“I couldn’t possibly ride in it any other way,” she pointed out reasonably.
“You can’t possibly ride in it now! Go back to the house at once and—no, wait,” he amended hastily, recalling the presence of Sir Matthew Pitney. “Come with me. I’ll take you back to the house by way of a side entrance, so no one will see you.”
The sound of muffled laughter somewhere behind him reminded him of the presence of the stable hands. “No one else will see you, anyway. And if anyone is inclined to gossip about the events of this morning,” he added, looking daggers at the stable hands, “let me remind you that I am the one charged with making sure that your wages are paid.”
This veiled threat had the effect of wiping the grins from their faces, and nothing could have been more respectful than the bowed heads and tugged forelocks which accompanied Susannah’s departure from the premises.
“But what am I to wear, then?” she asked as he frog-marched her in the direction of the house.
“Heavens, I don’t know anything about ladies’ apparel,” he said, covering his own embarrassment with brusqueness. “What did you wear when you rode back in Kentucky?”
“A skirt and bodice. Not the one I wore yesterday morning—that was my good one—but another.”
“Very well, then, that will suffice until a riding habit can be made for you,” Peter said, although he had to wonder, if the garments he’d already seen were the best she owned, what the others must look like.
* * *
Sir Matthew Pitney, having been invited inside by a singularly unenthusiastic Miss Hawthorne, had been quick to avail himself of the invitation. Now, ensconced in the drawing room, he plied her with questions regarding the young American woman who was soon (he said) to replace her as the mistress of Ramsay Hall.
“Nonsense!” Jane protested this description. “It is impossible for her to replace me, for I never was mistress of Ramsay Hall. I was companion to the dowager Lady Ramsay, as you know, but since her death my position has been no more than a place holder.”
“And no place was ever held more fetchingly, I assure you,” he said with ponderous gallantry.
“You are too kind, Sir Matthew,” she said in a toneless voice meant to depress further attempts at flirtation.
“Not at all.” He stepped nearer and lowered his voice conspiratorially. “It pains me, my dear, to see you in so intolerable a situation. Only say the word, and—”
He broke off abruptly as the door flew open and Lord Ramsay entered the room, clearly dressed for riding. “What brings you here so early, Sir Matthew? Nothing amiss at the Grange, I trust.”
Thwarted in his object, Sir Matthew had no choice but to retreat. “Amiss? No, no, not at all. I confess, I am curious about this American cousin of yours. I’m not the sort to indulge in idle gossip, mind you, but last Sunday after church Miss Amelia said something that gave me to understand an Interesting Announcement was to be forthcoming.” He cast a glance about the room as if expecting to find Susannah hiding under a chair or concealed behind the curtains. “When am I to have the pleasure of paying my respects?”
“Soon, I daresay, but not today,” Richard said in a voice that brooked no argument. “She has only recently arrived, and wishes to replenish her wardrobe before being obliged to do the pretty before all the neighbors. You know how women are.”
“Yes, yes, of course,” agreed Sir Matthew, who in fact had no idea how women were, else he would have been less importunate in his attentions to Miss Hawthorne. He prowled restlessly about the room, pausing at length before the large window adorning the house’s western façade. “Hullo, what’s this? I didn’t know young Peter was in the petticoat line.”
Richard frowned, thinking Peter and Susannah should have been well away from the house by this time. “He isn’t, so far as I know, but given that he is twenty-three years old, it should hardly be surprising if he were.”
“No, indeed!” agreed the baronet, chuckling. “It appears your cousin has found himself a red-haired charmer.”
Fearing the worst, Jane crossed the room to look out the window. Although concealed from the waist down by a hedge, Peter and Susannah could be seen entering the house by a side entrance in a manner which could only be described as furtive. She had no time to wonder over this curious circumstance, however, for it behooved her to silence Sir Matthew before he could further malign Susannah.
“That, Sir Matthew,” she said with a sigh, “is our cousin, Miss Ramsay.”
“Miss Hawthorne!” He turned from the window to stare at his inamorata. “That is the woman who will replace you as mistress here? But she—she—” For the first time in living memory, words apparently failed him.
