by Cindy Anstey
Following Percy’s lead, Ben urged Lancelot up and over the hedge; it was an easy jump for an experienced horse of seventeen hands. Ben leaned back.
Lancelot screamed and balked, turning so quickly that Ben was launched into the hedge rather than over it. Hitting the shrubs, he rebounded back onto the lane, landing hard on his knees and tumbling into a roll. He came to a jarring halt on his posterior and sat for a moment, dazed, confused, and … dazed.
Pounding hooves almost overwhelmed him as Ernest pulled up short, Arthur snorting in protest. Ben continued to reflect on which direction was up and decided he didn’t need to stand as yet.
“Ben! Ben, are you all right?” Ernest shouted.
Ben blinked and was going to suggest that shouting was not necessary when Jake shot past them, riding neck-or-nothing. Ben turned his head to watch Jake sail over the hedge, and then he shouted to his brother. “Go!” A race had to be won. “Go!”
“Are you all—?”
“Go!” Ben shouted again. “Win this bloody thing!”
In an instant, Ernest pulled Arthur around to get a running start over the hedge, and then he, too, was gone. The sound of thundering hooves receded until Ben was left with only the rustle of the wind in the trees and a plethora of songbirds creating enough racket to warrant a frown.
As breath returned to his lungs, and his heart slowed to a normal rhythm, Ben assessed the situation. He was very pleased to see that Lancelot had taken himself over to the other side of the lane and was nibbling on the grass. The horse looked none the worse for wear, though he was twitching and throwing his tail about. Ben would check thoroughly as soon as he stood … whenever that might be. He thought it an admirable idea to determine the damage before moving.
Fortunately, it was a short list: bruised knees, mostly protected by his leather breeches; scratches, predominantly on the right side of his head; a cut on his temple, though not deep, since the trickle of blood was already stopping; and last, but most definitely not least, a tender posterior. Not bad, considering he could have broken his neck.
Now, having finished his inventory, Ben thought he might stand; it wasn’t as difficult as he thought it might be. Even walking was acceptable after the first few steps.
Those steps took him to Lancelot.
Ben ran his hand over the horse’s legs and back and under his belly, checking the girth. All looked fine. Lancelot bumped him with his nose and went back to his grazing, still twitching.
Knowing that he was lucky, that the incident could have been so much worse, Ben was rather baffled as to why it had happened. It was most unusual for Lancelot to balk. The horse loved to jump.
Shaking his head, he shrugged, straightened his coat, and dusted off his shoulders. He found his hat, and as he straightened, his eye fell on the edge of the saddle pad and a small bump, indicating something underneath. Nothing should be underneath a saddle pad!
Reaching up gently, Ben touched the bump. Lancelot danced away, nickering. “Easy, boy, easy.” Ben tried to lift the pad but had to loosen the girth before he could raise it enough to get beneath. When he did, his fingers explored and found a burr—a small, prickly burr. He stared at it for some minutes, noticing the flecks of lint and horsehair caught up in the tiny spikes. He dropped it into his pocket and tightened the girth again—though not as taut this time. He would not get up on the saddle. There was likely a sore spot, bruise, or even a small cut where the burr had rubbed until Ben had made it unbearable by shifting his weight.
“Poor Lancelot. That’s no way to treat a fine creature like you, now is it?” Ben rubbed the long black nose thoughtfully and then reached for the reins again.
Strolling back up the lane, Ben retraced the route in a loping stride that in no way matched the fury coursing through his veins. He was glad of the long walk back to the manor; it allowed his rage to crest and ebb, settling into a deep, seething anger. Had he seen Jake or Percy before that, there would have been fisticuffs. Ernest would have joined the melee without question, and the mill would have seen them to the door posthaste. Ernest would have lost his ladylove because of Ben’s temper—being in the right would not make a difference.
Once through the gates, around the curves, and across the bridge, Ben spied the Shackleford towers through the trees; he did not hurry but allowed the tranquillity around him to erode his anger. While he ascended the hill, he heard a great roar of approval, cheering, and clapping. It would seem the race was won.
