Chapter Six #3
Portia steamed with anger as she drove Honey around to the stables. The pony, a milk cow, and two goats were stabled here. On the side of the barn was a coop for Minnie’s chickens and geese.
Portia wasted no time putting Honey up for the night. In fact, she threw the hay into the stall.
But as she worked, her temper cooled, to be replaced by hurt.
Hadn’t her mother seen her dancing with Colonel Chattan? Of course, he had a motive for asking her to dance, but her mother didn’t know that. Mr. Longacre had asked her as well. There, that was two men who hadn’t seen her as too old for interest . . . although Mr. Longacre was very elderly himself.
Yes, she was over five and twenty. Yes, she had a sharp tongue. But, no, she wasn’t ready to be tucked away and ignored.
And she’d just realized that tonight.
Owl came into the barn with a meow of greeting. She jumped up on a keg barrel turned upside down.
“Is it wrong to want something more?” Portia asked the cat as she gave her a pet.
Purring, Owl arched her back and seemed to shake her head no.
Portia had to laugh. She gave the cat human qualities far too often.
But on this point, Owl might be wrong. Colonel Chattan’s face rose in Portia’s mind.
He’d even smelled good. His shaving soap had some sandalwood in it but there was a masculine air about him as well.
Handsome, intense, intelligent . . . and a man on a quest. Could there be a combination of qualities in a man more devastating to the female heart?
Or should she say hearts? He had created quite a stir with the women at the Assembly and she’d be wise to remember that some things were beyond her reach.
Portia left the barn and walked to the house, Owl trailing behind her.
It was a long time before she fell asleep, and when she did, she dreamed of dancing . . . in Colonel Chattan’s arms. It was a silly dream. An impossible one.
Portia overslept the next morning. She wasn’t the only one.
Her mother and Minnie were still abed. She made quick work of her toilette, weaving her unruly curls into one long braid and scrubbing her face.
She reached for her glasses and then remembered her mother had not returned them the night before.
She would ask for them back once her mother woke, and then wear them every day just to spite her.
Downstairs, Glennis was busy cooking and cleaning. “The day is half over, miss. I’ve not known you to hug your pillow.”
“It was a late night,” Portia murmured.
“And an eventful one. I hear you have news.”
Portia smiled. “Yes, my sister has accepted Mr. Tolliver’s proposal for her hand.”
“He’s a good man.”
“Yes, he is,” Portia said, buttering a slice of Glennis’s fresh bread for her breakfast.
“Now we need to find a husband for you who is just as good.”
Portia almost laughed. At least there was one person who didn’t see her as completely on the shelf. “You’d best start on that task, Glennis,” she teased. “It might take you most of your life.”
“Och, it won’t be that hard.”
“We shall see,” Portia said, and slipped out of the kitchen. She threw on her cloak and went to the stable. There was a chill in the air but the sky was blue with only a few clouds, and Portia felt her spirits lift.
Honey was ready to be turned out into her pasture, the goats trotting right alongside her. Glennis always milked the cow when she first arrived and before she left.
Portia took down the pitchfork to muck out the stalls. It wasn’t unpleasant work. She enjoyed the fresh air and even the smell of hay and the animals.
Because the day was so fair, she started doing a bit of cleaning and tidying up, and it was at this task Lady Emma discovered her.
Portia heard the hoofbeats coming up the drive.
They rarely had visitors. She was surprised to see their visitor was none other than Lady Emma, accompanied by a groom.
The girl was dressed in a silver gray riding outfit with a sophisticated, brimmed hat, decorated with a white ostrich plume that would have made her mother proud.
Now if Portia envied anything, it would be Lady Emma’s horse. The mare was a dainty dappled gray that made Honey appear a lumbering ox. She had a kind eye, big ears, and a smooth gait.
Instead of going to Camber Hall’s front door, Lady Emma had spied Portia and came trotting up to the paddock. “Good morning, Miss Maclean.”
