “We’ve done all we can.”
“Just let go and lean a little,” said Tom. “Easy. No jumping.”
Briefly, it seemed he wouldn’t. Then Geoffrey tipped back and away from the ledge, falling into Tom’s waiting arms. Jean cried out as the human ladder wobbled with the impact. But Lord Furness kept them steady. “Hand him down to me,” he said.
Tom lowered the boy into his father’s grasp. Controlling his mount with his knees, Lord Furness took him. “Now you climb down.”
Tom eased himself off his perch and onto the ground.
Benjamin held his son to his chest. His small frame—fragile as a bird’s, it seemed—was trembling. His hands clutched Benjamin’s coat; his face was buried in his shoulder. A visceral reaction shuddered through Benjamin, as strong as anything he’d ever felt. Fear and relief, protective ferocity and tenderness muddled together until they choked him.
“Shall I take him, my lord?” asked the nursery maid at his stirrup.
Benjamin didn’t want to let him go. But Geoffrey’s trembling had eased. He raised his head and noticed his audience. “I didn’t cry,” he declared. “I wasn’t scared.” He wriggled in his father’s grip, eager now to be free.
Torn between laughter and exasperation, Benjamin let the maid help the boy down. “I should take you home and confine you to your room for that little trick,” he said.
The flash of apprehension in his son’s eyes, along with a hint of resignation, shook Benjamin. His intrepid, reckless child looked braced for disappointment. Was he really so accustomed to it? That was a curiously lowering reflection. Yet Geoffrey did need to learn obedience.
“I’ve got a better idea,” said young Tom. He’d gone over to the pack saddle, and now he returned with a length of rope. “We’ll leash you, ya mad imp, so you can’t get up to any more mischief.”
Geoffrey eyed the rope. “Like a guard dog?”
“More like a sheep that won’t stop straying.” Tom made a comical face.
The boy laughed and submitted. Indeed, he surveyed the rope as if imagining the opportunities for mayhem it might provide. Benjamin started to object that they couldn’t throttle his son, then watched with interest as Tom looped the tether over the back of Geoffrey’s neck, around under his arms, crossed on his back and then his belly, only to knot it unreachably behind. He fastened the loose end to his own wrist. Once again Tom was unexpectedly ingenious. Benjamin looked up, encountered Miss Saunders’s equally fascinated gaze, and nodded.
Geoffrey tested the limits of his bonds with a flying leap. When he was brought up short, he laughed, spreading his arms and swinging from side to side like a pendulum. “You could hang me down into a cave,” he cried. “Like a bat.” He flapped his arms.
Benjamin tensed at the picture, calculating the distance to the nearest cavern in his mind.
“Or I could tie you to a tree,” Tom replied. “And leave you there to watch us eat the feast Cook packed up.”
Miss Saunders jerked as if someone had pushed her, though she stood quite alone. The look on her face puzzled Benjamin.
“You wouldn’t do that,” said Geoffrey.
“Not unless you drive me to it with your daft starts,” Tom replied. “Hang you down a cavern indeed! Nasty creatures, bats.”
To Benjamin’s surprise, Geoffrey took this in good part. “I’m hungry now!”
“You’re always hungry.”
“So are you!”
Tom acknowledged the hit with a grin.
“It seems we should eat,” said Benjamin. He herded his party over to the spread blankets. The two servants began to lay out the contents of the hampers—a crisp roast chicken, bread, a block of cheddar cheese, a jar of pickles, bottles of cider, an array of small cakes. When his son dived for the latter, Benjamin said, “You can help serve our guests, Geoffrey.”
The boy’s hand halted in midair. He met Benjamin’s eyes, blinked, and drew it back.
Benjamin carved the chicken and set a portion on one of the plates from the stack wrapped in a napkin. He handed it to Geoffrey.
With his leash played out to a greater length, Geoffrey carried it to Miss Saunders. Someone had taught him a few manners, Benjamin thought. He ought to know who, but he didn’t. Geoffrey took the next serving to his great uncle, and so on down the line. When everyone had chicken, he trotted about offering the other dishes. Everyone was served before he glanced at his father, received his smile and nod, and sat down before his own food. Geoffrey snatched up a chicken leg and took an enormous bite. He chewed the hunk of meat with some difficulty, his small cheeks distended.
“Geoffrey!” said Benjamin.
