Page 88 of Marry in Haste
“A donkey,” Cal growled.
“Adonkey?” Rose began, a belligerent expression on her face. “But she—”
“It’s a joke, Rose,” Emmaline assured her with a laugh. “Your brother didn’t know I could ride, so he only borrowed horses for you and Lily, for while we’re here. And of course he sent for George’s beautiful Sultan, because he knew George would be fretting about him—and I must say, George, he is a beautiful creature. I quite envy you.”
Rose turned a surprised look on Cal. “You arranged horses especially for us?”
He shrugged. “I knew you’d want to ride, and this place hasn’t been occupied since Father died. Henry sold off all the horses.”
“And you brought Jem here, as well as Sultan,” George said. “Thank you, Cal.” It was the first openly friendly thing the girl had said to him.
“We’ll drop in on Sir Alfred Chisholm—he’s the neighbor I borrowed the horses from—and see if he can spare a mount for Emmaline.” He turned a stern look on his niece. “He’s the Master of the Hunt, and if you bother him in any way, shape or form, George, your horse is going straight back to Alderton.Andthat enormous hound of yours!”
To his surprise his niece grinned at the threat. “You called me George,” she said triumphantly.
“Slip of the tongue,” he said gruffly. “Now, since you’re dressed in those wretched breeches, you can ride up behind me, Emmaline can take Sultan and we’ll all ride over to Sir Alfred’s together and presume on his generosity one more time.”
***
Cal’s horse’s hooves crunched on the frozen grass, leaving a trail of round green hoofprints. The bare branches of the trees were rimed with frost, a landscape of silver and white with darkly etched silhouettes and shadows of gray and lilac. He crested the hill and turned to look back at the house. The weak winter sun was just beginning to touch the tips of the chimneys.
He’d left well before dawn this morning, taking extra care not to wake his wife, telling himself it was to get this task done in good time, but knowing he’d taken the coward’s exit.
The events of the day before had disturbed him. First his loss of control in the stables. He never lost control.
And then... He didn’t know quite why he’d found the day he’d spent with his wife and the girls so disturbing. They’d ridden over to Sir Alfred’s and borrowed another horse for Emm, and of course, Lady Chisholm had insisted they come in for a bite of breakfast first, and it was quite late by then and they were all hungry, and besides, it would have been rude to refuse.
Sir Alfred’s eyes had bulged at the sight of Georgiana in her disgraceful breeches. He’d turned bright red, made several loud harrumphing noises and for the rest of the visit had carefully pretended the girl was not there. He’d waxed eloquent in praise of Sultan, wanting to know his breeding and paces, and was noticeably disconcerted when Cal referred him to Georgiana, the invisible girl who’d owned, raised and trained him.
Lady Chisholm, much more tactful, had simply assumed Georgiana had had an accident with her habit, and had produced an old riding habit of her daughter’s for her to wear. To Cal’s surprise, after a silent exchange of glances withEmmaline, Georgiana accepted the gift politely and donned the skirt over her breeches without fuss or argument.
Cal had to assume his wife’s influence was at work in producing this unaccustomed docility in his niece, though how she’d achieved it was a mystery. All he knew was that if he’d tried to get the girl into a riding skirt she’d have resisted furiously.
After breakfast, they’d spent the rest of the morning and early afternoon riding around the estate—Georgiana learning the way of riding sidesaddle, Emmaline and the girls showing her how. Of course she managed perfectly—the girl was a natural—but it was an occasion of much laughter and spirited debate, though somehow all in fun.
And of course, as the places they visited jogged memories in himself and his half sisters, various stories and tales had emerged. It became, as well as a pleasant ride, an afternoon of recollections, family stories and laughing disputes about the truth of various events.
His wife was at the heart of it, of course, asking questions, prompting the stories and encouraging them all to share memories and impressions of times past. She even got George to open up a little.
Listening to his niece’s stories, Cal was forced to admit that when she wasn’t spitting and snarling in defiance of his edicts, Georgiana could be quite charming. She told a number of amusing tales—several at her own expense. But reading between the lines, he could see she’d led a lonely and often difficult life, and he cursed again the selfishness of Henry, who had deprived her of all that her birth entitled her. He would make it up to the girl, he vowed silently.
Or Emmaline would, in his name.
Cal also found himself recounting tales of events and boyish adventures he’d almost completely forgotten about. He’d shown them his favorite fishing spot, a tree in which he’d tried to make a secret hideout—the remnants of it were still visible—and even a place where hawks nested, and he told them he’d always wanted to try training a hawk but had never been allowed. He’d never told that to anyone.
Emmaline hadn’t said a word about herself, except once,when Lily had asked her whether she’d liked school. She’d pulled a face and laughed, saying, “Not at all. I was thoroughly miserable for ages. I was most unladylike and was forever in trouble. And I missed the horses and my dog desperately. But I got used to it.” And then changed the subject.
Cal wanted to know more. He’d gone over her story—well, the few grudging shreds of it she’d shared with him—over and over in his mind, and it still didn’t add up. If she’d hated school as a pupil, why had she then returned to become a teacher there? And why had she been disinherited by her father? But he didn’t want to question her in front of the girls, and so the moment passed.
Emmaline got him and his sisters talking about things they never would normally have discussed—things about his father, his memories of his mother, of the girls’ mother, of their grandparents, and Aunt Dottie and Aunt Agatha.
She’d even somehow coaxed him to talk a bit about the war—something he never did, not to civilians. Not the worst stuff, of course, but several stories and anecdotes that in retrospect turned out to be somewhat amusing.
It was, as Emmaline had said when they returned home, tired, hungry and happy, a wonderful family day.
Why that should make Cal feel unaccountably restless and uncomfortable, he didn’t know. But it did.
He wasn’t used to being in a family, being part of a family, doing family things. He felt... he felt like Gulliver being slowly trapped by a multitude of tiny strings, none of them strong enough in itself to entrap a man, but together...
