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APRIL, 1811
“You will turn fourteen tomorrow, Mary.” Lyvia Wycliffe plopped down into a patch of newly-blossomed red clover and fell back onto bent elbows. She seemed oblivious to the green and purple stains the flowers would leave on her walking dress of cream muslin as she turned her face up to the warmth of the summer sun. “How does it feel?”
“Much the same as any other birthday, I believe.” Marisa Landon smiled as she leaned, instead, against a nearby tree. If she returned to Craethorne Manor with her dress coloured by nature, her mother might scold or even faint. Or both. “I have yet two more years of lessons with Miss Bainbridge, the same as you do with your governess, so I do not think my life will change in the slightest after I mark another year.”
“Oh, but it must!” Lyvia shaded her eyes with one delicate hand and squinted up at her best friend. “At fourteen, you are a young lady. Your mama will allow you to go on more social calls and perhaps even to the county assemblies. You’ll meet lots of young gentlemen.”
“But I already know every boy our age within ten miles. Who is there left for me to meet?”
“No, not the local boys, Mary.” Lyvia sighed in exasperation and scrambled to her feet. She made a half-hearted attempt to brush her skirt clean, then shrugged. The damage was done. “You’ll meet gentlemen much older than we are, even those who are Will’s age of twenty or more. Only think how exciting that will be.”
“I very much doubt any man your brother’s age would think of either me or you as anything but children. Besides, you dwell on such things entirely too much, Liv. I suppose I shall marry someday years from now, but I see no purpose in living my entire life toward that end.”
“But what other reason could there be to life than to fall in love? And, of course, to be loved in return?”
“The reading of great books, perhaps? Or the study of history and art? Travelling, when the occasion presents itself, and the riding of magnificent horses—”
“Oh, tosh, Mary! Books are but the fastest way to fall asleep and horses are big animals who draw carriages and plow fields. I do not wish to ever be on the back of one again, for it is a very long way down to the ground.”
“And I would love nothing better than to have a spirited mare of my very own.” Marisa laughed. “We think so little the same, Liv, it’s truly a wonder you and I have always been such good friends.”
“Miss Marisa?” Henry, one of Craethorne Manor’s footmen, stood at the top of the small hill that looked out over the field of clover where the girls had paused to rest in their morning walk. “Lady Craethorne says it is time for you to return.”
“I suppose Mama is ready to go home.” Lyvia skipped to Marisa’s side and hooked her arm through her friend’s. “Our morning calls are never long enough to suit me. And as to why we are such good friends, that I cannot say. I simply know that I am very glad for it. I only wish we could somehow truly be sisters.”
* * * *
FIFTEEN MINUTES LATER, after Marisa and Lyvia’s return to the Manor, Mrs. Charlotte Wycliffe thanked Rebecca, Lady Craethorne, for the tea and another lovely visit. The women were as good friends as the girls, their own mothers having known each other in London decades earlier.
Two years after Marisa’s father, Captain Nathaniel Landon of the Royal Navy, tragically died at sea, Mrs. Wycliffe introduced his young widow to their nearest neighbour in the country, the very handsome and most eligible baronet, Sir Gerald Craethorne. Six months later, Rebecca and Sir Gerald were married, and the new Lady Craethorne and her lovely little daughter came to Dorsetshire to make Craethorne Manor their home.
“You all are still coming for supper tomorrow, and cake for Marisa, aren’t you, Charlotte?” Lady Craethorne asked as she and Marisa accompanied Mrs. Wycliffe and Lyvia to the front door. “Soon we shall be overseeing grand coming-out balls for our dear girls, but for now, intimate gatherings with friends must suffice.”
“Indeed, they shall, Rebecca. Perhaps in a few years or so, when the girls are of a good age and ready to meet the world, those French troublemakers will be in their place again, and London will be as happy as it was in our day.”
“I have never understood why the men seem so eager for war.” Lady Craethorne frowned. “When I lost a husband to the service of King and country, I decided that those on the Continent should settle their own differences and allow we here in England to do the same.”
“I agree.” Charlotte Wycliffe sighed. “But I am afraid my son does not. As much as I have tried to persuade him—”
“Dearest Charlotte, forgive me. I did not mean to remind you that young William—”
“No, Rebecca, do not apologize. I am quite resigned to the fact he is going. But I will still pray every day for his safety and that he shall return to us unscathed.”
