John called out, “Enough, you big lout. I am your master, not this young chit
here who cannot even manage to keep her dog’s loyalty.”
“Unkind,” I said. “It appears I am getting my revenge on you.”
George came trotting over, tail up high, barking with each step. On the way he
picked up a stick.
Tempest snorted and trotted to where we stood at the fence.
“Throw the stick for George,” John said as he went through the gate to put the
bridle over Tempest’s head. “A good long way. He needs to run off some of the
mountains of food he’s eating.”
I did, hurling it a good twenty feet away. “It will help,” I said, shading my
eyes against the sun’s glare. “I fear Lady Waverleigh is feeding him whenever he
happens to trot into her vicinity. She dotes on him as much as she does her
husband.”
I watched John saddle Tempest, threw George’s stick again, fought with him when
he brought it back to me, and forgot for at least five minutes that something
was very wrong here at Devbridge Manor. As much as I wanted to discount
everything my father had written, which wasn’t hardly a thing, truth be told,
something wasn’t right.
When finally we were both mounted, George had decided to remain. He was
thoroughly enjoying himself playing with Jasper. Jasper could throw the stick
much farther, and thus George could leap and trot and sniff flowers and bushes,
and have a great time before he had to carry the stick back, as the rules of the
game dictated. The exercise would also keep him from dropping onto his fat
stomach and dying from gluttony.
Small Bess reared and twisted her head about when I settled myself on her back.
I immediately leaned forward and stroked her neck. “It’s all right, my pretty
girl. What’s wrong?”
“She wants to play. I have seen her do that occasionally since she arrived.”
“Do you know why your uncle bought her, John?”
“No. Perhaps he had made up his mind to go to London and find himself a wife. He
bought Small Bess on speculation.”
“I must remember to ask him. Do you think perhaps she is a racing horse in
disguise?”
“That I doubt very much.”
Lawrence had never given me the impression that he had come to London in search
of a wife. He had made me believe that his feelings for me had hit him
immediately and strongly. He had not expected such feelings, particularly at his
age. But still it felt to me as though he had brought Small Bess here
specifically for me. I shook my head. None of it made any sense.
I looked over at John astride Tempest. He was a magnificent rider, at one with
that huge stallion. He was looking off into the distance. I wished he would look
over at me, but he didn’t. No, I thought, no. I had to stop this. I didn’t want
John anywhere near me. At the same time I wanted to weep because he was near me.
I didn’t want to let him out of my sight. It just wouldn’t do. I thought of my
husband. I owed him my complete loyalty. I thought of my fear of men, buried so
deep, that I knew it would be a part of me my entire life. I knew I would never
escape from it, nor did I want to. Young men like John, who was big and strong,
were dangerous, they would hurt and destroy and humiliate. No matter what John
made me feel, I would never forget that. If I ever did, I was a fool, just as my
mother had been. No, what was there, so very deep inside me, was the truth, and
a warning, and I would always heed both of them.
When we were walking through a rather densely wooded glade, side by side, John
said, “Why do you think Caroline would want to speak to you?”
“I don’t know,” I said, realizing that here we were discussing the spirit of my
husband’s long-dead second wife. But oddly enough, it didn’t seem strange. “What
I don’t understand is why she hasn’t spoken to me. I have certainly given her