Lakeshire Park

by Megan Walker

  Lady Demsworth leaned closer, and I tilted my head. “I meant what I said, Miss Moore. If there is anything, anything, you need. Anything I can do for you or any way I can help. Please do not hesitate to ask me.”

  I let each kind word sink in, leaning in to embrace her. “Thank you,” I whispered into her ear, and she tightened her arms around me.

  “Of course, dear. We have grown quite attached to you and your sister here at Lakeshire Park.”

  “Amelia,” Clara called as though on cue. “What rhymes with yellow?”

  Lady Demsworth quickly excused me, and I fell into a chair beside Clara. “Hmm . . . cello?”

  “Yes.” She giggled. “A yellow cello. That will do.”

  “What game are we playing, now?” I leaned on the arm of the chair.

  “We’ve paired off and must write a poem with words that rhyme with yellow,” Clara said. “You should join next round.”

  After my morning, a game of silly rhymes was as unappealing as eating grass. I tuned my ear to the hushed whispers as the company, most evidently paired off in the room, giggled and scratched on their papers. Clearly, the events of the morning had already blown over, and I had little desire to bring them up again.

  Without a second thought, I excused myself. Somewhere in the back of my mind, I’d known staying indoors was not where I wanted to be, and I was grateful I’d already put on my boots. Now all I needed was my bonnet.

  Chapter Eleven

  The walk to the stable was quick, the air warm and humid after the storm. Instead of entering through the main doors, I ventured around back, which was a more direct path to the horse stalls. The wide door was already opened, its latch broken and dangling, letting sunlight illuminate the otherwise darkened corners. As I entered, the scent of stale hay permeated the air, magnified with the shifting of the animals.

  I searched for a groom to no avail. Just so. To be alone for a while would suit my weariness.

  Paces away from her stall, a voice drifted toward me.

  “. . . nice to be taken care of, sometimes. And I think you’ve earned it with the scare you endured this morning.”

  I stopped in my tracks. What was Peter doing here? I had not seen him in the library, so I’d assumed he was in his room.

  As I crept up to the stall door, I found him crouched by Summer’s feet as he brushed her legs carefully. He wore a handsome gray coat—how in the world were his coats always so perfectly fitted?—and a pair of Hessians over equally well-fitting breeches.

  I scolded myself silently, blushing. Eyeing a man’s breeches in a horse stall when he was completely unaware. How unladylike! Of all the times I should be focused, it was now. At last, I’d caught Peter Wood behaving more foolishly than I.

  Summer whinnied, and Peter chuckled. “I understand completely.”

  “I did not know you could talk to horses,” I said, leaning into the half-open stall with the fullest of grins upon my face. Peter had neglected to latch the door behind him, and it hung open freely.

  He startled to his feet, brush in hand, and let out a breath when he saw me. “Amelia. What are you doing here?”

  I smirked at his rosy cheeks. What would Peter Wood have to be embarrassed about? Surely talking to horses was not the worst thing I had against him. I tugged off my gloves and laid them over the top of the wooden wall. “Escaping games in the library. And you?”

  He found a grin to match mine. “I confess I was worried over these two, but Winter has completely forgotten the trauma of this morning, and Summer will indulge in the attention she’s getting for the rest of her life, I am sure.”

  “May I?” I gestured to the brush in his hand, stepping closer.

  “Of course,” he said, offering it and patting Summer on the nose. “How are you faring?”

  “Much better. Did you rest?” I drew the brush across Summer’s back, smoothing her coat and cleaning off the dust.

  “I slept for a few hours. I thought I was the only one who needed a nap, until I came down and you were nowhere to be found.”

  “You were looking for me?” I looked up at him.

  “I am always looking for you, Amelia,” he said, smiling and lowering his chin.

  A wave of nervousness stunned my heart, rippling through my chest. It tickled and excited me. Of course, this was only Peter’s game, but I could see the fun in it.

