by DeVa Gantt
Charmaine gaped at him.
“Don’t be offended. I’m only stating the facts as they are.”
“Facts? What would you know of facts?”
“Plenty. If you would like to—”
“I would like nothing, and I’ll not believe a word of it, anyway.”
“I assure you my facts are not fabricated,” he pressed on. “But perhaps you’d prefer a more reliable source, someone who could provide concrete evidence. I’m certain the maids of the manor could tell tales that would shock even me. You see, Paul has quite an affinity for the young ladies in my father’s employ. He must have been quite disheartened when your more distinguished position of governess placed an unusual obstacle in his one-track path.”
“What is that supposed to mean?”
“Must I be more explicit, my Charm? My brother is a Don Juan with an insatiable appetite for women. Not that I’m condemning him morally. What is a man to do when the mansion is so well ‘stocked’? Before I left a few years ago, there was many a night when some young maid, who should have been sleeping virtuously in her own bed on the third floor, found comfort in my brother’s bed one floor below. I doubt those fair times have changed, especially if you are holding him at bay.”
“If?” she choked out, even as a distant memory surfaced. I’m speaking of comfort—yours and mine. “Well, if you’re hoping to trap me into confirming your crude speculation, allow me to dash those hopes right here and now! I have no intention of carrying this conversation any further.”
“I’m not speculating. I grew up with him. My brother is many things, but celibate is not one of them. He’s sampled the fruit many times, in assorted varieties. I know.”
“Really? And how do you know? Did you place a glass against the wall?”
“I didn’t have to,” John chuckled softly, amused by her feisty reply. “Paul never guarded his liaisons. In fact, he often boasted about them.”
“Many people boast,” she reasoned, “I’d hardly call that concrete evidence.”
“My, you are determined to defend him, aren’t you?”
“I’m not defending him!”
“No?”
“No!”
“Then why turn a deaf ear to information that is in your best interest to know?”
“Whatever went on between Paul and someone else is none of my business.”
“Why do you use the past tense?”
She was appalled by his tenacious debasement of his own brother. “I refuse to believe your lies.”
“Believe what you will,” he snorted, certain she could not be that naïve, “but don’t cry into your pillow later on, for I did warn you.”
“I don’t need your warning!” she retorted, ripping her gaze from him.
“That maid,” he pursued, forefinger to lips, “Travis’s daughter, Millie…”
Charmaine’s eyes shot back to his taunting face.
“The voluptuous Felicia was his favorite, but I believe he’s allowing that field to lay fallow for a while, a good guess considering how she’s been acting toward me lately. If Paul gets nowhere with you, I’d place money on Millie.”
“But she’s only sixteen!”
“The perfect age—no diseases.”
“Enough!” Charmaine cried out. “I’ve heard enough!”
The twins turned round in their saddles. But John only smiled and waved to them. A moment later, he and Charmaine were forgotten.
“Of course,” he pressed on, “Paul may have a bit of trouble seducing Millie with her father about. Therefore, Miss Ryan, you’d best be on guard, unless of course, you are willing…”
“You are positively crude,” she hissed. “As for your chivalrous warning, it was unnecessary. I’m not some trollop who’d give herself to a man without sacred vows exchanged before a priest and God, so take your lecherous insinuations elsewhere!”
“Marriage?” he laughed derisively. “You think he would marry you?”
His boisterous reaction gained the twins’ sidelong glances a second time.
Crushed, Charmaine bowed her head to the decimation of her most cherished dream. How foolish those girlish fancies suddenly seemed! Marriage. Of course Paul wouldn’t marry her, a lowly servant girl. Oh, yes, she was the governess, but as Felicia had said only a week ago, an employee just the same.
“I’m sorry if you were misled,” John proceeded, “but my brother could never marry you, even if that were his most ardent desire. You see, money marries money, especially when the money is limited. Paul isn’t heir to my father’s estate. Not yet, anyway. So, if he marries, he’ll invest any money he has in a rich wife.”