His son struggled on, jaws working mightily, and finally managed to swallow. Tom handed him a napkin, and he wiped his greasy lips and hands on the cloth. Under his father’s frown, Geoffrey then raised the drumstick in careful fingers and took a dainty bite. He smiled angelically at the watching adults.
It was as if Alice suddenly sat in their circle. The bright hair, the piquant face with precisely that slant of brow, the cerulean-blue eyes, even the hint of a dimple that appeared when she smiled in just that way. Memory and regret sank their claws into Benjamin. Bitterness rose in his throat. He wanted to rail at the unfairness of life. Then Geoffrey bent to tear off a bit of bread, and the resemblance wavered—as if the portrait in the library had moved, realigned, and revealed another person entirely.
Shaken, Benjamin took up his plate. He would have given a great deal to be magically transported to that library, and to be alone. But reality was cruel and offered no escape. He sat in the place his uncle had left him, next to Miss Saunders.
“You wouldn’t have let Tom tie him to a tree,” she said.
The quaver of fear in her voice grated on feelings rubbed raw. A bolt of rage slammed through Benjamin, cleaving his gloom and resentment and confusion. “Why not?” he hissed with quiet venom. “According to you, I neglect and torment my son. What should stop me from staking him out like a sacrificial goat?”
She flinched as if he’d hit her. Her plate fell from shaking fingers, spilling chicken, pickles, and the rest over the crimson folds of his mother’s riding habit. Runnels of grease and brine trickled onto the blanket. “Oh!” cried Miss Saunders, and burst into tears.
The picnic erupted. The nursery maid surged forward with a handful of napkins to sop up the spill. Benjamin’s uncle pulled out his handkerchief and leaned over to offer it to Miss Saunders. Geoffrey moved to retrieve the dropped plate, was brought up short by his leash, and flailed in the center of the blanket. Jack stepped in to tidy the mess. Tom poured a glass of cider and set it near Miss Saunders’s side.
Through it all, Benjamin sat still, feeling beleaguered. He’d been rude—granted. He admitted it. Very rude. He shouldn’t have growled at her. But he’d said harsh things to the woman before without provoking such an extreme reaction. Worse things, and she hadn’t dissolved into a watering pot. There was no excuse for such a display: wailing and snuffling and making him look like a brute. She’d invaded his house after all. No one had asked her to come here and turn his life upside down. He hadn’t meant to overset her, of course, but why did she keep on crying?
“Let’s walk a little farther into the gorge,” his uncle Arthur said. He picked up Geoffrey, leash and all, and walked toward the winding lane. Tom followed perforce, pulled by the rope. At his uncle’s gesture, the serva
nts went along. And just like that, Benjamin was left alone with a sniffling, hiccupping…mess. When his uncle threw an enigmatic look over his shoulder, Benjamin vowed to have a serious discussion with his august relative at the earliest opportunity, right before he sent him packing.
“I beg your pardon,” snuffled his companion.
“I think I am supposed to be begging yours,” Benjamin replied. “I’m sorry you’re distressed.”
“You don’t sound sorry.” She sniffed. “You sound annoyed.”
“Can you blame me? You’ve subjected all of us to a bout of inexplicable waterworks.”
Jean felt herself flush, even more mortified, if that was possible. She was not a weeper. She couldn’t remember when she’d cried this way, made such an absolute fool of herself. Something about that phrase—sacrificial goat—and the way he’d said it had set her off. Coming after the look on his face when he’d held his son close. The two together, or one after the other, or something, had cut too close to the bone.
“I am sorry I made you cry,” he said in a kinder tone. “I’m not sure how I did, really.” He looked rueful. “I was no ruder than on a couple of previous occasions. Of course, it has been a trying morning.”
Something between a choke and a gurgle escaped Jean’s throat. “An understatement.”
Lord Furness nodded. “Geoffrey did his best to stop my heart with that climb. He appears to have a positive genius for mischief.”
“It seems I’m no good with children.” The words burst from Jean, as uncontrollable as the tears. “I didn’t know. I had no brothers or sisters. I never associated with any other children.”
“None?”
“No.” Jean bit off the word. She wasn’t going to blather on anymore. She was going to think before she spoke.
“Well, I did,” he replied. “A gaggle of neighborhood boys. And at school. I can’t say these experiences are helping. Geoffrey appears to be unique. Due to my…inattention, I suppose.”
“You’re better with him.” She hadn’t meant it to sound like an accusation. “Geoffrey obeys you.”