by Wilma Counts
“ ‘Unsavory—’ ”
He went on, ignoring her shocked response, “The army certainly never considered me ‘irresponsible.’ ”
“You did not desert the army!”
They both stilled, each seemingly aware of the dangerous territory these invectives opened.
“So that’s it,” he said in a quieter tone. “Your revenge was this horse farm.”
She, too, calmed down. “Revenge? Trevor, I have no idea what you are talking about. East Anglia is horse country. Newmarket is only a few miles away. It seemed a likely endeavor for Atherton.”
“Ratcliff’s principal farm is also in the area—what? Five miles away?”
“Seven.” She gave him a questioning look.
“I suppose that is merely a happy coincidence.”
“I . . . Yes. It has been fortunate.” Her voice was hesitant.
“ ‘Fortunate.’ ” He deliberately mocked her.
“Will—Sir Willard—has been most helpful to us. A good friend.”
“Oh, I’ll just bet he has. ‘Will’ says it all. You have allowed your ‘friend’ to turn Atherton into an extension of his own farms, have you not?”
“What are you implying?” Her tone was dangerously quiet.
“Even an ignorant soldier knows that one does not—willy-nilly—decide to raise horses without a considerable outlay of funds, dear wife. I imagine Ratcliff thought this a fine investment from his standpoint. Especially if the soldier failed to return.”
“ ‘Imagine.’ Yes. Precisely the right term.” Her eyes blazed.
“The money for breeding stock—not to mention improvements on tenant farms—had to come from somewhere. I know my family did not support this project. And I seriously doubt that your loving Uncle Fiske parted with any of the ready.”
“And you assume it came from Sir Willard Ratcliff.” Her voice held a note of curiosity along with barely controlled rage.
He shrugged. “Latham had no access to his fortune yet. Of course, there is always Graham. Lord knows he has been equally attentive.”
“What you are suggesting is entirely despicable.”
“Isn’t it just? Adds a nice touch to your revenge—for surely you cannot expect me to believe you truly thought I would approve establishing a horse farm.”
She turned to give the bellpull a hard jerk. When she turned back to him, her voice sounded bleak, defeated. “Trevor, I no longer harbor any expectations or hope of your believing in me.”
With a knock, Merrill came in answer to her summons.
“Please ask Lady Hermiston to come in here,” Caitlyn said to the butler.
“Why are you dragging Aunt Gertrude into this?”
“You shall see.”
A few minutes later Aunt Gertrude entered. She apparently sensed that something was terribly wrong, for she kept glancing nervously from one to the other.
“You wanted something?” she asked Caitlyn.
“Trevor is quite concerned about where I obtained financing for our breeding stock,” Caitlyn explained.
Aunt Gertrude perched on the edge of a settee. “Did you not tell him?”
“I thought it would be better if he heard it from you.”
Trevor began to get a sick feeling about what Aunt Gertrude would say.
The older woman looked up, her face reflecting concern. “I sold my townhouse and some other properties to invest in this venture.”
“You allowed her to involve you in this risky business?”
“I persuaded Caitlyn to allow me to invest in it. It was all very legal and very formal. And I am beginning to realize a return on my investment, so it has not proved so very risky.”
“But—” Trevor began.
Ignoring his attempt to speak, Aunt Gertrude continued, “I had—and still have—great faith in Caitlyn.”
Caitlyn went to the huge oaken desk that dominated one wall of the library. Late afternoon sun from a window behind it glinted off a brass lamp and desk accessories. She pulled open a drawer and slammed a ledger on the desk.
“Here is your detailed accounting for Atherton,” she said coldly. “You will find Aunt Gertrude’s investment fully documented there—along with measures for repayment.”
She gestured to the book and the chair behind the desk. He felt compelled to see the physical reality, but he also dreaded having to face his own misconceptions in front of her and his aunt.
Caitlyn, whose pacing seemed dictated by her emotions, made several circles of the room as she gave him the full accounting he had demanded. Her voice was clipped, formal, and impersonal.
