by Grace Elliot
“Mother would far rather be doing the tending than be ministered to and so makes a restless patient.”
Hope glanced up in surprise at George's insightfulness, not at all the gruff military man he pretended to be.
"That is most heartening news." Oswald smiled, but there it was again, that glint of coldness in his eyes. It reminded Hope of someone, and she couldn’t escape the notion she knew him of old.
"Have we met before?" She blurted out.
"Before the Wainwright's? I doubt it."
"Yes." Like a dog defending territory, Hope stood her ground.
Oswald looked perplexed and a little annoyed. "From time to time, business took me to the Isle of Wight. Perchance it was there?"
"Perhaps." She stared harder, becoming more convinced by the minute.
"You'll stay for tea?" Huntley interjected.
"Thank you, but no time I'm afraid. I must be on my way. Brought this small gift for Her Ladyship. Peppermint creams. Good for settling the digestion.”
“Very thoughtful. And do call again. You are most welcome, any time.” Huntley beamed and patted Oswald's shoulder in companionable fashion. “Let me escort you downstairs.”
After their departure, Hope stood without moving, unable to escape the conviction that somehow, somewhere she had met Oswald before— but how and where? Like soap in the bath, the harder she tried to grasp the idea, the more the memory slipped out of reach—and it troubled her. A great irritation rose within her; on one hand Oswald had been a discrete gentleman, on the other….was it a cooincidence he alone had been with Her Ladyship when she collapsed? Shaking her head on a ludicrous idea, Hope chastised her imagination…even so, when her eye fell on the box of peppermint creams, without a second thought she scooped up the box and tossed it into the fire.
Chapter Fourteen
George caught himself visiting his mother in the expectation of meeting Hope. Her devotion to his mother was admirable, but in his more truthful moments, he missed Hope's company. In fact, with Hope spending all her time with Lady Ryevale, he felt a little neglected. He missed her conversation, her spirit and optimism. Wherever he looked, he was reminded of Hope; looking out to sea, he remembered how her green eyes changed color depending on her mood, and a dark and stormy night brought back memories of their first meeting. Somehow, she had become an addiction.
With every passing day, Huntley looked forward to Hope being less tied to Lady Ryevale. But each new day, even with his mother out of danger, Hope refused to leave her side. Huntley began to notice signs of strain, how as Her Ladyship grew stronger, Hope declined. Her fresh, outdoors complexion grew pallid, and dark circles ringed her eyes. On impulse, he suggested Hope take the air and accompany him on a carriage ride, but she shook her head and declined to leave the house. It seemed while ever Lady Ryevale was bedbound, Hope was determined to stay by her side. Slowly it dawned on Huntley what his mother needed was a distraction, something to make her less dependent on Hope.
It was a passing comment in one of Jack's letters, that eventually offered a solution. His brother's words set in motion an idea which culminated with George hobbling towards his mother's bedchamber with a puppy clamped under one arm. Using his cane to rap on the door, he pictured Hope on the other side, with those tilted feline eyes and high cheekbones. The puppy felt him tremble and tried to wriggle free. As the door opened, George boosted the pup higher on his hip and assumed an expression of cool indifference.
Hope's face was a picture of surprise, her pink lips parted slightly and her brow arched.
"What is that?" Hope stared at the bundle of fur now slipping backwards out of his grasp. Huntley frowned, finding it increasingly difficult to be dignified while carrying the unruly creature.
“I would have thought it was perfectly obvious. ‘Tis a puppy.”
“What have you there, George?” In a white linen nightgown, a lace cap on her greying hair, his mother called from the bed.
"A puppy."
The thing was, the pup had wriggled so far backward, he had the wretched thing in a headlock. The puppy squealed and both women gasped, as if they'd lost their wits. Huntley was beginning to doubt the wisdom of his plan as he limped across the room and with a twisting turn, deposited his furry burden on the bedcovers. The back of his shirt felt damp against his skin and he half-suspected the creature had urinated on him. Distracted , he rubbed his shirt and sniffed his fingers just as a chorus of excited squeals broke over his head.