Her pain diminished. This man, in his great analysis, had never touched upon love and all its glorious possibilities. Unable to love, having never loved, he thought of marriage only in terms of capital and investments, of buying a wife like one would a mare or a new ship. He could never hope to appreciate an emotion so strong it could impel a decent man to snub convention and break society’s code by choosing a partner lowly born and financially poor, yet rich in love.
“Yes, Paul will be forced to seek a wealthy wife,” John continued, “I, on the other hand, can marry whomever I choose.” He chuckled wryly, a laugh born of pain, not pleasure.
Charmaine regarded him again, perceiving the irony in his voice. Was he afraid his father would disown him? But as she searched his face for an answer, he turned away, leaving her to puzzle over the cryptic remark.
Yvette’s shout drew their eyes to the road ahead. “Look Johnny—a rider!”
“Speak of the devil,” John muttered.
Though not the devil, it might well have been. Atop his white stallion, Paul was quickly approaching, and Charmaine worried over his reaction. Surely if he didn’t like John pestering the children during lessons, he’d find their late morning excursion intolerable. She was grateful when Jeannette greeted him enthusiastically.
“Good day, Paul! How do you like our presents?”
“Very nice,” he said, reining in Alabaster shoulder to shoulder with Phantom.
“Johnny purchased them for us,” she added, unmindful of his twitching jaw.
“So I imagined,” he replied tenderly, his cold eyes reserved for John.
Charmaine waited with bated breath. It would be wise to proceed with caution, but she knew John would never do that.
“What brings Paulie home so early today?” he asked merrily.
“Yes,” Yvette echoed, “what brings Paulie home so early today?”
Ignore them, Paul thought as he tore his gaze from his heckling brother. “Good morning, Miss Ryan,” he greeted debonairly.
“Good morning,” she returned, relief rushing in.
John couldn’t restrain himself, the endearing exchange fanning his knavery. Leaning forward, he addressed Yvette. “Good morning, Miss Duvoisin.”
“Good morning,” his young sister mimicked, catching on quickly.
Satisfied he commanded Paul’s attention once again, John continued. “You didn’t answer my question, Paul. Aren’t you feeling well?”
“I’m fine, John.”
“Then why have you rushed home so early in the day? There must be a score of projects just waiting for your—how did you put it—‘practiced’ hands?”
“They’re finished, John. I was out of the house early—”
“Mr. Proficiency.”
“—with the intention of celebrating the twins’ birthday this afternoon.” His eyes rested on Charmaine, a hint of a promise reflected there.
“What a shame,” John sighed with the snap of his fingers.
“And why is that?”
“Isn’t it obvious? You are hours too late! We’re on our way to a picnic. You’re welcome to join us, of course. Not even I would be so cruel as to exclude you from the outing.” Besides, John thought, it will be entertaining to watch Paul in action with the governess.
Paul’s demeanor hardened. “I’ll see you later,” he told Charmai
ne, “at the house.” He yanked on the reins, drawing his stallion away.
As he galloped off, Charmaine experienced a pang of regret; Paul’s companionship had slipped through her fingers. But there was no point in crying over spilled milk.
“I think someone’s in trouble,” John teased in a singsong children’s chant.
She ignored him.
They nudged their mounts into motion again, leaving the dusty road and trekking south across a wide meadow, its tall grass speckled with wild flowers. As they meandered along, Yvette asked to race her pony, but John set aside the petition; Spook could step into a hole and break a leg.
“Like Charity?” the girl asked.
“Possibly.”
“Not like Charity,” Jeannette corrected, “because Charity didn’t really break a leg. I remember Mama crying and saying Dr. Blackford destroyed her horse for no good reason.”
“You never told me that, Jeannette! Is that true, Johnny?”
“Yes,” he pronounced flatly, “it’s true.”
“But why? Why would Dr. Blackford do that?”
