The horse eyed him warily and instead of taking the apple, it bit his hand, gently. Parsifal laughed.
“You are an unforgiving one, aren’t you? I suppose that was a warning, eh?” He pushed at the horse’s nose, and it released his hand, delicately taking the apple at last. He put on the bridle, halter, and saddle, the horse giving only a token protest.
At last Parsifal sat upon the bay and set off at a canter toward the woods. The impatience to be gone from the house made him press his knees into the horse’s side and lean forward, and the horse leaped into a gallop. The stifled feeling fell away. Parsifal grinned, feeling the wind upon his face and through his hair. It was a good day for this, riding through the fresh and verdant fields. The sky was a brilliant azure, the sun a gold splash upon it, and the woods ahead were darkly green and welcoming. Sitting in a carriage was nothing to this, though Geoffrey would say differently. How could one feel the raw power of muscle and speed, or the sure but sensitive link of man and animal through a thing of wood and wheels? No, riding on a fine and responsive horse as this must be the next best thing to having the power and strength of the animal itself.
He could see a stile far ahead of him. Parsifal was inclined to rein in the horse and take it gently. But the horse must surely have caught his exhilaration, for it shook its head and pulled at the reins. He could almost feel it thinking, no, no, let me go! Parsifal grinned. Very well!
He readied himself, felt the bay’s muscles bunch beneath him, then let the horse go, flying, flying into the sun. A laugh broke from him for the sheer joy that filled him. Then the horizon rose up in front of them at last, and they were down, earthbound once again. He had always loved this, flying through the air with a good horse beneath him, and he knew he would never tire of it.
The woods were near now, and Parsifal slowed the horse to a canter, then a walk. A cool breeze blew from the trees in front of him, smelling of earth and bracken. It felt good after the hard ride, drying the sweat upon his brow. He would go to his favorite tree—an old oak with broad, low limbs—and sit, letting the sound of rustling leaves soothe his thoughts and calm his emotions, as they had always done since he was a boy. Perhaps he would also take out his pennywhistle that he hid in a hole in the oak and play it for a while. It was something his father had given him long ago, a careless gift when he returned from London once. But Parsifal had treasured it and slowly learned to play it, away from the gibes of his brother and sister.
He tethered the horse—he should give it a name, soon—and climbed upon the limb of one tree, leaning against the large trunk. The wind sang through the trees, and he tried to listen, but images of Annabella and the sound of her voice came to him instead. He remembered the way she looked in her mother’s room, the way her eyes looked large in the dim room, and how stray beams of sunlight flashed across her cheek and breasts when she moved. And then his mother, talking of her fortune and of Geoffrey. His hand curled into a fist. No, not Geoffrey. Even the Duke of Stratton was better than Geoffrey.
Or himself. The thought whispered through his heart, and his fist tightened even more. Perhaps there was a chance. She had talked to him at their meal, and he had begun to feel at ease. She had even seemed to want to talk with him and had spoken of his kindness, which of course was nonsense. Any good host would have acted as he had. But there was her parents’ attitude toward his family to consider. Lady Smith had been quite clear about her opinion of the Wentworths; he could hardly expect it would change. In addition, there was his own mother’s ambitions—it was a ludicrous thing to think he could overcome that and his brother’s practiced charm—and the rumors connecting Miss Smith and the Duke of Stratton. He pushed the images of Annabella aside to a far corner of his mind—thinking of these things only aggravated him.
He reached into a crevice in the tree trunk and pulled out the pouch that contained his pennywhistle, then examined the whistle carefully for rust before he put it to his lips. An errant flash of sunlight through the leaves above made the ring on his finger shimmer brilliantly as it had done before, and in the dimness beneath the high arch of the trees it seemed almost unearthly. Parsifal smiled at his own fancy. When one grew up in a supposedly ghost-ridden house as Wentworth Abbey, it was easy to have such ideas. He had thought perhaps the ring had belonged to the thirteenth Earl of Grafton—he had found it in the hem of the Cavalier costume, and the thirteenth earl had certainly been a Cavalier. And who else would have hidden such a ring? Perhaps the earl had hidden it, a bribe for information or a way to pay for safe passage for some Royalists he was to rescue.
