Not something he was ready to forgo.
But even with her sitting so close that he could smell her perfume—lilacs, maybe?—time dragged. Conversation moved from meaningless to inane and his efforts not to yawn grew desperate, until finally, the vicar asked for their buggy to be brought around.
Rafe bounded from the couch, thinking the evening was over at last and soon he would be free to visit the stables before he retired. Following the Cathcarts out onto the drive to see the elderly couple on their way, he saw that it had stopped raining and a light still showed in one of the stable windows.
His spirits rose.
Then the endless good-byes began.
His frustration must have shown. “Patience, Mr. Jessup,” Josephine Cathcart whispered by his shoulder. “It’s a virtue, you know.”
“Not with me.”
By the time the Bohms’ buggy finally departed, the stable window was dark.
Mr. Cathcart said his goodnights and weaved back inside, leaving his daughter and Rafe standing on the drive. When Rafe gazed longingly at the dark stable, she chuckled. “Let them sleep, Mr. Jessup. They’ll be there in the morning.”
He masked his disappointment. “Dawn is at seven, you say?”
“Half past. Or thereabouts. Shall I see you then?”
“If you’re up that early.”
• • •
She wasn’t. After a restless night, Josephine slept so late that by the time she arose, Jamie was already dressed and gone, and the sun was beginning to burn away the morning mist. Without waiting for her maid or a corset, she threw on her serviceable boots, a woolen work dress under her barn coat, tied a scarf around her unruly hair, and hurried down the path to the stables.
Halfway there, she came to a stop when she saw Rayford Jessup, hatless, his long open duster swaying at his heels, walking into one of the pastures below. A bag hung from his hand. Stopping several yards out in a grassy spot, he scattered the contents of the bag on the ground at his feet—from Josephine’s vantage point, it looked like bites of carrot or apple—then he put the empty bag into the pocket of his coat and stood quietly, arms relaxed at his sides. After looking around for a moment, he began to speak. She wasn’t near enough to hear his words, but the tone was slow and even. Every now and then, he gave a low, warbling whistle.
Speaking to whom? There was no one else in sight. Curious to see what he was about, she continued to stand on the path and watch.
He cut a striking figure—Heathcliff, wandering the moors around Wuthering Heights—mysterious, guarded, tortured. Although she suspected that Mr. Jessup’s reasons to be wandering about had more to do with horses than lost love. Still, there was something romantic about him standing motionless in the mist, tall and lean, the sturdy length of back and breadth of shoulder showing strength as well as grace. She could imagine him equally comfortable on a horse as on a dance floor.
Did he dance? She loved to waltz. The whirling, fluid freedom of it was almost as exhilarating as riding a horse. Sadly, she rarely found suitable partners, being as tall as she was. All that panting on her breasts was quite distracting.
Down below, Mr. Jessup continued to speak to the trees at the back of the pasture. A gentle breeze ruffled his sun-bleached hair and sent mist swirling about his boots. She sensed he was waiting for something. Or someone. But she saw no one else and heard no other voices.
Then shadows moved through the trees. Big. Dark.
He whistled again.
Slowly the shadows emerged, taking on form and substance as they stepped hesitantly out of the mist and into the open.
The mares.
Heads up to test the air, they edged closer to this unknown intruder, their gangly foals close at their sides.
Mr. Jessup didn’t move. His voice remained calm, his occasional whistle cutting through the still morning air like a bird’s call.
Prissy, the bossy bay matriarch of the herd, snorted, then stepped hesitantly forward, ears pricked. The other mares and foals followed. She reached him first and for her courage received a scratching along her jaw and first chance at the treats on the ground. The other mares pushed in, crowding around him as they searched out every last morsel. Jessup gave each pats and scratches, murmuring all the time. After they had all sniffed his hands and gotten their praise and treats, he turned and walked away. The mares watched until he swung over the fence and disappeared into the stable, then dropped their heads to graze.