Within moments, a figure in skirts appeared at the top of the hill and quickly approached. As Emily got closer, her worried expression provided another salve to Ben’s mood. By the time they were near enough to speak, Ben was once again a clear-thinking gentleman—a clear-thinking gentleman who had every intention of seeing burrs stuck to the backsides of two empty-headed sots who deserved to be thrown into a gutter of sewage.…
“Benjamin. Benjamin, are you all right? You look quite terrible,” Emily said as she rushed toward him. Then she quickly added, “A wounded knight sort of terrible, of course. Looking brave and—”
“I am fine, thank you, Emily. Might look a little worse for wear, but I will be able to put most of it to rights with some soap and water.” Then he took a deep breath. He did not want to shout his next words; the burr was not her fault. “Our miscreants have been at it again. Quite adaptable, these fellows. And cavalier. Thought nothing of putting a burr under Lancelot’s saddle pad.”
Emily stopped and put her hand to her mouth. “Oh good Lord, no. You could have been killed.”
“Or Lancelot could have broken a leg. It was an idiotic and perilous thing to do.”
“That’s it! I will have them here no longer.” She whirled around as if she were going to march up the hill and have it out with Percy and Jake once and for all.
This was something Ben planned to do, and had been planning to do since he found the burr. Forgetting himself, he touched her arm to garner her attention. Emily gasped and whirled around. They were now standing very close together.… And Emily had closed her eyes.
Leaning into him, she lifted her mouth, and Ben forgot why he was angry. Suddenly he was confused; he knew Emily was hoping he would kiss her, and the thought was tempting, but they were standing in an open field where anyone could see. He shifted to look around her and waved casually to the group waiting at the top of the hill.
“Emily. Emily!” he whispered sharply in desperation. “Smile at the family.”
Her eyes flew open, and she stared at him with wide eyes. “Are they watching?”
“Indeed.” Ben lifted his cheeks, shifted, and waved again.
“Oh dear.”
“Exactly.”
Doing as he had suggested, Emily slowly turned and waved … while heaving a heavy sigh. “Please don’t thrash Jake, Benjamin. I know he deserves it, but Imogene pointed out that he is not himself right now. He is still grieving.”
“And Percy’s excuse?”
“He has none. Thrash away.”
“Thank you. I think I will.”
chapter 10
In which enthusiasm for an idyllic respite by the lake is thoroughly dampened
The climb up the hill was neither arduous nor overlong; it was, however, unpleasant because they were watched the entire length. As Ben and Emily drew nearer, laughter could be heard, carried on the wind. Percy’s and Jake’s guffaws carried the best—though Ben might have been a tad oversensitive. He found the sound markedly irksome.
Once at the top of the incline, the families stood back so that Ben might lead Lancelot to the stables. There was a great deal of meaningless chatter around him; he ignored all until he entered the yard and a groom stepped forward. Passing him the reins, Ben requested that the coachman see to the horse’s loin.
“Was he injured in the fall?” Ernest asked.
“No. Actually—”
“Parted company.” Jake laughed. “Beautiful stepper, and yet you parted company. Not the top-sawyer you thought, eh? Such a shame
you missed it, Percy. It was a sight!”
“Appreciating the fruits of your labor?” Ben turned to face Jake square on.
“My labor? I had nothing to do with it, my friend. This was all on you. Trying to jump before your horse was ready.”
“I think the fall had more to do with the burr than the hedge, don’t you?”
Jake stilled, finally realizing that Ben was seething. “What burr?”
“The one under his saddle pad? Know anything about it?”
Pushing his shoulders back, lifting his chin, Jake scowled at Ben. “I most certainly do not. I don’t care a wit about your hide, Mr. Ben Steeple, but I would never do anything to harm a horse, and I heartily resent the implication. Did you hear that, Percy? Next he’ll be accusing you.”
“It has crossed my mind.” Ben’s voice was edged with frost.
“Well, cross it off your mind. Neither Percy nor I had anything to do with your spill.” And with that, Jake harrumphed, glared at the company as if they had done something other than serve as witnesses, and marched toward the manor. Percy looked daggers at Ben and then followed.
