Chapter 5
Har-ding met him at the stables.
Their ride was nothing short of pleasant. Christopher had wondered if the addition of Har-ding would hinder his enjoyment of the peaceful morning, but instead he found it to be quite the opposite. With Har-ding riding Peaches (a chestnut mare with the personality of a warm slice of cake) beside him, Christopher was in his element, talking a mile a minute about his horses and the surrounding countryside, pointing out Peaches’s ability to sidestep dips in the road without being told, or expounding on some local legend concerning a nearby wooded bower. Having gone so long without companionship—-at least, that of someone his own age—-it seemed he was starved for it. He wondered just how pathetic it was that he was essentially paying a man to be his friend.
As with most things that gave Christopher an uncomfortable feeling in his middle, he dismissed the question and locked it away in his proverbial sea chest.
“Would you mind,” Christopher asked as they headed south, “if riding together in the mornings became a regular habit?”
“Do my skills appear so rusty that you think I need a chance to polish them?” Har-ding did not smile per se but allowed his eyes to soften as he glanced over at Christopher.
Christopher gave him a shrug in return. “You said it, not I.”
There were only a few days left before they would need to leave for London, but Har-ding and Christopher spent them well. It was only sensible, Christopher thought, that they get to know each other, if for no other reason than to be able to present a decent picture of master and servant when they arrived in the city. And if getting to know Har-ding meant spending more time with the man, well, all the better. Christopher was delighted with each tiny scrap of information he was able to gather about his new valet: that the first horse he’d ever ridden was a bay named Ferdinand; that he had strong opinions on trousers and breeches; that he would prefer to add a few darker colors to Christopher’s wardrobe (“One single coat of navy, my lord; would that be such a burden?”); that eating walnuts made his face and hands puff up like someone had taken a bellows to him; and that he preferred dressing in dark colors not because he thought it suited him, but because it allowed him to fade into the background as a servant should.
“Well, it does suit you,” Christopher informed him while they rode together one morning. “If I could order you to wear nothing but black for the rest of your days, I would. But I know you will insist on wearing that dreadful livery when we go to London.” He shivered dramatically just for the sheer pleasure of watching Har-ding attempt to hide his smile.
After they turned the horses around to head back to the stables, Christopher realized that, as many tiny bits of information as he’d managed to wheedle from Har-ding, he still did not know much. The man was cloaked in mystery, and it seemed only natural to want to relieve him of his outerwear.
“You said you worked as a stable boy in your youth,” Christopher said, glancing over at his noble profile. “Where are your people from, Har-ding? Were you raised in the country?”
“No, my lord. I was born and raised in London,” came the soft reply.
“London!” Christopher’s imagination teemed with thoughts of a whole gaggle of Har-dings living in some gloomy rookery, squeezed shoulder to shoulder, each one as handsome as Har-ding was. “You must be looking forward to our sojourn, then. I suppose there will be many evenings where I will be out and about with no need of you; plenty of opportunities to visit with family.”
“Actually, my lord,” Har-ding said with strange delicacy, “I have no family left to speak of.”
“Oh.” Christopher deflated, feeling a right ass. Here he was, himself quite alone in the world, and it hadn’t even crossed his mind that Har-ding—-or anyone else for that matter—-might be in the same boat. “Oh, I’m sorry, dear fellow.”
“There is no need for apologies. You couldn’t have known.” He guided Peaches around a fallen log with a deft hand.
Christopher ached with curiosity to ask about the circum stances of this tragedy, but propriety held him back—-as well as the carefully guarded look on Har-ding’s pinched face. He attempted instead to lighten the mood. “Well, perhaps there are old friends or acquaintances that you might meet while we are in the city. Or there are other things you can do for entertainment. I mean it, Har-ding: a free evening is not to be squandered. I don’t want you moping about the house waiting for me to return from a ball or—-”
“Take care, my lord,” Har-ding said all of a sudden, and swung Peaches into action with a quickness that seemed to surprise even the horse herself. In the blink of an eye, Har-ding had placed his own mount on the path before Christopher’s, effectively blocking his way. He also reached over (not far, as their horses were nose to neck) and laid his hand on Christopher’s where they had his reins in a loose grip. The touch seemed designed to reassure Har-ding that the young master was held firm, but it also served to produce a noticeable hitch in Christopher’s breathing.
Christopher did not know what to make of it at first, but then saw where Har-ding was focusing his intense gaze: there was a steep gully just ahead on the path where the earth had washed away, leaving only a few bits of bramble to hide the treacherous pitfall from hapless travelers.
“Excellent eyes, Har-ding,” Christopher said, breathless. One false move and Orion might have broken a foreleg. “I’m very much in your debt.”
“As long as you are safe, my lord,” said Har-ding, “there are no debts between us.” He seemed belatedly to realize his hand was still resting on Christopher’s person, and he jerked it away with a quickness normally reserved for the touch of hot coals.
“We should return to the stables soon, at any rate,” Har-ding said, bringing Peaches around.
“Yes.” Christopher hoped to god the croak in his voice wasn’t too obvious. “Return.”