“May I remind you, sir, that you are speaking of the future Lady Ramsay,” said Richard at his most aristocratic.
“As I have said before, Sir Matthew, Miss Ramsay is not ‘replacing’ me,” Jane insisted.
“No, for I am depending on my cousin Jane to instruct Miss Ramsay in everything she needs to know,” Richard continued. “Surely you must agree there is no one better qualified to do so. Indeed, both Miss Ramsay and I should be quite lost without her.”
“Oh, quite so, quite so!” blustered Sir Matthew, and under different circumstances, Jane might have been amused by his clumsy efforts at covering his error. “Still, my lord, she seems an odd sort of female for you to marry. I should have thought you more fastidious in your tastes.”
“Do not let her current appearance deceive you,” Richard cautioned. “Miss Ramsay’s birth is as respectable as your own, and she is a considerable heiress besides.”
“Indeed, yes!” Jane agreed. “Furthermore, Madame Lavert predicts that once she is properly gowned and coiffed, Miss Ramsay will take Society by storm as an Original.”
“You intend to present her at Court, then?”
“Surely it would be very odd if Lady Ramsay were not presented at Court,” Richard pointed out. “I daresay Society will take her to its collective bosom as an exotic. And so she is. Why, she introduced Antoine to her native cuisine only last night, and the fellow was quite beside himself.”
Jane choked and turned toward the window in order to hide the laughter she could not quite suppress.
“Antoine?” echoed Sir Matthew, clearly impressed. “That Frenchie chef of yours?”
“None other.” Heedless of his cousin’s shaking shoulders, he told her, “Cousin Jane, we must have Sir Matthew join us one evening for dinner, so that we may introduce him to the local cuisine of Kentucky. Sir Matthew, I believe I can say without exaggeration that it will be like nothing you have ever tasted.”
“Wicked man!” she scolded him some quarter of an hour later when Sir Matthew finally took his leave, having failed in his primary object of seizing an opportunity to press his suit. “If we find ourselves being obliged to host Sir Matthew to dinner, you will have no one but yourself to blame!”
“It would be almost worth it, to see Sir Matthew eat squirrel. Should we tell him what it is beforehand, or wait until his mouth is full?”
“Oh, wait, by all means!”
“I do have to wonder, though, how Antoine contrived to acquire squirrels on such short notice when it is not hunting season.”
Jane smiled. “I think it is probably best not to inquire.” Her amusement faded, and she continued in a more serious vein. “I am sorry you missed your opportunity to go riding with Susannah. I am not quite certain why you felt compelled to cancel your plans, but I was grateful for your assistance in fending off Sir Matthew’s impertinent questions.”
Richard made a noncommittal noise, but offered no explanation for his actions. There were, as she had said, some things which it was better not to question too closely.
Chapter 9
Too poor for a bribe, and too proud to importune,
He had not the method of making a fortune.
THOMAS GRAY, On His Own Character
By taking the back stairs, Susannah contrived to reach
her room unobserved and, after changing her clothes, soon returned, adequately if inelegantly dressed for riding. They retraced their steps back to the stable, where Peter introduced his cousin to the docile mare named Daffodil.
“Aren’t you a pretty girl,” cooed Susannah, stroking the horse’s nose and proffering the apple she’d pilfered from the breakfast room for that very purpose.
“Hardly a girl,” Peter said. “Old Daffy must be twenty if she is a day.”
Cupping a hand to the side of her mouth, Susannah leaned forward to address the horse in a stage whisper. “Pay him no heed, Daffodil, for he has no manners at all. Even in America, we know better than to make disparaging remarks about a lady’s age.”
Daffodil chose this moment to toss her head as if in agreement with this assessment of Peter’s character, sending both Peter and Susannah, as well as the nearby stable hands, into gales of laughter.
“I beg your pardon, Miss Daffodil,” Peter said meekly. To Susannah, he added, “I believe Jane used to ride her when she first came to live here, but now she prefers Andromeda, so Daffy here will be glad of the exercise. If you have any difficulty with her, though, I’m sure Lord Ramsay would be willing to purchase a more suitable mount for you.”