The puppy, released from the headlock, shook his floppy ears and, mountaineering over the counterpane on stumpy legs, made straight for Lady Ryevale.
“How utterly adorable!” Lady Constance clapped her hands. George regarded his mother with surprise, for her countenance entirely transformed with a soft gooey expression on her features, as she waggled her fingers to beckon the puppy closer.
The puppy was white with tan patches, his fur long, his tail fringed with a silky twist, and at that moment beating a steady rhythm on the blankets.
“I'm told he is a Cavalier King Charles Spaniel.”
The pup completed his sojourn across the covers and flopped beside his new mistress, staring up at her with soulful brown eyes. He squirmed his head along the blankets and rolled over to expose a rounded belly. Tentatively, Her Ladyship’s fingertips brushed against the exposed pink underbelly, which served to make his tail wag harder.
The effect this small dog had on two otherwise rational women, bewildered Huntley. With a chorus of ooohs and aaaahs, their entire attention was focused on the wriggling mass of fur. All semblance of intelligent, rational people dissolved as they cooed over the pup. Huntley didn’t know whether to be pleased or bemused.
Equally enraptured, the pup had snuggled against Her Ladyship, and as a pink tongue licked at her arm, she giggled.
“George, he is adorable, but I don’t understand. Who does he belong to?”
“Oh, didn’t I say? He’s for you. A present.”
The two women stared at him.
“I didn’t know you had it in you George, but what a wonderful idea. I love him. Thank you.’
“I’m so glad you approve.” From the corner of his eye he saw Hope staring at him with new appreciation. Huntley bristled, for it wouldn’t do for them to think he was going soft. “Strictly speaking, this isn’t all my idea.”
“No?”
“It was something Jack wrote, some tale about when Eulogy’s housekeeper was ill, and it struck a chord with me. Of course, if you don’t want him I can take him back.”
Constance now held the pup in her arms, pressed firmly against her bosom, his large brown eyes starting to close as he fell into an easy sleep.
“Don’t you dare. He’s mine…my… Jasper.”
“That’s a lovely name.” Hope’s face aglow, she too leant over and stroked Jasper’s velveteen forehead. “It suits him so. Shall he sleep in here, Ladyship?”
“Oh yes, a basket beside the fire. The poor thing seems exhausted. I expect being manhandled by George here is tiring.”
Huntley rolled his eyes. “It’s not easy carrying a pup under one arm, the little blighter was wriggly.”
“Still, let him sleep now.” Taking care not to disturb Jasper, Her Ladyship slipped deeper under the covers. “I think I’ll nap now. We can keep each other company.”
She looked from Huntley to Hope and her expression changed. A look of comprehension dawned on her face which made George uneasy, for he recognised when his mother was up to something.
“Now dears, George why don't you take Miss Tyler into the parlor for a nice cup of tea. She’s worked so hard these past few days, I’m sure a break won’t go amiss.”
Hope glanced at George. "Are you sure, Ladyship?”
“I’m tired. Little Jasper will keep me company. Now, go!”
Huntley’s mood soared but he was careful to conceal his triumph. “Come Miss Tyler, let us leave Mother in peace with her new friend.”
Huntley swallowed hard. I
n his plan, he had yet to work out what he would say to Hope when they were alone.
To his surprise, in the corridor Hope grasped his arm, and rising on tiptoe, fluttered a kiss against his cheek. His blood surged in response.
“That is the nicest, sweetest thing I’ve ever seen. Thank you.”
Huntley swallowed hard, confused. All his life he’d been striving to be strong, to be a leader and hide weakness, while all along it seemed it was alright to have a softer side. The sensation was not unlike standing on a ship’s deck with the landmarks he held as constants, spinning around him. Where, he wondered, was all this going to end?
*****
In the peach-tinged light of early morning, Huntley slipped out of the house and made for the stables; without his stick he moved awkwardly, swinging his left leg from the hip. At first progress was slow, but as he built up a rhythm so his confidence build and so his pace picked up. With the grooms still abed, there was no one to hear his uneven footsteps cross the yard, he had timed his visit so as to avoid prying eyes, for he wanted no witnesses to what he was about to do.
