by Holly Newman
The Rocking Horse, a Christmas short story
Copyright © 1992, 2012 by Holly Thompson
All rights reserved. No part of this book may be used or reproduced by any means, graphic, electronic, or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, taping or by any information storage retrieval system without the written permission of the publisher except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles and reviews.
This is a work of fiction. All of the characters, names, incidents, organizations, and dialogue in this novel are either the products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously.
TABLE OF CONTENTS
COVER
COPYRIGHT
TITLE PAGE
THE ROCKING HORSE
A Note from Holly
"Bayneville Castle estate ahead, miss!" called out the jehu.
Miss Jocelyn Maybrey drew aside the heavy leather curtain covering the coach window. Beside her, Lady Maybrey stirred and looked over her shoulder, each woman seeking her first glimpse of the legendary estate.
Just ahead, massive stonework marked the entrance to the property.
Lady Maybrey touched her daughter's hand and gently squeezed it. Jocelyn turned her head and smiled. For all her London beau monde savvy, her mother was excited. Well, Jocelyn wryly admitted, so was she.
Christmas at Bayneville! Memories for a lifetime!
The coach turned right to pass between cream stone walls surmounted with snarling lions that overlooked the roadway. Dry, ash-brown leaves swirled upward as they passed, sailing into the air. Chiseled in the Roman style into the stone wall below the lions was the legend BAYNEVILLE, stark and arrogant. Reading it, Jocelyn felt a shiver of anticipation. She turned her head and stared down the drive and across a half-mile expanse of scythed winter-browned grass to the massive stone structure known as Bayneville Castle, seat of the Marques of Tarkington, scion of the Bayne family.
Bayneville Castle—for all its size and name—was not a true castle. The current structure had been built over the long-ago ruins of an earlier, smaller building more deserving of that sobriquet. Nonetheless, Bayneville was more than a country estate with pretenses to importance. So vast were its holdings and outbuildings, its tenantry and craftsmen, that the estate was a self-sufficient village.
But as impressive as the entire estate was, all agreed it was the house and its immediate grounds that commanded attention. From a guidebook she'd purchased at Hatchard's Bookshop, Lady Maybrey had learned that the main building was constructed around three separate courtyards. At either ends of the house wings jutted away from the main body with each wing ending in a tower topped by a cupola.
". . . And," she told her daughter as their carriage bowled down the long drive, "there are two formal gardens, a maze, a topiary garden, and an orangery. All worthy of investigation, it says in the guidebook, as the finest examples of their kind,"
"In December?" Jocelyn asked absentmindedly as she rocked gently with the carriage.
"Yes, even in December. Imagine. It does sound too fantastic to be real. . . . And to think your Charles stands heir."
Jocelyn frowned at her mother's presumption of a betrothal between her and Mr. Bayne, and at her consideration of Mr. Bayne's position as Tarkington's heir. "Only if his cousin does not remarry and sire sons," she carefully reminded, "and I think it macabre to dwell on that possibility."
"Well, naturally one does not wish ill for Tarkington, but they do say the Marques has not been himself since his wife's death. Why, I don't believe he's visited his London house at all!"
Jocelyn sighed. Her mother considered all events in light of London society. "Mama, the gentleman has been in mourning the past year. It would not do for him to have lived a social life. And, as you have often stated to me, if one cannot go to London entertainments, why be in London at all?"
Lady Maybrey nodded, the tall apricot plumes in her bonnet swaying. "But don't forget Lord Tarkington's involvement with politics. That should not have been disrupted by mourning. Maybrey says he was extremely active and vocal prior to his wife's death. His presence has been sorely missed in the House of Lords—by his peers and by those in the House of Commons who saw him as a peer for the people."
"Perhaps his notion of what is proper for mourning is stricter than most," Jocelyn suggested.
Lady Maybrey nodded and stared at the manor, a pensive expression on her finely drawn features. She worried her lower lip between her teeth for a moment, then: "I do hope overly circumspect behavior does not put a damper on the festivities. What a dreary visit we should have, and how unfortunate it would be for dear Lady Mary."
