Chapter 6
In Richard’s experience, horses and dogs were accurate judges of character. If a generally friendly dog took exception to a human, that human was to be regarded with caution. Not a hard and fast rule, but the sort of wisdom a boy picked up when he worked in a stable.
“You are a horsewoman,” he said as Miss Fielding scratched the mare Frigg gently behind the ears. The beast twisted her neck and half closed her eyes, the better to enjoy the attention. Miss Fielding had apparently found the one spot the mare best liked to have scratched.
“I am fond of horses,” she said. “I like cats as well, and dogs are excellent company.” She switched ears, and the horse contorted herself in the other direction. “What of you? Do you prefer a house free of pets, or were you given a puppy on your sixth birthday?”
That would have been his purported sixth birthday. “A housekeeper’s son would have had no use for a puppy.”
Miss Fielding ceased petting the horse, who turned a limpid gaze on her in polite entreaty. That equine expression, half plea, half reproach, put Richard in mind of his sister. What was all that blather about Almack’s and Mayfair in aid of?
“I am sorry,” Miss Fielding said. “I do not mean to dredge up sad memories. You fill the role of newly titled peer so convincingly that I forget you came to it by a circuitous route. I hereby pronounce Frigg a dear creature and a pleasure to have in the stable. I look forward to trying her paces tomorrow.” She crossed the barn aisle.
“This must be Baldur. Is he Frigg’s son? ”
Miss Fielding recalled her Norse mythology. “Not that I know of. Her conformation is more refined than his, and I would not be surprised if she wasn’t faster over the ground. He looks like a capable jumper to me.”
“Good shoulder angles, clean legs, and such a handsome fellow.” She held up a hand for Baldur to sniff. He delicately obliged and added a low, repeated whuffle until Miss Fielding scratched the spot under and behind his chin.
If a horse could swoon… The whuffling became almost a purr, and Richard was charmed as well. Away from the house, Miss Fielding was more relaxed and approachable. She’d been curiously quiet over supper, no matter how Richard had tried to coax her into the conversation.
“Was Wealtha’s behavior this evening typical of her?” Richard asked.
Miss Fielding ceased imperiling the dignity of Richard’s prospective mount. “In what regard, your lordship?”
That careful question threatened to evaporate all the unbending that the company of the horses or the distance from the house had inspired.
“When I came down from university,” Richard said, “I was the object of close scrutiny by the hostesses and matchmakers. Wealtha’s conversation reminded me of that same ruthless curiosity.
My ducal patrimony was common knowledge and no particular impediment to social advancement, provided I had independent means, perfect manners, and witty conversation. ”
“You had to look the part too,” Miss Fielding said, leaving a bereft gelding for the stable yard and the slanting rays of the setting sun. “Bond Street fashion, the right saddle horse, the right equipage for Town. The right clubs, too, I’m guessing.”
“You guess accurately. Not too Whig, not too Tory, not too high in the instep. I managed all of this, and my reward was to be endlessly scrutinized, evaluated, and compared. Was I a better catch than the Robinsons’ younger son?
He was legitimate. I was taller and acknowledged by my uncle, His Grace of Chanderton.
Should I be invited to join the Earl of Delaplane’s second son for supper at his club?
I wasn’t worth the heir’s company, nor the company of the earl himself, of course, but neither could I be entirely ignored. ”
“I was lucky,” Miss Fielding said, ambling across the yard to a track that led down a shady trail. “I did not merit a second look from much of anybody. No fortune, humble connections, no great beauty, and when I grew animated, a hint of that unfortunate Yorkshire accent arose.”
What or who had inspired her animation? “The great beauties tend in my experience to be greatly self-absorbed, whether their pulchritude is feminine or masculine.” Perhaps that was what had bothered him about Wealtha.
She was pretty, and she knew it, and she intended that everybody else acknowledge her good looks as well.
“And if those beautiful people are charming, every virtue is ascribed to them,” Miss Fielding said.
“Their humor is the most sophisticated wit, their gossip the most interesting. I was completely bewildered by the whole business, and Orla did not want me to go, but my great-aunt Fielding was determined. Down the Great North Road I did go.”
“Good word. ‘Bewildered.’ Tossed into an incomprehensible wilderness.” They strolled along a bridle path bordered on both sides by venerable lime trees and the occasional maple.