Bemused, Josephine continued down the path.
“Good morning, Mr. Hammersmith,” she said when she saw the burly Scot coming out of the feed room in the center of the stable.
He tugged the brim of his cap. “Morning, miss. Looking for Jamie, are ye?”
“Have you seen him?”
“Aye.” He tipped his head toward the other end of the stable. “He’s yon with Mr. Jessup, feeding the barn cats. He keeps bringing them treats, they’ll stop mousing, so they will.”
“I’ll remind him,” she called back, hurrying along. The customary sense of welcome coursed through her as she moved past the long rows of split stall doors. Most of the top doors were open. In some, she saw horses nosing their feed boxes, hunting the last kernel of grain. Other stalls were empty, the occupants having been turned out into their paddocks so the grooms could clean up behind them.
The snuffle and stomp of horses, the muttered voices of men working in the loft overhead, the smell of manure and hay and leather oils, even the dusty taste of the air, all combined to give her a deep feeling of peace.
This was where she was happiest. Not in glittering ballrooms, or strolling the fashionable streets of London. Here, with Jamie and among her beloved horses, was where she belonged. How long before this joy was torn from her life forever?
Pushing that thought aside, she stepped around the rear opening, and saw Jamie talking earnestly to Mr. Jessup. The tall Texan stood at the paddock fence, one booted foot on the bottom rail, his arms folded along the top rail, and several rangy cats rubbing against the leg bearing his weight.
Jamie copied the pose—although being at least twenty-five years younger than his companion and a great deal shorter, his blond hair barely brushed the bottom of the third rail, and his interest was more on the man beside him than on the horse in the paddock.
Yet, for a moment, in the sudden glare as the sun broke through the mist to crown their blond heads with golden light, they looked so alike they might have been father and son.
Ignoring the catch in her throat, Josephine stepped forward. “There you are.”
Jamie whipped around with a welcoming grin. “About time, sleepyhead.”
Without taking his foot from the bottom rail, Mr. Jessup pivoted, one forearm still stretched along the top rail, the other coming down to rest low on his belt. “Miss Cathcart,” he said with a nod.
“Did you bring anything to eat?” Jamie asked, his hazel eyes bright with excitement. “I’m ever so hungry.” At seven years old, he invariably was.
“Cook gave you nothing?”
“A muffin. But since Mr. Jessup looked hungry, I gave him some of it.”
“That was kind of you to share.” She glanced up to find Mr. Jessup studying her, his speculative gaze dropping down to Jamie then back. She had no idea what he was thinking. Or why it would matter.
“Have you breakfasted yet, Mr. Jessup?”
He shook his head.
“Then we’d be pleased to have you join us.” She instructed Jamie to tell Cook that she and Mr. Jessup would be coming up shortly. “We’ll eat on the side veranda, now that the fog is lifting. You may join us.”
With a hoot, Jamie raced back through the barn.
In the awkward silence that followed, Josephine wondered why she felt the need to explain Jamie to this stranger. He would find out soon enough, since she had never kept Jamie’s existence a
secret. She adored her son. Took pride in him. And had long ago decided not to live under a cloud of evasions and innuendoes, or pretend a shame she didn’t feel. Better he should hear that from her, rather than through the gossip mills.
Hiking her chin in challenge, she said, “Jamie is my son.”
He nodded.
Both confused and somewhat deflated by so lacking a response to her momentous declaration, she made certain he understood the whole of her sordid situation. “His father decided to marry someone else.”
This time he gave a shrug. “His loss.”
That was it? Two words and a shrug? No shock? Disgust? No speculative gleam in his eyes or even a spark of sympathy?
She should have felt relieved. Instead, his utter indifference stung.
“So when can I see Pembroke’s Pride?”
• • •
Rafe knew right off he’d made a mistake. He just didn’t know what it was. One minute they were talking, the next, she was stomping away, muttering to herself. Was this about him asking to see the horse? Or what she’d told him about the boy? Had he failed some test he wasn’t even aware had been put before him?