The smell of saddle soap and leather greeted Huntley like an old friend. He lifted Nero's saddle from the rack, bracing himself as the extra weight pained his injured leg. Next, he reached for the bridle and swung it over his shoulder. Quietly closing the tack room door, he crossed the yard again. The carriage horses were first to hear his uneven step, and snickered for their morning feed. But Huntley ignored them, intent only on Nero. Until now, Huntley hadn’t the heart to face his horse—a reminder of past adventures together and what he could no longer do. But no more. Today he would prove everyone wrong, and ride again.
He heard Nero before he saw him, heard his great hoof scraping the cobbles in his stall. A smile cracked his face as he hefted the saddle up to rest on the half-door. Huntley and Nero studied one another. The jet black cob, a shape made of shadow, perfect for their nighttime exploits tracking smugglers. Intelligence shone from the stallion’s eyes, big and brown, more beautiful than any woman’s—or so George had thought until recently.
Nero nuzzled his fingers, then nosed his jacket searching for a treat.
"So, you forgive me then?"
The horse snickered as Huntley pulled a carrot from his pocket.
"See, I didn’t forget completely."
Sliding the bolt across, Huntley slipped into the stable. The smell of fresh straw woke echoes from the past. His hand tightened on the bridle—he refused to accept those times were gone. He would ride again. Nero shifted impatiently, unable to understand his master's hesitation, and with a playful bunt of his velveteen nose, almost knocked Huntley off his feet. It seemed a long time since anyone had treated him normally, and Huntley all but laughed aloud.
“Whoa there boy,” George steadied himself against the horse’s withers. “You have to be gentle with me now, they say I'm an invalid, don’t you know? But you and I will prove them wrong.”
The big horse grew still. The cob blood in his line made Nero stocky for a gentleman's mount, but what Nero lacked in elegance was made up for with endurance. In a headlong gallop along the clifftops in the pitch dark, this horse's sure-footedness had saved Huntley's neck on more than one occasion and he trusted it would do so again.
"As I say, boy, gentle now."
Nero lowered his large head obligingly, letting Huntley slip the bit into his mouth, fasten the cheek strap and then toss the reins over his neck. Next, it took all Huntley's concentration to stay upright as he lifted the saddle from the half-door and placed it on Nero's back.
"Steady lad."
Gathering the reins in his left hand, Huntley reached for the stirrup and stopped. To mount meant bending his left leg, which was an impossibility.
"Damn." Huntley searched for a solution. "Alright, work with me on this."
Ducking under the Nero's neck, Huntley rearranged himself on the horse's offside and pulled down the right stirrup. He measured the length to his armpit and gripped the reins in his right hand. If his left leg would just take his weight, he could put his right foot in the stirrup and boost himself up…
Nero stood still, his ears flicked back, looking bemused, wondering what madness had overtaken his master to mount on the wrong side. Huntley got his foot in the stirrup and everything was going to plan, until his injured leg gave way beneath him.
One second he was preparing to mount, the next the walls were rushing past his head as, arms flailing, Huntley fell backwards. His shoulders struck the cobbles, then his head. But worse still, with his right foot still wedged in the stirrup, he found himself semi-suspended. Nero pranced on the spot. Instinctively, Huntley curled up as best he could, protecting his head with his arms, expecting the horse to rear. Nero put his ears back and quivered from head to toe, but stood his ground. Huntley waited, with the horse braced for flight, but nothing happened.
Slowly, taking his time so as not to spook Nero, Huntley reached for the stirrup and freed his foot. Shuffling backwards across the straw, he felt his left leg. Nothing had broken, it had just given out with all his weight on the one leg, but that was small consolation. He was useless. Worse than useless, he was a fool. But he was also a fool on the floor of a loosebox with a dangerous horse.
Nero snorted. His hoof struck the cobbles.
"Easy boy."
Nero backed, the whites of his eyes showing, nostrils flared.
"Easy."
