“How is it possible that I am lonely in the village of my birth, surrounded by family and friends?”
Gavin put the question to his horse, though Roland, as usual, was keeping his own counsel. The summer marked a turning point for Gavin’s steed, who was putting away the idleness of his foalhood and growing into the body of a horse of significant speed and athletic ability.
Roland’s mind, though, was yet prone to coltish flights. He rarely bolted anymore, but he shied at nothing, bucked for joy or in token protest at his rider’s requests, and had to carefully sniff over anything in his ambit that qualified as new or interesting.
He was vastly improved from a few months ago, when he’d gallop halfway to Windsor, entertain the whole village with his bucking sprees, and barely scramble over a low stile on flat, dry ground.
“You are growing up,” Gavin said, patting his mount on the neck. Early in the mornings, he took Roland out for a long, hard gallop over hill and dale. Afternoon hacks were to work on manners and ensure the horse would acquit himself well if a racing career wasn’t meant to be.
Also to allow Gavin to enjoy the shady seclusion of the towpaths along the Twid. Afternoons in high summer had a sweetness to them, a golden melancholy. Sunrise and sunset were subtly encroaching on midday as harvest approached, and the coming of autumn was most evident in the postmeridian.
The light softened, the heat began to lose its intensity, the undergrowth showed yellow and splashes of red, while the canopy remained green. Birds sang less, and the Twid ran at low ebb.
Gavin drew Roland to a halt on the towpath, waited a moment, then signaled the horse to back up a few steps. Roland wasn’t keen on backing up. A fellow could not see what was behind him unless he turned his head, and thus some effort to modify Gavin’s request ensued. A peek this way, a head toss that way, a tail swish, a hoof stomp that might have been necessary to dislodge a pesky fly, but was really in the nature of a protest.
“Back,” Gavin said quietly, because sometimes Roland responded more willingly to voice commands than to nudging and tugging. Every actor had his own means of memorizing cues.
Roland took two steps back, a grudging concession.
“Back,” Gavin said, because the effort had been late and prefaced with grumbling.
Roland took two more steps back—the stable wasn’t far off, and protesting for form’s sake was better done earlier in the ride, when a grassy paddock and a happy roll in the dust weren’t so near at hand. Gavin had taken some time to realize the subtlety with which Roland timed his insurrections.
“Good boy. Walk on.”
Roland hadn’t gone four steps forward before he stopped, lifted his head, and peered intently in the direction of the Twid. No fish had leaped—not that Gavin had heard—and Roland wasn’t reacting to the sort of imaginary horse-eating tiger that resulted in a dead run across the countryside.
Gavin followed the line of Roland’s gaze. Not until the lady turned a page of her book did he see her down along the bank a dozen yards up the stream.
His body reacted before his mind told him that he beheld Mrs. Rose Roberts. The sensation was lightness, relief, peace, and even joy. There she is. As if he’d ridden this way day after day, hoping, always hoping, to catch sight of her, and at long last, she occupied the place his heart had sought to find her.
The Nunnsuch house party had taught him to get his bearings with that reaction. To wait for the joy to fade and the sadness to follow. He and Mrs. Roberts had managed two interminable weeks of civilities, of pretending not to know each other, of managing to never be alone in the same place at the same time.
Gavin had taken to toting around a fishing pole like a penitent’s cross, signaling all and sundry that he was on his way… out, off to the great outdoors, bent on the important task of staring at quiet water while trying to stay awake.
Roland whuffled, the ruddy blighter.
Still, Rose remained fixed on her book. She made a lovely picture, a straw hat slipped down her back, her hair catching the sunlight. She was a woman of singular purpose, not given to dawdling, and yet, a book could bring her to a still point, to sitting quietly by the hour, all of her energies poured into her delight in the written word.
When Rose set her mind to a written passage, the rest of the world faded from her awareness. She had the same focus in other settings.
Gavin shoved that thought aside with his mental fishing pole. He should ride on, let her catch sight of him across a chattering crowd of Amaryllis’s guests, let her decide whether to approach him.
Except he’d taken that tack at Nunnsuch, and she had remained steadfastly unwilling to seek him out. Not on any deserted streambank, not in a library full of whist players, not at the buffet meals, or even after he and Roland had bested a dozen other riders in an informal steeplechase.
“Good day.” He spoke softly, knowing she couldn’t hear him over the babbling of the Twid, but rehearsing the line for his own benefit. He was no longer a callow youth to run away when his troubles wanted confronting. Besides, Rose Roberts wasn’t a trouble, and he’d rather they spoke their minds to one another here in private than go through more rounds of awkward courtesies.
He dismounted and loosened Roland’s girth, which occasioned a curious look from the horse. Deviations from routine were always apparent to children, dogs, horses, and the ladies of Crosspatch Corners, according to Mr. Dabney.
“Come along.” Gavin tugged on the reins—in-hand work was yet another area where more tutelage was needed—and Roland ambled forward.
“Mrs. Roberts,” Gavin sang out, “good day.”
