Chapter 5 #2
“I found him, and held him for hours before anyone came to my rescue. I had plenty of time to look into his eyes and promise myself again and again and again that nobody I loved would meet the same fate. Harry is a wild boy, and not trustworthy. If my father, who was a genius with horses, suffered such a tragic end—how much more so a boy of thirteen years? No, I will not allow Harry to ride until he has proved himself.”
She stopped speaking at last, watching the waves of her explanation hit the viscount like weapons. He did not release her gaze, however, and continued to hold her eye contact even as compassion filled his own.
“Thank you for sharing that, Miss Thorne,” he said gravely.
“Thank you for understanding.” She let out her breath in a sigh. “Now, if you will excuse Mrs. Hollis and I—”
“Thank you for sharing…” he repeated quietly, “but you are wrong.”
“I beg your pardon?” she asked, for the second time that day.
“I can see you are not the sort of woman who is often told she is wrong,” the viscount said with a smile, “but I must speak the truth nonetheless. A boy who has been thrown; a boy who is rebellious—as you yourself admit—and a boy who lives in the country… This is a certain combination. He will get back on a horse, whether you forbid it or not. The question is whether he does so under the instruction of a man who knows what he is doing, or alone in the woods where no one will hear him fall.”
She stared at him, ice running through her veins. She was not sure what made her angrier—that he presumed to know Harry and her dynamic… or that he was so completely right.
“I have just shared a very painful truth about my own story,” she said through gritted teeth. “And you counter cruelly by referencing Harry’s recent fall in the woods?”
“You seem as though you appreciate the unvarnished truth,” he said. His smile infuriated her.
“If you teach him to ride, he will be on a horse for the rest of his life,” she said.
“He will be on a horse either way,” the viscount sighed.
“This way he will be safe. Miss Thorne, you yourself admitted that your father was an excellent horseman. If you are waiting to teach Harry to ride until some unspecified time when you believe he is ready, you will wait an eternity. Your father was skilled, after all, and he still met with tragedy.”
“How dare you speak about my father in that way?” she asked, anger flashing hot through her, intensified by grief.
“I am not trying to hurt you, Miss Thorne,” he said slowly, stepping closer to hold her gaze. “I just want to help the boy. Perhaps he could use a friend right now, and a teacher.”
Rosalind’s anger leeched away as quickly as it had come. She did not know this man, but something in his eyes told her his concern was genuine. And he was right about Harry—the boy needed mentorship desperately.
She felt, as of late, that she could not reach him any longer. He seemed to only see an annoying older sister holding him captive. Maybe, just maybe, a man of the viscount’s charisma and status could sway him.
She saw a flash of pale muslin in the open doorway, but it was momentary. Lady Honoria, she presumed—although she had still not spent any time with the young woman.
“I do not concede the point at present,” she said, turning her full attention back to the viscount. “But I will acknowledge that you have raised some things to my attention that I was previously not aware of. I will think on the matter, and give you an answer later in the week.”
“Good,” he said curtly. “And in the meantime, may I recommend you make no effort to keep your brother from the stables? The smell and sounds likely remind him of his father. It has not been proven, of course, but the accepted scientific research is that mere proximity to a horse is rarely fatal.”
She looked up at him sharply. “Are you teasing me, my lord?”
“I would never,” he answered gravely, but there was a twinkle in his eye.
She hesitated, and then said uncomfortably. “I fear I will regret my manner and tone when I return home later.”
“Why, Miss Thorne?”
“I have a habit of regretting my temper after the fact, and I know that your invitation is born from kindness, not control,” she said quietly.
He smiled ever so slightly. “I hope to never give you cause for regret, Miss Thorne.”
He showed her outside, and she walked with Mrs. Hollis back down the drive and towards their own home. For a long time, her companion said nothing, merely letting the gravel crunch amiably beneath their feet.
At long last, she said, “Did that go how you planned, dear?”
Rosalind laughed. “No, Mrs. Hollis. No, it did not.”
“I thought he acquitted himself quite well in the argument.”
“You would,” Rosalind teased, “from your position sipping tea behind enemy lines.”
“It was good to see you in a social setting again,” Mrs. Hollis acknowledged. “You should have taken a biscuit or two… they were delicious.”
“I am surrounded by people every second of the day,” Rosalind sighed. “Is that not society enough?”
“As your former governess I must point out that a regular doctor’s visit, a full house of staff, a wayward little brother, and a secret school of impoverished girls, does not count as high society,” Mrs. Hollis countered drily.
“Ah, but you are all so much more pleasant than the ton,” Rosalind said, weaving her arm through her companion’s and grinning.
Her happy mood lasted until they returned home.
When Mrs. Hollis and Rosalind arrived back at Thornefield Hall, there was a card on the hall table with a message attached.
Mr. Edmund Crewe begs leave to call upon Miss Thorne on a matter of pressing family business at her earliest convenience.
That sick feeling of uncertainty returned to Rosalind, settling around her heart like a chill.