He had only said what he thought. Any man who walked away from his own child and a woman like Josephine Cathcart was either blind, a fool, or too stupid to appreciate his good fortune. So what was she mad about?
“Hold on,” he said, coming up behind her in two strides.
She flung open the door to one of the empty stalls. “He’s in his paddock.” She pointed to an open door on the outside wall. “Through there.”
Rafe didn’t move. He knew now this wasn’t about the horse, but about his reaction to what she’d said. Had she expected him to be shocked? “I knew Jamie was your son. He has your smile. And I meant what I said. Any man who would walk away from a woman like you is a fool.”
“You know nothing about me.”
“I know you’re beautiful. And that you love your son and horses. And that you don’t like steeplechasing, or eating fish with the heads on, and that you’re beautiful.”
She fought a smile. “You already said that.”
“Bears repeating.”
The smile won. “You’re a confusing man, Mr. Jessup.”
“So I’ve been told. Did I pass?”
“Pass?”
“The test.”
He watched color rise up her long, graceful neck, and wondered if she would try to deny the obvious. Instead, she gave a grudging smile. “You’re still here, so I suppose you did. Pems is through there.” This time, she said it without rancor.
Figuring he’d gained back some of the ground he’d lost, Rafe let it go at that. Moving ahead of her, he went through the stall and ducked out the back door. Miss Cathcart followed as far as the open doorway.
The stallion stood by the fence on the far side of the small enclosure. Sleek and dark, with a proud headset, and a strong, deep chest. Good withers and croup. Straight legs. Nice slope in the pasterns and three white stockings.
A beautiful animal.
Since he was the intruder, Rafe remained by the doorway and let the horse come to him. After a moment, the stallion walked over, his big, dark eyes bright with curiosity.
He moved well. No outward signs of injury. Some weakness on the right side, and not as flexible as he might be, but that could be due to a lack of proper exercise. No menace. Confirmation square and solid, with good muscle and bone.
Attitude, style, and form. Perfectly balanced. No wonder Ash wanted him.
“How was he injured?” Rafe asked when the horse stopped in front of him, nostrils flaring as he took in his scent.
“A fall.”
Rafe ran a hand over the stallion’s right shoulder, then bent to stroke down to the white stocking of the lower leg. Nothing. He did the same with the left front leg without the stocking and found a lump below the knee that indicated an old splint injury. No heat or swelling, and the horse showed no tenderness or concern at Rafe’s touch. But bending closer, Rafe saw the telltale line of white dots along the dark fur of the cannon bone. “Seems okay now,” he said, masking his disgust.
“He is, physically. But he won’t cross water.”
Rafe looked back at her. “At all?”
“Not even a puddle.”
“What does he do?”
“He shakes, sweats, backs away. If he’s not on a lead, or you can’t hold him, he turns and bolts.”
Rafe rose, wondering what would send such a reasonable-appearing animal into blind terror. “I’m assuming he fell in water.”
“Worse. He was trapped under it.” She made a weary gesture and sighed. “Jamie’s waiting. If you’re through here, we’d best go on up. I’ll tell you all about it over breakfast.”
Six
“Have you ever heard of the Grand National?” Josephine asked after the footman had cleared away their empty breakfast plates and Jamie had gone upstairs for his lessons. No use putting horrible images in a child’s head.
“Grand national what?”
“Steeplechase. It’s a hunt race run every April on the Aintree Racecourse in Liverpool. Over four miles—three-and-a-half furlongs. Two circuits, thirty fences. Many of the jumps are over five feet high and several have water hazards and ditches. It’s a brutal course.”
“Pembroke’s Pride ran it?”
“Only once.”
Smiling sadly, she traced a fingertip through a drop of spilled tea beside her cup. “Father started grooming him for the race when Pems turned four. He was fearless then. Stronger than any horse we’d ever had. Father was convinced if he could stay the course, Pems could win. In fact, he bet our futures on it.” She gave a bitter laugh. “In a way, Pembroke’s fall brought us all down. There’s some justice in that, don’t you think?”
