by R. G. Winter
“Oh, so I should bring the rifle.”
Her lips pursed. The laughter she held back escaped in a single snort. “If you’re unwed I’d advise it.”
“I’ll remember that.”
She sighed. “I don’t mean to speak so lightly. There’s been a lot of tragedy in our home as of late and…and we are not well set up for visitors I’m afraid.”
His eyes grazed her face. She had to remember to breathe. Hooves rang out just as Tate finished gutting the deer. Winston muttered, “Better put on that hat,” and she grabbed it and yanked it down over her ears while Winston took up the rifle yet again and slid from his horse, striking a nearly comical pose above the body of the deer. The game warden came up, his face set in a grim expression until he recognized Winston.
“Oh, hello sir.”
Winston gave him a regal nod. “I’ve felled quite the deer, wouldn’t you say?”
The game warden stared at Clare, who ducked her head lower. He frowned. “Aye sir. Who might these ones be?”
Tate stood. He touched a finger to his cap. “I’m from the Devon estate. He’s a cousin to the Devon girls.”
Winston put in. “They saved my life. I had decided to come out and do a little shooting. I somehow wandered over to the Devon estate by accident where my horse tossed me. They came along with the horse so I invited them to help me hunt. It seems I can’t do much with that deer, I have heard the Earl has a dislike for venison so, out of gratitude for chasing down my horse, I’ve decided to send it as a gift to the lord there.”
The warden nodded. “That’s a fine plan I’d say.” He actually dismounted and helped Tate to load the deer onto the back of his horse. Winston gave her a long smile and mounted on his own horse.
Clare and Tate went one way. Winston and the game warden went another. Clare didn’t take a full breath until they were safe on Devon lands and even then she could hardly think.
Tate got her off the horse. “I’ll deal with the horse Miss. You better get changed before anyone sees you.”
She nodded and quickly raced toward the side of the house she’d have the best chance of not being spotted from. She went through a back door and up the servant’s staircase then made her way to her room, where she changed very hastily.
That was when she realized she’d lost the rifle. A groan came from her lips. Father would not notice its absence for quite some time, hopefully but she had to get it back. Of course if Winston had ridden up to the Earl’s house without a rifle the Earl would have been suspicious.
Winston de Winter. Lord Winston de Winter. How handsome he was!
And how utterly out of her reach. Even there in the country they had the sense to know when they were faced with a person of far greater means, and he definitely had far greater means.
Her family was close to poverty, barely hanging on, and he had money and means. He was definitely not in the market for a wife who had so many sisters and so little dowry.
So little dowry?
More like no dowry at all!
What would she take into a marriage? The old milk cow? A few chickens? A pile of debt?
Oh and why was she even thinking of marriage anyway? She had no intention of marrying—ever! She relished her freedom, and was grateful she didn’t have to go to London to have a Season!
Her eldest sister, Jenna, had done but had turned up no prospects—and she’d ended out with a broken heart when all the young men who declared themselves in love with her promptly proposed to young women of far greater fortune.
The cost had been huge too. They’d made over most of Jenna’s gowns from the ones their mother had worn and while her mother was good with a needle the local seamstress even better Jenna had come home crestfallen and hurt by the rude comments about her clothes. She’d sworn she’d never go back and given how little money there was it seemed that was a promise she’d easily keep.
Clare sighed and headed downstairs. Her father greeted her in the foyer. Harold Devon had bene a handsome man in his day bit grief had taken a hard toll and his flaming hair had dulled and turned gray in long patches and streaks. His jowls had sagged and his eyes, a cool blue, always wore a distant look that made him seem like a wraith who happened to still be wearing flesh.
“Tate brought down a big deer.”
She gave him a smile. “Oh?”
Harold nodded and then sighed. “I suppose it’s good fortune. We’re running behind at the butcher again and he’s not likely to extend us any more credit either. I have no idea how we can tighten our belts any further but I suppose we must until the next annuity comes in.”
“Yes Papa. “ She fidgeted, her eyes looking at the floor. He sighed again. His boots caught her eyes. They needed shining again. Once upon a time he had insisted on them being shined to a high glossy sheen. Now there was muck at the heels and the sides were streaked with dull spots and more muck.
Hurt rose up. She understood her parents’ grief but it angered her anyway that they could not seem to shake it off long enough to try to care for their home and their remaining children.
She cleared her throat. “The garden is coming along nicely. Lily has a true green thumb. She even managed to get cabbage to appear this year and we haven’t had any luck with that in the last few years.”
“Cabbage?”
She lifted her head. He still looked distracted, like the question was just a polite one, or just a case of him echoing the last word he had actually heard. “Yes Papa. Cabbages. There’s dozens of them springing up out there along with peas and carrots. Oh and the beans are coming along nicely too. I saw some dandelion greens coming up too. I think maybe I’ll ask some of the other girls if they want to go dig some. Dandelion greens go well with venison.”
He tugged at his mustache, which was also in need of a trim. “Yes, they do. Anyway…I should get back to my study.”
He set off through the long hallway. Clare’s spirits deflated. What would it take to shake him out of those doldrums? Would anything shake him out of them?
Ever?
Sighing and pensive she went to the kitchen where Mrs. Tate was bent over a table. Tate had butchered the deer outside and now Mrs. Tate was busy setting the pieces into barrels crusted high ad deep with coarse salt. More of it cooked, along with vast pans of gelatin. The meat would be encased in the gelatin where it would stay fresh and good for however long it took them to eat it.
Mrs. Tate gave her a smile. She looked around carefully then spoke in a whisper. “That’s good luck and we’re all grateful.”
Clare smiled, a real smile. “Not as grateful as I am.”
Mrs. Tate’s mouth curved higher. “It seems a young man popped in and dropped off a rifle a moment ago before riding back out.”
Clare’s chest almost caved in from the force of her runaway heartbeat. “He…he stopped by?”
Mrs. Tate set meat into salt and nodded her greying head. “Aye, stopped by the stables he did. Said he’d not bother the family.”
Her heart sank to her belly. So he’d taken one look at the crumbling estate and fled. She couldn’t blame him for that but it disappointed her anyway.
Oh well what had she expected?
That he would ride up and slide onto one knee and beg for the hand of a young woman who was crazy enough to wear men’s clothes and go out poaching for food for her family?
She set about helping Mrs. Tate just because she could not stand to be idle, when she was idle her mind was far too busy and she knew it, but not even the hard work of storing the meat could take her mind off the devastatingly handsome young lord who’d shot a deer for her.
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About
R.G. Winter is a throwback romantic dreamer with some street-smart wisdom gleaned from years of observation and diverse living environments. She lives within view of a developed downtown skyline, but picks and chooses the times she engages in highly populated activities. Balanced between rural and the city, R.G. Winter shares daily life with her husband and soul mate and their passion for social justice.
