His Wayward Bride (Romance of the Turf Book 3)

by Theresa Romain

  Once Susanna had worked free the tangles, she twisted sections of Irene’s hair, making neat spirals. “Leave those for a day, and you’ll have perfect curls.”

  Irene regarded herself curiously in the mirror. She looked younger, her arching brows dramatic against the stark style. Tilting her head, she wondered what sort of person she looked like. A teacher? A wife? Someone who carried out secret missions?

  Maybe all of those. Not without regret, she said, “I can’t leave my hair like this for a day. I have to pin it up when I teach.”

  “Easy enough to do. I’ll make you some satin pillow coverings too. I know I have the cloth somewhere.”

  Irene bit her lip. Yes, she knew that too. And she didn’t want to criticize such a kind impulse, but she couldn’t thank her mother for the hoard of scraps either.

  Susanna hardly noticed, for she had taken to dreaming aloud. “When Laurie’s at school, I’ll have time to make more of those. They don’t take much sewing, and I can sell them in the old neighborhood, don’t you think? Your aunt Mellie would know the best places a woman might sell clothing without renting a shop. When Laurie’s at school, I can get back to Fleet Street.”

  In the year and a half since her ankle injury, the dreams had increased. Somehow, when Laurie was at school, her ankle wouldn’t hurt, and she’d live near her siblings again.

  There were no dreams for Irene, or about her. She’d always had to make her own.

  “Mama,” she broke out. “Why don’t you ever talk about your dreams for me, like you do for Laurie?”

  Susanna looked at her with some surprise. “Why, you’re grown, Reenie. You can dream for yourself. When a child is grown into an adult, she gets to make her own choices.”

  But I didn’t. I was still chasing Father about, putting purses back in pockets.

  Some of the time, she was. And then there was that summer in Newmarket, when she’d wrested control of her own life. Plunged into marriage. The biggest decision of her life and one of the most impulsive. “What do you think of Jonah, then?”

  “I think he’s good enough for you.” Susanna smiled, the joyful grin she’d passed on to Laurie. “And that’s high praise from a mother.”

  “Why is that?”

  “Because he chose you.” Facing Irene, Susanna adjusted the twisted locks, then did something complicated to Irene’s hair with a few hairpins. “He wasn’t afraid to be different. To marry a black woman. A woman who’s educated and brilliant. And he didn’t shy from taking on the rest of us either.”

  “He hasn’t met Father yet,” Irene said dryly.

  “Your father’s so charming, he gets himself into scrapes,” Susanna excused. “He promises too much.”

  Ha. Any promise was too much if you never intended to keep it.

  Her father had swindled the inhabitants of Barrow-on-Wye that summer of 1815, when Irene’s head had been turned by Jonah Chandler and away from what Victor Baird was doing. Susanna and Laurie had been in London, and Irene had promised to take charge of her father’s behavior. Instead, she’d lived her own life, and a whole village had been financially ruined.

  Was her mother right? Did that make Irene selfish? Did she really owe her every decision to what others wanted from her?

  “When Laurie starts the term at Harton,” Susanna began the familiar refrain again, “I hope you can make peace with your father. He tries his best for us all, Irene, and—”

  “I try my best for us all. You try your best for us all. Even Laurie does more to care for this family.”

  Irene and Susanna met eyes in the glass. For a moment, identically startled, they looked as alike as a mother and daughter could.

  Then Susanna frowned, and she looked like a stranger.

  Chastened, Irene bent to pick up her slippers, but knocked the stack of prints and papers into a slide across the carpet. “Oh, sorry about that.” She shoved her feet into the shoes and bent over to scoop up the papers. “Mama, you really should toss some of these out. The maids could use them as kindling.”

  “Reenie, leave them be.” Susanna sounded as tired of this exchange as Irene was.

  Flip, flip, stack, stack. Irene had almost returned the papers to their former level of order when a print caught her eye. She drew it from the pile, holding it up. A black woman reclined in a sailor’s hammock in an affectionate embrace with a bewigged white man. Judging by the man’s military attire and the “P.W.H.” on a cask below the hammock, the man was the king’s third son—Prince William Henry, Duke of Clarence and St. Andrews. But who was this woman?

