larger,” Mr. Forrester told me, “back when Cromwell wandered the land. Cromwell
had a lot of hair, you know. Unfortunately, even the small rapids disappeared
during my grandfather’s time. I have read that many of the Roundheads had more
hair than they deserved.”
“That is a pity,” I told him. “Not about all that hair given out unjustly. No, I
am very fond of rapids.”
After ten more minutes of observations on my part, I simply couldn’t help myself,
I said, “Whatever happened to the Cockly boy, Mr. Forrester, the one who painted
the ducks pink?”
I must say that the question took him aback. Then he gave me the biggest grin.
Mr. Forrester was missing quite a few of his back teeth. “He was whipped by the
vicar himself, a dozen times with the vicar’s cane, then forced to clean the
paint off the poor ducks. They bit him hard, many times, the little devil.”
Then, and only then, after he was laughing and distracted by the duck story did
I tell Mr. Forrester that I wanted him to find me the very smallest gun he could.
It was a Christmas present for my cousin, I told him, who traveled a lot and
needed something very small that would go everywhere with him. Mr. Forrester
told me that would be a derringer, small enough for a lady’s reticule, but
naturally, no lady would ever want to touch one of the nasty little things. He
didn’t carry something like that in his small shop. He beamed at me when I
ordered the most expensive derringer he described to me, and assured me he would
have it here in under a week. I paid him for the derringer, and as a result
received three very deep bows from Mr. Forrester, and little bobs from all four
of his grandchildren, all lined up to see me safely out of their territory.
I visited the butcher’s shop, ordered the pork the butcher specifically
recommended, purchased some crockery from the small dry goods store, and finally
searched out the local seamstress from whom I immediately ordered three chemises
in the very finest lawn she had on the premises. My last stop was the ancient
stone church in the square. I met the curate, Mr. Bourne. The vicar, I was told,
was visiting his bishop in York.
When I returned to Devbridge Manor, I rode into the stable yard to see Tempest
trying his best to trample one of the stable lads.
I didn’t really think about it, just climbed off Small Bess’s back and ran to
the lad. “Give me the reins,” I said, and he was so surprised that he obeyed me
instantly.
I didn’t pull or jerk on the reins, just held them loosely, giving Tempest even
more slack. He reared and snorted and kicked out with his front hooves. He was
very angry. I stayed as far out of his way as I could. I spoke to him as I’d
been taught by Grandfather, softly, my voice pitched low, nonsense, most of it,
just repeating over and over that everything would be all right, that I thought
he was magnificent, and I would be angry if someone was jerking me around like
the stable lad had been doing to him. But everything was fine now, I would get
him an apple, and so he could calm himself down.
Slowly, ever so slowly, he began to ease. As he did, I tightened my hold on the
reins, coming closer and closer to him until he was blowing hard against my palm.
His great body shuddered. “It’s all right, boy.” I let him punch his nose
against my shoulder. He very nearly knocked me over. I spoke to him for another
five minutes before he simply dropped his head and blew softly. I called out to
the stable lad, who was standing there, pale, sweaty, wringing his hands, “It’s
all right now. Bring me an apple, and hurry.”
I fed that beautiful animal a huge apple, felt him lip my fingers, then chew
some carrots that Rucker, the head stable lad, handed me silently.
I said nothing to any of them, simply wrapped my hands in Tempest’s thick mane