  “Can we believe him, Summer?” I asked as I brushed her. “He is such a ridiculous tease, with quite the record of persuading and baiting to get what he wants.”

  “I have no such record.” He raised a brow from across Summer’s back. “Only a few, small instances of exaggerated loyalty.”

  “Well, heaven help those who have not yet earned your loyalty, Peter Wood. For they could find themselves made quite the enemy over something as meager as a pair of gloves.”

  Peter huffed, a determined look in his eyes, his voice harsher than usual. “I wish I’d never entered that shop.”

  My heart fell to my toes. I stopped brushing Summer as sudden emotion welled in my throat. Was he saying he wished he had never met me?

  Peter rubbed the back of his neck, something I was beginning to notice he did when he felt uncomfortable or out of control. “If I’d made Georgiana search for that deuced pair of gloves herself, I could have first met you here. And perhaps you would not look at me like you are now. Disappointed and . . . unaffected.”

  My brow furrowed, a sudden dryness in my mouth. “What do you mean?”

  “Nothing,” he said, more to himself than to me. “I only wish you were not angry with me anymore. It would be nice to have a genuine conversation. Not something forced by an absurd bargain.”

  Is that what he thought? That I was angry with him? That because our friendship was forced by the bargain we’d made, it was therefore disingenuous? I walked slowly around Summer to face Peter, half afraid that I’d read him entirely wrong and was about to make a complete fool of myself for the millionth time.

  “I am not angry with you, Peter. Not anymore. I’d venture to say I talk more with you than I do with Clara these days. I’ve grown fond of our afternoons.”

  He smiled softly, and I wondered if he believed me, if I was right to be so honest and open with him. He hesitated for a moment, then took the brush from my hand and continued Summer’s pampering.

  Winter blew out a breath from the corner; he was fast asleep on his belly. Kneeling beside him, I rubbed his nose and petted his mane. He was so peaceful, so perfectly adorable.

  Peter was quiet, and I worried I’d said too much.

  “What are you thinking about?” I asked before I could stop myself.

  “You,” he answered, still facing Summer.

  I scoffed at his teasing, waiting for him to laugh or cast me his playful grin. Instead, he stayed quiet as he gently attended to Summer. Guilt washed over me; I’d been sure Peter was exaggerating his claim. Regardless, after today, I had to admit he deserved for me to take him more seriously.

  Winter stirred, and I coddled him until his eyes closed again.

  In truth, I knew so little about Peter, aside from the small clues he gave me about his parents. If we were going to be genuine friends, it was my turn to ask questions. “Where is your estate?”

  He stopped brushing for a moment, glancing over his shoulder at me. “About twenty-five miles from here, in northwest Hampshire.”

  “Did you grow up there?”

  Peter’s coat stretched handsomely against his back as he reached higher along Summer’s mane. It was hard not to notice how naturally handsome he was. My gaze too willingly admired the strength in his arms and shoulders. And those breeches. I bit my lip.

  “No. My father spent most of his time in London. He was more interested in the business side of things, which is why I am so well-trained to take over a farming estate.”

&
nbsp; I sensed his sarcasm to a sobering degree. “Was it a difficult transition, then?”

  Peter shifted, brushing toward Summer’s rump. I noted the concentration in his profile. “I have a well-trained steward. But no, after I tied up loose ends in London, things have been moving slowly enough that I am not overwhelmed. The choice to move was mine, and I will learn quickly enough. I am simply not interested in upholding my father’s business ventures, nor do I think he would have expected me to.”

  I pondered Peter’s words. Since the moment he practically threw his money at me in the glove shop, I’d assumed Peter relished being rich and loved the society that fed upon status and wealth, but perhaps he truly meant what he’d said a few days ago. His greatest wish, above even wealth, was to be seen for the workings of his hands and the thoughts in his head. Clearly, he could continue his father’s work and attain even greater status and wealth, but he did not. Why?

