slowly, every few seconds looking back toward the windows, picturing those lines
of holes, picturing black bars not more than six inches apart, picturing a vague
image clutch ing desperate hands around those bars, screaming to the night air
to be freed.
I left George to sleep off his bacon and went downstairs to meet Amelia.
Chapter Ten
Amelia was waiting for me just outside the great front doors of Devbridge Manor.
It was a warm day, quite unexpected for November. A light breeze stirred the air,
with only a lingering hint of chill. Yorkshire wasn’t a thing like the counties
to the south. It was ruggedly beautiful, and everything seemed oversized?huge
clumps of trees, all densely clustered together in the midst of a barren plain,
grand masses of rocks in the oddest places, as if strewn there by a god’s
whimsical hand. And, of course, there were the endless Yorkshire moors. The
Grannard moor was just off to the east, so desolate with its stark and forlorn
barrows and hillocks and its deep gullies that sliced haphazardly through the
land like very old scars. I loved it, always had. During the past three years,
though, Grandfather had preferred either the small manor house in Penzance at
the end of rugged, mournful Cornwall, or the fifty-year-old Putnam Square town
house in London that now belonged to Peter. Deerfield Hall was also now Peter’s
responsibility. Everything was now Peter’s responsibility. I wondered if he
would sell out and return to England to take over his duties as the seventh duke
of Broughton. I hoped he would come to Deerfield Hall, his country seat now, and
so very close to my new home. I felt a deep ache thinking of how we had parted
in London just before my marriage to Lawrence. But Peter was fair. He would
observe that I was happy, and he would come about.
I breathed in the richly scented country air, pulling it deeply into my body. I
couldn’t see the Grannard moor from here, but it was close, and just knowing
that, made me want to take George there. I could see him staring at the strange
landscape, wondering exactly what I expected him to do with it. George was used
to London and all its noise and traffic. There wasn’t a dray or a cart or the
most elegant carriage he wouldn’t chase until his short legs finally buckled
under him.
But here, he would learn about an entirely different life. Perhaps I could take
him to the Grannard moor this afternoon. I had left him sleeping soundly, after
stuffing himself at breakfast.
Amelia said, as she carefully eased a pin into her hair, “It’s lovely today, isn’t
it? I remember standing here just like you are, just looking around and taking
everything in. It might take some getting used to. Many people hate Yorkshire.”
“Do you?”
“I come from Somerset. Gentle valleys and hills and easy little streams
crisscross the land through all the farms.”
“Sort of like an innocent maiden mated to a violent warrior?”
She blinked, and I couldn’t blame her for that. As a comparison, it was perhaps
not all that accurate.
“If by that you mean that Somerset is the innocent maiden and Yorkshire is the
warrior, then, exactly,” Amelia said. “I’ve gotten used to it during the past
year. Now I quite like it. Come with me to the stables. I want you to meet
Buttercup, my sweet mare that my father brought over from Wexford. Also, has
Uncle Lawrence yet offered you a mount?”
“No, not as yet.”
The Devbridge stables were immaculate, the sun shining brightly down on the
bright red tile roof. The paddocks were white, obviously kept freshly painted,
and as I looked out into the nearest paddock, I fell in love.
He was an immense black-as-sin stallion, with a streak of white down the middle
of his head and four white socks. His head had the proud tilt of an Arabian mare
I once rode, but there was little else graceful and lithe about him. He was at
least seventeen hands high, heavy strong legs, and thick powerful chest.
“What is it, Andy?”
“Just a moment, Amelia. I’ve lost my heart. I’ll join you in a bit.”