A Gentleman’s Game

by Theresa Romain

  “Oh, no. No, no, no,” muttered Rosalind. Lombard was shouting a far worse epithet, one that halted the outriders. He raced after Epigram, boots raising puffs of road dust, but no one could trot as fast as a horse except…well, a trotting horse. Rosalind drew Farfalla to a halt, but she was too unsteady in her sidesaddle to gallop, and the outriders were too far off…

  But here came Nathaniel, nudging Bumblebee into an easy canter. Rosalind turned in her saddle, watching him pass Lombard and catch up with Epigram just before he reached the cart.

  At once, Nathaniel halted the cob and leaned from his saddle to catch the colt’s lead line. When Epigram tried to take another step, he found himself pulled up short, then had his head turned the way from which he’d come. Shaking his head, the bay colt took another step.

  Rosalind could see Nathaniel’s lips moving, a low, slow patter of calm speech. But Epigram, usually so placid, wanted to follow the farmer’s cart as badly as Rosalind had ever wanted anything in her life. It was as though the colt wanted to make up for every mouthful of feed he’d left untouched during his colic.

  She remembered the almonds in the pocket of her traveling dress. Pulling the paper twist forth, she rattled it and called Epigram’s name. With one hand holding Farfalla’s reins, she flipped open the folded paper. Could horses smell sugar? Surely they had a better sense of smell than people.

  Aha. Apparently horses could. Farfalla’s ears pricked up, and she turned her head to fix Rosalind with a reproachful brown eye. You had a treat all this time, and you weren’t going to share it with me?

  “Er—this really is not a good time, Farfalla,” said Rosalind. “Please. I’ll plait your mane if you help with this.”

  The dainty ears swiveled as though the mare was deciding. Again, Rosalind rattled the nuts and called Epigram’s name. Nathaniel shot her a grateful look, and with a few more words in Epigram’s ear, he turned the colt away from the cart. Puffing, Lombard pounded up to the wayward colt, took hold of his lead, and coaxed him back into line.

  As they passed Rosalind, she extended a flat palm with the remaining few sugared almonds atop it. Epigram blinked at her with knowing dark eyes as he lipped up the treat.

  “I wonder if you knew what you were about the whole time,” Rosalind murmured. “Did you want these instead of something from the cart? I’d make the same choice. They are delicious, aren’t they?”

  As though annoyed that he had missed a chance to create a fuss, Pale Marauder stamped a foot and, as soon as Lombard drew near with the other colt, shouldered into Epigram. If Farfalla had possessed the power of speech, Rosalind imagined she would have rolled her eyes and muttered, “Boys. Honestly.”

  “You deserve that plait,” Rosalind said, busying her fingers in the mare’s coarse mane while Nathaniel clambered down from Bumblebee’s back.

  The farmer must have been hard of hearing to miss the agitation in the party he’d just passed. But he didn’t miss Nathaniel riding up to him, hopping down alongside the donkey, and laying one gentle hand on the beast while the other pulled coins from his purse. Rosalind watched, curious, as he negotiated with the grizzled man, then came away with a handful of carrots.

  As the cart trundled on, Bumblebee received the first treat. The bay crunched the thin young carrot from tip to leaf as Nathaniel remounted. Every other horse, from the sturdy quartet ridden by the outriders to the chestnuts that pulled the carriage, also received one. Even Pale Marauder, once he was pulled away from Epigram. And Farfalla, whose mane was now a tidy row of half-plaited, half-sprung sections.

  And even Epigram, once he started walking alongside Lombard again.

  When Nathaniel dropped Bumblebee into a rolling stride alongside Farfalla, Rosalind said, “I presume a milkmaid pulled the lead from Lombard’s hand.”

  “Who else?” said Nathaniel. “And another encouraged the cart to roll by.”

  She felt shy about saying more, as though to speak would be to remind him of her superfluous presence. Nathaniel had handled this hiccup in their smooth travel swiftly and with goodwill. Rosalind hadn’t been needed to ensure Sir William’s wishes were respected. She really wasn’t needed on this journey at all.

