Page 13 of Miss Determined
ChapterFour
Out in the countryside, thoughts of London solicitors, ledgers, and heiresses faded from Trevor’s mind. Berkshire was lovely, though had it been merely unremarkable, Miss DeWitt’s regard for her home turf would have imbued it with bucolic splendor.
Trevor just had time to think,I am Miss DeWitt’s nasty landlord, and I must find a way to tell her that,before Roland launched his first and—did he but know it—last bad-mannered salvo of the day.
Roland was a strategist. He assayed one tactic—a series of bucks—and when that failed to dislodge his rider, he propped, hopped, and then—yes, he bolted across the green, leaving a trail of flatulence worthy of a farting Congreve rocket.
When a fellow had Roland’s reputation, though, these antics came under the heading of Predictable Nonsense. Trevor applied the tried-and-true prescription to the malady and hauled Roland’s head around such that Roland’s nose was compelled to enjoy a close acquaintance with Trevor’s right boot.
The tantrum subsided into sidewise careening, until Roland nearly tripped himself by the pilgrim’s cross. Much indignant tail-wringing and hopping about ensued. Around the green, shop owners had come out to stand on their stoops, and pedestrians ceased their progress along the walkways. The innkeeper watched from the top of the terrace steps, while Miss DeWitt and Jacques stood patiently by the inn’s communal trough.
“Finished for the nonce?” Trevor asked the horse, easing the right rein experimentally.
Roland whisked his tail once more—give the colt points for pride—and walked placidly back to the street.
“He’ll be good for a while,” Miss DeWitt said. “I’d apologize on Roland’s behalf, but I think you found that exchange diverting.”
Trevor absolutely had. “Half of Crosspatch Corners enjoyed Roland’s display. Always happy to do my bit for village morale. Don’t pout. I have greater strength than you do, and Roland wasn’t expecting me to react so quickly.”
“You’re being gracious in victory.” Miss DeWitt gave Jacques leave to walk on, and Roland toddled forth as well. “That almost makes it worse.”
Miss DeWitt was trying not to smile, and that made the whole morning better. “I suspect Roland dislikes his name.”
“Then he will have to take that up with my brother, to whom Roland belongs. Gavin thought the name heroic.” Miss DeWitt’s almost smile had disappeared. She clearly did not think much of her brother’s choice, or possibly of her brother.
“If the reference is to the legendary Roland of Carolingian deeds, that fellow died a martyr after being betrayed by family. I suspect the reference is more recent, to the Court of Henry II.”
“You’ve read ‘The Song of Roland’?”
“The French are justifiably proud of their literature, and I have an abiding affection for French culture and, in particular, French viticulture. I have read of Roland’s bravery, though the Old French takes some determination. I also attended Eton, where I became acquainted with that historical personage referred to asRoulandus le Fartere.”
Miss DeWitt steered Jacques around a puddle. “One has long suspected Eton to be a hotbed of puerile vulgarity.”
“A normal boyhood is a hotbed of puerile vulgarity.”
“You are telling me my brother named his horse for a… a…”
“I believe the term is flatulist. One who entertains with virtuosic displays of breaking wind.”
Jacques ambled straight through the next puddle. Miss DeWitt’s shoulders twitched. She dipped her chin, and then she burst out laughing, which caused Roland to dodge sideways, but surely out of genuine surprise rather than bad manners.
Miss DeWitt did not merely chortle or—God forbid—titter. Shelaughed. A big, booming cascade of merriment that turned heads and inspired smiles.
“Gavin would do that,” she said when she’d regained her composure. “He was a jester. Is a jester. The best and worst of brothers. Have you any siblings?”
“I do not, alas for me. I have some cousins, but the ones closest to me in age are female. What of you?”
“Gavin is the only son, and I have two younger sisters, Diana and Caroline, ages sixteen going on eight and twelve going on eighty. They are very dear, though our mother despairs of the lot of us. My paternal grandmother lives with us as well, and if not for Grandmama, I would take up with the traveling players. We’ll start with that bridle path to the left.”
The track ran beside a quiet little river or a sizable placid stream. In an earlier age, the beaten trail had doubtless been trodden by barge horses, and on a spring morning, the way was sunny and pleasant.
“This is the River Twid,” Miss DeWitt said, bringing Jacques side by side with Roland. “Our very own tributary to the Thames. It does some growing up on the way south. Many a paper armada has been sunk on the Twid and more than a few trout caught.”
“Will you show me Twidboro Hall?”
“We’ll ride past it. Lark’s Nest adjoins, but the present tenant does not socialize with strangers.”
The present tenant, as best Trevor recalled from Jones’s annotations, was a Mr. Phillip Heyward, and he’d bided on the property for at least the past twenty years, though Jones had neglected to note what sort of rent Heyward paid. An honest mistake or another deliberate omission?