When Jessup didn’t respond, she glanced over to find his gaze fixed on her with the same intense regard she had noticed on the ship. He had turned his chair sideways so he could stretch out his long legs, and now sat slouched, one arm hooked over the back of his chair, the other resting on the tabletop. He didn’t fidget, or drum his fingers, or jiggle his crossed foot, but seemed totally focused on each word, every nuance of expression, any movement within range of his sight. Relaxed, but intent. Always. It must be exhausting.
“Pems started out well,” she continued. “He went into the first jump at a good pace, and had no problems with the second. The third has a wide ditch in front of it that throws some horses off stride so that when they approach the fourth fence, they’re confused or out of balance. Each year several fall there or unseat their riders. But Pems handled both jumps beautifully. Others didn’t, and began to bunch up after they cleared the fifth fence and started toward the sixth. Becher’s Brook.”
A familiar tightness coiled in her chest. Realizing she had twisted her napkin into a wrinkled wad, she smoothed it flat on the table. Images flashed through her mind and suddenly it grew more and more difficult to take a full breath.
A big, rough hand closed over hers.
Startled, she looked up to see Mr. Jessup studying her with a look of concern in his deep-set blue eyes. “Walk with me,” he said.
Walk where?
But as soon as the question formed, she realized it didn’t matter. A walk would be good. There was too much emotion running through her and a stroll might help settle her nerves.
Without waiting for her response, he rose and came around to pull back her chair. By mutual unspoken agreement, they started down the path toward the stables. But when they reached the bottom of the slope, instead of continuing on to the paddocks, he turned toward the long grassy field that stretched all the way to the front gates. She followed, the hem of her woolen skirt collecting dew as they left the path and walked through the meadow, scattering the small herd of sheep pastured there to keep the grass from growing too tall.
>
The last of the summer wildflowers bobbed as they passed by, heads tucked, petals already curled. Soon they would wither, and the beech leaves would turn, and dewdrops would give way to crackling frost. But today the breeze was just enough to keep the insects at bay, and the sun felt like a warm hand on her back.
They walked in companionable silence, Mr. Jessup kindly adjusting his longer stride to match hers. There was at least a foot of distance between them, yet she was acutely aware of his sturdy presence beside her. He moved with a horseman’s grace, his eyes scanning the path ahead, his hands clasped at his back. He had left his duster on the veranda, and without it, he seemed less bulky, his form more refined. But the strength was there in the heavy shoulders and width of chest, as well as the unyielding line of his stubbled jaw. Clearly a man more suited to a life of hard work in the outdoors than one spent hunched over a gaming table in a smoky gentlemen’s club.
He didn’t rush her, which she appreciated. And when she felt she could continue, she took a deep breath, and picked up the story where she had left off.
“The jump they call Becher’s Brook is the most difficult obstacle on the course. It’s only five feet high, but the landing side is quite a bit lower than the takeoff side—nearly a foot, in places—and a brook runs along the base of it. It isn’t overly broad or deep, but it’s hidden in the approach. Often, when horses clear the hedge and see the water moving below them, they panic, especially since the drop is farther than they expect. Many have fallen there, injuring themselves as well as their riders. Several have died.”
They had reached the trees by then, and the burbling rush of the brook sent a chill through Josephine. She remembered that sound. Remembered the screams of the thrashing horses, the wild terror in their eyes.
Suddenly feeling a bit light-headed, she motioned toward a fallen log beside the water. “I think I’d like to sit for a moment.”
She wasn’t sure why she was dredging all this up. Perhaps she was hoping that if Mr. Jessup knew the entirety of what had happened, he might not take Pems away from her. Or maybe she hoped he could help. She’d seen the rapport he had with the mares. They trusted him. Perhaps Pems would, too.
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