Chapter 16
Chapter Sixteen
Several days later, Penelope trailed Malcolm and Nicholas as they walked Hector through the gardens of Brigrock Hall.
Hector was excitable in his joyful, looping sweeps, and pivoted, his tail kicking up a small cloud of dust.
The archery range they were gathered around occupied a long, flat strip of the north grounds, carved out of the wilderness and maintained with military precision.
It was backed by a tall earthen bank to catch stray shots and set with three targets at measured intervals, their painted rings faded by the sun but still clear.
Near the entrance, a wooden rack held a collection of bows, their limbs gleaming with oil.
Penelope looked at the targets, then at the rack, then at the sheer distance between them.
“She is a bit worried,” Nicholas explained to Malcolm, leaning in slightly as if sharing a profound tactical secret.
“I can speak for myself, darling, do not concern yourself.” Penelope kept her eyes on the rack of bows. She could feel the familiar weight of anxiety settling in her chest. “He is seven years old, Your Grace. His coordination is developing. This seems like a premature escalation.”
“The arrows are blunted,” Malcolm said.
He didn’t look offended; he simply moved to the rack and picked one up, turning it so the flat, reinforced tip was visible.
“They will not pierce skin at this range, even if he were to somehow fire backward. The draw weight on this practice bow is a third of what I’d give a hunting party.” He set the arrow back with a definitive click. “He could hurt himself more tripping on a staircase at Romwich Hall.”
“That is not a reassuring comparison. I worry about the staircases as well.”
“Mama.” Nicholas stepped into her line of sight, deploying the expression he usually reserved for negotiating an extra twenty minutes of reading before bed—brows slightly furrowed, eyes wide and brimming with a desperate, leashed sincerity.
“One try, that’s all I’m asking. If it’s dangerous, or if I can’t hold the string, I’ll stop.
But you said at Lord Hillsborough’s hunt that I could do things, and this is one of those things. ”
“I did not say—”
“You implied it, Mama,” Nicholas countered, his logic as sharp as any arrowhead.
She looked at her son. She saw the genuine excitement that had been vibrating under his skin since breakfast, a meal he had sat through without a single fidget, an act of sheer will designed specifically to earn this moment.
“One try,” she conceded.
Nicholas’s face transformed into sheer joy. “Thank you.” He said it with such gravity that Penelope felt a pang of guilt for her hesitation.
She moved to her designated position at the side of the range, her hands clasped tightly in front of her.
Malcolm handed Nicholas the practice bow. He said nothing at first, simply watching the way the boy’s hands found the wood, gauging his natural balance.
Then he moved in. He repositioned Nicholas’ feet.
Shoulder-width apart, left foot forward, weight centered.
He touched his shoulders to square them, his movements precise and entirely devoid of the roughness the rumors suggested.
He adjusted the angle of Nicholas’ draw arm and the tilt of his chin until the boy looked like a miniature statue of Apollo.
Nicholas tried to absorb every instruction at once, his tongue caught between his teeth in concentration.
His first shot went wide, missing the target by several feet and burying itself with a dull thud in the earthen bank. He turned to Malcolm immediately, his face flushed but not discouraged, waiting for the verdict.
“Your elbow came up,” Malcolm said. “You were fighting the tension rather than leaning into it. Keep it in line with the arrow. But it is all right, try again.”
The second shot was better. It clipped the wooden edge of the target frame with a sharp crack.
“Better,” Malcolm noted. “Your back foot shifted when you released. Keep your foundation on your next try.”
The third arrow took flight and thudded into the outer blue ring. Nicholas made a small, strangled sound of triumph and started to jump.
“Settle,” Malcolm said, though his voice held a trace of something that wasn’t quite sternness. “It counts for a hit, of course. So, celebrate your victories, but always keep in mind that one can improve. Even I can, and I have been shooting like this for years.”
Penelope stood at the periphery, her arms folded over her chest.
She found herself watching Malcolm more than the target. He moved around Nicholas the way she had seen the finest masters move. Not correcting every flaw at once, which would only overwhelm a child, but choosing the one thing that mattered most and attending to it with singular focus.
He never used the same correction twice; if Nicholas didn’t understand “elbow up,” Malcolm would speak of “leveling the horizon.” He understood that the boy needed to hear the truth in different ways before it could settle into his bones.