All too clearly Huntley saw the danger; it would only take one sudden movement and he would be lying beneath a rearing, plunging beast. Slowly, Huntley rolled onto his front and pushed himself up onto his good knee. Nero eyed him warily and trembled.
"Steady. I'm going to stand. Alright?"
A ton of muscular horse flesh quivered in front of him. Biting his tongue lest he cry out with pain, Huntley regained his feet. With a singsong tone, he reached out and quieted the horse. He felt the coiled tension as he smoothed his neck.
"You're right. That was a stupid idea."
The muscle fasciculations beneath his palm stopped and then Nero, as if deciding there was nothing to worry about after all, started tugging at his hay rack. With a snort, Huntley patted the horse and threaded his fingers through the wiry mane. He leaned forward, and with his cheek resting against Nero's warmth, from out of nowhere his eyes filled with tears as Huntley gave into self-pity.
His career was over. If he couldn’t ride, then he wasn’t fit enough to rejoin the Navy. Tears slid down his cheeks, tracing the line of his jaw, and falling unchecked into the straw. He made no attempt to stem the flow, crying silently, his head hidden in Nero's mane, until he was empty. Then, he pulled out a handkerchief, wiped his eyes and blew his nose
"Sorry about that." He patted the horse. "I know I can rely on your discretion."
Utterly exhausted, it was some comfort to Huntley that no one had seen his breakdown.
"Well, if I'm not totally useless, how about I groom you, my friend?"
Huntley reached for the body brush but his hand froze in midair. Unless he was hearing things, there was a faint scraping sound coming from just outside the box. His skin prickled, alert to company.
"Who's there?"
His demand was answered by some frantic whispering. In two unsteady strides, he crossed the stable to glare over the half-door where he found Miss Tyler pulling urgently on Jasper's lead. But the pup remained oblivious, refusing to move, with his nose firmly planted in an interesting pile of hay just outside the door.
"Miss Tyler," Huntley growled, "in heaven's name, what on earth are you doing?"
Hope looked up, eyes wide and bright.
"I heard Jasper crying and knew he needed to relieve himself. I didn’t want him waking Her Ladyship, so I brought him outside myself." She trembled.
A vein throbbed in his left temple. "How long have you been there?"
From the way she couldn’t meet his eye, he knew she had seen his disgraceful lapse. Never had he felt so utterly undone. He waited for her pity, f
or gratuitous words of comfort but instead, after an awkward silence she merely nodded towards the horse.
"He's magnificent. What's his name?"
"Nero."
"Is he yours?"
"Yes."
He cursed his terse answers, and yet, he had no words. Then he noticed Hope was shivering. It was a cool morning, a hint of frost in the air, and yet he hadn’t noticed before. He looked more carefully at Hope and noticed white linen beneath her cloak. Peering over the door, he stared at her feet, kid leather slippers on her bare feet.
"You aren’t dressed." He said simply.
Hope nodded. "I know. I wasn’t planning on being this long."
Then he noticed her hastily pinned hair and skin pale as milk. In the early morning light she looked beautiful, no, beauty was too simple a word, she looked—ethereal. She shivered again.
"Merciful heavens, you'll catch your death dressed, or rather undressed, like that. Here, come into the stable."
Hope hesitated.
“Don’t worry, Nero will act as chaperone.”
A smile twitched across her kissable lips. “How can a horse be a chaperone?”
“He’s very protective of me,” George managed to joke, “if you try any mischief he’d protect my honor with his life.”
Despite the recent humiliation, he found he needed human company, especially hers—fragile as a wax doll and yet brave as a lion. With eyes which searched his soul, she studied his face.
“Very well. Just for a minute. Until I'm a little warmer.”
“Come.” Huntley held open the half-door. She brushed past and his body burnt with longing. “Nero pushes out as much heat as a small fire— come here.”
“Won’t he bite me?”
“Not if I tell him you are a friend.”
“And am I? A friend…still?”
“Yes.” His heart flipped in his chest.
“Then I want you to tell me the truth.”
“What do you mean?”
“I want you to talk to me. Is that such a strange idea?”
He considered her question. “I rather suppose that depends on what you want to talk about.”