“Good morning, Lady Emma,” Portia said, feeling at a disadvantage with her hair curling wildly around her head in spite of the braid and her person covered in dust and straw.
She and Lady Emma rarely spoke other than a passing nod of acquaintance. Then again, Portia was nine years older than the girl and as far from society as one could be—especially wearing her work shoes and mucking out the paddock.
“I was out for my morning ride and thought it would be nice to call,” Lady Emma said.
Camber Hall wasn’t anywhere close to the duke’s sprawling estate. Lady Emma had ridden out of her way to visit, and Portia’s suspicions were confirmed by how lathered Her Ladyship’s horse was.
Noting the direction of Portia’s gaze, Lady Emma said, “Yes, he does need to be walked out. Marvin,” she called to the groom, “help me down and then walk my horse.”
The groom, a dark, brooding sort who wasn’t much older than Portia, jumped to do Her Ladyship’s bidding. Having helped Lady Emma dismount, he took the horses off to walk up and down the drive.
Alone, Lady Emma glanced over to Honey with a critical eye. “What is it?”
“She’s a pony.”
“What sort?”
Portia’s earlier good mood started to vanish. There was only one reason she could think of why Lady Emma would be here—the back rent. But why would the girl bypass Mr. Buchanan, who knew the rent was coming?
“She’s of undetermined lineage,” Portia said, resting the pitchfork she’d been holding on the ground, hoping that Lady Emma’s appearance didn’t portend bad news. “May I offer you refreshment?”
“I don’t have time to linger.” She faced Portia, her smile hardening on her face. No, this wasn’t a social call. She still carried her crop, a feminine thing with a beribboned handle.
“Is there something the matter, Lady Emma?” Portia dared to ask.
“Yes, there is. I don’t want you to have anything to do with Colonel Chattan.”
Portia almost laughed. A duke’s daughter believed Portia was competition?
“You need not worry, my lady,” Portia said.
“But I do,” Lady Emma said. She had the softest voice and liked to smile as she spoke as if she was being pleasant, but Portia sensed behind that smile were sharp, tiny teeth. “We all noticed his marked attention to you last night.”
“Marked attention?”
“He searched you out. You were seen talking to him . . . outside.”
“It is not what it appeared,” Portia said.
“The colonel took his leave from the Assembly right after you left,” Lady Emma said, an accusatory note in her voice.
Portia shrugged. “I have no idea why he chose to depart when he did, but it certainly wasn’t because of me.”
Lady Emma studied her a moment. She hit the palm of her leather-gloved hand softly with her crop.
“You may be right.” She smiled. She did have small, sharp teeth.
“I, um, well, we are fortunate to finally have a man who has everything I’ve been searching for in a husband pay his respects to us in the valley. ”
“And what is everything?” Portia asked, curious, especially in light of her own wonderings.
“Handsome, well connected, wealthy, handsome—”
“You said handsome once,” Portia pointed out.
“It is worth repeating,” Lady Emma answered, and this time her smile was genuine.
Portia felt herself relax. “Well, he is all those things,” she agreed.
“Yes, and perhaps I shouldn’t jump to conclusions,” Lady Emma said. “I mean, you are almost as old as he is. Why would he be flirting with you?”
Portia tried to smile, but was thinking perhaps she preferred the suspicious Lady Emma over the friendly one. “He was being polite,” she said.
“Of course.” There was an awkward silence. “Well, I’d best be going. Father will worry if I am gone too long.”
“I can understand that,” Portia murmured.
Lady Emma turned to signal her groom to bring over her horse—but two riders coming up Camber Hall’s winding drive caught her eye.
Portia stepped forward, once more surprised by visitors. Then again, hadn’t Mr. Tolliver promised to call?
But it wasn’t Oliver Tolliver.
It was General Montheath . . . and Colonel Chattan.
Lady Emma slapped her crop against her palm, this time with more force. “It appears you have a caller, Miss Maclean,” Lady Emma said. Her eyes had grown as sharp and pointed as her teeth. “I believe I will accept your invitation for refreshment.”