Chapter Two
Sophia Pemberton was a surprise. Duncan had watched her these past six months as she’d struggled with the Haddington children.
He had assumed she was no different from the handful of browbeaten, lifeless governesses who had preceded her.
But she’d stepped forward two days earlier and asked a favor of him, one that benefited no one but her— the others had seemed terrified to even acknowledge their own existence, let alone their right to some happiness— and she’d further declared her intention of taking the request to their dragon of an employer.
This governess had a bit of steel to her. A surprise, indeed.
Aiden, the most experienced and reliable of the stable staff, spoke as he cleaned out the hoof of Barnaby, Mr. Haddington’s prized gelding. “’Tis Friday afternoon, Duncan, and we’ve seen neither hide nor hair of the governess. Do you wager Miss Proper’ll make an appearance, then?”
“Aye.”
“Then you think the missus gave her permission?”
“No.”
Aiden set Barnaby’s foreleg down. “Then why d’you believe she’ll come?”
“Civility.”
The Scots tended to fight things out; the English preferred irritating their enemies into submission with ceaseless propriety. Miss Pemberton would come to the stable, not to ride a horse but to apologize for not coming to ride a horse, or something equally English.
“You ought to have put a bit of blunt on that wager, Duncan. You’d’ve won handsomely.” Aiden motioned with his head toward the doors.
Miss Pemberton was but a few steps from the stable. She always wore dark, subdued colors. One would think she was forever on her way to a funeral.
She stepped inside, and her eyes immediately found him. He’d never seen her smile. For reasons he couldn’t yet identify, that bothered him. She seemed like the sort who ought to smile.
“Mr. Buchanan.” She stepped up to him, meeting his eye without hesitation. “I am sorry to have not come sooner. No doubt someone has gone to trouble on my behalf, but I have only just received Mrs. Haddington’s answer regarding my ride this afternoon.”
“And are you to ride?”
Though her shoulders remained squared and her demeanor calm and collected, unmistakable disappointment flickered through her dark, expressive eyes. “She feels my time would be better spent on less frivolous pursuits.”
“Isn’t Friday afternoon your time to spend as you choose?” he asked.
“It is, but the mares are hers to lend out as she chooses, and in this case, she chooses not to.”
So Miss Pemberton was to be denied this simple pleasure. Even the stable hands were permitted to ride now and then in the name of exercising the mounts or cooling them when the family didn’t care to take the time to do so.
How could the family treat her with less consideration than they did their lower servants? She was English, after all. And well-born. Refined.
“Would you mind terribly, Mr. Buchanan, if I stayed a moment and simply looked?”
Looked? “You mean at the horses?”
“Yes, please. I do like horses.” Her gaze slid to Barnaby and lingered a moment, admiration and eagerness touching the planes of her face. “I will be no bother; I’m particularly good at keeping out of the way.”
What an odd sort of lady she was, putting forth her invisibility as an asset when her class generally found being unnoticed a disagreeable experience.
That, he felt certain, was the reason the other governesses had worn their forced quietude with such discomfort.
Miss Pemberton seemed determined to bear it with pride.
As a governess, she was more than merely a surprise; she was a niggling question, tickling the back of his mind. She was a mystery.
“I’ll show you about m’self,” he said.
She shook her head without hesitation. “I could not ask that of you.”
“You didn’t. I offered. If you’d asked, I’d likely have turned you down.”
She accepted his reply with neither offense nor humor.
On first acquaintance, one could be excused for thinking her rather emotionless.
She hid her emotions well; that was all.
He sensed that despite the thick aura of England about her, Miss Pemberton had a bit of fire smoldering beneath the surface.
He jerked his chin in the direction of the gelding. “This here’s Barnaby.”
“His markings put me in mind of Odin, the stallion at Tockwith Grange,” she said.
She’d seen Viscount Cattal’s famed stallion?
And at Tockwith, it seemed. Perhaps she came from a more exalted family than he’d suspected.
That might explain why she never seemed wholly intimidated by anyone.
People were forever puzzling over his reasons for being so sure of himself.
He’d wager his reasons and hers were one and the same: despite the current state of their employment, they’d both experienced moments when they were the most important people in the room.
He took her from one stall to the next, to whichever animal she indicated a wish to visit. He gave her the name of each animal and a few details. She asked insightful, intelligent questions and actually listened to his answers, something the Haddingtons and their occasional guests seldom did.
He stopped in front of the stall housing Miss Ella’s pony. “I believe you recognize this tortured soul.”
“I do, indeed. Poor creature must relish the days when Miss Ella does not have riding lessons.”
Will, one of the younger stable hands, approached, but at the sight of Miss Pemberton, stopped abruptly. He hung back, eyes diverted like a lower servant approaching a member of the fine and fancy elite.
“Forgive me,” he muttered. “I only meant to ask what you’re wanting me to do now that I’m done with the tasks you gave me.”
When was the last time anyone on his staff had waited for instructions?
Duncan made a rule of keeping a close eye on what each hand was doing so he could assign another job before the first was finished.
