by Sheila Walsh
It was some time later, as she tiptoed across the Long Gallery in the hope of regaining her room unnoticed, that her name was again called.
Felicity turned with a sigh. His lordship stood, arms folded, at the door of a lighted room. Above his head hung a portrait of the 4th Earl; and, placed so, the two profiles presented an uncanny similarity.
“I have been waiting for some time, Miss Vale. I knew you must come eventually.” His voice was, for him, almost bland. “Tell me, has this retreat been strategically planned—or are you in disordered flight?”
His perception drew from her a brief, rueful grin. “I fear it is the latter, sir.”
“Ah, so I thought. Well, Miss Vale, I must tell you, Mr. Dytton is not pleased with you. His pretty coat is quite ruined!”
“Oh dear.” Felicity bit her lip. “Well, I am sorry—and if I must, I will apologize...”
“That will not be necessary,” the Earl cut in. “Mr. Dytton has a most urgent appointment in Town; it will entail his leaving at first light. He will not be returning.”
“Oh, but...” Now she was disconcerted. “Sir—in part the fault was mine. I lost my temper ...” One eyebrow rose in mock disbelief. She sighed. “Yes, I am well aware of it, but you must allow some provocation. Until now, you see, I have always been used with respect by even the toughest of soldiers. I realize, of course, that in my altered circumstances I must accustom myself to endure the detestable civilities of men like Mr. Dytton, but...”
“But not while you are beneath my roof,” the Earl finished crisply.
“Amaryllis will be furious.”
Stayne’s tone became even crisper. “I do not run my establishments in order to accommodate my sister-in-law, madam—though it may often appear otherwise.”
“No.” There seemed little else to say. “Well then, my lord, I can only thank you, and bid you good night.”
“One moment more, if you please.” He regarded her pensively. “You will oblige me in future by not pitching my guests Banbury tales.”
Felicity’s cheeks were tinged with embarrassment and guilt.
“Quite so,” he said. “Raw rabbit, indeed! And if Wellington has ever seen the inside of your ‘broth pot,’ I shall own myself very much surprised.”
“Then I must surprise you, sir—for I once prepared him a broiled chicken in herbs which he complimented most highly!”
The eyebrow lifted again. “I am impressed, Miss Vale.”
“Yes, well it was the only time,” she conceded. “But I have often helped Mrs. Patterson to entertain ... the Colonel’s brother officers for the most part. What we were able to provide depended largely upon where we happened to be quartered, whether we could barter with the local peasants, and whether the Colonel had been able to indulge his passion for hunting or hare-coursing.” The imp and mischief were back. “But of course it was never in any way such superior fare as your lordship is wont to provide.”
To her surprise, he put back his head and laughed. “I see you mean to remain impenitent to the end, Miss Vale.”
“I fear so, my lord. But I will try to be more ... conciliating in the future.” She smiled philosophically.
“Then I wish you good night, ma’am.”
Felicity turned to go; a faint look of embarrassment crossed her face. “About Mr. Dytton, sir...” She saw him frown and rushed on, “I must apologize for ... appropriating your potted geranium. I fear it was quite ruined.”
The Earl’s frown had grown quizzical. “Is that what it was? Do not, I beg you, give it another thought. I believe I have never seen a pot plant used to better effect. Good night, Miss Vale.”
It was by far the most agreeable note on which they had yet parted company. In the days which followed, Stayne seemed to go out of his way to foster better relations.
Amaryllis, on the other hand, was determined to place the whole of the blame for Mr. Dytton’s departure at her door.
“I cannot see why you must needs have caused a scene,” she complained. “You are not usually missish. I believe you deliberately sought to encourage Tristram’s attentions!”
“Then you are touched, cousin!” retorted Felicity sharply.
Rather than face eternal arguments, Felicity took to spending a great deal of time with Jamie out of doors. The weather had settled gloriously after the storms—and they passed many happy hours at the lakeside, building tree houses and fishing for tiddlers. Mrs. Hudson was cajoled into providing a large picnic basket so that they were not obliged to return to the house for a meal, and in the evening they stole back by a circuitous route to avoid being seen in their disheveled state.