“That was uncalled for, Mr. Ben. I believe you owe Jake and Percy an apology,” Imogene’s father said as the group shuffled away in discomfort, leaving only Imogene and Emily standing beside Mr. Chively.
Ben pulled the burr from his pocket, presenting it on his open palm. “It was under Lancelot’s saddle pad. Do you have another suggestion?”
“Yes, young man. The pad could have picked it up drying in the grass or some such. There was no need to accuse Percy or Jake of mischief. You might wish to withdraw your accusation.”
“I did not accuse, Mr. Chively. I merely asked if they knew whence came the burr. And Jake assured me that he did not know.” Ben’s voice dripped with derision. “It is up to each of us to decide if we believe that assurance.”
“Really, young man, your manners are as suspect as that burr. Boorish behavior. You are a guest here … invited solely on your brother’s merit.”
Ben glanced at Imogene with a set down on his tongue and saw her eyes wide with distress. It stopped him short. He blinked, gulped at the air, and swallowed his spleen—with difficulty. “I beg your pardon, Mr. Chively. The fall has clearly rattled my brain, and I am not thinking rationally.”
“Clearly!” Mr. Chively harrumphed—not unlike Jake had done—and nodded, walking away without another word.
“Oh dear,” Imogene said.
“Oh dear,” Emily echoed. “Worry not, Benjamin. It’s no more than bluster. Your question was reasonable to those of us who know the true state of affairs. I’m sure Mr. Chively will come around.” Linking her elbow to that of Imogene, she pulled her friend forward. “My parents certainly understand. They mentioned trying to keep Percy and Jake out of mischief before you arrived. Mr. Chively is, and always has been, indulgent and overprotective of Percy. His heir, you know.” Her last statement was said in a fairly good imitation of Mr. Chively’s imperial tone.
Imogene, looking over her shoulder, nodded just before they disappeared around the corner of the stables.
“Well, the race was entertaining,” Ernest said, staring after the ladies.
“Who won?”
“I did,” Ernest said with a sigh.
Ben laughed and slapped his brother on the back. “Well done! That’s the best way to thwart our villains. Beat them at their own game.”
Ernest smiled, though the worry never left his eyes. “Think I should propose soon, before we outstay our welcome.”
* * *
“WHY ARE YOU SKULKING?”
Imogene jumped and whirled around without thought, despite recognizing the voice. “Oh, Emily, you gave me such a start.” She laughed weakly, holding a hand to the top of her bodice. “Did I really give the appearance of skulking?”
They were standing at the bottom of one of the twin circular staircase towers that curved past the main floors. Emily must have come around behind Imogene, though the carpeted stone had offered up no betraying sound.
“Looking into the hallway before stepping across the threshold is certainly … odd.” Emily’s laugh was strong and genuine, and she hooked her arm through Imogene’s. About to stride forward, she hesitated and spoke in an exaggerated whisper. “Where are we going?”
“The stables,” Imogene whispered back, grinning, glad to have company.
“An unusual destination being that you are not dressed for riding and we will be called to ready for dinner soon.”
“Perhaps a trifle unusual. However, asking your coachman to come into the manor would be odder.”
“There is that.” She pulled Imogene forward, adopting an easy gait. “Still, that begs the question, why do you need to speak to our coachman? Should we go through the conservatory? It’s faster.”
“Excellent idea.” Imogene nodded. “Father is quite put out about the burr. I heard his indignant comments to Mother and Mr. Tabard. They all seem to be in agreement.”
“Which is?”
“That Ben was a poor sport, a cad; that it was the height of rudeness to accuse Jake and Percy of cheating. I thought I might talk to your coachman and see if it was even possible that the burr was picked up from the grass, as my father asserts.”
“You know it’s not.”
“Indeed. The pad would have been brushed before being used.”
“More to the point: Were the boys in the stable as Lancelot was being saddled? And if so, would they have known which horse was Ben’s?”
“They would have known. Most definitely. Lancelot is quite distinct, and all saw Ben arrive.”