He’d ushered Miss Pemberton all around the stables when he had a load of other work to do.
He couldn’t remember the last time he’d been so fully distracted.
She must have sensed the direction of his thoughts. “It appears I have interfered with your work, Mr. Buchanan.”
“That you have, lass.” He had no one to blame but himself, yet he meant to do a fair bit of blaming.
Her brow pulled downward, and her wide mouth turned down in disappointment.
“I asked too many questions, didn’t I? My father forever told me not to make a nuisance of myself by asking questions.
” She clasped her hands. “My apologies, Mr. Buchanan. And” —she turned to Will— “to you, as well. I will leave all of you to your work, as I ought to have done from the first.” She gave a quick nod to them both. “Good afternoon.”
Miss Pemberton left swiftly, not looking at anyone as she went.
I should get back to work. Duncan eyed the now-empty stable doorway. There’s loads to do.
Yet his feet carried him from the stable, following the route Miss Pemberton had taken. She’d already reached the path leading back to the house. The lass moved swiftly.
’Twould be easy as anything to simply go back to the stable. Why, then, were his feet ignoring his mind entirely?
“Miss Pemberton.” Apparently his voice was equally disobedient.
She stopped and looked back. He reached her in the next moment.
“Did I forget something?” How could she look so serene while sounding so uncertain?
“No. You didn’t forget anything.”
Her eyes darted about a moment before settling on him once more. “Did I do something wrong?”
“You left upset.”
“And that was. . . wrong?”
“Not wrong.”
She turned her head a bit away, eyes narrowing. “I don’t understand.”
This was exactly why Duncan avoided conversations: too many ended in confusion. “You left upset. I didn’t like it.”
“I’m s—”
“I wasn’t lookin’ for an ‘I’m sorry.’” Crivins, she apologized a lot. “I only need to know why you’re unhappy.” Though why he needed to know, even he couldn’t say.
“Oh.” She blinked a few times, as if his concern surprised her as much as it did him. “I disrupted your day and made a burden of myself.”
“You weren’t a burden.” A disruption, perhaps. A confusion, yes. But not a burden.
“A bother, then. And for that I am sorry.”
He heard himself answer with words he’d not intended to speak. “You’re welcome to come visit the horses at any time.”
“Thank you. I promise not to interrupt anyone’s work to do so, especially yours.”
More words slipped from his lips unbidden. “I’d hope you’d offer a ‘good day’ at the least.”
The tiniest hint of pleasure entered her deep brown eyes. “I will.”
She no longer appeared upset or embarrassed or whatever it was she’d been when leaving the stables. That was good enough to satisfy him. He gave a quick dip of his head in anticipation of returning to work.
“Mr. Buchanan?” She, apparently, wasn’t finished.
He paused and silently gave her leave to continue.
“Would you— Might I—” Though she’d never seemed overly talkative, Miss Pemberton was not generally so tongue-tied.
Just what favor did she mean to ask this time?
“Would you mind if I came and talked with you now and then?” Her words rushed out, quick, almost flustered.
“I would be careful of your time and obligations, and I promise not to pester you with questions.”
Talk? With a highborn lady? “What on earth would we find to talk about?”
“Well. . .” She clasped her hands once more. “I have wished ever since my arrival to learn more of Scotland, and you have lived here all your life. We share an interest in horses. We work on the same estate. Those topics would likely suffice for a time.”
That sounded painful. “I don’t talk.”
“But we have talked quite a bit today,” she said.
He shook his head at such an argument in favor of more conversation. “Idle talk’d only keep me from m’ work.”
“I could help. I do know how to curry and brush a horse.”
That was near about the most ridiculous thing he’d heard: a governess with white kid gloves and silk dresses and fine manners doing the work of a stable boy. “We’ve hands enough to see to those tasks.”
“I wasn’t petitioning for employment.” Her clasped fingers fidgeted and tugged at one another. Though she didn’t look away, she grew noticeably uncomfortable. “I was hoping to. . . make a friend.”
A friend? Of him? And her an Englishwoman?
She might have deemed him worthy of her notice and conversation, but he had spent enough time interacting with the English and, worse still, the upper classes, to know that such a thing was not a good idea.
He’d rather not endure more of the condescension he’d received all his life.
“I’m not in need of friends, Miss Pemberton,” he said.
Heat touched her face and her gaze dropped away. “A good afternoon to you, Mr. Buchanan.”
Humility never seemed to sit lightly on the shoulders of those born to privilege.
Miss Pemberton, however, wore it more like sackcloth than a sack of rocks, as if accepting the dismissal of others was unavoidable, as if she almost deserved punishment rather than this moment of discomfort, which would be shed as quickly as possible.
Duncan knew he’d done the right thing. A friendship between them was not a wise idea. He’d seen far more of the world than she likely had and knew more of the pitfalls of her suggestion.
Why, then, did the necessary rejection of her offer sit with such weight on his chest? Why did he feel like he’d made a mistake?