She looked up, looked around, then focused on him as Roland clip-clopped along the path. She shaded her eyes rather than put her hat back on.
How to play his entrance? Gavin mentally sorted through options. In all the hours he’d spent pondering what he’d say to Rose, what his demeanor would be if they were ever again in conversation, he’d not envisioned being chaperoned by a horse when he encountered her on the banks of the Twid.
Though Rose Roberts was a widow. She needed no chaperone.
“Mr. DeWitt. And is that the famous Roland?” She nipped up the bank as nimbly as a goat, no need for gentlemanly assistance. “Greetings, Roland.” She held out a bare hand to the horse, who sniffed as delicately as any courtier had ever complimented a damsel.
No formalities, then, which was a relief, but also… difficult. “I didn’t know you’d arrived,” Gavin said. “I trust the trip up from Hampshire was uneventful?”
“Dreadfully so. I borrowed Lord Nunn’s traveling coach, and what it offers in comfort, it lacks in speed. Shall we walk?”
She liked to move, while Gavin wanted to remain in the shade of the path, taking in the sight of her. He’d not stood this close to her at Nunnsuch. Never close enough to catch that hint of lemony fragrance she wore—she refused to wear attar of roses—or to see that summer had brought out a few freckles on her cheeks.
“Roland and I were more or less on our way home when he spotted you,” Gavin said, taking up the reins. “What are you reading?”
He should have offered his arm, should have offered to carry her book.
“Wordsworth. He knows the countryside, and I find his verse appropriate reading in summer.”
“My youngest sister has developed a taste for Wordsworth in my absence. She fancies herself the first female contemplative.”
“Caroline. She’s what, thirteen now?”
You remembered. Gavin set a slow pace in the direction of Miller’s Lament. “Going on forty-two. She reads voraciously, disappears into the woods by the hour, and shows no interest in putting her hair up. My mother and grandmother would be worried, but they are too preoccupied with Diana’s wardrobe for next year.”
“Diana is preparing for her come out?”
“The whole village is preparing for Diana’s come out. What of you? How are you going on at Colforth Hall?”
She prosed on about the approaching harvest, some timber that was ready for coppicing, and a squabble over fishing rights, while Gavin was torn by a sense of unreality. They’d once been able to speak of anything and nothing, to share confidences, silences, looks, and touches with the ease of the devoted lovers he’d thought them to be.
To avoid each other as they’d done at Nunnsuch had solved nothing. To merely chat, to limit discussion to commonplaces, hurt, and yet, that was the sensible course. With Rose Roberts, Gavin was determined to be sensible—this time.
“And have you given up the stage?” she asked after regaling him with a story about a goose who’d wandered into the middle of divine services earlier in the summer.
He’d taught her that, taught her to tell a story when conversation wanted leavening. “I was never really on the stage in any meaningful sense. Having a lark, sowing wild oats, galloping off the fidgets. I’m home where I belong now, and my family is glad to have me here.”
“Are you glad to be here?”
The old Rose, the Rose who’d woken up beside him and known his dreams before he’d said a word, might have asked that question. Gavin chose to answer honestly in honor of the old Rose.
“I am resigned to being here for now. My family has worked hard to make the leap from the shop to the ranks of gentry, and now Amaryllis has married a marquess. I must capitalize on that great accomplishment as Diana and Caroline prepare to join Society, or I am no sort of head of the family. I shall acquit myself as the wealthy squire I am, and it would be churlish to pretend the role is onerous.”
A fine and mendacious speech. The jovial-squire part was worse than onerous, it was so very comfortably, smotheringly all wrong.
Rose walked along beside him, and he braced himself for more chitchat. How lovely Berkshire was, if one had to impersonate a squire anywhere. How silly Society could be. How happy Amaryllis and Trevor were—a love match for a marquess, who’d have thought it?
“It’s not churlish to admit when an assignment doesn’t suit one’s abilities, Mr. DeWitt.”
The Mr. DeWitt stung a bit, but the honesty soothed Gavin’s soul. “My grandparents,
parents, and sisters have all expended considerable effort to ensure the DeWitts are respected gentry. I jeopardized their efforts with my ventures on the stage. I am well aware that this house party is an effort to rehabilitate my reputation by parading me before ladies of discernment.”
“Is it? Here I thought Lady Phillip was determined that we should discuss investments, and Lord and Lady Tavistock wanted to give Lord Phillip a chance to polish his Society manners.”
That was news to Gavin. “Phillip polished his manners—which are quite above reproach to begin with—at Nunnsuch and came away engaged to an heiress.”
They walked along, following the curve of the river. “It’s good to see you,” Rose said. “I probably shouldn’t admit that, but two weeks of pretending at Nunnsuch put a strain on my nerves, and I thought my nerves had become nigh indestructible. You are looking well.”