  “But you admired him, did you not? Your father?”

  “Very much. He was immensely intelligent. He could do math in his head in seconds, and he was an avid reader. But when I think of my father, I do not think of his work or what he accomplished. I think of the few memories I have of when he was not working.” Peter rubbed his brow on his sleeve.

  “You have my full attention,” I said, straightening my skirts.

  Peter looked curiously over at me. He paused for a moment before resuming his brushing. “Once, when my mother was away visiting her sister, Georgiana begged me to teach her how to shoot an arrow. I must have been thirteen at the time—about to leave for Eton.

  “Mother did not allow frivolities like archery or horse racing. Such skills, in her opinion, did nothing to better a person. I knew Father did not have time to teach Georgiana, so we snuck out together to practice.” Peter smiled at some distant memory only he could see.

  “Georgiana was awful. She could barely hold the bow. When she let her first arrow, she shrieked in terror, and a few moments later, Father appeared on his steed. I thought for sure he’d reprimand me for acting without his permission. Instead, he dismounted, tied his steed to a nearby tree, and stood behind Georgiana to teach her how to hold a bow properly.”

  I smiled, imagining Peter as a young boy with his father and Georgiana. The protective older brother even then.

  He continued. “The three of us rode horses together every day that week. We practiced archery every afternoon, and Father even took us to an opera. Mother never knew. When she returned, things settled back to the way they’d always been.

  “I saw in my older years that Father sacrificed a lot to keep order in our house, to keep my mother happy. And to give Georgiana and me as close to a normal home as possible. But it was in those weeks, when it was just the three of us, that I knew who my father wanted to be. And that was enough.”

  Surprise robbed me of speech. Everything looked so much clearer through this new lens. Peter’s carefree nature, his loyalty to Georgiana, and his confidence. He knew what he wanted through experiencing a lack of it in his life.

  “I think your father was smart in more ways than one,” I said at last. I imagined a man who stood as a cornerstone to an otherwise shaky family foundation. Perhaps even at the cost of his own happiness.

  “Those memories led me here,” he continued. “There is peace in the solitude. What about you? Could you see yourself in the country?”

  “Did I not tell you I grew up in Kent?” I leaned my head against the rough wood wall. “My childhood home was in the middle of several hundred acres. We were quite secluded.”

  “And you liked it?”

  “I loved it. My fondest memories are there. It was the last place that felt like home.”

  “I wish I knew that feeling,” Peter said. He tossed the brush into a wooden bucket and rubbed his hands on a towel. “Some say home is created with your family. That it is more of who you are with, not where you are.”

  “I am sure that is true. But I think the countryside will always feel like home to me.”

  Peter turned and took a few steps toward me, sitting down and leaning against the wall, mirroring my position. We were about a foot away from each other, but I still felt a rushing through my veins at his nearness.

  “Two questions,” he said.

  I cast him questioning eyes.

  “For your payment to me this afternoon.” He let out a breath. “One for fun, the second more serious. You must answer them both sincerely. And you may ask two of your own in the same fashion.”

  My lips twitched. What was he after? “All right. Go on, then.”

  “Question number one. What is your favorite color?”

  Honestly? Peter bit his lip to keep from smiling, and I found myself doing the same.

  “Oh, purple for certain. It is royal, and I look beautiful in it,” I said as though I believed the words with all the confidence in my bones.

  Peter’s laugh echoed off the walls of Summer’s stall. “No doubt. I hope you have a purple dress for an evening here, or I shall have to buy you one.”

  We looked at each other, more comfortable together in a mucky horse stall than in the most elaborate room in all of England.

  “My turn.” I shifted closer. I had not before noticed the faintest hint of freckles along his nose. They were a perfectly imperfect asset to his otherwise flawless countenance. “What is your favorite fruit?”