  “‘Wouski,’” Irene read the caption aloud. “‘Free as the forest birds will pair together/ without rememb’ring who our fathers were/ and in soft murmurs interchange our souls.’”

  “Leave that be,” Susanna said again, more forcefully. “Those are my papers, Reenie.”

  “I can see why you kept this one.” Irene handed it to her mother. “Wouski—she’s quite pretty, isn’t she? A black woman with a prince, and they look so loving. When is it from? Oh, a few years before I was born. 1788. I never heard of the royal duke having a love affair with anyone but Mrs. Jordan, but that began later, didn’t it?”

  “I didn’t ask you if I should keep that one or not.” Susanna’s voice was hard. She stuffed the print back into the pile of papers. “I didn’t ask you to tidy the stack. I told you to leave it be.”

  Irene gaped. “Mama, I was only trying to help.”

  Hands on hips, Susanna looked down at the seated Irene. “You don’t have to help me with the things I rescue. You already did a good thing, turning up in time to find us this place to stay. Though it was really Jonah who suggested it.”

  Which was just another way of saying, You didn’t make any difference, Irene.

  And if she couldn’t make any difference, to what end had she given the last six years of her life?

  “I have to go now,” Irene excused herself. “I’ll see you at dinner.”

  She slipped through the door that opened only halfway, leaving for no particular reason except that it was difficult to stay.

  Irene had never doubted that Jonah was good enough for her. But was she good enough for him? Maybe she really was selfish, for it was easier to be the one who came and went. The one who said good-bye, the one who was missed.

  What would happen if she stopped leaving? If she, instead, were the one left behind? Could she manage it? After a childhood of drifting from village to village, where her mother sewed and her father made false promises, she didn’t know if she could bear it. She didn’t know what it was to have a home, really, but she knew what it was to be uprooted.

  I want you to live with me as your husband, or I want our marriage annulled on grounds of fraud. The words were burned into her memory. It was just another way of saying, Give up your life, or be no better than the father who has caused you such despair over the years.

  If she didn’t agree to change…well, everything…then hadn’t she made Jonah a false promise of her own?

  She’d promised to stay with him tonight, and she already regretted it. Because it was never just him, was it? It was never just them, together, in their cocoon.

  Not anymore.

  Chapter Eleven

  Long summer days left plenty of daylight after dinner for Jonah to visit Bridget’s Brown. He’d invited Irene to join him, and she’d promised to bring Eli out to the mews for their lesson on cleaning hooves.

  Jonah didn’t fool himself that Irene was eager to learn about hooves, but he thought she’d like to get out of the house. Dinner had been tense, with Irene and her mother so polite and formal with each other that they were clearly at odds.

  Under the circumstances, Jonah didn’t mind escaping the house either.

  The mews was clean and pleasantly cozy, with stable smells of grassy hay and straw, of leather tack and its oils. Of the horses themselves, musky and warm. It felt more like home than the house itself, as Jonah strode past the carriages with a wave at Laurie—in an
imated conversation, as always, with the grizzled old coachman.

  Two of the four stalls were empty, as Commonwealth and Scintilla—the leggy bays that pulled the landau in tandem—were out for exercise. The gray gelding, Jake, regarded Jonah with a reproachful eye over his stall door. This is the sort of neighbor you bring me?

  Bridget’s Brown had none of Jake’s calm as he kicked and stomped in his stall. Jonah approached with a handful of carrots, holding them just out of reach of the agitated horse until he caught a whiff of his favorite treat. Slowly, deliberately, Jonah fed a carrot to Jake, then extended one to Bridget’s Brown. The darker horse laid his ears back, showing his teeth. Then he shook his head, sending his mane into a tangle, and deigned to pluck the carrot from Jonah’s hand.

  “Can I feed the horse a carrot?” piped a childish voice from behind Jonah.

  “May I,” corrected Irene.

  “Irene.” Delighted, he turned to greet her. “And Eli. Hullo. Are you ready to clean some hooves?”

  “I suppose,” Irene agreed. Then Bridget’s Brown kicked the wall of his stall. “Uh…no. I’m not ready.”