Nicholas notched the next arrow. He set his feet without being prompted. He drew, held the tension, and adjusted his own elbow before Malcolm could speak.
He fired.
The arrow hissed through the air and struck the inner red ring, only two hand-spans from the yellow center.
Nicholas spun around, his face a mask of pure, unadulterated shock. He couldn’t contain it this time; his arms went up and he let out a joyful shout that echoed around the grounds of the estate.
Malcolm put one hand on Nicholas’ shoulder. It was a brief contact. A single, firm press of his palm, but the weight of the approval was visible in the way Nicholas straightened.
Malcolm let go and squinted at the target with a critical, appraising eye. “Inner ring. Not bad for a first outing. I believe we can get you to the center by next month.”
Nicholas looked like he had just been handed the keys to a kingdom.
“Your turn,” Malcolm said, his voice nearer now.
Penelope looked up, startled. He was looking directly at her, the bow held out in his hand.
“I appreciate the offer, Your Grace,” she said, her voice regaining its habitual poise. “But I am merely the observer today. Archery is not for ladies.”
“You said the same thing about the riding.”
“Archery is different. It requires a certain temperament.”
“Why?” He said it without mockery or inflection, a plain question that demanded a plain answer. “Is it because you think it is beneath you, or because you are afraid you won’t be perfect at it immediately?”
She searched for a rebuttal and found only the uncomfortable truth of his words. “Like I said, it is not an activity that women usually do.”
“In London, perhaps,” he agreed. “Here, a woman should know how to defend herself and her land.” He didn’t move the bow. “Pick it up, Penelope.” His eyes met hers, and her breath caught. “Your son is watching.”
Nicholas was indeed watching, his expression a mix of encouragement and the dawning realization that his mother was currently in the same “learning position” he had been in all morning.
“Please, Mama?” he said softly.
She walked to the rack. She took the bow from Malcolm’s hand. It was lighter than she’d expected, the wood smooth and cool, smelling of linseed oil and age.
Malcolm moved behind her. He didn’t ask; he simply stepped into her space, his presence a sudden heat source in the cool morning air.
He positioned her feet first, his boot nudging her heel into alignment, and then his hands found her shoulders. She was acutely aware of him, the scent of sandalwood and old leather, the steady rhythm of his breathing.
“Arm up,” he said, his voice a low vibration near her ear. His hand guided her draw arm, his fingers hovering just over her skin. “Elbow out. Do not collapse your chest. Press back.” His other hand came to her back, between her shoulder blades, pressing the alignment straight.
She stared at the target, the center blurred by the sudden hammering of her heart.
She drew the string back. The tension was surprising, a physical pull that demanded her full attention.
He adjusted her anchor point, his fingers brushing against her jaw.
A light, fleeting correction that felt like a spark against her skin.
Then, he stepped back. The sudden absence of his warmth was almost as jarring as his touch.
She fired.
The arrow skipped off the lower edge of the frame and vanished into the grass.
She lowered the bow, her face heating. She braced herself, the old, familiar instinct rising up.
In eleven years of marriage, the late Earl of Romwich had never let a failure pass without a commentary.
Usually a thin, amused observation about the “delicacy of the female mind” or the “waste of good equipment.” She spent a decade waiting for that specific sound of disappointment that made her feel small and foolish.
Malcolm was looking at the target. Then he looked at her.
“Your draw hand released too soon,” he said, his voice entirely neutral. “You let the string go instead of letting it slip. Your grip was correct, however. Try it again.”
Nothing else. No sigh. No smirk. He simply handed her a second arrow and turned back to watch the target as if her success were an inevitability.
She stood holding the arrow for a heartbeat longer than necessary, the silence of the yard settling around her. She nocked it. She drew. She held the release for one deliberate, stubborn second longer.
The arrow hit the outer blue ring, halfway up.
“Better,” Malcolm said.
She handed the bow back without a word. But the blow she had braced for—the sting of criticism—hadn’t come.
After that, Malcolm guided them to the fencing area in the long, cool shadow of the east wall.
Penelope watched from a stone bench and didn’t protest when Malcolm handed Nicholas a practice foil.
She realized that her objections were no longer based on her son’s safety, but on her own need for control.