In the Brief Eternal Silence

by Rebecca Melvin

  Ryan paused and then asked, “May I ask what you were doing up on her on the track? It just seems a little. . . unusual.”

  Lizzie ducked her head, but before she could make known her reasons, St. James' voice broke in. “Yes. I was wondering the same. I take it you have no suitable groom, but there must surely be someone more qualified for this type of work available to your father. Someone, perhaps, more used to wearing breeches,” he ended on a dry note.

  Lizzie's cheeks were burning beneath the smears of mud that remained. “I understand, milord, that you are quite used to, I am certain, a deal of scraping and bowing, but please do not think that every one you meet is eagerly awaiting you to order their lives for them. Leaf is my horse. I have trained her. I ride her. I am sorry if this does not suit your overzealous sensibilities. Indeed, I am a little surprised, I admit, to find the infamous Duke of St. James lecturing anyone on proper décorum.”

  “Are you quite finished, Miss Murdock?”

  “Indeed, I am most decidedly finished.”

  “Then allow me only to say that perhaps as I have more knowledge than most of what costs there are to pay for a damaged reputation, I am better suited than most to lecture, Miss Murdock.”

  Lizzie met his eyes for another moment, her own brown ones rather large in her muddy face, then she turned back to tending her mount, unable to find any words that would help her to come back from that oh-so-casual set down. Her knee was aching, the cold had her teeth nearly chattering, and she had managed to not only have a Bad Showing with her horse but had managed to outright offend the man they had hoped to impress.

  Ryan gave her a slight, sympathetic smile. Then the duke was crouched there between them. His coat spread, revealing his riding pants and polished black boots, now splattered with mud. Miss Murdock kept her attention carefully away from the muscles that showed beneath the tight material of his clothing. It was unlike her to be self-conscious, but she became very aware that she was wet and muddy and not in a proper dress. Her hair had come partially undone from the tight bun it had been in and the tendrils that hung down were as muddy as the rest of her.

  “Shall we try to get her on her feet now, Miss Murdock?” St. James asked, and she was relieved to have his question interrupt her thoughts. She gave herself a sharp reminder that even if she had been dressed appropriately and cleaned of all mud, that she would not have warranted a second look from this man, or any man. Never had and probably never would. If she wasn't exactly resigned to being a spinster, she was certainly not going to be entertaining foolish thoughts about an uncommonly handsome man, that despite his reputation, she would wager, had enough females throwing themselves at him, without adding her plain, muddy self to the list. So when she replied, her voice was a little short, and her words were a little testy. “Certainly, milord. If you and Mister Tempton would kindly leave me room, I shall have her up in short order.”

  He raised his brows at her tone, but she was only grateful that he and Ryan Tempton did as she asked. Miss Murdock pulled on the bridle and coaxed the animal until the filly stood trembling, legs splayed apart. Then she took a minute to pat her, speak softly to her, and congratulate her on her success.

  “Well done,” she heard the duke behind her say. Miss Murdock felt an unexpected burst of pleasure that she had performed well and made up for at least some of her poor horsemanship of before.

  She took one last measure of his lordship, his dark, soaking wet hair, his gold eyes, which met hers with a reflective glance before shifting to inspect her mount, raindrops clinging to their lashes. Now that he was standing, only his boots showed from beneath his coat, and although his figure was slender, she remembered the muscles in his legs and thought of him now as so much coiled and finely tempered steel, ready to spring without warning.

  Miss Murdock smiled at her thoughts, telling herself that at least she could claim acquaintance with the notorious duke whose exploits, all unsavory, were bandied about even in this far off region of the realm, and that she had survived the encounter with at least a small success at the end of her unfortunate afternoon.

  Old Kennedy, their only groom, had at last made appearance, and with some relief she handed him the reins. All the same, when he began to lead the horse slowly toward the stables, she followed, gimping, after him, her concentration on the filly's stride, watching carefully for any sign of limp or lameness.

  “Goodbye, Miss Murdock,” Ryan Tempton called.