Felicity’s stratagems were occasionally doomed to failure, however, as when the Earl strode from the bushes, a shotgun cradled across his arm. He halted to view the guilty pair—the child streaked with dirt, a jagged tear in his nanekin trousers—and Felicity in similar state, unable to conceal the damp patches in her dress.
She waited in resignation for the expected reprimand, but instead, he peered into the murky depths of Jamie’s glass jar and commented with a faint smile, “If you aspire to fish, we must try you with rod and line.” And he passed on his way with a brief nod.
Greatly encouraged, Felicity determined to extend their sporting activities. The next venture was cricket. Digby, the gardener’s lad, fashioned a bat of sorts for Jamie and instructed them in the rudimentary skills. They took to playing on a little-frequented patch of green beyond the kitchen gardens and soon became quite adept, though Jamie was inclined to throw himself into the game with more enthusiasm than accuracy.
The day came, however, when he connected with commendable force.
“Oh, well played!” cried Felicity, as the ball disappeared over the high yew hedge.
There was a thud and a muttered ejaculation—and the ball reappeared a moment later in the competent hands of his uncle.
A guilty look flashed between the sporting pair. Under cover of tucking away a wayward strand of hair which had worked loose in the course of her exertions, Felicity tried somewhat nervously to judge the Earl’s mood—but the hawklike features gave nothing away.
She endured the silent interrogation of his black stare for fully half a minute, while he tossed the ball from hand to hand.
Finally, he observed with extreme dryness, “You appear to dispense a singular brand of education, Miss Vale. No doubt it has a purpose?”
“It has, my lord,” she retorted, charging in with all guns blazing. “It affords Jamie plenty of fresh air, and exercise—and a basic interest in some of the pastimes a boy should pursue. We do a full hour of lessons morning and evening, which is sufficient for his mind to absorb at present.”
“Uncle Max!” cried Jamie, emboldened to tug at his uncle’s sleeve. “Wasn’t that a capital hit?”
The Earl removed the small fingers from his silver-gray superfine.
“Capital,” he agreed. “And if your aim continues so glaringly abroad you will continue to be caught out as you were just now.”
Jamie, undeterred by this censure, eyed his uncle with an awe bordering on reverence. “Can you play cricket, sir?”
“Where do you imagine I got this scar, child? Your father hit me with a cricket ball when he was not much above your age. His aim wasn’t much better than yours, as I recollect!”
These hitherto unimagined reminiscences had Jamie’s eyes popping. “I say! Can you bowl overarm, sir? Digby says it has been forbidden at Mr. Lord’s cricket ground.”
Stayne frowned. “Who, pray, is Digby?”
Jamie’s tone reproved him for his ignorance. “Digby is the gardener’s boy. Can you, sir? ”
The Earl transferred his gaze from the eager young face of his nephew to a highly entertained Felicity. Without a word he divested himself of his elegant coat and handed it to her. He walked some way off and came loping in to fling the ball down with astonishing speed. It was doubtful if Jamie even saw the ball, but he crowed with delight and went charging off into the
bushes after it.
The Earl reclaimed his coat and queried softly, “Well, Miss Vale?”
In spite of the iron-gray hair curling fashionably about his ears, there was an air of boyish bravado in the challenge.
Felicity grinned broadly. “Very competent, my lord. Was it meant to prove something to me?”
“Only that I am heeding your strictures, madam—and am taking more interest in my nephew’s doings.” Stayne shrugged his way back into his coat. “I have requested Amaryllis to have riding clothes made ready for him. It is high time he learned to sit a horse. We begin next week.”
4
The small hand clutching Felicity’s prickled with perspiration. As they neared the stable yard, it began to tremble. Felicity knew a moment of angry exasperation; all her careful preparations had been set at nought by the tears of one foolish woman.
Amaryllis justified her morbid fears, having had an elder brother most horribly maimed when his horse had fallen on him in the hunting field, but nothing could excuse the attack of near-hysterics which the sight of Jamie in his new riding clothes had precipitated.
