The gray horse, grown tired of Frederick’s kicking and harsh hand on the reins, reared up. The servants gasped, a great collective ooooooh as they watched their master clinging to the horse’s mane, his legs slipping back on the horse’s slippery sides. The chestnut colt took the opportunity to rear and plunge, snapping the leading rein from his hand, and then the long-legged horse was off, galloping across the green and leaping off the haha at full speed. The other two horses shook their heads violently, mad to chase the chestnut, and then the bay horse broke free. The leading rein danced around his churning forelegs as he gave chase to the chestnut, who was already veering away from the maze and towards the trees of the park.
“Please don’t let him trip on that rein,” Grainne said aloud, her voice full of horror.
Lydia was still watching her husband, though, clinging to the gray like a burr. He was a better rider than she had ever given him credit for, she thought grimly. He might not have a soft hand or a kind way about him, but he could certainly stay on a horse. The gray reared again and then, whirling, took off after his compatriots, apparently out of control despite Frederick’s best efforts to rein him in.
The gray caught up with the bay at the exact moment that the bay horse tripped on the leading rein and fell to his knees, his head slamming into the ground and his hindquarters upending with the force of his fall. Lydia gasped as the dominos were set into motion: first the gray horse hit the inert mass of the fallen bay, then he flipped over him and rolled right over the haha, disappearing over the edge of the bank, and taking Frederick, his limbs flailing, with him.
The servants rushed forward. William dropped his own horse’s reins and went running after them. The bay horse was struggling to his feet, looking dazed; the gray horse could not be seen. Neither could Frederick.
Lydia stood very still. Her feet had taken root in the soil; she could not move or be moved. She just stood, her face a white mask, her hands clenched together so that her fingernails bit into her palms, waiting for someone to rise from beyond the haha’s edge.
But nothing, and no one, did.
Grainne reached out and took one her clenched hands in her own cold fingers, and the two ladies stood in silence, waiting to be told what they already knew: that neither horse nor rider had survived that fall.
CHAPTER THIRTY-TWO
“Of course it would have been better if you had had a child,” Mr. Carruthers said with a sigh. “As it is, the title of viscount and the entailed lands, including the estate at Marston Wells and the townhouse will go to Lord Sutton’s nephew, Mr. Mark Sutton.”
Lydia nodded. That came as no surprise. She had never met Mark Sutton, but by all accounts he was an amiable young man who would take good care of the people at his new estate. She’d never met any of them, either, so it wasn’t really a wrench. The short month she had lived at Marston with Frederick had hardly been a happy one, and in the weeks since his strange, horrible death, she had been in an almost improper hurry to quit the place. The London townhouse… well, that was unfortunate, she could have used it. But, Lydia reflected, wouldn’t it be better to live in the country? Perhaps there was one cottage left over that wasn’t entailed. “I understand. Pray go on. What of the other properties?”
“Entailed… entailed… entailed…” Mr. Carruthers flipped through a surprising number of papers. Lydia wondered just how many properties and investments her late husband had owned. She knew he was one of the wealthiest men in the ton, of course — everyone had been quick to remind her of that at every turn! But he had never told her anything more than he wanted to, and he had never wanted, it seemed, to tell her a thing about his businesses or his tenants.
“Ah!” Lydia looked up; Mr. Carruthers smiled at her. “Here we are. So in addition to the endowment he made upon you, you’ll inherit Widener Grange. It’s a quite good-sized farm in Surrey — near Epsom, as a matter of fact.”
Lydia’s eyes widened. “Near Epsom, you say?” The very word seemed to make her heart skip a beat. So many wasted hopes and dreams had been thrown at Epsom! That blasted Derby, those foolish men and their horses! But, she had to admit, they were beautiful. Perhaps she would never learn to ride, but Lydia’s aversion to horses had shifted in the past months. She remembered the feeling of leading Tilly, the thrill of guiding a creature larger and stronger than her.
