Page 26 of Snowy and the Seven Doves
Chalky waved a casual hand toward his friend. “My friend, Dickon Deffew.”
Deffew gave a shallow bow. “My lady. Mr. White.” Deffew lacked his friend’s charm; his whole demeanor was sulky.
“You and the marquess made an impressive showing on the water, Snowy,” Chalky said.
“You left us well in your wake,” Deffew grumbled. He added, reluctantly, “You row well.”
They were going to play the civil courtesies game, were they? Snowy could do that. “We were left in our turn, when the winners nosed us out at the line.”
“Yes, bad luck,” Chalky sympathized.
Snowy shrugged. “It was more lack of practice. I haven’t rowed since Oxford.”
“I coxed at Cambridge,” Chalky offered. “I wanted to row, but they said I didn’t have the shoulders for it.”
Snowy eyed him. “You have the build,” he said. “You’d bulk up if you did the right exercise.” He grinned. “Haying is good. Uses many of the same muscles.”
“Gentlemen don’t do haying,” Deffew sneered.
Lady Charmain sneered back, if one could call her look of ladylike contempt a sneer. “I disagree, Mr. Deffew. My father and my brothers used to help to bring in the hay. And the corn harvest. And the barley. The Marquess of Deerhaven also works the fields in harvest season.”
Chalky’s eyes lit up. “The proof of the pudding is in the eating, Dickon. We got beaten by two gentlemen who do harvesting work.”
Deffew’s sullen expression intensified, but he said nothing more. It crossed Snowy’s mind that he might be shy. He’d had a friend at university with very similar eyebrows who looked more and more angry the more embarrassed he got. Either that, or Deffew was determined to see Snowy as an enemy.
Chalky shot his friend a doubtful look, then turned anxious eyes on Snowy. “May I speak to you in private for a moment, Mr. White?”
Snowy frowned. “I am escorting the lady,” he said.
“If we just step apart a little?” the young man pleaded. “You do not mind, do you, my lady?”
Snowy lifted his brows. He was curious about what Chalky wanted, and Lady Charmain should be safe enough on the island with him in sight and her friends in shouting distance, but the decision must be hers.
“I will wait here, Snowy,” she said, decisively. “Go and talk to your br… to Mr. Snowden.”
Chalky’s eyes widened so far, the whites showed around them, and Snowy, too, picked up the near slip, but he said nothing.
He led Chalky fifteen paces away. “Here I am, then. What did you want us to talk about?”
“Are you?” The young man asked. “My brother?”
“Half-brother,” Snowy confirmed.
“My father’s bastard.” It was not a question, but Chalky did not sound certain.
“Try again,” Snowy suggested.
“It’s impossible,” Chalky insisted. “You cannot be my brother Hal. He died when I was a baby.”
Snowy raised an eyebrow. He had one argument Chalky might find convincing.Not Chalky. Eddie. Didn’t Poppy tell the tale of how I called every little baby Eddie when I was a wee lad? Was that a memory of my own baby brother?. “Remember this, Eddie?” Snowy began to sing:
Sleep my baby, warm andcozy;
In your mother’s lovingarms.
Nestle close and safelyslumber
Let my love your worriescalm.