Aware of the child’s white, frightened face, Felicity had swallowed her rage in a desperate effort to salvage some of Jamie’s wilting courage.
She stooped to cover her cousin’s plucking fingers. “Amaryllis,” she urged in a low voice, “will you not try—for Jamie’s sake? I think he would not be fearful if you would encourage him a little—wish him luck! I have been taking him down to the stables each day, and he had become so much less nervous.”
The tear-drenched blue gaze accused her. “Indeed, yes! I know very well that I have you to thank for this piece of treachery! You have been positively encouraging Stayne to notice the boy, have you not?”
“Amaryllis—Jamie must learn to ride.”
“He is too young!”
“He is six—nearly seven. Can you not see...?”
“I can see that my opinion counts for nothing where my son is concerned!” Amaryllis had snatched her hands away with a pettish air of drama. “I only pray that you may not live to regret your high-handedness.”
With Jamie now totally demoralized, Felicity was forced to hurry him; even so, the Earl was in the stable yard before them. He saw them and checked his impatient stride, but it was an unfortunate start.
“Ah—at last,” he said. “Come along, young man. Here is Mr. Dandy waiting.”
Jamie eyed the shining new leather saddle on the patient gray cob’s back—and shrank away.
Stayne frowned. “Come, Jamie,” he commanded, his tone peremptory.
Felicity felt compelled to intervene. “My lord,” she said quietly. “The child is frightened. Would it not be wiser to let him ... take matters more slowly?”
“No, madam—it would not. And if that is to be your attitude, then I suggest you return to the house and leave Jamie to me.”
The small hand tightened convulsively in hers.
“Indeed I will not!”
“Very well. But if you are to stay, pray be silent and allow me to know what I am about.”
“If you will only listen, sir ... Jamie is frightened ... Amaryllis...”
“Oh, good God!” Stayne exploded. “That boy has been smothered and indoctrinated until he is in danger of becoming a regular namby-pamby!”
“That is unjust! I have done my best to overcome his reticence, but Jamie’s fear of horses has been long fostered—it cannot be eradicated in an instant.” Felicity glared. “I am particularly fond of horses myself, but if I were afraid, I am sure there is nothing I should like less than being compelled to ride.”
“Nonsense,” said the Earl curtly, “Jamie is not afraid. Are you, lad?”
Jamie had almost forgotten his terrors in the fascination of their argument. No one argued with Uncle Max! His mamma would sometimes rail against him, but no one argued!
“Are you, Jamie?” his uncle repeated.
“N—no, sir.” He didn’t sound sure, but when Stayne held out a hand and again commanded him to come, he did so, with lagging step.
Felicity let him go with a smile of encouragement. While she waited, she wandered from stall to stall—a by now familiar tour. There was no denying that his lordship kept an enviable stable. Halfway along she made her customary halt, as a bay with a white blaze on its brow pushed an inquisitive velvet nose forward.
“Oh, you are beautiful!” Felicity exclaimed, putting out a hand to be nuzzled. The mare nickered softly. There was breeding in every movement—in the proud lift and shake of the head, the way the ears pricked, the liveliness of eye.
“Starlight has fair taken to you, ma’am,” said Benson, the head groom, at her shoulder. “She’s his lordship’s latest—a fine mare—and a prime goer, but for all that, she’s a rare handful and no mistake.”
The sound of Mr. Dandy returning sent them both hurrying back to the yard. Felicity was relieved to see Jamie being lifted down, none the worse for his expedition. He turned a shining face to her.
“Did you see me, Cousin F’licity? Uncle Max says I did very well!”
She praised him warmly, aware of the Earl’s mocking gaze; it said unmistakably, “I told you so!”
“And I may come again tomorrow, mayn’t I, Uncle Max?”
“Certainly, child. If you do as well, you shall feed Mr. Dandy an apple.” The Earl’s gaze returned to Felicity. “You expressed a love of horses, Miss Vale. You ride, of course?”
“Tolerably well, my lord.”