Mrs. Wycliffe held her head high, but Marisa saw tears in her eyes. Why did Will’s mother seem so sad? Will had purchased his commission and would leave soon to take it up, but it would be a grand adventure, nothing more. Marisa couldn’t imagine anything more glorious and she regretted that, as a girl, she would never be allowed to commit to the service of England.
* * * *
“I AM SO HAPPY, DEAREST, that you did not come back inside looking as if you’d just tumbled down a hill, like young Lyvia did. The girl is very sweet but not at all considerate of her poor mother’s nerves, as you have always been.” Lady Craethorne spoke in a low tone meant for Marisa’s ears only. She smiled again and held up one hand in farewell as Henry folded up the steps and shut the carriage door after the ladies. Their carriage driver flicked the reins from his seat behind the set of matching greys.
“Goodbye, Mary! See you tomorrow night.” Lyvia, head and shoulders out the coach window, waved enthusiastically as the horses set off.
“I do not know if Mrs. Wycliffe ever has any nerves, Mama. She appears most steady.” Marisa waved back, concerned for her friend. For someone who doesn’t want to ride because she might fall, Lyvia seems to have little fear of landing head-first on the driveway or even under the carriage wheels.
“Of course, Charlotte has nerves. All proper mothers do. Now, run upstairs and wash your face and tame your hair. I will ask for a light luncheon to be served to us in the garden in half an hour. My husband will not be back until later, I imagine, and you know I dislike eating in the dining room all alone, especially on such a fine day. Tell Miss Bainbridge that you have my permission to be late for your afternoon lessons.”
* * * *
TWENTY MINUTES LATER, Marisa stepped through the doors from the dining room into the garden, where she found Dudley, the Manor’s grey-haired butler, supervising Henry and a second footman as they laid out a small table covered with a white cloth. Her hands were clean and her wavy, golden brown hair had been brushed and re-pinned in place.
Her mother hadn’t come out yet and Sir Gerald was nowhere about. Marisa saw little of her step-father in the summer months, as there was always so much estate business to be tended to this time of year. It could be one of the farms, something at the stables, or perhaps the mill that occupied him that day.
While she waited, she looked out over the gardens, orchards and pond that could be seen from the rear of the stately manor house. Surely there was no property busier or more perfect in the summer than this one.
When Lady Craethorne appeared at last, the footmen brought out plates laden with cold ham, sliced cheese, fruits, and a loaf of bread still warm from the oven and spread with rich butter. A pitcher of iced lemonade accompanied the meal.
“Where is Papa today?” Marisa mumbled around her last bite of bread some time later. “Is Mr. Higgins’s son ill again?”
“No, I would have been informed if any of the estate’s tenants needed tending,” her mother said. “And please do remember, dearest, not to try to speak and chew at the same time. It is most unladylike.” She nodded to one of the footmen, who set before her a generous portion of mince pie. “My husband was called early this morning to the stables, I believe.”
Marisa took her mother’s criticism in the spirit of affection with which it was given. Just as she would marry someday, there would be time enough to be “ladylike” when she was older.
For now, she jumped to her feet and stood on tiptoe to look past the wisterias in full bloom toward the collection of sturdy wooden buildings that sat at the end of the long drive a quarter mile away, and usually downwind, from the Manor.
“So, it is one of the horses then? Was there a problem?”
“My dear, it is Craethorne’s affair, and nothing that concerns you, I am sure.”
Marisa sat back down in her chair with her arms folded and turned her smile into a pout.
“Oh, very well.” Lady Craethorne sighed. “I understand that one of the mares foaled overnight and my husband is seeing that all is right with both the animal and her babe.”
Marisa forgot her petulance at once and sat forward again. “Was it Sheba, Mama? Or was it Belle? They were both due soon, I know. Can I go see which it was, and whether the little one is a colt or a filly?”
“Not ‘can I.’ It is ‘may I?’”
“Of course...so...may I?” She fairly bounced with excitement.
“No, you may not,” Lady Craethorne said. “Young ladies do not belong in the stables.”
“But, Mama, I wish for my own horse. And then won’t I be in the stables, seeing to her care?”
“My husband and I are well aware of your desire for a mount of your own. You have asked for no other gift at your birthday for the last three years. But we have not yet decided if you are old enough to handle an animal safely. Besides that, even when you do have a horse, Craethorne has grooms to care for it. I hope I never see you mucking out stalls and spreading hay, like a stable-boy.”