  Peter did not hesitate. “Blackberries. As long as you are there to eat more than I do.” I playfully shoved his shoulder, and he smirked. “Otherwise, apples. We have thirteen or so rows of trees that span the back of my estate. They are beautiful in the fall, and my cook makes the best apple pie you’ll ever taste.”

  “That sounds wonderful. But I shall have to wait an entire season to try it.” I feigned a scowl.

  “I’ll invite you for the first one, I promise,” he said matter-

  of-factly. A comfortable silence settled between us, and as much as I did not mind it, I also did not want our conversation to end.

  “Question number two?” I asked.

  Peter looked up, his cheeks dimpling as he pursed his lips in thought. After a moment, he said, “I think if you really want to know a person, you must know their pain, what they hold onto because they cannot let go. And so, I want to know: If you could erase one memory, what would it be?”

  I tensed. There were many memories I wished I could erase—most of them containing Lord Gray—but only one replayed in my mind over and over. How I wished I could erase it. How I wished I never knew. Could I trust Peter with the truth? I wanted to. I wanted him to know me, all of me. To tell him my secrets and to see his reaction. Would he continue our afternoons? Would he reject who I was? What I came from? The truth I carried so heavily upon my back?

  “Do you really want to know?”

  Peter studied me, nodding. “I do.”

  I sighed, looking up to where Summer stood. My hands were curiously still. But it would not last. It never did. Not when I thought about those words that could never be unspoken nor unheard.

  “There was one day, when we lived in London with Lord Gray and Mother . . . I heard them yelling at each other. My own father had never yelled, and so I thought something was very wrong. I went to knock on the door, to see if they were all right, when I heard Lord Gray say my father’s name. Jeffrey Moore.” I studied the dusty floor, the stray strands of hay and tiny clumps of dirt. I’d never confided the truth of my parents’ story to anyone before. Mostly out of fear of their judgment. Then again, I’d never had a friend like Peter.

  “He spat something about my grandparents, how they’d come to ruin and the Moore family name was shamed. I never knew them, so it meant little to me that they’d lost their livelihood. But what my mother said has never left me. She said, ‘Don’t you think I would’ve done anything to escape him? Do you know how broken I was when you never came for
me that night? When you left me, ruined, forced to marry a stranger?’”

  “What?” Peter’s voice was shocked. “What did she mean?”

  I turned to face him, to explain. “She knew Lord Gray, before my father. They were secretly in love in their youth.”

  Peter’s eyes grew wide.

  “Lord Gray’s family had a summer home in Kent, like Mama’s. But he’d been away on a tour of the Continent. The night of the ball was the very day Lord Gray was set to return home. They made plans to find each other. But when he did not attend, Mama’s heart was shattered. And so she entertained my father. But Lord Gray did attend the ball; he arrived just in time to witness the kiss on the veranda. His heart was equally broken, but his pride even more so. When everything came to light, he would not save her from ruin.”

  I picked at my fingernails. “My mother claims my father kissed her without her consent. My father, on the other hand, claimed the kiss was mutual and that the evening was like a story in a book. I used to long to have a romance like theirs, to meet a man and fall so instantly, madly, in love.”

  I shook my head at the thought. Love was not something that came in a day or a week, perhaps not even a year. And if it did come, one could never be sure it would last.

  “But now I see it was all a facade. My mother’s heart always belonged to Lord Gray. When at last they married all those years later, it was like an entirely new person overtook her body, and I hardly recognized the woman I knew. She was giddy and distracted. She threw parties and hosted lavish dinners. Lord Gray called it his second chance, but he’s hated Clara and me ever since my mother died. He once told me that Clara and I are the only part of his life that should never have been.”

  Peter’s voice was low, fierce. “He is an utter cad, Lord Gray. I should duel him for that.”

  “Duel a dying man? At least challenge someone who can put up a fight for me.”

  “The next man who looks at you wrong is mine,” Peter said, squinting playfully, before softening his voice and dropping his smile. “Is this—your father—the reason you do not believe in love?”