Jocelyn laughed. "Lady Mary is the liveliest of creatures. I cannot imagine her easily acquiescing to sober entertainments—especially as the Christmas Eve ball and the subsequent house party are to celebrate her betrothal to Lord Killingham. No. Whatever her elder brother's disposition, she'll run her way, as shall all the guests. Mark my words."
Lady Maybrey took her eyes away from the manor house and leaned back against the velvet squabs. "If that is true, this may well prove the social event of the year. And prove your highlight as well if Charles should come up to scratch. . . . Wouldn't that be lovely? I can think of a few mamas whose noses would be good and tweaked," she finished with relish.
"Oh, Mama," Jocelyn gently chided, shaking her head in loving exasperation though a faint blush of embarrassment tinted her cheeks.
Sir Jasper and Lady Maybrey more than enjoyed the social milieu. They thrived upon it. It was their life. The Maybreys were invited everywhere. Jocelyn could recall very few times when their house wasn't filled with guests. Her parents had always been socially active and socially conscious. Consequently, they had not been surprised when Jocelyn was readily accepted into society as she made her social bow. Though her fortune was only modest and her appearance pleasant rather than beautiful, she quickly found herself with a handful of dedicated, worthy suitors.
Her favor fell upon Mr. Charles Bayne, for she felt the most at ease with him. They became friends, and Jocelyn supposed that was adequate for a good marriage. She knew her parents smiled and nodded approval. Charles Bayne was socially active, well connected, interested in government, possessed a modest though adequate competence, and stood heir to a Marques. What more could a young woman require in a husband? And, though she may blush at her mother's verbalization, Jocelyn did expect Mr. Bayne to solicit her father for her hand in marriage during their visit at Bayneville Castle. What a suitable finale that would be to her first season. Everyone said so. She could be serene in the knowledge that her life was secure and mapped out to continue in the mold created by her parents. Hers would be a familiar and comfortable existence.
But how could she account for the little mental gremlin who wouldn't leave her alone, the imp of mischief that searched for something else than an ordered existence? In the lonely hours of the night when she lay abed, sleepless, staring at the shadowy folds of the bed hangings, Jocelyn wrestled with a sense of deep disquiet. It felt like an itch that had no source and therefore could not be scratched.
Something was wrong. Desperately wrong. She was not content and she did not know why. She wanted to dismiss the odd feelings as hesitancy to leave her family, to commit to marriage; but somehow that explanation was too simplistic. Nonetheless, she wouldn't—couldn't—guess at an answer. She had to know.
She hoped this trip to Bayneville, away from familiar, everyday events in London, would help her grasp what this odd feeling might be and therefore help her discover a cure, or at least an acceptance.
She sighed and turned her head to look at Bayneville again. The nearer the carriage came, th
e grander the estate's appearance seemed. It went on forever, a formidable beauty. Odd to even consider finding simple answers in such an ornate backdrop. Looking at the vast property, Jocelyn felt an odd prick of curiosity for the man who held it, the eighth Marques of Tarkington. She'd yet to meet him, even though he was the elder brother of her best friend. She did know him by sight, though, for she'd seen him from a distance at the theater and about town.
Lady Mary's mother preferred London to the country; consequently after the requisite mourning period following her widowhood, she took up residence at the Tarkington London house, bringing Lady Mary with her. The Marques and Marchioness remained at Bayneville for most of the year, coming to London for the height of the season and when Parliament sat.
It was only now, after Lady Mary's betrothal, that the dowager marchioness came to spend any time in the country. There was curiosity in London as to why the Lady Tarkington deemed it necessary for Lady Mary's betrothal party to be at Bayneville Castle. Still, society did not complain, for when invited they were not averse to journeying to the country to visit legendary Bayneville Castle.
According to the letter Jocelyn received from her friend, the house would be full by Christmas. Looking at the bucolic peace of Bayneville in its pastoral setting, Jocelyn felt a surge of joyous relief in the knowledge that she and her mother were arriving before the press of London guests bringing London society with them. Her eyes sparkled in anticipation, and her pulse quickened.