  She turned and waved a brief salute. Then she continued up the track, her shoulders hunched against the still drizzling rain.

  Rather than letting up, the rain that had been coming down all day had intensified by the time St. James and his party made the five mile trek to the crossroads inn.

  It was becoming dark, the horses they had hired out for their excursion (as they had all left their conveyances and teams at the inn's stable) were roundly disgruntled, and Squire Murdock, who had joined them, was less than enthusiastic with his choice of accepting the unexpected invitation to join St. James and the two Tempton brothers.

  It was the filly, he supposed. Perhaps all was not lost after all.

  His gout was acting up with the wet, and although a meal at the inn would be quite pleasant, he still missed being home in front of the fire, his foot propped up, with a glass of adequate if not exceptional rum to help him forget his discomfort.

  But when a lord of high ranking, such as the Duke of St. James, requested one's presence, one did not lightly put him off, despite his reputation. Or possibly, even more so because of his reputation. So the Squire, sopping wet and miserable, found himself pulling his horse up in front of the inn and dismounting in the company of the duke, and Lord and Mister Temptons.

  The private salon they were shown to helped bolster his spirits. The fire was built up and snapping. The table was set for three, but a chambermaid quickly added an extra plate, and the innkeeper assured the duke that food would be brought in shortwith. St. James, only dispensing of his riding gloves, but before taking off his great coat, poured into four glasses from a bottle of brandy. Yes, the Squire thought as he shrugged with difficulty from his own worn coat, things were definitely looking up. St. James offered around the glasses and the Squire accepted with gratitude. He settled himself in a seat at the table, feeling the steam rise from him as he began, at last, to dry out and warm up.

  “Here's to a filly with promise,” St. James said, lifting his glass. Then added, “If not ruined by the unfortunate episode I witnessed today.”

  The Squire raised his glass to meet the salute.

  Lord Bertram Tempton, his red hair plastered to his head but his yellow coat dispensed of and revealing him in all his brightly clothed glory, said, “I say, St. James. Told you was a good filly!”

  “You did,” St. James replied. “But forgive me if I have rather small faith in your eye for horseflesh.” He set his glass aside, took off the caped coat he wore to reveal tanned riding breeches and a rather plain white shirt, its only adornment being lace at the cravat and cuffs. As his long fingers wrapped again around his goblet, the lace fell back to reveal the delicate whiteness of his skin. He was not tall, the Squire noted, nor was he powerfully built, but there was an air of intenseness about him, a feeling that the mind behind his dark locked brow was churning away at endless and complicated thoughts that made his presence a little overwhelming. And intimidating.

  The Squire, who viewed himself as a crusty old soul who made up for his rather slow intelligence with a bulldog temerity, found himself annoyed to be somewhat ill-at-ease in the younger man's presence. He wasn't used to rubbing elbows with the very crème de la crème of his society, true, but such things had never much mattered to him. He was an excellent shot and had a good seat on a hunt, and those two things, along with the fact that he was always willing to play a good hand of cards, and bet a good deal more than he owned, had always made him welcome company in the circles he chose to move in. But he found this circle to be a little above his comfor
t zone, and the only other in the room he felt any kinship to was young Mister Ryan Tempton, he of the tall, lanky, raw-boned build and hair a more shocking red shade than even his older brother's.

  Bertie swallowed from his glass. “Well, much as I would like to say I discovered her on my own, I have to give credit to Ryan. He was the one that first brought my attention to her, and suggested that you may be interested likewise.”

  “Indeed?” St. James asked, turning to the young man that flushed a little under his gaze. “Very promising for someone fresh out of University. I shall have to take you with me on some of my scouting trips, young Ryan. You may be useful, if I can get to you before Bertie, here, does too much damage to your natural eye with his ill-conceived ideas of what to look for in a horse.”

  “Still say you can't go wrong with looking at color, St. James,” Bertie replied. “Everyone knows a black can't run. And never have seen an all white horse do anything good over seven furlongs. Stands to reason you must start with at least something in between.”

