It was almost too fast for Cassidy, but she felt warmed through by Emily’s offer of friendship. She’d met few girls her own age at the ranch, and was close to none of them. To be liked for herself, just the way she was…
“I’d love to visit,” she said.
Emily clapped her gloved hands. “Delightful. Do you ride?”
“I rode all the time in New Mexico.”
“Then we shall both have someone to ride with. It’s been ages since I saw the Wall. We can take a picnic. Oh, I know we shall become great friends!” She held out her hand, and Cassidy took it. They grinned at each other in perfect accord, and Cassidy thought she couldn’t have had a better welcome to Northumberland than this. Everything was going to be perfect. She had Braden, and her other cousins, and Isabelle, and now Emily, her first real friend in England.
“Are you waiting for a ride to your house?” Cassidy asked. “If Stonehaugh is so close, maybe we could—”
“Cassidy.”
Emily looked up as Braden’s shadow fell over her. She took a step back, snatching at her skirts.
“The carriages are waiting,” Braden said. He barely glanced at Emily, and his expression was icy. “Please excuse us.”
Taken aback, Cassidy smiled reassuringly at Emily, who stared at Braden as if she’d seen a monster out of a childhood story. “I have to go now,” Cassidy said. “I hope we meet again soon.”
But Emily was mute, and her gaze fell on Cassidy with a look of mingled dismay and yearning. Someone called her name; with a little twitch of relief she bobbed a curtsy and fled with her maid along the platform toward a waiting carriage.
“Come,” Braden said, taking Cassidy’s arm. Isabelle fell in behind them, all but forgotten. Cassidy looked after Emily, but the young woman made no attempt to wave as her carriage moved off.
“That was Emily Roddam,” she said by way of explanation, trying to make sense of Braden’s rudeness. “She lives at Stonehaugh—”
“I know who she is. We’ll speak of this later.” He reached the end of the platform and stumbled at the edge; he caught himself instantly and turned toward the first of the Greyburn carriages.
Rowena and Quentin were already seated; Braden helped Cassidy in and let the footman assist Isabelle. He disappeared, and the carriage lurched into motion. Isabelle was gazing out the window, and Rowena was withdrawn, as she so often was. Only Quentin seemed in the mood for conversation.
“What did you think of Ulfington?” he asked.
“I don’t know,” she said honestly. “But I met Miss Roddam on the platform—”
“Ah. One of the older human families in the area,” he said, emphasizing “human.” “You must want to know more about our countryside.”
Without waiting for her answer, he launched into a monologue about Ulfington and the road to Greyburn. She learned that Ulfington was the largest town for many miles around, a place where the local farmers and shepherds gathered in summer for their yearly agricultural fair. At Ulfington the North Tyne continued northwest to the Scottish border. The River Ulf fed into it from the north, a rougher and narrower valley winding toward the Cheviot Hills.
As he spoke, the narrow road paralleled the Ulf up the valley, passing more isolated farms at the foot of bare hills. There were no more villages, only handfuls of cottages clustered near pastures or fields of grain or grass. Once a small flock of sheep crossed the road on the way to the riverbank; the shepherd paused to touch his cap, his manner respectful but his face closed and wary.
At last they reached a fork in the road, where a still narrower lane led alongside a shining silver ribbon of water. A forest of trees formed a tunnel that all but enclosed the burn: Grey Burn, from which the Forster estate took its name.
More trees lined the roadside, in greater numbers than Cassidy had seen anywhere since they’d left the train station. “Our ancestors planted them,” Quentin said. “Most of the forest here was cut down long ago, but the Greyburn Forsters could not live without their woods.”