The Countess by Catherine Coulter

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

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