  “And I beg to differ,” St. James countered. “Behemoth is totally coal black, and has never been beat at a mile and above.”

  “Yes,” Lord Tempton nodded, but wagged a finger. “But anything below that and he almost always loses. Why the hired nag I rode today could beat him.”

  “He's a distance runner. That is why I wish to breed him to a sprinter. See if we cannot get more early speed as well as stamina.” The duke turned to the Squire. “Which brings us to your filly, Squire. Her times were impressive, considering the condition of the track. And the ill-advised rider up on her.”

  “Ah, Lizzie does well enough,” the Squire defended. “Better than most. The filly is rather short on sense and long on spooking.”

  “Anyone could have ridden her into the rail today. That did not take much skill,” St. James returned.

  “I thought she handled the whole rather admirably,” young Ryan broke in. “Anyone could see that the filly reacted totally unexpectedly and was not to be controlled.”

  St. James gave a small dismissive shrug, turned back to the Squire. “No apparent harm done, but I would like to see her again in the morning, make sure that she is sound, and, of course, any offer I make for her will be dependent on that.”

  There was a brief silence as the Squire opened his mouth, closed it again, and ran a hand through his heavy, damp, gray hair. “Uh, milord, I appreciate your interest, indeed, I find it very flattering that you should take such an interest in my horse. But—”

  There was a tapping on the door, and then it opened and two chambermaids brought in several steaming platters of food. “Shall we dine?” St. James asked. “We can iron out any difficulties afterward.”

  With relief, the Squire pulled his chair in to the table and the other three men joined him. There was a well cooked leg of lamb, a side of filling with apple, boiled red potatoes, hare stew in a rich brown gravy, Yorkshire pudding, a dish of mixed vegetables and lemon cake. None of the four wasted time on conversation as they filled their plates. After being in the raw weather for most of the day, their appetites were mighty and the Squire spent a pleasant hour enjoying his meal, drinking further, and successfully pushing from his mind the fact that he was going to have to disappoint the duke and he was not looking forward to it.

  They were just satisfying the final twinges of hunger with the lemon cake when St. James returned to the conversation of the Squire's filly. “You have other plans for the filly besides selling her, Squire?” he asked. He had pushed himself back from the table and, unlike the others, a great deal of the food remained upon his plate. He refilled his glass, for the fourth time, the Squire counted, and now sipped from it steadily.

  A boozy bloke, for all his elegance, the Squire thought. Not that he could hold that against the fellow, being a rather boozy bloke himself. “Well, miduke. It's Lizzie that I'm concerned for. She doesn't wish to sell the horse.”

  The duke raised his brows. “Was I mistaken in believing the point of my visit today was to be, if I were satisfied, the acquirement of this horse? Bertie, is that not what you understood after speaking to this man last night?”

  Bertie lowered his glass. “I told you all I knew, St. James.”

  The Squire drew himself up in his chair. “If that be true,” he pronounced, “he would have told you of it being an iffy proposition, miduke.” He took a hearty bite of lemon cake and when he spoke again, several crumbs sprayed out and down his immense stomach. “That horse is the only means I have of securing my daughter's future.”

  St. James was half slouched in his chair. His glass made a steady journey from table to mouth. “Indeed, that is what Bertie conveyed to me. What is your daughter's desired outcome for this horse, may I ask.”

  The Squire lost some of his stiffness and his hand again found his own glass. He had every appearance of a poker player settling in for the real play that may well take him into the wee hours of the morning. “She wishes to rent the filly out to you, so to speak. You breed her to your stud and receive the foal, but she keeps the filly. For a fee, of course.”

  “Of course. And your desired outcome? Does it differ from your daughter's?”

  The Squire took a heavy swig that emptied his glass. “Indeed, miduke. It does.”

  St. James rose from the table, refilled the Squire's glass and his own. Bertie and Ryan demurred. Then the duke returned to his seat and his attention back to the Squire. And his gold eyes were now half-hooded as though already in deep thought. “You may begin, Squire. Tell me your concerns for your daughter and I will endeavor to come up with a solution that you may live with.”