“You see there precisely where the funding was spent. Several of our mares we purchased from Ratcliff Farms where they were bred. You will also see that Sir Willard has continued to offer such services of his farm in exchange for our training certain of his carriage teams, for he is much more interested in purely racing stock.”
She pulled a folder from a drawer in another cabinet and thrust it at Trevor. He took it silently.
“Here is the document formalizing the business relationship between Atherton and Ratcliff Farms.”
“I think you had best tell him about the first years of rents on the tenant farms,” Aunt Gertrude said.
“Oh, yes. Thank you, Aunt Gertrude. For the first two years, we—I—did not collect rents at all, with the understanding that each of our farmers would use that money to make improvements on his own holding. At the end of the two years, they would resume their rents as a percentage of their profits.”
“And . . . ?” he prompted.
“It was hard at first. We missed that income. But, as you can see, almost all of them are paying a smaller share of their own earnings in rent, but our revenue is greater than it was before.”
“In other words—” He looked up from the document he held, but she refused to meet his gaze.
“In other words,” she finished, “almost all our tenant farmers are on a more profitable footing than in the past.”
Trevor sat staring, unseeing, at the documentation laid out before him. “Caitlyn—Aunt Gertrude—I . . . I hardly know what to say.”
“An apology would be a nice way to start,” Aunt Gertrude said, but her voice was gentle.
“Of course. And I do most sincerely extend my apologies. Forgive me, Caitlyn.”
But he knew he did not deserve her forgiveness. Not since Terrence and Jason had died had he been so thoroughly filled with disgust at himself.
Still refusing to meet his gaze, Caitlyn said only, “I accept your apology.”
However, he suspected it was not going to be that easy to reestablish rapport between them. His suspicion was confirmed when she politely but coldly excused herself and left the room.
Trevor gazed at his aunt, who gave him a look filled with both exasperation and sympathy. He ran his hand through his hair in nervous distraction.
“Oh, Lord! I have fairly done it now, have I not?”
“Yes, you have.” Her tone was matter-of-fact, but it softened as she added, “But Caitlyn is a very giving and forgiving person—although right now she is very hurt.”
“I know.” He sighed. “I should never have—”
She rose to leave. “But you did. And you deserve to stew in your own juices for a bit.” Her smile took the sting out of this rebuke. “Give her time, Trevor. She will come around.”
Several days later, Trevor was sure Aunt Gertrude’s customary insight had failed her this time, for Caitlyn had not “come around.” She avoided being alone with him as much as possible. She was scrupulous about ensuring that he was informed on all matters of the estate, but these sessions always took place with Felkins in attendance. Caitlyn even made a point of deferring to her husband on many matters, especially if others—servants or tenants—were present.
When he met with Caitlyn and Aunt Gertrude for meals, the conversation was likely to be formal, reserved—and meaningless. Only when they were with Ashley did Caitlyn allow him a glimpse
of the warm woman behind the demeanor of cool formality.
Caitlyn continued to ride every morning, though the black gelding, he learned, had been sold before they left London. In fact, he was told, the black had been sold several weeks before, but Caitlyn insisted on refining its training. He thought she often drove her mounts too rashly.
Trevor tramped miles over the lands belonging to Atherton, sometimes carrying his lunch with him in a haversack. He discovered the lake—an artificially devised body of water, to be sure, but large enough to afford great sport in swimming or fishing. It was fed by the same creek that ran between certain tenant farms. Local boys could be found splashing around in it in the afternoons, but Trevor found he had it all to himself in the mornings.
Frequently as he returned from an invigorating swim, he would see Caitlyn with a groom returning from her morning ride. He thought nostalgically of such rides he once enjoyed with Terrence, Jason, and Melanie. Well, those days were over.
Still, he was drawn to the stables. On his first visit, the men working there greeted him with reservation and even suspicion. Obviously, word of his antipathy to horses had traveled rapidly along that mysteriously efficient route of communication among servants.