  “We’re not going to clean Bridget’s hooves. He’s got a crack again. I might have to call in a farrier.” His air seemed sound, but his left foreleg was warm. An infection, maybe.

  Irene reached out a hand toward the dark brown horse, then thought better of it. “He seems angry.”

  “He’s a bit of a grump right now. So, no, Eli, best wait on feeding him a carrot.” Jonah nodded toward a small pile of splintered wood. “He’s still settling into the new place.”

  Irene’s eyes widened. “Is that a feed bucket?”

  “It was.”

  Eli shrieked with glee. “The horse breaks dishes too!”

  As Bridget’s Brown rolled his eyes and lashed his docked tail, Jonah said, “Use a calm voice when you’re around horses. Especially if the horse isn’t calm. Which, as you can see, Bridget isn’t.”

  “Bridget is a girl’s name,” Eli informed Jonah. “But the horse is a boy.”

  “It’s a nickname. Just as Eli is a boy’s name, but that’s what you want to be called even though you’re a girl.”

  “Oh.” The child thought about this. “Can I wear this for helping you?” She sported a tunic fashioned from one of Jonah’s old shirts, with the sleeves rolled up and the waist fastened with a plain ribbon.

  This was a compromise, as Eli had refused to wear a dress, stating that she wouldn’t be safe. Her mother had told her that little girls were sold—and after the mission earlier today with Goodman, Jonah didn’t doubt the late Mrs. Button’s wisdom. There was so much to London Jonah had never imagined. People who would sell children, children who made up new lives for themselves.

  He’d received a report today from the Bow Street Runner he’d hired. While the man didn’t yet have information on Anne Jones, he’d confirmed that Eliza Button, otherwise known as Eli, was indeed an orphan. One of a dozen or so children who worked for a man incongruously called Tulip, spending their days sweeping streets or selling flowers or begging. They turned over their earnings in exchange for room and board and so-called protection, leaving them dependent on the harsh and stingy Tulip for all their worldly needs.

  So. He and Irene would find a better life for the girl—either here or at the academy.

  “When you’re with me,” Jonah added, “you can wear what you want to. But when you’re in the kitchen, you should wear what Cook tells you.”

  Irene cleared her throat. “She’s…not allowed in the kitchen anymore.”

  “Because I broke dishes on purpose!” Eli said brightly.

  “That was very wrong,” Jonah chided.

  “Washing dishes is for girls.”

  Giving his full attention to tidying a shelf of grooming tools, or so it seemed, Jonah said, “Tasks that are commonly done by girls are just as necessary and good as things that are commonly done by boys.”

  Eli snorted. “Sure, guv.”

  Jonah shot Irene a desperate look. How was it that he kept having to deal with skeptical children?

  Irene distracted Eli with a question—one supposedly directed at Jonah. “Do horses like girls better or boys better?”

  That, he knew how to answer. “To a horse, it doesn’t matter. Kindness matters. And not being afraid of them. If you work with the horses, you’ll need to be comfortable with them.”

  “Not just their sh…” Eli blinked wide eyes. “Um. What do I do?”

  “We’ll clean Jake’s hooves, and you’ll see.”

  “The puppy horse that likes radishes and his ears scratched?”

  “The very one.” Jonah found a halter, then slipped it over the gelding’s fine gray head. As he unlatched the stall door and led Jake out, the horse nibbled at his hair.

  “Enough of that. Silly fellow.” Jonah gently pushed the horse’s head away from his, then dropped the lead to the floor so Jake would stand still.

  Obedient, Jake stood in place, but he was a curious creature. Those ears were pricked, the dark eyes looking all around. At Eli and Irene, who were watching him, and at Jonah, who was gathering tools for cleaning hooves. Jake would never have made a racehorse even if he’d been bred for speed, because he was always more eager to make friends than compete.

  Jonah’s father, Sir William, had tolerated this because Jake was such a good saddle horse. But the baronet had never been one for play—not with animals and not with his own children. In Sir William’s view, both were bred to work. They were to be treated well, but not coddled.

  If Jonah ever had a child, he’d coddle the mite to bits.