“Cousin F’licity was only two when she first sat a horse,” Jamie insisted, with a mixture of pride and envy. “I told you, Uncle Max!”
“So you did, my boy.” Felicity was beginning to feel uncomfortable under that sardonic eye. “Well, Miss Vale, we must find you a suitable mount. I should have thought of it sooner. Would you care to come now and choose?” With Jamie clinging tightly to her hand, she again walked down the line of stalls—and was again drawn irresistibly to the bay mare.
“Starlight? You are ambitious, Miss Vale. Can you manage her, do you think?”
Felicity detected a note of amused skepticism and rose impulsively to the challenge.
“I believe so, sir. At any rate, I should like to try.”
“Very well. You may put her through her paces.”
She looked up, startled. “You mean ... now?”
“Why not. There is no time like the present,” said my lord blandly. “You do have riding dress?”
“Yes, of course, but...”
“Cold feet, Miss Vale?” he suggested.
“Certainly not!” she retorted with spirit. “But there is Jamie...”
“Nurse will cope adequately for a short time. Benson will have Starlight saddled while you deliver Jamie into her charge—and change your dress. You may have twenty minutes.”
There was a curious silence when she had left the yard. Benson, squarely built and forthright of manner, coughed and shuffled his feet.
“Beggin’ your pardon, m’lord—but that Starlight is no fit mount for a lady, and I’m surprised at your countenancing such folly when there’s a sweet-natured hack like Amber just waiting to be exercised.”
“Doubtless I had my reasons.” The Earl’s manner discouraged argument.
“Well, it’s courting disaster if you ask me,” the groom persisted stubbornly. “A nice young lady like that!”
“I am not asking you,” said my lord gently. “You are a prince among grooms, Benson—I have often remarked it, but do not be so foolish as to trade on my good opinion; I do not pay you to air your views. You will oblige me by doing as you are bid—and you may have Vulcan saddled for me.”
Felicity came back into the stable yard looking confident and business-like—and inches taller in a riding habit of dark green wool. The close-fitting jacket with black frogging emphasized the junoesque proportions of her figure. A severe, high-crowned shako in black, trimmed with the same dark green, completed her outfit, together with a pair of soft black le
ather gloves.
The sight of the two horses being walked by a couple of young stable hands brought an instant thrill, followed by slight misgivings. On closer inspection, the young mare displayed an uncomfortable degree of temperament; Felicity hoped she would be equal to her impulsive boast. As for that raking black hunter ... she swung around to the Earl. “You are riding with me, my lord?”
“Naturally, Miss Vale. You do not suppose that I would permit you to ride unaccompanied.”
Was she imagining the note of fiendish anticipation? The suspicion that he was expecting her to make a cake of herself put an added sparkle in her eye. She accepted his compliments on her appearance with a composure she was far from feeling and allowed herself to be led to the mounting block.
Starlight greeted her in the usual way, but the moment Felicity settled into the saddle she could feel the packed-down energy waiting to erupt. She commanded the groom to let go and in the ensuing seconds forgot Stayne and all else in her efforts to thwart the mare’s manifest determination to unseat her.
She was vaguely aware of faces—white blurs only at first as the horse caracoled, backing and rearing in an attempt to dislodge her; figures revolved like a crazy roundabout—Benson, granite-jawed, crouched, swaying lightly on the balls of his feet, ready to spring; pop-eyed stable lads, and Stayne’s young tiger, eyes bigger than the rest, shouting encouragement. But, above all, there was Stayne, tense, the scar showing lividly against one cheekbone, eyes narrowed as though gauging the exact moment he would intervene.
The mere possibility lent Felicity renewed determination. She had good, light hands and experience enough to resist the novice’s trap of tightening the reins. She leaned forward, one hand grasping the mare firmly in the middle neck, petting and soothing her with soft, crooning words until, recognizing her voice, the nervous creature began to respond.
It was at this precise moment that a highly strung stable lad, against a clamor of protest, ducked in to grab at the staffle ... and the mare, thoroughly frightened, reared again with renewed ferocity.