  The Squire took a moment to look at the faces about him. Young Ryan, a slight frown of perplexity upon his face as he followed all of the conversation. Bertie, whose blue eyes met his with impassive reassurance. And St. James, whose half hooded eyes revealed nothing, who lazed in the chair, his legs stretched and crossed in luxurious languidness. The Squire hunched a little defensively in his seat, his only seeming comfort the regularly refilled glass in front of him. With a feeble gathering of courage, he said to St. James, “I don't much like you. I've heard enough about you even in this far-flung region of the realm to know that you are more devil than saint you are titled.”

  “Indeed, I have never denied it,” St. James returned.

  “I did not know it were you I would be dealing with. Your man, friend, whatever he is, failed to include that bit of information.”

  “Indeed, if you have other takers you prefer, I do not see them here before you.” St. James lost his air of languidness as he sat abruptly forward. “Come, Squire. Need I sum up what I have surmised and which you are now so reluctant to put into words? It is your daughter's future you are concerned for, yes, as you had said. But I daresay your own nest could use some feathering also.”

  “Do not damn me with that tongue of yours,” the Squire said. “If I am simply more aware than Lizzie that our circumstances can not be adequately improved by the mere renting out of the horse as she supposes, it is hardly something for which I may be condemned for.”

  “I do not understand,” Ryan broke in. “I mean, I understand, of course, that you do not wish to upset your daughter and that she has become attached to the animal. But as her father, surely you have the final say in what happens to it?”

  “Indeed, I do not,” the Squire admitted. “The horse was bought with money set aside by her mother for Lizzie's dowry. I can not in all decency do whatever I like with it.”

  “Decency?” interrupted Lord Tempton. “It is hardly decent to spend the girl's dowry on a horse, Squire, in case that escaped your notice.”

  “Aye. Well it is done now,” Squire Murdock replied. “There was no arguing with her reasoning. She is my daughter and all, but even I was forced to admit that her having a suitor is unlikely and with each year that goes past is more unlikely still. She wanted the horse, saw it when it was just a foal, and said that in the doubtful event she ever did get a sui
tor, well then the horse could be her dowry.

  “Aye! Scoff if you want,” he added as Bertie snorted. “But the child has nothing else to occupy herself with, and that money sitting there for her dowry was bringing her no happiness. But now I fear the small bit I had put back has been run through and with no prospects for Lizzie. . .”

  “Surely she must have some suitor,” Ryan interjected. “She seemed like quite a likable lass to me. Whatever could be wrong with her?”

  “Yes. What is wrong with her?” Bertie asked, dabbing his mouth with a napkin as he spoke. “Couldn't see more than two eyes in her head, she was so covered with mud, but she was not over-large. She was neither humped-backed nor broken-toothed. Surely, she can not be as homely as all that?”

  “No, no. Of course not,” the Squire hurried to say. “I am her father, but I tell you quite honestly that she is nothing worse than plain. Nothing really wrong, just nothing really right if you know what I mean. Brown hair, brown eyes, skin too brown from being outside in the sun over-much. If her mother were still alive, well, perhaps she could have done something for her. Kept her indoors, did her hair more attractively, sewed her the proper dresses and taught her how to be more lady-like. But I fear that she's run wild for the past seven years, and I can do nothing with her, even if I knew what it was I was supposed to do.

  “And to make matters all the more bad, she will not even consider going to London for her coming out, and now that she has had her twentieth birthday this past spring, I fear it is nearly too late for her.”

  “She won't have her coming out?” Bertie asked. “I thought all girls lived and died for that nonsense.”

  “Well, if she were the normal sort, I guess that would be true, but she says she can think of nothing more appalling than trying to be something she is not and perhaps actually duping some poor fool into marrying her, and then after the wedding he would find out what he had actually married, and then wouldn't she be to blame for deceiving him to begin with?”