If so, it properly belonged with the rest of the family treasures—but just for a little longer he would wear it before he put it away. His hand closed over the ring, and he knew that he did not want to give it up. Perhaps, just perhaps, no one would want it. Parsifal sighed. He should be glad he was well off on his own, but it would be a pleasant thing to have something old that belonged to his ancestors.
He put the whistle to his lips again. A high sweet sound came out—it was still good. He was alone here, and he could play in peace, and perhaps he would forget for a time the things that were hopeless to wish for. Then he would go back to the house, for there was some work in the gardens he wished to do before dinner.
But as he played the songs he remembered from his boyhood and some he remembered from later days, the image of Annabella danced in front of him and would not be banished. Parsifal put down his pennywhistle and groaned. This was useless, and what else was he doing but hiding? It would be better if he returned to work in his gardens after all.
He put away the whistle, then rode the bay back to the house. Perhaps good hard work would bring him down to earth again; at the very least he could enjoy being around things that were real and alive instead of thinking of insubstantial dreams. The gardens were not far from the stables, so he would go there directly. He made sure the bay was fed, then picked up a shovel from the shed beside it.
“Ah, my dear brother.”
Parsifal looked up, startled, at the tall, loose-limbed man in front of him. He rode upon a fine gelding, which Parsifal had never seen before.
“Oh, it’s you, Geoffrey.” He had not realized his eldest brother had come home from—from wherever. He never did know when Geoffrey would appear, or from where. “New horse?”
“Quite, oh simple one.” Lord Geoffrey reined in his horse, stopping before his younger brother. “Lord Bramley’s breakdown. I bought him last week at Tattersall's.”
Parsifal frowned and gazed keenly at the animal. “Hmm. How much?”
“Two hundred guineas—and please! The deal’s done, and I do not want to hear how I might have got myself a better horse.”
Parsifal shrugged. “As you wish.” He continued walking toward the gardens. He could sense Geoffrey’s attention upon him; his brother was no doubt staring at him, his dark brows drawn together in a frown. He almost smiled when he heard the sound of the horse’s hooves behind him.
“Very well, damn you, Parsifal! By how much was I done for?”
Parsifal turned and grinned widely. “Not much. I have heard that Bramley’s horses were showy pieces, but not much in substance. Seems like you picked the best of the lot.”
Geoffrey showed his teeth briefly in a sarcastic smile. “I thank you. You do not know how much I value your opinion.”
It was useless to reply to Geoffrey’s words or acid tone. Parsifal hunched his shoulders in a shrug and turned away. He would not let his brother’s sourness further ruin his day. Besides, it was always thus with Geoffrey: there was something in him that always wanted to poke and pinch, and it was best if he ignored him, if possible. He heard the horse’s hooves come close again.
“Oh, by the way, our mother wishes to speak to you.”
Parsifal bit back a groan. No doubt Mother had some task for him to do ... and he wished she had given it to Geoffrey instead. He glanced up at his brother, who was wearing a particularly sweet smile, and grimaced. No doubt Mother
had wished Geoffrey to do something odious, and his brother had sloughed it off to him, instead.
“Oh?”
“She said Lord Laughton has sent a note to you, but there is something else she was going on about. She has vinaigrette in hand, as well.”
“Ah. I suppose I should be grateful that you tell me this.”
Geoffrey’s smile grew wider. “Yes, you should. I was thinking of not saying a word about it.”
“Good thing I said you had the best of Bramley’s horses, I see.” Parsifal looked toward the house and grimaced. No, he would go to his gardens. He doubted the task his mother had for him was urgent.
“Now how am I to take your words, brother? Was the horse worth the money or not?”