“The female who can’t handle Daffy hadn’t ought to be riding at all,” grumbled the groom as he placed Jane’s sidesaddle on the mare’s back and tightened the girth.
Peter silenced him with a frown. “Yes, well, we can’t know until Miss Ramsay tries her paces, can we?”
While the groom held the horse, Peter made a stirrup of his hands and tossed his cousin into the saddle, then mounted Sheba while Susannah arranged her skirts and the groom adjusted the stirrup for Miss Ramsay’s shorter stature.
When she was ready, the pair set out. Peter, uncertain of his cousin’s skill in the saddle, fell back and allowed her to precede him in order to observe her before deciding on a route for them to take.
He was pleasantly surprised. The rather gauche and uncertain Susannah of the drawing room had vanished, and she sat erect and confident in the saddle, her spine straight and her shoulders back.
“I thought we might explore the eastern boundaries of the estate this morning,” he said, hastily revising his idea of limiting their explorations to the smoothest and most well-travelled tracks. “There is a stream with a small waterfall which is held to be quite picturesque.”
Susannah readily agreed to this plan, and they turned the horses’ heads to the east. Further surprises were in store for Peter, however, for when they reached the downs beyond the Home Wood, Susannah tossed a mischievous smile over her shoulder at him.
“Shall we spring ‘em?”
Without waiting for a response, she urged her mount into a gallop. Daffodil, rarely allowed such an opportunity, was nothing loth, and soon horse and rider were both flying over the broad green expanse of meadow. Peter, watching in some consternation, discovered that either his cousin was a born horsewoman, or she had been very well taught—or both. Indeed, the girl and her mount seemed to move as a single entity—and there was no question as to which was controlling it. Sheba needed no coaxing to follow, and as Peter pursued his cousin, he felt rather as if he had been played for a fool.
But no, Susannah had never claimed to be an inexperienced rider, and he had never bothered to ask. If anyone was at fault for the misunderstanding, it was he, for making erroneous assumptions.
She had stopped at the top of the rise to allow him to catch up, and when he reached her he noted that her cheeks had acquired a rosy glow, her eyes were sparkling, and her hair was coming down—again.
“My dear cousin, who taught you to ride?” he demanded, tamping down a feeling of ill-usage which he acknowledged to be groundless.
“My father,” she said with more than a hint of pride. And why not? Peter thought ruefully. No doubt she was pleased to have earned the unqualified approval of a member of her family for the first time since arriving in England.
“Your father,” he murmured. “Of course.”
And her father would no doubt have been taught by his father, who had been a British cavalry officer. However he might have neglected his daughter’s upbringing in other ways, Mr. Gerald Ramsay had not stinted on her equestrian education. Peter, mentally contrasting her elegant posture with her dowdy costume, resolved to speak to Richard about purchasing her an animal worthy of her skill; clearly, it was Daffodil who was not up to Susannah’s weight, rather than the other way ’round. He tried to picture Richard’s reaction upon seeing his bride on horseback, properly mounted and outfitted in a stylish riding habit. Suddenly conscious of a hollow feeling in the pit of his stomach, he shook off the unfamiliar sensation and addressed his cousin.
“The stream I spoke of is just over the next ridge.” He pointed to a spot in the middle distance. “If poor Daffodil has the energy left after her exertions, we’ll go, shall we?”
She leaned forward to pat the mare’s glossy neck. “Of course she has the energy! She enjoyed the exercise very much—didn’t you, girl?”
Daffodil gave a snort which Peter could have sworn indicated agreement, and they set out once more at a more sedate pace.
“Oh!” Susannah exclaimed as the stream and its miniature waterfall came into view. “It looks very familiar. There is a painting of it in the drawing room, is there not?”
