Page 28 of Miss Determined
ChapterSeven
Amaryllis had come striding along the path from the stable, her gait easy, her smile genuine. She was the most self-confident woman Trevor had met, and that sat uneasily with him. In polite society, diamonds could be confident, originals could be forthright and even outspoken, but a chandler’s tallish, red-haired granddaughter had best exhibit unrelenting humility.
The appearance of self-doubt would have served Amaryllis well in Mayfair.
A hint of uncertainty might have gained her a few more dance partners.
Some diffidence might have quieted a few whispers.
And Trevor would have hated to see that, but…
Squire Heyward, by contrast, was a notably shy fellow. Tall, rangy, sable-haired, blue-eyed, he barely glanced at Trevor, instead examining the terrace flagstones, the clouds, the spot over Trevor’s left shoulder.
What a refreshing change from all the bonhomie, toadying, and backslapping of the London clubs.
Heyward appeared to favor his right arm, holding it closer to his body than his left and at a slight angle. He was a stranger to lace and starch, instead preferring creased boots damp at the toes, breeches worn to the softness of velvet, and a battered hat that might have been new when Mad George had been in leading strings. Heyward’s neckcloth was plain, limp cotton tied in a lopsided mathematical.
Amaryllis rattled off the introductions and suggested a spot of tea. She presided over the tray again, making no effort to steer a conversation that would have bored Trevor even in French.
“An early spring is not necessarily a good thing,” Heyward said. “Drought can follow, then a ruined harvest. I prefer a late spring. The beasts have winter coat well into April, and the crops make up the difference as the days lengthen. What of you, Mr. Dorning?”
This was what the gentry discussed instead of fashion and matchmaking? “I know little of growing corn, but for grapes, a rainy winter and a long, warm summer work best. We sometimes get the summers here in England, but our winters are too harsh to be ideal most of the time. Tell me, do you grow hops?”
“I do, and after some experimentation, I find the Spalter variety does quite well on my land—Bavarian in origin—though the Saaz is also successful.”
“And have you tried any of the hops originating along the Bodensee?”
Heyward waxed eloquent, all shyness gone, about the bittering qualities of the Tettnanger hops and the aromatic tendencies of the Spalter hops. The Saaz strain, to which the Tettnanger could well be related, was also quite aromatic, but more susceptible to rusts than the German varieties.
Amaryllis nibbled shortbread and let the discussion gallop on. Her expression was bemused, as if she’d heard much talk of mildewed crops, the oniony scent of a hop cone ready for harvest, and the papery sound that cone should make when rolled between the fingers.
Trevor had had a few such conversations, but he hadn’t expected to find a hops expert in Crosspatch Corners.
“Phillip reads everything,” Amaryllis said when Heyward had paused to gather his thoughts about how tall exactly to leave the hop bine after the second-year harvest. “If the neighbors have difficulty with a patch of ground, or a brood mare isn’t doing well, they stop Phillip on one of his rambles, and he usually has a solution.”
The Dorning family—therealDorning family—would love Heyward and his horticultural acumen. He offered Amaryllis a bashful smile, and she topped up his tea cup. They were easy with each other, without pretense, and that was mildly puzzling.
Heyward gave off no I-saw-her-first warning signals in his conversation. He did not presume to touch Amaryllis in the manner of a familiar. Nothing in his deportment suggested possessiveness toward a woman Trevor couldn’t get out of his imagination.
“You are taking young Roland in hand, I hear,” Heyward said. “Had him out for a gallop this morning, according to Mr. Raybourne.”
“That horse isfast,” Trevor said, nearly as fast as the Crosspatch gossip vines. “And he’s not in condition by half. If he ever learned to focus on his schoolwork, he’d be formidable.”
Heyward was off again, discussing shoulder angles, oats versus wheat in an equine’s winter diet, the muscling of the neck, and the optimal construction of a horse’s stifles for both speed and smooth gaits. Heyward looked like a handsome bumpkin, but on agricultural topics, he was an articulate, protean intellect.
Trevor had met many Heywards in France and along the Rhine. Men who sat about the village square looking unprepossessing in their homespun fashion, smoking their pipes, sipping their wine. Ask these same humble fellows when the Merlot strains ought best be harvested, and they became lions of wit and wisdom, bringing passionate intelligence to the most detailed debates.
The parallel brought an odd comfort, along with the admission that Heyward knew grains as well or better than Trevor knew grapes.
“Bring Roland around tomorrow,” Heyward said when Trevor had thanked him for discussion that turned surprisingly enjoyable and enlightening. “There’s a half-mile straight stretch along the Twid just past the mill. I’ll time you an hour after first light.”
“Phillip will do so discreetly,” Amaryllis said as she accompanied Trevor and their host to the front door. “You won’t find half of Crosspatch cheering you across the finish line.”
Trevor was inclined to accept and not only because a hard gallop was great fun. Heyward was… just plain good company. So comfortable in his own skin that he didn’t need to put on any airs or lace his conversation with gossip and bons mots.
That settled, self-accepting quality made him easy to be around, as if he and Trevor had been great friends earlier in life and were taking up where they’d left off, rather than meeting for the first time.
“Roland would run faster against a competitor,” Trevor said, which was very bad of him.