  “You knew just what to do,” she finally said. “To keep the horses calm.”

  “I’ve met milkmaids before.” He darted a glance at her, sky-bright and loaded with wicked humor. “But what were you about, giving Epigram your almonds? If I’d known you hadn’t eaten them all, I’d have shoved them in your mouth when you breakfasted this morning.”

  “How gentlemanly.”

  He chuckled. “I mean well, you know. I don’t want you to give away any bit of that happiness you felt yesterday in getting what you wished.”

  While one hand held the rein, her other strayed to the broad silken ends of her new green ribbon. “I didn’t give it away. I made it last longer.”

  “By rationing it out? Happiness is not such a scarcity as that, I hope.”

  “Whether it is or isn’t, I like knowing I have a few almonds in my pocket in case of need.”

  He shook his head. As though feeling a change in the reins, Bumblebee shook his head too. “I can see I’m never going to convince you that you should gobble up treats when they come your way. So instead I’ll thank you for your help. Without it, Epigram might have eaten half the fruit on that cart, and then we’d have had a new case of colic to treat.”

  “You wouldn’t have let that happen.” Yet his words brought a blush to her cheeks.

  “I wouldn’t have wanted it to. But no man can cope alone with the world’s milkmaids.” Though she watched the road, she thought he smiled. There was something different in the feel of the air. “I am glad you’re here.”

  Now, what was she to say to that? She managed only a sort of squeak and a deepening of the blush.

  Maybe she didn’t have to ration out happiness at that. She might not have almonds in her pockets anymore, but as long as she traveled with Nathaniel Chandler, another joy would be coming her way.

  * * *

  At the end of that day, they stopped at a posting house Nathaniel knew well near the town of Bishop’s Stortford. The Blue Castle was an ancient wattle-and-daub structure with age-blackened timbers in a diamond pattern brightened by white plaster. The galleries around the central courtyard sagged slightly, rather like a traveler ready to set down a heavy load.

  The innkeeper, Filbert, was used to wealthy travelers’ custom of arriving with their own horses and carriages. In the entryway, he greeted Nathaniel with his usual simper and bow, revealing as he did a patch of thinning dark hair across which he had slicked desperate strands. Thus began anew the familiar process of arranging lodging for people and beasts, for setting watches in the stable.

  When the grooms drifted off to join the ostlers in the stable, Filbert spotted Rosalind, and his smile fell. “We ca’er to polite folk, not to la’ybirds. She canno’ stay here.”

  Nathaniel’s head snapped back. He opened his mouth, ready to defend Rosalind’s honor—but she spoke first.

  “Mr. Filbert.” She lifted her chin. “Do you honestly imagine that a ladybird”—she spread her plummy accent heavily over the word—“would appear dressed in a straw bonnet and riding habit? Or that I would travel in company with so many men if I were improper? A lady takes one groom to preserve her reputation. I travel with two of them, as well as five guards, a coachman, and—”

  “Mr. Nathaniel Chandler,” Nathaniel said helpfully. “Who is nothing but proper, Filbert, as you know.”

  The innkeeper wiped his hands on the clean white apron that overspread his linen shirt and breeches. “I haven’ the room for her.”

  “Oh, that’s all right. She can have my room, and I’ll sleep in the stable.” He smiled as though the entire exchange had been a delight. “Problem solved.”

  The innkeeper looked doubtful. “I haven’ ever…”

  “Mr. Filbert.” Rosalind untied the bow of her bonnet strings, settling in. “If you know
Mr. Nathaniel Chandler well enough to know how proper he is—”

  Nathaniel coughed.

  “—then surely you are familiar with his father. And with the baronet’s exactitude. And with the amount of custom he sends southward from Newmarket.”

  A bob of the balding head. “I am, but—”

  “I am his secretary since the marriage of his daughter, who is now Lady Crosby.”

  “But you’re a woman.” Poor Filbert. He didn’t know when to keep silent.

