Chapter 13 #3
“We already saw it,” Jordy retorted. “The Tower, that is. We saw the lions and hyenas, and they stink.”
Sorcha put two slices of the cold ham-and-cheese pie on the plate, along with some beef tarts and an orange. Jordy ought not to be tired, and his mood hadn’t been this sour in some time.
“I was too little when we saw it,” Bridget replied. “I don’t remember the Tower, but I don’t want to see it with you if you are going to be such a grouchy old swine, Jordan Dolforth.”
Jordy wrinkled his nose and snorted like a pig. Bernard sent Sorcha a quizzical look. Lord Jordy of the Picnic Feast was in a notably foul humor.
“Jordy suffered a significant bump on the head,” Bernard said to nobody in particular.
“This can put a fellow inexplicably out of sorts, make him crotchety even. Jordy, I would never throw you into the Serpentine. The authorities would arrest me for it, and the ghost of Queen Caroline would haunt me in truth. It’s her lake, you know. ”
“Which Queen Caroline?” Bridget asked, which allowed Bernard to prose on about the Georgian succession, the good queens, and the history of London, all while Sorcha filled plates and wished that Lord Barclay had bothered to picnic with his children even once.
They would not have recalled such an occasion, but Sorcha would, just as she’d take with her into old age the image of Bernard cantering across the grass and blathering on about royal harbors and the City’s abundance of horse droppings.
“We brought kites,” Bridget said when she’d devoured the one chocolate she’d been allotted. “Mama said there’s a decent breeze, though how can a breeze be decent? A breeze is a breeze.”
“Kites?” Bernard affected a puzzled look. “I don’t believe we have kites in Yorkshire. Somebody will have to explain these kites to me.”
Jordy took the bait. “The kite is like a little sailboat for the air, without much of a ship, and you run with it on a string, and the wind grabs the kite, and up it goes. For a time, anyway. Sometimes it won’t go up, and sometimes—”
“It crashes down.” Bridget took up the instruction.
The children soon had Bernard charging down the nearest declivity, launching their kites while they bellowed encouragement. The breeze ruffled his hair, the horse watched the situation with a placid eye, and Sorcha knew a joy so sweet as to be nearly painful.
Thank goodness the suitor was back in evidence. That other fellow, the overly protective, overly tired guardian, was poor company.
Bernard turned over the kite-launching task to the young footman, whom Sorcha knew to be a dab hand with a flying dragon, and returned to the blankets.
“You got my note,” he said, helping himself to another chocolate.
“You demanded a chance to redeem yourself after nearly falling off your horse at our previous rendezvous. One could not deny such a heartfelt petition.”
“I’ve missed you. Did I say that part aloud last time or only think it?”
“You said it. I said I missed you too.”
He bit off half the chocolate and passed Sorcha the rest. “I missed you all over again in my sleep. Mr. Kessler is your sworn vassal, and he’s hiring me an assistant. Am I pigheaded, Sorcha?”
“Yes. I am familiar with the quality, having a touch of it myself.”
“Yours is a mild case, though. A gentleman is compelled to keep the record accurate in that regard. I have also taken a look at my calendar, your ladyship. I would like to consult you regarding some regrets that must be sent if I am to retain my sanity.”
Sorcha was seized with an impulse to push Bernard onto his back and kiss his precious sanity right out from under him. This Bernard was too kissable. That other fellow… Sorcha hoped she’d seen the last of him.
“Regrets, Mr. Huxley?”
“My social calendar is intolerably full. I am to attend at least two, sometimes three, different affairs in an evening, and the duchess’s ball looms as an unparalleled ordeal.”
“I’ll give you my supper waltz.”
Bernard closed the lid of the hamper. “You should make me work for it, Sorcha. I’m courting you, after all.”
“Court me quietly, please. I want to enjoy myself before Coraline gets wind that I have designs on you.”
As soon as the words were out, Sorcha regretted them. She most definitely had designs on Bernard, though the thought of remarrying—even him—was taking some getting used to. A lot of getting used to.
