Page 14 of Miss Determined
“Your neighborhood has its mandatory curmudgeon?” Trevor asked.
“Mr. Heyward is no sort of curmudgeon. He’s simply shy and a bit backward by most people’s standards. He’s been a good neighbor, to the best of his ability. I doubt he has any interest in subleasing to you. I haven’t known him to go farther than Crosspatch, and that’s only on rare Sundays and market days. On the other side of Twidboro Hall, we’ll come to Miller’s Lament.”
She rattled off names of estates, families, geological features, waterways, and historical incidents. Old Man Husey had claimed to see a witch beneath that enormous oak tree, though he’d been drunk, so nobody had believed him. But then, the squire hadn’t been brave enough to chop the oak down either, and that had probably been Old Man Husey’s objective.That was his napping oak, you see…
Amaryllis DeWitt knew her little corner of England as well as Trevor knew winemaking. He’d ridden down a thousand bridle paths and around countless village greens, but because this little tour of Berkshire was guided by Miss DeWitt, the surrounds acquired a dearness unique to this place, napping oaks and all.
She led him in a wide circle until, by Trevor’s reckoning, they were pointed back toward Twidboro Hall along the same path beside the Twid.
“We really ought to race the next half mile,” she said. “Roland has been a perfect angel, and Jacques is doubtless eager for a run.”
“Jacques is?”
She patted the horse. “He’s fit, Mr. Dorning, and he’s been a good boy for the past two hours. Mightn’t he have a bit of recreation before we part ways?”
Roland had been a good boy, too, within the limits of his scanty confidence. The horse’s true problem was a lack of experience, and better for him to get a run in now, when he was likely to behave, than at some less opportune time of his choosing.
“We’ll have a gallop, provided you introduce me to your family. I’d like to see your home, and the horses will need to walk some after their exertions.”
That perfectly innocuous suggestion caused Miss DeWitt to twitch at her skirts, adjust the reins, and look over her shoulder.
“Mama will either be rude, because she thinks you will turn my head, or she’ll fawn. I hate it when she fawns. Diana will try to flirt and make a cake of herself, Grandmama will be amused, and Caroline will blush.”
And what, exactly, would be wrong with a little head-turning? Miss DeWitt had certainly made an impression on Trevor.
“To somebody raised without siblings, your dilemma sounds enviable, Miss DeWitt. Your family might well number among my neighbors if I can find a place to buy or rent hereabouts. I thought a passing introduction might be a way to get acquainted.”
Also a way to look over Twidboro Hall from the inside, though that was a secondary consideration. Or tertiary. Maybe septenary.
Mostly, Trevor wanted to prolong this interlude with Miss DeWitt.
“Very well,” she said. “We’ll have a gallop and a spot of tea, but try to keep a straight face if Diana attempts her French with you.”
Trevor tapped his hat more snugly onto his head. “Je serai l’âme des bonnes manières. And because Iamthe soul of good manners, the lady shall give the count. On three, and our finish line will be the Twidboro Hall turnoff.”
He was certain Miss DeWitt translated the French easily enough, but she still peered at him curiously. “You’re sure? My family can be a tribulation.”
“I suspect that goes with the definition of ‘family.’ Are you putting off your defeat, Miss DeWitt? Jacques is fast, but he’s not fresh, and Roland has youth and guile on his side.”
She counted quietly to three and sent Jacques forward at a dead run.
Roland had youth, guile, and native talent on his side, and thus did Mr. Dorning, after hanging back for a quarter of a mile, leave Lissa and Jacques in the dust. Roland kicked up his heels when he had a two-length lead, but limited his high spirits to that understandable display.
Mr. Dorning won, fair and square.
In London, Lissa would run no races—on horseback or on foot—and if on an outing to Richmond or some other excursion from Town, there was a race, the gentlemen would “let” the ladies win and label the victors hoydens, bold baggage, and worse in the privacy of the clubs.
“Jacques tried,” Mr. Dorning said as Roland pranced back from the finish line. “Since I made the decision to return to London, I’ve neglected his conditioning. My victory is hollowed by guilt.”
“For a guilty man, you look mighty pleased with yourself.” Lissa turned Jacques onto the farm lane that led to Twidboro’s stable yard.
“Roland has real speed. I can see why your brother was reluctant to geld him, but now is when the horse should be competing over the shorter steeplechase courses.”
In London, nobody would use the verbto geldin a lady’s hearing, and even a gelded horse would likely be referred to as a steed, a mount, a beast, rather than allow any reference to a lack of testicles.
“Gavin liked the look of Roland’s dam and sire, though Twidboro Hall has no pretensions to becoming a racing stud. Whenever Gavin took a tumble, Mama would go into hysterics…” Lissa knew Mr. Dorning only in passing, and disparaging her family—beyond the fair warning any visitor was due—was badly done of her.
“Might I ask what has become of your brother? One seeks to avoid unnecessary awkwardness with your family, and your remarks have left me curious.”