  “Through no doing of my own, yes. Fortunately Sir William is not concerned by the work of circumstance, but for the work of a person’s own hands. He has entrusted me with the task of reporting to him on the conditions of our travel.” Rosalind pulled off her bonnet, the better to look about the close, ancient entryway, all walls of the same aged black wood and plaster that made up the outside of the structure. “I wonder what report I shall make of you.”

  That ended the matter. Not only did Filbert recover his former simper, but he found a servant to bring Miss Agate’s trunk up to her chamber. Nathaniel could not help but smile. It was rather fun, watching Rosalind wield this sort of secondhand influence as though she had been born to it.

  “I meant wha’ I said abou’ no’ having the room for one o’ you,” Filbert murmured apologetically to Nathaniel once Rosalind had ascended the stairs to her chamber.

  He clapped the innkeeper on the shoulder. “And I meant what I said about being willing to sleep in the stable. It’s quite all right.”

  The travelers partook of a simple but tasty meal wherever they happened to be: some in the stables, some in the kitchens making free with the maids, some in the courtyard enjoying a pipe with their food. Nathaniel was everywhere, settling his staff in, removing a scullery maid from the embrace of the roguish Noonan, and measuring out the feed of the horses.

  He wondered if Rosalind would mention the forbidden treat of carrots in her letter that day. She probably wouldn’t. Not that it would be so bad, really, if Sir William knew his strict methods were not the only way a horse could be kept in good health.

  As twilight darkened the sky and servants lit lamps around the inn, Nathaniel searched for Rosalind. He found her just exiting the private parlor where she had taken her own dinner.

  “I am sorry you had to give up your room.” He thought she colored, but it was difficult to tell. The warm lamplight in the corridor made her all copper and gold.

  “Don’t let Filbert hear you say that,” he teased. “There are times for stammering an apology and times for lifting one’s chin. You did the latter, and beautifully.”

  Beautifully. She had, hadn’t she? But how else could a beautiful woman do anything? She had taken on a glow of more than mere prettiness, and it had nothing to do with the lamplight. No, it was a feeling welling up from within. She looked happy. Proud, maybe. All sorts of good things that made him want to look, and look some more, and hope for a smile to flower over her features when she felt his gaze.

  He cleared his throat, trying something—anything—to make himself stop staring. “Please don’t worry about it. I had already planned to spend half the night in the stable. Now you’ve saved me the trouble of rousing myself during the night.”

  “It’s kind of you to say so. It’s not as though we could share the room.”

  “Um. No, I don’t think that would be a wise idea.”

  And now which of them was looking more deeply? In whose cheeks was the color hotter? Because she had mentioned the idea, and he had admitted how unwise it would be, and now all he could think of was finding a place where they might be alone, and what they might do if they could let themselves be a little unwise.

  Already he had kissed her lips, the lips that curved into a shy and secret smile. He had felt her pressed tightly against him, her fingers twining in his hair as though she could not pull him close enough. If they were alone—if they shared a room but for a while—he would kiss her again, and more. He wanted to see the curves he had felt dimly through clothing, to cup the softness of her breast. To tongue what he had touched and had only imagined touching.

  “I hate being wise,” he muttered. Since he was standing right next to the corridor wall, he rested his forehead against it and gave it a gentle thump.

  Sense failed to return. His breeches remained tight. Wisdom laughed, flitting just out of reach.

  “I have…” Rosalind’s voice sounded thick. She cleared her throat, then tried again. “I have asked our host to send a letter for me tomorrow. I have told your father all is well, and that our progress is good.”

  He looked up from the blank whiteness of the wall. Her expression said more than these few sentences, but Nathaniel did not know how to read it.

  Not wanting to say too much or something wrong, he settled on, “Thank you.”

  She nodded. Since she did not turn toward the stairs to leave him, he was clearly supposed to say something else. He groped about for a reply, but everything commonplace seemed to have fled. What could he say? When you rode in silence today, were you thinking of me? maybe, or Why do you ration happiness?

  Are you standing here so I might kiss you again?

  So tempting, this last question. “Are you…” He cut himself off, clutching desperately for that bit of wisdom. “I…like your new ribbon,” he blurted out instead. “On your bonnet. It looks…nice.”