“Of course, you may not want to go back there,” Mr. Carruthers hastened to say, putting on a mournful face once again. “The scene of your husband’s — well — yes —”
But Lydia was already reaching across the desk for the documents. “Is there a map? Is it near the racetrack itself? The gallops?” She seized the paper from him and her eyes skimmed the words, then she turned it over and studied the blank side in consternation. “Where is it, exactly?”
“Ah — well, let me see…” Mr. Carruthers got up, his face betraying his shock at the new widow’s sudden avarice. But what did she care? He was just a barrister, and her late husband’s choice, besides. If he didn’t like her, she’d get another. But first, she was going to find out just how close her new home was to the gallops at Epsom.
That was right. Her new home. Lydia had a plan blossoming in her heart, and for the first time in nearly a year, she was feeling hope again. It lifted her up and made her eyes shine, despite the so-called somberness of the occasion. Perhaps Frederick had been a terrible husband to her, but he had given her a true gift: her freedom, at last, from the artifices and lies of a life amongst the ton.
“It’s just here,” Mr. Carruthers said, pointing to a map he’d recovered from a deep drawer. “You can see… there is a stream here, and fields for grazing and fields for wheat and oats. You’ll want that if you have horses. I believe there are sheep also.”
“And the racecourse at Epsom?” Lydia asked, her eyes following his finger as he traced the ink, the little snaky lines that were her future.
“It’s here,” he said. “A five-minute ride across fields. Lord Sutton often kept his racing stable here during the meet.”
Lydia put her hand to her mouth, overcome with delight. “Thank you,” she breathed through her fingers, rocking a little in her chair. “Oh, thank you.” And she wasn’t talking to the solicitor.
“You are planning to repair to Surrey, then,” Mr. Carruthers observed, rolling up the map again.
“At once,” Lydia confirmed. “There is a house, I trust? Is there a tenant?”
Mr. Carruthers studied the papers laid before him. “You’re in luck, my lady. There is a house, although a small one, and there is no tenant. A neighbor leases the fields.”
“When is the lease up?” Lydia leaned forward, on the edge of her seat.
“After the next harvest. Another year.” He looked up at her deep sigh. “I am sure you can negotiate for some of the grazing, if that is what you want. I had not realized you were such an avid horsewoman.”
Lydia nearly laughed aloud. Her, an avid horsewoman! But at the same time, she started to wonder — why not? Her plans multiplied, spreading like ripples across a pond. She could have a few nice horses, hire a trainer, watch them race, just as Frederick had done. But why not get a good quiet horse, and really learn to ride this time? Horses had been the driving forces of the two men who had changed her life — the man she loved and the man she married.
And she wanted a return to the way sweet Tilly had made her feel, like she ruled the world, as if she had no cares that she couldn’t conquer. Tilly, she thought, was the very thing that had convinced her to make her move with Peregrin. For just a few moments, riding on that old horse’s back, she had felt in control, and that she answered to know one. Now that was really true, and she wondered how much more heady this feeling would be from the back of a horse.
She wanted more of it. “Horses, yes,” she replied, realizing she had been quiet for too long, and Mr. Carruthers was staring. “I want the grazing and the stables immediately. And the house. I have the funds?” She looked inquiringly at the solicitor, who s
troked his mustachios and gazed at her for a moment.
“You have the funds, yes,” he said then. “Lady Sutton, you are a very wealthy woman. You are, in fact —” and here he paused, and when he spoke again he sounded quite resigned to an unpalatable thought — “Quite independent, if that is your wish.”
CHAPTER THIRTY-THREE
He’d been riding all morning, and the horses were tired. He could feel Cricket’s slowing steps beneath him, checked him when the horse tripped over heavy hooves, and the leading rein on Trickster was growing taut on the saddle-ring as even the young horse began to falter. It was past time to stop and rest.
But he didn’t want to stop. He wanted to get to Surrey as quickly as possible, before someone else did.