Why not admit that? Why not be glad to see him? “I am glad to see you too,” Gavin said, because the words were the truth. He could have honestly said that the sight of her also baffled and saddened him and that he’d be much more careful with his heart around her in future, but to see her healthy, serene, nose in a book…
The sight still had the power to bring him joy, and that was mostly good. If he gave it time, the sad part might fade, as the hurt was slowly fading. He’d been a lark to her, wild oats, galloping off the fidgets, and she’d been the haven his soul had craved, his present joy, his future delight.
More fool he.
“You’ll be at supper this evening?” Rose asked as the house came into view.
“I will bide at Twidboro Hall, but otherwise I am at Amaryllis’s beck and call for the next two weeks. You will see me at supper, though I reserve the earliest hours of the day for schooling my horse.”
“No breakfast sightings, then.” She stopped and stroked a hand over Roland’s nose. He commenced making sheep’s eyes at her, for which Gavin could not blame him. Roland hadn’t been gelded and consigned to the plow, after all.
“Do you suppose…” Rose said. “Do you think we might…?”
“Yes?” To see her at a loss was intriguing.
“At Nunnsuch, we avoided one another. I’m sure the other guests remarked it and were curious as a result. I loathe being an object of curiosity. I dislike center stage, Mr. DeWitt, and I hope that you…”
Ah. “You want me to pretend that Nunnsuch was our first encounter?” To forget the most glorious and devastating weeks of his life? To wear the role of genial country squire more convincingly than he’d ever done before?
“Wouldn’t that be for the best?” She lifted her hat to replace it on her head, but some disobliging ribbon or hairpin got caught in curling locks. Holding her book, she could not untangle her hair properly.
“Allow me,” Gavin said, taking the book and setting it on the ground. His intention was to be of use, as he’d be of use to his mother or sister in a similarly awkward moment. He pulled off his gloves and stuffed them into a pocket, then took the hat in one hand and went searching gently for the offending hairpin.
Too late, he realized his error. Rose stood still, suggesting she had also been ambushed by the proximity necessary when a gentleman’s fingers sifted slowly through the curls at a lady’s nape, when silky tresses and body heat and the quiet of a summer afternoon conspired to thieve his wits right out of his grasp.
Roland stomped at another imaginary fly, and Gavin mentally shouted at himself not to break role. He found the crosswise hairpin, carefully extracted it, and stepped back.
Rose was staring at him as if he were a particularly arcane line from Mr. Coleridge. He put her hat on her head and passed her the hairpin.
She shoved the pin into her hair. “Thank you.” Her thanks were less than emphatic.
“You’re welcome.” The words were steady, Gavin’s heart was not. “Shall I see you to the garden?”
“No need for that. About what I said earlier?”
He busied himself pulling on his gloves. “Earlier?”
“Can we not start afresh, Mr. DeWitt, or give that impression? What passed between us before—up north—was another time and place, and we are adults.”
The next bit of stage business was tightening Roland’s girth, which nonsense earned Gavin a double tail swish.
“You may rely on me, Mrs. Roberts, to comport myself as a gentleman. If you prefer that we ignore our initial dealings, I will oblige you. You need have no fear that I will presume on our previous acquaintance or spread untoward gossip.”
She was giving him the same intent, puzzled examination. “Have you a different suggestion?”
Well, no, he hadn’t. Suggesting that they be friends would put his feet on the same slippery slope that had led straight to a muddy ditch of humiliation and heartache. Suggesting they avoid each other would draw notice, and besides, the stupid, callow idiot part of him that had slid down that slope so easily once before didn’t want to avoid her.
Gavin wanted to understand her, and in some small, stubborn part of his soul, he wanted her to admit that she regretted her treatment of him.
“We will be cordial new acquaintances,” Gavin said, running the offside stirrup down its leather. He came around the horse to face her again. “But if you expect me to forget what happened in Derbyshire, I am bound to disappoint you.”
She retied her bonnet ribbons and dipped a curtsey. “Cordial new acquaintances, then. Nothing more, nothing less. We cannot help the tenacity of fairly recent memories, Mr. DeWitt. Good day.” She marched off with that singularly active walk of hers—Gavin did not stare at her retreating form for more than a few seconds—and then she was gone from sight around a bend in the path.
Roland gave Gavin the look of a horse who had been patient long enough.
“You were no help,” Gavin muttered, prepared to vault into the saddle and trot for home—except he’d forgotten to run the nearside stirrup down its leather. “Bollocks.”
He climbed into the saddle and tried to gather up the reins, but Roland was intent on sniffing something on the ground—or on being contrary. Gavin hauled up on the reins, and Roland rooted in response.
“You ill-mannered, contrary… Oh. Beg pardon, horse. My mistake. I humbly apologize.”
Rose had forgotten Mr. Wordsworth’s poetry. The book lay on the dusty path, looking forlorn and out of place.
Gavin dismounted and retrieved the volume, stuffing it into the tail pocket of his riding jacket. Even cordial new acquaintances didn’t let each other’s poetry lie about at risk of harm from the elements.
Then too, Rose Roberts would not have left her book behind unless she’d been exceedingly flustered. That thought cheered him immensely.