“Because the man is a pompous imbecile. He calls himself a doctor and can’t diagnose a fracture correctly…” Then he mumbled under his breath, “I could be dying, and I wouldn’t let him near me.”
Charmaine shifted uneasily in her saddle, relieved when she realized the girls hadn’t heard the last comment. The man was criticizing the physician who had ministered to their mother. Even so, she was curious about the story. At first, she had assumed they were talking about Chastity, the mare that had foaled only weeks ago. Now she realized they were talking about an entirely different animal.
John explained that Paul had purchased Chastity for Colette some weeks after Charity was destroyed in the hopes of brightening her spirits. “But Colette loved Charity,” he concluded, “and Chastity never quite took her place.”
They came to a wooded area, and John prodded Phantom to the front of the entourage, leaving Charmaine to take up the rear. He uncovered an obscure trail hidden in a dense copse. The horses entered single file, and the leafy lane closed in around them. Though it was cool here, Charmaine would have preferred the heat of the meadow. Now she had to work at guiding her mount, lest she stumble over a dead branch. The heavy vegetation offered its share of obstacles as well. Low-hanging twigs accosted her, scratching her face, catching at her dress, and loosing strands of her hair. Dodging them, she soon forgot about the horse beneath her, and the mare abruptly stopped. Charmaine nudged her sides, but the animal was already chewing on a patch of tall weeds and refused to budge. Frustrated, she looked to John, but he was nowhere in sight. Yvette and Jeannette disappeared next, directing their ponies around a bend up ahead.
“Come on, you silly horse!” she scolded. “You can’t eat now! Move! Please move.” The mare, however, chewed away, its reins pulled taut against its craning neck. Gritting her teeth, Charmaine yanked on the leather straps. The horse only whinnied, then returned to the vegetation. “Oh no, you don’t!” she hissed, jerking the reins again and nudging the beast’s flanks. The animal shook its head and stepped backward. Paralyzed with fear, Charmaine pulled harder. The mare trumpeted loudly and began prancing in place, then turned, wedging herself on the narrow path, her wide neck bowed sideways, head pointed in the direction from which they had come.
“John! Dear Lord, John!” Charmaine screamed.
John looked back. “Good God! Where is she?”
The twins only shrugged.
“Stay put. I’ll be back.”
He angled Phantom around them and set the steed on a fast trot, rounding the bend just as Charmaine cried out again. The mare was on her hind legs, front hooves pawing the air. “Stop pulling on the reins!” he shouted.
Charmaine was too petrified to hear him.
Pierre burst into belly-shaking laughter. John jumped off Phantom, lifted the boy from the saddle, and set him down a safe distance away. “Stay here.”
He approached the mare, dodging the thrashing hooves. “Grab her mane! For God’s sake, Charmaine, let go of the reins and grab her mane!”
Their eyes connected, and Charmaine finally heard the command, but at the moment she released the leather strap, the crazed horse reared again. John winced as her hands came up short of the mane, clutching air instead. She sailed over the horse’s rump, and her backside met the ground with a painful thump. There she sat, too stunned to move, her hair combs askew, the copious tendrils tousled and sagging in defeated glory. Unburdened, the mare loped over to the weeds that had instigated the unfortunate episode.
John swiftly knelt beside her. “Are you all right?”
The twinkle in his eyes and the smile on his lips belied the concern in his voice, and Charmaine’s eyes narrowed on him as she brushed the tangled locks from her face. “It’s not funny! I could have been hurt!”
“Then you are all right?”
“I think so,” she answered, accepting the hand he extended to help her up. The loosened combs fell to the ground, and the abundant tresses tumbled over her shoulders in a riotous waterfall of curls. In growing displeasure, Charmaine stomped her foot. “This is entirely your doing, I’ll have you know!”
“My doing?” John asked, placing a hand to his chest.
“Yes, your doing!” she accused. “Just look at my hair!”
“I’m looking,” he replied wickedly, “and I like what I see.”
“Oh, you would!”
“What is that supposed to mean?”