As the carriage drew up before the entrance to Bayneville, Jocelyn was delighted to see her friend coming out to greet them, a hastily donned shawl thrown about her slight shoulders. Lady Mary skipped down the wide stone steps, eager for the waiting footman to open the carriage door and set the steps. Jocelyn's anticipation matched Lady Mary's.
Behind Lady Mary, descending the broad manor steps in a sedate manner, came an elegant gentleman dressed in a soft pigeon-gray suit. His dark hair waved back off a high brow, though one recalcitrant lock curled forward. Studying his confident, settled demeanor, Jocelyn was surprised that his hair dared to fall out of place. She recognized the man at once. Here was the eighth Marques of Tarkington, Simon Charles Froborough Bayne.
It struck Jocelyn that his mien—while in high contrast to his lively sister's and his amiable cousin's—was not the somber, morose aspect she'd expected. Nor was there the arrogance one often found in a man of his portion. His was a hard face, true, full of angles and planes with a stubborn, square-cut jaw. Nonetheless there was a welcoming smile on his lips, and he radiated a calm contentedness. Here was not a man with ghosts to dispel, a mask to wear, or hidden goals to achieve. He was as he was.
Fascinated at this divergence from idle supposition, Jocelyn stared at him until her attention was recalled by the feel of Lady Mary's arms about her shoulders in enthusiastic greeting. She blushed at her preoccupation with the Marques—and not a little for the realization of the rudeness in her stare. Flustered, she fixed her eyes firmly upon Lady Mary and vowed not to let them stray again in the Marques's direction until they were introduced. She grasped her friend's hand, kissed her cheek in gentle salute, and exclaimed on how good it felt to see her again.
"And I you! I swear I have been driving poor Tarkington to distraction with my pacing and wondering when you'd arrive! I'm so glad you and Lady Maybrey could come early," Lady Mary said, turning to greet Jocelyn's mother. "Mama's in the parlor anxious for all the London news."
"After your guests have had a chance to rest and freshen up," interceded Tarkington in a calm, surprisingly low voice that rumbled along Jocelyn's spine. She gave a tiny, involuntary shiver.
"Well, yes," Lady Mary agreed with her brother. "Oh, dear, and I have been most shatter-brained again, haven't I? I haven't yet made you known to Tarkington!"
"Ah, I was wondering when you would recall that trifle," Tarkington faintly drawled.
"I do apologize, but excitement and happiness overwhelm all thoughts!"
"Odd, I thought that an everyday occurrence," murmured her brother.
"Beast!" Lady Mary exclaimed, laughing. "Now please hush, I'm trying to do this right." She drew her shawl closer about her shoulders, cleared her throat, and drew herself up. "Tarkington, may I present Lady Maybrey and Miss Maybrey?" she said solemnly—and promptly sneezed.
Everyone laughed, Lady Mary pouted, and Jocelyn clapped a hand over her mouth, apologetic blushes for her laughter running high.
When the laughter quieted and the smiles settled, Lord Tarkington greeted Lady Maybrey easily, for they were known to each other from London's political circles. Then he turned and, quite to Jocelyn's surprise, winked at her. Her blushes soared again, and she could only hope that as she ducked her head and curtsied he would not notice.
To her relief he merely acknowledged her greeting before turning back to her mother and offering his arm to escort her into the house.
"We have so much to talk about and to do before the ball!" Lady Mary said as she and Jocelyn linked arms and followed behind. "When will your father and Charles arrive?"
"Not until Christmas Eve, I'm afraid. They would have come with us, but there was some meeting or other on the twenty-third they needed to attend."
Lady Mary pulled a handkerchief out of the cuff of her dress and dabbed at her nose, which was turning bright pink in the cold outside air. "Aunt Bayne has not been happy that Charles delayed his arrival. She lives in the Dower House, you know."
"Yes, Mr. Bayne told me."
"Mr. Bayne?" Lady Mary teased archly.