  “Oh.” Her left hand drifted to her temple, though her head was not covered by the bonnet at present. When she dropped her hand, she used it to rub at the elbow that he assumed bore her old scars. “Thank you. It’s not what I would have chosen for myself, but I’m glad to have it.”

  “Maybe we don’t always choose best for ourselves.” It was certainly true for him. He had chosen to pickle himself in drink, to hide the difficult things he did. The only thing he’d done well lately was to bribe Rosalind Agate to come along with him.

  Which also hadn’t been his choice, but his father’s.

  “Maybe not,” she said quietly. “But sometimes I think we do.” She rocked forward onto her toes, lifting herself. Closer, almost close enough that he could take her into his arms.

  But before he could reach out, she sank back again. Her cheeks went pink—unmistakable this time, even in the lamplight—and her lips made the shape of another sound, unvoiced, as though she was about to say more.

  Instead, she swallowed it back, only bidding him good night and mounting the stairs.

  He watched her climb away, wondering whether she had been talking about more than a ribbon, and how much he had to do with any of it.

  Twelve

  The following day began much as the one before: with Nathaniel nudging his party into a tidy line and setting them southward on the road to Epsom in the early morning hours. The weather hinted at heat, a summery replacement to the rainy beginning of the week.

  By late morning, the sun was bright and high in a cloudless white-blue. The road was pillowy with dust, flanked by fields of ripening crops on one side and sheep on the other, their neck bells jingling and their tentative maa’s like a hello. The world held a warm scent, all animal and turned earth and grassy young grains.

  A trickle of perspiration had formed at the base of Nathaniel’s neck and was currently trying to find a way down through his collar.

  Eyeing a likely bunch of trees a small way from the road, he called a midday halt beneath their shade. Tidy and smooth as the workings of a clock, the grooms and outriders and guards unhitched and unpacked and watered and settled. They first took care of the horses, as always, removing tack and setting forth Sir William’s prescribed amount of hay for the Thoroughbreds.

  For once, Pale Marauder was docile and began eating from the pile.

  Epigram swished his docked tail with impatience and bent his head to crop the grass about his hooves.

  “I’ll stop ’im.” Lombard set aside the saddle he’d begun to rub dry, rolling to his feet. “Sir William won’t like that none.”

  “Wait.” Nath
aniel reached out a quelling hand. What would be so bad about allowing the horse to eat grass? Horses were born to graze. Yes, Thoroughbreds were delicate beasts, but Epigram was a hardy specimen of the breed. He hadn’t eaten himself into a colic; the other ill horses proved that. As long as the grass was clean and healthy, why should it not keep the horse the same way?

  Nathaniel dropped to hands and knees, crawling around the horse—at a safe distance from careless hooves—to examine the ground. He spotted no insects or grit, no harmful plants. This was an equine feast of tender green blades, spring-tall and not yet dried by summer sun.

  Rising to his feet, he patted Epigram on the withers. “Have a good luncheon, old boy. You can eat your fill.”

  Pale Marauder raised his head, eyeing Nathaniel with a baleful dark gaze.

  “What? You’re trying to look like the good son, aren’t you, Roddy? No prodigals here. Eat grass if you like.”

  Horse to man, they stared. Pale Marauder’s ears swiveled, as though he was deciding what to do. Then he snorted, bent his head, and took another mouthful of hay. Then one of grass.

  “You’ll do it your own way, won’t you? Fair enough.” Nathaniel trailed a hand over the colt’s back, petting the short, fine coat. “As long as you’ve thought about it, there’s nothing wrong with doing something your own way.”

  God, he hoped that was true.

  In for a penny, in for a pound. The outriders’ horses and the steady chestnuts that pulled the carriage were turned loose on long lead ropes to roll and rest and graze near the road. A hamper packed by the Blue Castle was opened, its contents shared.

  Thus they passed one or two of the hottest hours of the day. Somehow, the servants had heard of the marvelous way Rosalind had put innkeeper Filbert in his place the evening before, and Nathaniel watched as the men clustered around her with a laughing ease tied to respect. By claiming her own honor, she had given them a share too.