“Never mind. I’ll not waste my breath explaining it to you. Why couldn’t you leave me behind today? Why did you have to press me into this—this—”
“Adventure?” he offered.
“Stop ridiculing everything I say!”
“Stop blaming me for your mistakes,” he retaliated. “It was your fault the mare threw you. I warned you this morning not to pull so fiercely on the reins, but did you listen? She might have upset you, but you panicked and yanked too hard on the bit. Now admit it, Charmaine, you confused the poor beast into throwing you. It was entirely your doing.”
“My doing?” she raged. “I told you I didn’t know how to ride, and still you insisted I join you, promising no harm would befall me! And the poor beast? What about me?”
He was chuckling before she had finished, and quite unexpectedly, her anger ebbed. Then she was laughing with him, her anxiety yielding to relief, returning Pierre’s hug when he ran over to them and wrapped his arms around her legs.
“What am I to do with my hair?” she complained.
“Here,” John replied, retrieving her combs. “These should keep it out of your face. A prim bun never belonged to the day in the first place.”
“But it’s too hot to leave down! I should have worn my bonnet, but I didn’t think our little ride was going to turn into a full day’s outing.”
“You can borrow my cap,” he offered, scratching vigorously behind his ear with a laugh. “The last time I looked it was nit free.”
She clenched her jaw and refused to comment.
“Not to worry. It’s cool where we are going, and I prefer you this way.”
She reached for the combs, but he stepped forward with arms extended. “I’ll do it, thank you,” she said, snatching them away.
Once the locks were coiffed, she brushed the clinging twigs and moist leaves from her dress, relieved to find the garment was not soiled beyond repair. When she looked up, John was walking the gray mare toward her and Pierre. “Ready to try again?” he asked.
“You cannot be serious!”
“Quite.”
“No, sir. I’m not getting back in that saddle, not for a million dollars!”
“Why not?”
“Why not? You saw what just happened! I value my life!”
“You have one of two choices, Miss Ryan. You can either get back on your own mount, or we can place Pierre in that seat and you can ride with me.”
“Oh, goodie!” Pierre laughed. “I want my ow
n horse!”
“And I have a third choice, sir. I’ll walk.”
“Walk?” John expostulated. “At that rate, we won’t picnic until sunset!”
“I doubt that,” she said, brushing past him and trekking up the trail.
John ran his hand through his hair, then scooped up Pierre and placed him in the mare’s saddle. “Hold on tightly,” he admonished as he grabbed Phantom’s reins as well and lengthened his strides to catch up with the willful woman.
“How did you find this path, anyway?” she asked, clearly recovered.
“George and I uncovered it when we were boys,” he replied.
“We used to track through this area whenever we went hunting, and came upon it accidentally one day. Occasionally it’s used by the bondsmen.”
“Occasionally? Why only occasionally?”
John was about to explain the trail was too narrow to accommodate buckboards, but was suddenly inspired. “The men use it when they’re in a hurry, and only when on horseback.”
“But why?”
“Because of the wildlife,” he replied.
“What kind of ‘wildlife’? Certainly not dangerous wildlife?”
John didn’t answer.
“It wouldn’t be what you and George used to hunt as boys, would it?”
“Actually, yes,” he conceded.
“Yes, what? They are dangerous creatures, or they’re what you hunted?”
“Both. We trapped and killed a few rattlesnakes here.”
“Rattlesnakes?” Her eyes shot to the ground and darted about.
“Why come this way then?”
“There’s nothing to worry about,” he mollified. “We cleaned this area out long ago…haven’t seen one in years, not since George shot his trophy.”
“But if it’s been cleaned out, why don’t the bondsmen—”
“They’re just a pack of ninnies,” he cut in, “afraid of their own shadows and spreading tales about old man Lavar, who maintained he’d been bitten by one before he died. Robert Blackford claimed it wasn’t a snake bite at all.”
“But you said Dr. Blackford couldn’t be trusted in his judgments.”