Parsifal glanced at Geoffrey, who was now frowning slightly. “You will take my words as you will, as you always do, of course.”
The frown turned into a sneer. ‘The truth, then, for are you not Parsifal, ‘the gentil, perfit knight?’ ”
Parsifal turned away again and strode toward the gardens. He could feel his face grow warm with anger. He never understood why Geoffrey sneered at him. Sometimes he wished he’d go away and leave him alone, not keep popping up here and there, poking at him like a gadfly. He did not understand Geoffrey and probably never would. It was always best to try to ignore him as much as possible.
He could not, this time. Geoffrey’s quirt whistled past his ear and landed, stinging, upon Parsifal’s shoulder.
“You will not turn your back on me, brother.”
Hot, sharp anger flared through Parsifal’s mind. He turned and seized the quirt, tearing it from Geoffrey’s hand.
“Don’t. Don’t ever do that again.” Parsifal’s words felt acid on his tongue and he spat them out. Surprise was writ large on Geoffrey’s face, but Parsifal did not care. He threw the quirt toward the stables and noted with a queer satisfaction that it landed in a dungheap. He turned and walked swiftly toward his gardens again.
A shout of laughter followed him. “So, the worm has turned, has it? But I do believe that is what worms do in compost, eh, Parsifal?”
Parsifal slammed the door of the walled garden behind him and began to dig, hoping he could forget how much he almost—almost—hated his brother.
Chapter 8
Annabella wandered to the window of her mother’s room and looked out upon the field below and the woods beyond. She watched as a man took a bay horse out from the stables, mounted it, and rode off at a canter. It was, she was certain, Mr. Wentworth. There were not many men who had brown hair so unfashionably long, or careless in his dress. The bay was clearly fresh, for it reared a little and tossed its head, but Mr. Wentworth sat easily upon it, his body moving as if it were part of the horse he rode upon. She smiled. How odd it was that he was so at ease upon an animal, but so stiff and wary amongst people. She had managed to bring him out of himself a little, however, and had been rewarded with his smiles. She was beginning to like his smiles quite a bit, for they had a certain charm, perhaps because they were so rare. But it was rather like coaxing some wild animal from its lair, and took some effort.
She saw him lean forward, and the horse took off at a gallop. An odd sense of exhilaration came to her as she watched them. It seemed almost as if some elemental power exuded from the pair, horse and man—and then she saw the stile before them. Her breath caught in her throat— no, surely he was not going to attempt it, it was too high! But the horse went faster than ever and leaped—almost seeming to be suspended in air for a moment—and they were over.
“What is it, Bella?” came her mother’s voice.
“Oh, nothing ... I was watching Mr. Wentworth riding a horse. He is a superb horseman, from what I can see.” She turned and smiled at her mother, who still looked pale and wan, then went to the bedside. “Do you wish me to read to you, Mama?”
Lady Smith smiled in return. “No, I wish you would go and enjoy yourself instead of sitting by my side for the whole of the afternoon. From what I can see, the day is quite lovely, and I am sure—if Mr. Wentworth or a good stout groom or footman accompanied you—you could roam the gardens again or at least see if they have a picture gallery.”
Annabella gave her mother a triumphant glance. “I see you have revised your opinion of Mr. Wentworth —admit it, Mama, was I not right?”
“You are becoming sadly impertinent, Annabella!” her mother replied sternly, but ruined the effect of her words by chuckling. “And I admit it—there is nothing to fear from Mr. Wentworth, and perhaps something to admire. I think I can depend on him to be responsible for your safety—and what is that face you are making? Do you not like Mr. Wentworth ?”
“Oh, heavens, no! I like him quite well, for he is a good sort of man, and would even be handsome if he did not dress so shabbily. It is merely that I cannot like being so confined! I am afraid I have become used to country ways and prefer to go about as I please.”
“It is regrettable,” Lady Smith replied. “But it is not different from how you must comport yourself in London. Surely, you can bear it for a little longer, at least until your father comes home.”