She hadn’t written him, and that was the worst of all. Shouldn’t she have turned to him first? Seeking a master of horse for a small racing stable, and a riding master for a lady, hard by Epsom in the downs — that was meant for him, wasn’t it? So why hadn’t she just asked him first? Why post it in the papers for all to see?
There would be a thousand scoundrels there before him, lining the road, sleeping by the gate, eager to be the first to see her — or if not her, her overseer. They’d be moths to the flame, seeking a fat ripe plum of an appointment like that, and hard by Epsom to boot. No long journeys to get to the downs, no hard wagon-rides to take a fine horse to the meet, just an easy walk over and the glories of those great gallops were there for the taking.
And her.
That was what he really wanted. He wanted Lydia, more than he’d ever wanted anything in his life. And this time, he was going to prove it to her, once and for all.
The newspaper clipping had hit him like a punch in the gut, nearly doubling him over. He had picked up the discarded envelope, turned it around, but there was no address or name on it. No indication of who had sent it to him. It could have been a well-wisher, urging him to go after her and prove his worth. It could have been a crony of Sutton’s or his cousins’, intent on showing him that she didn’t want him. It didn’t matter, he had decided then and there. He would prove the well-wisher right; his cousins wrong. He was right to go after her, and he would prove to her that she did want him.
Cricket stumbled again, hard, nearly propelling the daydreaming Peregrin between his ears. Peregrin sat back and held firm on the reins, helping the horse recover himself, and then sighed and clapped the old horse on the neck. “I’m doing wrong by you, lad, that’s what I’m doing. And you, Trickster,” he told the young horse trailing behind them, pulling at his leading-rein. “The next wide spot in the road, that’s where we’ll stop and have a break.”
True to his word, a clearing opened up ahead, where the woods and hedges gave way to a little stream and a grassy swale dotted with delicate white flowers. The horses picked up their feet more eagerly, turning their heads to the grass, and Peregrin let Cricket go where he would. The horse stopped short and dipped his head to the grass the moment it was within reach; Trickster stepped up next to him and lowered his head as well. Peregrin sat still for a few minutes, enjoying the feel of the grazing horse beneath him, taking a step every few mouthfuls as they did. Horses walked as they ate, their nostrils and sensitive lips seeking out the best blades of grass and the sweetest patches of clover, and their contentedness seemed to flow up through the saddle and into Peregrin’s very bones.
In the end, nothing made him quite so happy as making horses happy. Nothing, that is, except for Lydia.
Lydia! His thoughts were full of her as he slid down from Cricket’s back and went to loosening the girth, pulling the saddle off the cob’s sweaty back. Her face would light up when she saw him, and she would come racing down the steps of her country house. He would laugh and drop Cricket’s reins, and hold out his arms to her as his horses watched with pricked ears. She’d leap up into his arms and he would lower his face to hers and kiss her with abandon, without thought of propriety, without worry of the servants looking on, without shame — just he and his love, together at last.
He realized belatedly that he was growing quite hard. Better nip all that daydreaming in the bud, he told himself, resting the saddle against the trunk of a willow tree. There’s miles to ride before any of your dreams come true.
The horses grazing quietly, their teeth snatching at the sweet spring grass, Peregrin eased himself down between two thick roots and rested an arm on the cantle of his saddle. He watched them for a while, eyes growing heavy, but all he saw was Lydia.
***
Of course, the reunion did not take place the way he had imagined it. For one thing, there were heavy clouds rolling across the night sky by the time he arrived at her turning, well after dark.
He read the sign again and again, Widener Grange, as if he could not believe he was here at last. And indeed part of him could not. It had been two long weeks since the newspaper clipping had arrived in its unmarked envelope, two weeks of slow riding across the heart of England, back to Surrey, so close to London he thought he could hear the stomp of dancing shoes on the polished wooden floors from here, in the slumbering quiet of the countryside. Two weeks with his heart in his throat, making every swallow painful. Two weeks of daydreams, every one, he knew now, more impossible than the last.