He watched with interest but without comment as trainers put young horses through their paces. He walked through the stables and noticed they were clean and smelled of fresh hay. A large chestnut with a white blaze on its head gazed at him over the half-door of a stall. A young groom worked nearby putting fresh straw in empty stalls.
Trevor approached the horse, allowing it to smell his hand, then caressed its nose. “So what did you do, my fine fellow, that you are being punished by having to stay in your room whilst everyone else is working or playing?”
The young groom—who could not have had more than twelve years—came over and patted the horse’s cheek.
“This here’s Chief,” the boy said. “Actually, the mistress named him Warrior Chieftain of Araby, but we calls him Chief on account of his bein’ so proud, you see.”
“Aha,” Trevor responded in a musing tone.
“An’ he ain’t being punished.”
“No?”
“Nah. Jimmy—he’s the head groom, you know—Jimmy said he got Chief all prettied up an not to let ‘im get mussed ’cause some lord was comin’ for ’im today.”
“Ah, I see. A gentleman must not offend his valet.” Trevor gave the horse another pat and turned to the boy and asked conversationally, “What is your name, young man?”
“Jackie . . . uh, that is . . . Jack.” The boy squared his shoulders. “Me pa’s Clarence Tanner, the head trainer here at Jeffries Farms.” There was a note of pride in the boy’s voice.
“I am pleased to meet you, Jack Tanner.” Trevor solemnly offered the boy his hand, which Jack took after first wiping his own hand on his pants leg.
“Likewise, Mr. Jeffries, sir.”
Trevor felt the boy’s gaze follow him from the stable. He hung around the stables and paddocks for some time, observing and occasionally asking a question. Gradually, he felt the reservations of the stable employees melt away.
He overheard one of them say, “The man knows horses.”
“Wonder why he don’t ride,” another asked, but Trevor did not listen for the response.
Thereafter, he was often to be seen in and around the stables, though he put himself in the saddle only on rare occasions—to visit a distant farm or perform a similar duty. Even for these errands, he usually took the gig or had John Coachman drive him in a carriage. He often took Ashley along on such excursions.
Caitlyn knew Trevor visited the stables, though the two of them were rarely there at the same time. At first she had feared that, in his anger, Trevor would insist on their selling all the horses and returning the home farm to what it once was. He had not done so. Though he did not take an active role in management of the animals, he had gained a favorable reputation among Atherton’s stable hands and trainers for his expertise.
Feeling that both she and the horse farm were in a state of limbo, Caitlyn tried to carry on as usual with training schedules and sales of blooded stock.
“I do wish I knew what Trevor intended to do,” she complained to Aunt Gertrude. They sat in the drawing room one afternoon after the vicar and his wife, among others, had departed.
“You could ask him.”
Caitlyn emitted an unamused little laugh. “I learned some time ago not to ask questions to which the answer might be unpalatable.”
“I should think that not knowing would be quite . . . well, painful. I must admit I find the situation between the two of you rather disconcerting.”
Caitlyn shrugged. “It is that.” Then she posed a question she had actually wanted to ask Trevor. “Have you any idea why Trevor holds this attitude he has toward horses?”
Aunt Gertrude gave her a surprised look. “He did not tell you? I assumed you knew.”
“Knew what?” Caitlyn felt a tingling of apprehension feather through her.
“Caitlyn, darling, I was so sure you did know.”
“Know what?” Caitlyn’s voice rose slightly.
“About Terrence and Jason.”
“I know they died in some sort of carriage accident a few months before our marriage, but no one has ever spoken of the details.”
So Aunt Gertrude told her—to Caitlyn’s growing wonder and chagrin. She told of the young Trevor and his love of horses and the young man who eagerly embraced life’s adventures. She also related what she knew of his devastation and guilt over that accident.
“I honestly thought he would get over forswearing the pleasure he once got from just being around and working with horses.”