“This was not an accident.”
“Indeed not.”
It took little effort to run everyone down that had been in the stable earlier in the day, preparing for the race. Imogene had cause to appreciate Emily’s presence for more than her companionship; the men did not hesitate to tell the daughter of the house how they felt about the dustup.
Mr. Fowler was deeply offended. The insult, of course, being that anyone—namely, Father—could suggest that his grooms had been so lax or inept or foolish as to saddle a horse with a burr. Mr. Fowler went on at length until his ire was fully spent and he returned to his duties. The grooms were a little more prudent in their language, but there was no doubt of their pique, too. As to the question of who was around during the saddling, it would seem that all the gentlemen of the house were in and out of the stables at some point, laughing and chatting and milling about—including Percy and Jake. No one had seen anything suspicious.
“Doesn’t help in the least, does it?” Imogene asked as they walked back to the house. They were taking the longer route to the front door to allow time to discuss their complete lack of knowledge. It mostly involved chuntering.
“Skulking about?” a voice asked as they passed through the portico and into the vestibule.
Imogene turned with a smile, recognizing the voice. “Oh, Mrs. Beeswanger, you gave us such a start.” Like mother, like daughter.
“I beg your pardon,” came the jovial reply. “I thought to add some levity—your countenances were decidedly sour. Is something amiss?”
“No, Mama. Not really. We were just to the stable, hoping to understand…”
“Ah yes. The burr. Such a to-do. Let me guess. Mr. Fowler has assured you that the burr was not placed under the saddle pad, in carelessness or intent, by him or any of his grooms.”
“As you say.” Imogene nodded several times. She looked over to see Emily doing likewise and Imogene continued for a few more bobs.
“That was expected. The man knows what he is about—been a coachman for decades. Don’t trouble yourself, girls. Put your pretty smiles back on your faces. Mr. Beeswanger is ready to ring a fine peal over those boys.… As it would seem that no one else is about to call them to order.” Mrs. Beeswanger sighed—rather heavily. “There is no excuse for such behavior at their age. Clara would be horrified.” Reaching out, she squeezed their hands r
eassuringly. “Now, off you go. Time to dress for dinner. I have a special treat for our entertainment tonight. I have hired a string quartet to play Haydn. It will be a lovely evening—little fodder for the boys to cause mischief.”
As Mrs. Beeswanger had predicted, the evening was indeed lovely and mischief-free, lulling the company into complacency until the next afternoon.
* * *
IMOGENE LOOKED DOWN at her soft lilac skirts and lifted a lady beetle onto her palm, blowing softly so that it would take wing. Ernest sat on the blanket beside her, saying little and yet breathing in a very controlled manner … as one does when one is trying to build up courage to ask a question.
The inability to speak his mind was not, in fact, Ernest’s fault. Imogene had deliberately requested that the blanket be placed in the shade of the willow near the shore of the pond … lake. The proximity to dearest Mama and Mrs. Beeswanger, lounging nearby in chairs brought down from the manor, was not a coincidence. Imogene was well aware of the older ladies’ preferred resting place, and she had used that knowledge to her advantage. The advantage of preventing Ernest from offering her his hand—something he was unlikely to do with others listening.
Imogene was desperately afraid that Ernest would rush his proposal, ask her too soon. She was not ready to say yes … but neither was she ready to say no. She was in a quandary.
Despite Ben’s lack of appreciation for green beans, Imogene had yet to discover a horrible trait of his that would usurp his charm and make all his actions suspect. In fact, she had found no reason to not be in love with him—knowing that Emily wanted to call Ben her own should have been enough for her heart to cede victory and look to greener pastures. But her heart, apparently, had a mind of its own.
It was a confused metaphor, and yet it spoke to the essence of her indecision.
Imogene had to turn her thoughts once and for all from Ben and decide on Ernest by his own merit. She should not favor his suit simply because he was Ben’s brother or that he could take her away from the intolerable control of her father; that would not be fair to a gentleman who saw more in her than she did in herself. She would not use him to continue her art studies. Nor would she accept him in the fear that there might never be another suitor.