What had once been a hedgerow had apparently been allowed to exceed all bounds and become a winding extension of the park and the home wood.
A peaceful patch and at this hour bathed in the golden magic of the setting sun.
“You refer to your step-mother by her first name,” Richard said. “I cannot recall ever using my mother’s name to another.” Perhaps when he’d been so wroth with St. Didier?
“Joseph Fielding became a widower when I was four years old. I have a few memories of my first mother, but Papa was most anxious that I accept Orla as a replacement, and for the most part, she has been.”
“You tell yourself that, but there’s still an ache.” A well-hidden ache, in Miss Fielding’s case, one that explained some of her independent spirit. She knew what it was to navigate life on her own.
She continued at the sort of relaxed, swinging gait that would have seen her over the Dales to the Lakes without breaking a sweat and would have provoked pointing and whispers in Hyde Park.
Stupid whispers.
“I should chide you for your presuming questions,” she said. “My distant childhood is merely that, but you know of that ache from your own experience.”
“I have many memories of my mother, good memories.”
“But you have very few memories of your father, my lord.”
Oh, him. “Touché. When I met Lord Jerome, he was mostly a disappointment. I suppose that was inevitable. Mama did not discuss him with anybody, and in my little-boy imagination, he rode a fancy white horse, loved to play toy soldiers, and longed to take me to live with him in his golden castle. We would have dined on steaming porridge awash in honey and butter at every meal—he was to have a fountain of honey in his perpetually sunny garden—though I would have missed Mama, of course.”
“No wasps in that garden, I presume. Did he ride a white horse?”
“Alas, no. He bungled that as well. His mount was a chestnut. Four perfectly matched white socks, and the horse was prone to flatulence.”
They shared a smile, a little sad, mostly understanding.
“I have a confession,” Miss Fielding said. “I made a decision that was not mine to make.”
“One suspects you commit this misdemeanor regularly, and the Glen is better for it.”
“Guilty as charged, my lord, but in those cases, nobody else is available to resolve the matter. Orla cannot be bothered with menus when her appetite is unreliable. Wealtha has little patience for domestic minutiae, and the staff is wonderfully loyal but somewhat lacking in initiative.”
“Upon whose authority have you poached?” A song thrush started up in the canopy high above, his notes caroling across the woods.
“I appropriated your authority.” She stopped and cocked her head. “I love our birds. The thrush comes close to imitating the nightingale.”
“Do you love Wealtha’s lecture on the black grouse? I, for one, did not.”
Another smile that blended understanding and humor.
“And she has worked so hard on it, too. Wealtha believes, on the strength of much tutelage at the knee of the matchless instructors at Miss Gundridge’s Academy, that all gentlemen are fascinated with grouse.
Yorkshire has wonderful grouse moors. Ergo, a young lady will universally charm and impress any fellow if she is knowledgeable about same. ”
“Her logic is wanting. Not all gentlemen are fascinated with blood sports. Some of us abhor them—privately, if we have any sense—and to enjoy shooting is a far cry from enjoying ornithological pedantry.”
“Wealtha is young, my lord, and your arrival has put her off stride.”
“She puts me off stride, truth to tell. That’s doubtless to be expected.” Except Richard had hoped to at least like his sister. “In what regard did you trespass on my authority?”
“Mr. Leopold St. Didier requested the Glen’s hospitality for a short stay in the area, and I issued the requisite invitation.”
Botheration and bedamned. The last thing Richard wanted was a witness to the awkward business of acquiring family in addition to a title and an estate. Especially not an observant witness who knew more than he should about polite society.
“Have I given offense?” Miss Fielding asked as the trees thinned and the square tower of the village church came into view.
“You could hardly refuse him,” Richard said, pausing on the path rather than setting foot in the village twice in one day. “I’m sure he’ll be a model guest.”
“We aren’t accustomed to company. His visit will inspire the staff to do more than the minimum, and that’s a good thing. I expected you to be that inspiration, but you rushed your fences.”
“A habit with me, I’m afraid. We must tell Wealtha that Mr. St. Didier is an avid grouse hunter.”
“I do believe that sentiment is the most fraternal thought I’ve heard from you, my lord.” She started back the way they’d come. “Now you know the shortcut, or the route that spares you from the whole house knowing you nipped into the Rooster for a pint, at least when the leaves are on the trees.”