“He forswore it? Why did I not know? No wonder he was so very angry.”
“Oh, my. This is my fault.” Aunt Gertrude was clearly distressed. “I assumed this was something you and Trevor planned together before . . . that is, before he went to the Peninsula.”
“No. It was not.” Caitlyn leaned forward to pat the older woman’s hand. “However, you must not burden yourself with such. The fact that Trevor and I have never communicated well is certainly not your fault.”
“But I was so sure. Sure you knew. And sure it did not matter so much anymore to Trevor.”
“Well, now we both know.” Caitlyn sighed. “I am not sure, given my anger when he left, that his wishes—had I even known them—would have been of major concern to me.”
“Oh, dear.”
“However, this does explain his comment about revenge.”
“Revenge?”
“Trevor accused me of using the horses as revenge. It must look that way to him.”
“Revenge?” Aunt Gertrude repeated with a ladylike snort.
“What a preposterous idea.”
“Not so very preposterous. I freely admit that a great deal of pride was the basis of wanting to make Atherton a success.”
“Understandable, my dear.”
“And we all know ‘pride goeth before a fall.’ ”
“Actually, the line is ‘before destruction,’ and you are not destroyed, love.”
“I hope not,” Caitlyn said, but privately she thought that perhaps the fragile relationship between her and Trevor had been damaged beyond hope.
“Now—about Melanie’s visit . . .” Aunt Gertrude said brightly, shifting the subject.
It had long been planned that Melanie would bring her husband and children to visit Atherton after she had paid a brief visit to her father’s chief estate.
Earlier, Caitlyn and Aunt Gertrude had planned to use the occasion of Melanie’s visit to host their most ambitious social affair yet, a ball in Melanie’s honor to which half the notable families in East Anglia would be invited. It was to be a very grand undertaking with a house party of some duration for faraway guests.
It was late afternoon when Melanie’s carriages arrived. By the time she and Andrew had been properly welcomed and the children settled into the nurse
ry, it was growing dark and the visitors barely had time to change for dinner.
Trevor had looked forward with eager anticipation to his sister’s arrival. Perhaps Melanie’s ebullient cheerfulness—along with the presence of additional guests at an extended house party—would ease the subtle tension that was a constant at Atherton these days. He may have cringed inwardly at seeing Latham’s, Graham’s, and Ratcliff’s names on invitations, but their presence would be offset by the company of Theo, Moore, and Jenkins.
The next morning, Melanie and Andrew joined Caitlyn, Aunt Gertrude, and Trevor in the breakfast room. Melanie had come in from a walk in the gardens, unconcerned in the least about her wet shoes and damp hem.
“Caitlyn, those roses are marvelous. You must tell me your secret, for as soon as this business in Vienna is over, Drew promises me we will settle on his property in Kent, and I want roses as lovely as yours.”
“I shall happily share my limited expertise,” Caitlyn replied.
“I spied those stables, Trevor. I do want to see them up close. From the little I could see from this distance, there are some fine animals out there.”
Trevor swallowed uncomfortably. “That is Caitlyn’s concern,” he mumbled.
“I beg your pardon?” Melanie said.
“The horses are Caitlyn’s project.” Trevor hoped his tone was dismissive enough to divert his sister’s attention.
He should have known better.
“Caitlyn’s? And you have nothing to do with it? My brother, the consummate horseman, has a marvelous stable and numerous animals and dismisses his association with them?”
“Umm . . . Mel,” her husband interjected, apparently attuned to Trevor’s discomfort, “perhaps we should discuss this later, my dear.”
She readily agreed. “Of course, Drew. We shall save it till Caitlyn and Trevor give us a proper tour of their facility.”
Andrew sighed aloud and shrugged his shoulders in a helpless gesture. Trevor groaned inwardly. Aunt Gertrude redirected the breakfast table conversation, but Trevor knew very well that his misgivings about the morning were not misplaced.