  Taking the hoof-pick in hand, he showed Irene and Eli a safe place to stand. “Now tap the back of the leg you want Jake to raise, and he will show you his hoof. We’ll pick out any stones lodged in there, and we’ll make sure the hoof looks clean and sound.”

  Irene hung back, a staying hand on Eli’s shoulder. The little girl stuck out her own foot. “Doesn’t the horseshoe protect him?”

  “It does, some. But it’s like if you wore pattens on your bare feet. They’d protect you from some of the muck but not everything.”

  This seemed to make sense to the child. She nodded, then tapped Jake’s near foreleg. When the horse patiently raised his hoof, she squealed and clapped, then slapped a hand over her mouth. “I forgot I’m s’posed to be quiet,” she whispered in a voice so carrying that Mrs. Brodie probably heard it all the way in Manchester Street.

  Bridget kicked the devil out of his stall’s wall, but Jake was unbothered by any of the commotion. He only flicked his ears, then rolled an eye at Jonah as if to say, Some of our fellow creatures are so excitable, aren’t they?

  “Good boy,” Jonah said to the horse, but Eli said, “Thank you.” Jonah pursed his lips to suppress a smile, then showed the two how to cradle the foreleg, helping the big animal balance and providing reassurance. He gave Irene a hoof-pick and the child a brush, demonstrating each movement.

  “I don’t want to hurt him.” Irene poked at a clod of dirt. “Will I? The hoof looks like wood, almost.”

  “It’s like a big fingernail. You won’t hurt him unless you poke here”—he showed the vulnerable spot with a gentle forefinger—“and he’ll let you know if he doesn’t like it.”

  Jonah returned Jake’s hoof to the stable floor. The gray nosed them both gently, lipping at their hair until Eli laughed. “Mrs. Chandler!” Eli tackled Irene about the legs. “We cleaned Jake’s hoof!”

  Irene laughed. “Well done, us!”

  “And now for the end of the grooming.” Jonah felt in his pockets for one of the radishes Jake loved. “We make it a treat for him,” he explained, “so he looks forward to being groomed. Grooming keeps him healthy.”

  Jake blew out a humid breath through velvet-soft nostrils, then gobbled the radish from Jonah’s palm. From another pocket, Jonah drew lumps of coarse sugar. “Children like treats too, don’t they?”

  Eli bounced on her toes. “This c
hild does.”

  Jonah handed over a lump of sugar to suck on. “You did very well helping with Jake. I see that you can be a fine helper when you wish.”

  Bridget’s Brown bobbed his head, ears flat, an aggressive gesture. But as he didn’t kick, Jonah fed him the last carrot. “Be calm, now. You’re safe.” The dark gelding eyed him, snorted, then retreated to sulk at the back of his stall.

  “He seems to understand you.” Admiration sounded in Irene’s voice.

  “I think he does. His safety has depended on staying away from those who treated him badly. I’m showing him that I’ll treat him well.”

  “You’re a strange man,” said Eli. “Like you think anyone is just as good as anyone else.”

  “He’s a good man,” Irene said softly. “That’s what a good man thinks.”

  Jonah wasn’t a man for fine words, but this simple statement from his wife set his heartbeat into a gallop. She looked every inch the proper teacher, dressed in sedate deep blue and with her hair pinned up neatly. But her smile—oh, that was altogether more intimate.

  He feared very much that he was blushing.

  He instructed the now-cheerful Eli to go to the tack room. There was always something that needed to be cleaned or oiled there, and the little girl was unlikely to break anything.

  “Here,” he told his wife. “I have something for you.” From his pocket, he retrieved more sugar crumbles and handed them to Irene.

  “How did you know I wanted this?” She looked amused as he tumbled the crystals into her palm. “I’ve been longing for dirty pocket candy.”

  “It’s not for you,” he hastened to explain. “It’s for you to make friends with the horses. Well, just Jake for today.”

  “Oh. All right.” She kept her palm flat, extending it cautiously toward Jake. The gray stretched his head forward, nuzzling the treat from Irene’s hand with slow movements. The horse understood, Jonah was sure, that the moment was important.