She would have hired someone by now, he told himself, peering up the drive, which wound its way up a little slope under a canopy of oak trees. She would have found a man, and he was sleeping in the stable apartment this very moment. Or perhaps he was up late with a colicky horse. Or perhaps he was seducing his mistress.
Peregrin shook his head, hard. Those were not the right sort of thoughts. Disrespectful to Lydia, besides. Why suppose she would have taken a lover? Sweet quiet Lydia — she was not the sort to be a merry widow.
“Come on, lads,” he said suddenly, his mind made up. It was not so very late — perhaps she was awake yet. They would ride to the house and see what sort of reception they got. After all, he was not just some tradesman looking for work, or a traveler stopping by the kitchen door in hopes of some supper scrap. He was Mr. Peregrin Fawkes.
The drive was well-cared for, he noted with approval, and the trees pruned carefully so that a carriage could make its way through their leafy tunnel without scraping against branches. Beyond them he couldn’t see what was out there in the darkness; the clouds were covering the moon now, and the night was menacingly black. Once he heard a snort, and the pelting of hooves, and held on tight to Cricket’s reins and Trickster’s leading rein as they shied and jumped. “Just other horses,” he cooed soothingly, listening to the hooves stop short and then fly away into the distance. “Maybe they’ll be your new friends.”
Then when he thought the drive would never end, there was an abrupt curve and he found himself coming into a broad clearing — a lawn, he thought. Ahead, its bulk obvious even in the darkness, there was a square-built Georgian house, its curtained windows reflecting a sudden glare of moonlight as the clouds went scudding by.
Peregrin was impressed by the house: no country cottage, this. Four gleaming windows spanned the brick walls on either side of the ghostly-white portico, and rose up three stories above the expanse of lawn. So Lydia had truly landed on her feet after Sutton’s death, Peregrin thought. Good for her.
But there was one problem in the picture that he didn’t know quite how to deal with. There was not a light to be seen. As far as he could tell, Widener Grange was fast asleep.
It was the wrong thing to do, it was a mad thing to do, but Peregrin was wrong and mad in every way that he could think of: he’d just ridden a stolen horse hard across the country, chasing after the widow of his cousin, a woman in mourning, a woman who had turned him down once already. He was mad, he thought, looking at the dark windows of the brick house before him. He had given up everything for her, and she hadn’t even sent for him. She had known where he was, and she had gone out of her way to find someone else, anyone else, to do the job that she knew he would excel at like no other man. He was sta
rk, raving mad.
He slipped out of the saddle and looped Cricket’s reins loosely around a tree branch. “Whoa now,” he told the horses, who pawed restively at the gravel of the drive, ready for their long trip to be finished, longing for a dry box and clean straw and a manger of oats. “Stand, Cricket. Don’t let Trickster get the better of you. You’ve got to be the sensible one.”
Cricket lowered his big head and blew, a loud snort that seemed to echo through the countryside. From a nearby paddock there was a chorus of answering whinnies. Peregrin shook his head. “Bad-mannered beast,” he chided, and then turned on his heel, leaving the horses behind. With any luck, he’d be leading them into the stable in just a little bit.
With less, he’d be riding away into the night, possibly with the magistrate on his heels.
He would just have to hope for luck.
Peregrin then did the maddest thing he’d ever done in his life.
He went up to the front door of the slumbering house and knocked as hard as he could.
The sound of his fist on the old oak seemed to echo through the house, through the countryside, through all of England. He could hear it rolling through the hallway, bouncing away from the ticking grandfather clock in the hall, chasing up the stairs, all on its way to the ears of his slumbering lost love.
The first window that lit up was in the fanlight above the front doors: faint and faraway, the pale gleaming yellow of a candle that he knew belonged to an angry housekeeper, or an outraged butler. The steps were already slamming upon the floorboards within; he stepped back, looked up, and waited.
The Honorable Nobody (Heroines on Horseback Book 2) Page 26