"There has been nothing formalized between us," Jocelyn said carefully.
"Yet. . . . But I should not tease you. I know how uncertain I was before Edward approached Tarkington for my hand in marriage. Even when I knew he meant to! I miss him. I wish he were here now. Unfortunately he arrives with the rest of the Killinghams in the very midst of the Christmas Eve rush!" She sneezed again, jamming her handkerchief against her nose. "Oh, Jocelyn, I am so happy! I would you were, too! As I would everyone share in my joy."
She paused as she watched her brother bow over Lady Maybrey's hand before he consigned her to the care of Mrs. Penneybacker, the housekeeper. "But I believe I should forfeit it all just to see my brother the way he was before Diana died," she whispered, "so involved with society and politics. Active, running hither and yon on a moment's notice. Giving speeches, writing papers. It's as if that part of his light that burned so brightly was snuffed out with her death. I don't understand it." She shook her head, then sighed. "But this is not the time for regrets, is it?"
"No, not at all. This is the time for your future! Though I should say I think the more of you for your concern."
Lady Mary smiled mistily, then she sniffed and brusquely gathered her composure. "Well, I've delayed you long enough, and you must be anxious to shed that heavy cloak and wash up after your long journey. I swear I have become a goose of late with my run-on nonsense. Emmie here shall show you to your room. It is quite one of the nicest, even if it is seemingly in the back beyond. I hope you like it. We can talk more—"
"And more and more!" Jocelyn interjected.
Lady Mary laughed, her ebullience returning. "Yes, and more and more, after you rest. We shall be having an early country dinner tonight. Four o'clock. Shall I see you an hour before downstairs?"
Jocelyn easily agreed and turned to follow the maid. Emmie led her up the wide marble staircase to a broad landing. From the landing there were slightly narrower marble staircases at either end that continued upward. Emmie took the right-hand staircase to the first floor, where tall triple windows looked out across the front lawn and the long drive that approached the house. She led Jocelyn down a wide, oak-paneled hall past innumerable rooms and two side halls. Finally Emmie stopped where the hall ended and another branched off to the left. She opened a heavy oak door with shiny brass fittings that was more reminiscent of a castle door than a modern bedroom door. But once Jocelyn went inside, she understood and cooed with delight. It was
one of the circular tower rooms her mother had told her about after reading the country house guidebook.
Three large and separate windows dominated the opposite wall, each covered with heavy dark green velvet drapes swagged back and held with gold cord. Between each window hung jewel-toned tapestries. On the floor lay an intricately patterned Oriental carpet. The bed, hung with the same velvet as the windows, stood on a dais in the middle of the room. The fireplace was on the same wall as the entrance door. In the hearth a fire was burning brightly, warming the room.
Jocelyn crossed to one of the windows to study the view beyond. Bayneville Castle itself and its surroundings fascinated her. It was so big, the expanse of land so vast! And so other-worldly to her, a city-bred woman. To the south the winter-browned grass undulated gently down to a narrow river lined with tall, bare-branched trees etched against the hillside. Beyond, up the sloping hill, were green hedges and dark pine set against a pale blue-washed sky.
She went from window to window. To the east stood a village of estate buildings, to the north a small dower house, a church, and greenhouses with orchards beyond. Emmie came up beside her to quietly point out and name the landmarks. Jocelyn was touched by the young girl's thoughtfulness and silently vowed to procure a small Christmas token for the maid.
Just as they were about to turn away, a tall, hatless figure in a worn coat and stained leather breeches crossed the ground from the house toward one of the smaller whitewashed outbuildings. Jocelyn recognized the figure as the Marques and said as much aloud.
"Yes, Miss. He be going to the carpenter's," the maid said. She turned away to hang up Jocelyn's coat.
"The carpenter's?" Jocelyn asked before she could stop herself. Silently she cursed her wayward curiosity, the bane of her existence. It did not do to appear nosy before servants, especially when one had just arrived.
Emmie didn't seem to notice. "Aye." She paused to smile and glance toward the window. " 'Tis for his little ladyship, don't y' know."