Annabella shrugged. “I suppose I can. Caroline has asked that I walk about the gardens with her this afternoon. I have already gone out with the duke, but I suppose I can go out again. You know you may ask a servant any time to fetch me if you need me.”
“Oh, heavens, Bella! I do not need any more coddling, and certainly not from my own daughter! No, I am not that badly off, and you may go with Caroline or Mr. Wentworth or whomever you please—except perhaps not Lord Grafton. My maid told me he arrived today,” said Lady Smith testily. Then she sighed and patted her daughter’s hand, smiling a little. “You see? I am an ungrateful wretch of a mother, and do not deserve your attentions. Go amuse yourself, Bella. You will make me feel more of a wretch if you stay here, and surely you do not want that?”
Annabella could not help feeling a little hurt, but she looked at her mother’s tired face and thought perhaps it was that she needed rest. She nodded. “Very well, Mama. But you must have a servant fetch me if you need me!”
“Yes, yes, Bella! Now, do go!” Her mother waved a hand at her. “You will have me snapping at you if you do not—you know how I am when I am ill and recovering.”
Annabella smiled then and gave a relieved sigh as she left the room. It was true, her mother always was more irritable when recovering from an illness, and so this must be a good sign. Very well, then! She would find Caroline, and then perhaps go to the gardens.
Caroline was not disposed to go outside when Annabella found her. It was too sunny, she declared, and would ruin her complexion. But a walk in the picture gallery would certainly be welcome, although why Annabella wanted to gaze at a number of fusty ancestors, she did not know,
“It is either that or come out into the gardens with me,” Annabella said.
Caroline pouted. “Well, I suppose the gallery is best. I warn you, Bella! They are a dull collection of people.”
“We need not go for long, I assure you. I intend to see the gardens afterward, for I have heard they are quite pretty.”
“Oh, if you like that sort of thing. Parsifal does, and I cannot think anything he does would be at all exciting, for he is the dullest person imaginable!”
Annabella barely bit back a heated retort—how could Caroline speak of her brother so? But she would not make it any better by being rude. “People have different interests, to be sure,” she replied instead. “I daresay what one person finds interesting, another would find immensely dull. It may not mean that interest—or that person—is dull, however.”
“I daresay,” Caroline said carelessly. She pushed open a door that opened out into a large, long room, dimly lit.
“There. I believe we have portraits dating from the fifteenth century or some such—Parsifal would know. You should have him tell you about these, or Mama. Both of them are tiresomely knowledgeable about it, but Parsifal most of all.”
Annabella p
ressed her lips together and did not utter the tart words that came to her tongue. She turned to a picture of a gentleman in Elizabethan clothes. He was dark haired—as were all the Wentworths—but did not bear much resemblance to any of the present-day ones. “Who is this one? Is he a Wentworth? He does not look like anyone in your family.”
“No, he does not, but he is a Wentworth —the tenth Earl of Grafton, in fact,” said Caroline. “We do not get our looks from him, but from his wife, a Spaniard. Our family seems to have a fondness for Spaniards. In fact, my grandfather married one, and his father before him.” She pointed to the portrait next to the tenth earl’s. “See, there is the tenth countess. I have often fancied that I have her eyes— what do you think?” Caroline widened her eyes, obviously trying to make a claim to the exotic beauty of the lady in front of them, and Annabella suppressed a smile.
“Yes, you do, about the eyes and mouth I believe,” she said gravely. It was true, actually, for Caroline had just a bit of a tilt to her dark brown eyes, and her lips were red and full. She turned to the next portrait. It was of a man in sober Puritan garb. “Who is this?”
Caroline wrinkled her nose. “He is the younger brother of the thirteenth earl. A Roundhead, as you see. Do you not think he looks like Parsifal? I think he was probably equally as dull, too, for they did not like to dance or do anything else that was amusing.”
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