Mentioning Coraline, though, admitted a serpent to the garden of flirtation.
“Designs upon my humble person? My lady, I am flattered past all bearing, and I will most assuredly stand up with you for any and all available supper waltzes. Jordy isn’t feeling quite the thing, is he?”
“He’s been subdued all week, but then, Jordy has always been something of a clown. If this is my baby boy growing up, I suppose I must learn to accommodate the change. Does a bump on the head truly affect personality?” And where had Bernard learned that?
“A concussion can. Spend enough time in enough sickrooms, and you come across all manner of arcane medical facts. When might you be available to consult regarding my social calendar?”
He held out another chocolate to her. The last of the lot.
Sorcha took it, bit it in half, and passed him the remainder.
“You finish it,” Bernard said. “The look of you savoring your sweet is treat enough for me.”
He offered that confession in all seriousness. Sorcha finished the chocolate, chewing slowly while Bernard regarded her almost bashfully.
To share a picnic like this… Sorcha was on the point of saying something sentimental and honest when she spotted a trio of riders emerging from the trees.
“What?” Bernard followed her gaze. “Drat and perdition. What are they doing here?”
Annette, Eglantine, and Entwhistle approached, their horses moving at a shuffling walk.
“Come by after supper tonight,” Sorcha said. “We’ll review your calendar then.”
“You are managing me,” Bernard replied, gaze on the youthful threesome. “Preventing me from working late. My thanks for that. Time for dear old Cousin Bernard to do the pretty.”
Over on the hill, the children and the young footman had paused in their kite flying. Bernard rose and offered Sorcha a hand up, which she accepted and then dropped.
“Ladies, Mr. Entwhistle,” she said. “Good day. Nice weather for an outing.”
“Oh, it is,” Annette replied. “Mr. Entwhistle opined that one could practice French on horseback, the better to acquaint oneself with equestrian vocabulary, and here we are.”
She was on the same aging mare, but she sat the horse more confidently, and the feathers brushing her shoulder were at a jauntier angle.
“Ladies.” Bernard bowed. “Entwhistle.” A nod. “You mustn’t let us keep you. The children will be flying their kites all afternoon if possible.”
Annette shaded her eyes, perhaps the better to look fetching on her horse. “Oh, I hadn’t noticed. Is Jordy quite recovered from his little misadventure?”
How like her mother she sounded, and Sorcha did not consider that a compliment.
“He’s fine. Mr. Entwhistle, you may expect him in your study in an hour or so.
” Though since when had Entwhistle been out teaching French when it wasn’t his half day and without notifying the employer in whose household he dwelled?
Bernard’s suggestion that Entwhistle should be sacked reared its head.
“Cousin Bernard,” Annette said, “I have just had the most marvelous idea. Eggie is dying to stop at some musty old bookshop, where I refuse to be seen. You can escort me home and spare me the ordeal of the bookshop, while Mr. Entwhistle can escort Eggie. They can even practice their Latin.”
When had Annette become so… so shameless? Sorcha half hoped Bernard would put her in her place, but she knew his manners wouldn’t allow that.
“If you’ll wait while I take my leave of her ladyship, I can accommodate that request, Miss Greer, provided you understand that time is of the essence. I cannot add any calls or stops to our itinerary.”
Eggie looked pleased with that riposte, while Mr. Entwhistle sat upon one of Sorcha’s geldings, fiddling with the horse’s mane.
“My lady.” Bernard bowed over her hand. “Good day, and thanks for the meal. I see the children are back at their kiting, so I will ask you to make my farewells to them.”
Sorcha curtseyed, half amused, half annoyed at Annette’s interruption.
Had Bernard not spiked her cannon, the little minx would have dragged him to every hat shop and glovemaker in Mayfair and tossed in an impromptu call on Lady Bloomton for good—or bad—measure.
Gentlemen that he was, he’d have sauntered along at her side, while the matchmakers whispered and the gossips discreetly pointed and nodded.
Bernard gathered up his horse and left in company with the young people.
Sorcha hiked up the hill and demanded a turn launching the red dragon kite.