“As a matter of fact, yes. I believe it was done by Cousin Jane some years ago.” Suddenly conscious of having neglected a simple courtesy, he added, “I say, do you paint—or sketch, perhaps? We might have brought your sketch pad or paints—”
She shook her head. “I don’t know if I can paint or not, for I’ve never tried.” Her lips twisted in a wry grimace. “You will have noticed by now that I am sadly lacking in feminine accomplishments.”
“I don’t know about that. No one could fault your riding, in any case. I don’t believe I’ve ever seen a female with a better seat.”
“Oh, but that isn’t a feminine accomplishment—on the Kentucky frontier, the ability to ride is a necessity! And we do breed horses, you know—Papa and I, that is—so there was never any question of my acquiring the skill.”
“You say you breed horses? What kind?”
“Tennessee walkers, mostly. We usually have about forty at any given time. And, of course, sufficient pasture for grazing in summer and fodder in winter.”
“Slave labour?” Peter asked.
“Not any longer, for Papa freed them in his will. Most stayed on, although a few went north to Ohio.” Peter’s tone had been carefully neutral, but Susannah must have sensed his disapproval, for she added quickly, “They were well treated, I assure you. Papa had the utmost contempt for people who mistreated their slaves. In fact, he and Mr. Samuels—our nearest neighbor, you know—had quite a falling-out over it. There had been some talk of a match between me and Mr. Samuels’s oldest son, but Papa said any man who would mistreat his slaves would very likely treat his women and children no better, and would not allow Jonathan Samuels to come courting.”
“I am pleased to know that your father was so conscientious,” Peter said, choosing his words with care, “but surely the absence of cruelty, even the presence of kindness, is a poor substitute for the free-dom to determine one’s own fate.”
In all her eighteen years, it had never occurred to Susannah that kind old Uncle Nate or Aunt Hepzibah might want something more from life than to serve as occasional playmate and surrogate parent to a motherless little girl. The realization put her on the defensive, and she spoke more harshly to Peter than she otherwise might have done. “It seems to me that you have no room to talk! As I understand it, slaves in the American South have a much lighter burden than those on the sugar plantations of the British West Indies.”
He threw up his hands in mock surrender. “If you are looking for a quarrel, Cousin, you will not get it from me. I deplore the practice of slavery in my own country every bit as much as I do in yours.”
“And�
�and Richard?”
“He shares my sentiments. In fact, he has spoken on the subject in the Lords. Parliament,” he explained, seeing her puzzled expression. “Much like your own Congress, I believe, although probably a great deal stuffier.”
She smiled at that, and they were once more on the friendliest of terms. They had reached the stream by this time, and agreed to walk along its banks while the horses refreshed themselves. Peter dismounted, and then turned to assist his cousin.
“Such courtly manners!” exclaimed Susannah, who on her Kentucky homestead had been obliged to fend for herself. “I feel like a princess from a fairy tale.”
She lifted her knee over the pommel, kicked her foot free of the stirrup, and slid out of the saddle and into his arms. Peter was not tall, but neither was Susannah, and she was obliged to look up at him to thank him for this courtesy. Their eyes met and held, and although she opened her mouth, the words she had intended to say somehow stuck in her throat.
Peter, suddenly conscious of the feel of her trim waist beneath his hands, abruptly dropped his arms and took a stumbling step backwards.
“I’d best see to the horses,” he said, and suited the word to the deed. He took the reins of both horses and led them to the stream, looping the reins over the low branches of a willow overhanging the water. While the horses drank greedily, Peter turned back to Susannah and offered his arm. “Shall we?”
They strolled along the bank for some time, while Peter plied Susannah with questions about her home in America. This, he soon learned, had very little in common with stately Ramsay Hall, consisting of only two rooms with a dogtrot running between them.
“A dogtrot?” echoed Peter, unfamiliar with the term.
“Sort of a wide corridor, open on both ends,” she explained. “Since it is under the same roof as the rooms on either side, it makes a nice, shady place to sit in the summertime—much better than a porch, really, for it catches every breeze.”
“I see. And the two rooms?”
“One is the bedroom, and the other is the kitchen. It also serves as what I suppose you might call a drawing room, but Papa and I never had much time for sitting and drinking tea.”
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