“What is this, Marisa?” Sir Gerald’s deep voice came from the other side of the wisteria and he chuckled as he walked up off the long drive and climbed the stone steps onto the garden terrace. “Did I just hear your mother say that you wish to become a stable-boy?”
Sir Gerald looked as if he’d decided on similar employment for himself that day. He was a man in the prime of his life, tall and broad-shouldered, with dark hair and a handsome face, and he usually dressed the part of a country gentleman. But today he wore old riding breeches, scuffed boots, and a shirt stained with the evidence that he’d worked alongside the men in the stables to help bring the new filly or colt into the world.
Lady Craethorne wrinkled her nose when she saw him, but Marisa cared not what he looked or smelled like. “No, Papa. I wish only to visit the horses, to see which mare foaled and how the little one is doing. May I, please?”
Sir Gerald took a glass of lemonade and downed it before saying more. “Now, fetch me something stronger, Dudley, for it has been a very long morning.” The butler dispatched one of the footmen for a decanter of port as Craethorne continued. “It was Belle who foaled, as I thought it would be. She seemed most uncomfortable and restless yesterday, so I wasn’t surprised when one of the grooms came before first light with the news that the birth was imminent.”
“Gerald, really...” Lady Craethorne protested. “Remember the child.”
Marisa’s step-father regarded her for a moment, then smiled. “I don’t believe I see a child, my dear,” he said to his wife. “Marisa wants to know more of the world and we should allow that.”
“Papa.” Marisa beamed and hurried round the table, intent on hugging him, but he took her hands instead and held her at arm’s length.
“Some other time, dear girl, for I would not distress your mother by permitting you to dirty that pretty walking dress. Now, I suggest that you run upstairs and change into something old and sturdy, if you possess such an outfit, before going to the stables to see Belle’s foal. She’s a lovely little black filly now, but I’d wager she’ll grey out to the same colour as her sire over the next few years. And I know you’ll want to see to her yourself, Marisa, because she is to be yours.”
“Gerald!” Lady Craethorne frowned and got to her feet at his pronouncement.
“No, Rebecca.” He shook his head. “I’ve already decided this. It’s time Marisa had a horse of her own.”
Marisa gasped and then squealed in delight and threw her arms around his waist, despite his objections. The dress she’d taken so much care not to stain with red clover earlier that day was now soiled with much worse, but she didn’t care.
“All right then, off with you.” Sir Gerald chuckled. “For you now have no more need to change your clothes first. Ask the young groom, Davy, to show your birthday present to you and think on what you shall name her.”
Marisa pulled away at last, her eyes shining bright. “Something from Shakespeare perhaps? Cordelia...or maybe Cressida. I’m sure she’ll let me know what she prefers. Oh, thank you, Papa!”
* * * *
MIST STILL HUNG IN patches over the fields and robin song announced a new day as Marisa skipped down the stone steps and once again ran toward the stables the following morning. It was her fourteenth birthday and Miss Bainbridge would soon be expecting her in the schoolroom, but the only thing on Marisa’s mind was the beautiful little filly that was now her dearest possession.
She had visited Belle and her foal the day before but they were both exhausted and drowsy, so she’d remained only a few moments. After supper, Marisa declared her intention to stay awake all night if she must, deciding on the perfect name for her new pet. But her mother suggested she would be more comfortable considering the possibilities while lying in bed with her head on a pillow than she would sitting up in one of the wing chairs by the fire.
Of course, she had fallen asleep in minutes with no decision made. The Wycliffes would arrive for supper in only eight hours and Belle’s little foal still had no name.
Marisa slowed as she approached the stables, stopping just outside the main courtyard when she heard activity beyond. Peeking around the corner she saw Dick Perkins, Craethorne’s head coachman, inspecting the new travelling coach that had been delivered the day before.
She waited until stable-boys had led out the two pair of sturdy bays specially bought to pull this newest vehicle before heading up the aisle, tripping lightly over the freshly-swept cobblestones.
The smell of sweet hay from the loft filled the air and two barn cats darted out of her way as Marisa stopped in front of Belle’s stall. Weak morning sunlight filtered through the open door on the young groom, Davy, as he laid out fresh straw. Belle whickered softly as he finished his work and stepped out, while the little one peeked around from behind her mother’s chestnut haunches.
“She’s a right lively one this mornin’, miss,” Davy ventured.
Marisa held out her hand, palm up. The big mare recognized her and stepped forward at once, expecting a treat. She was no stranger to foaling and to the attention and buckets of bran mash that so often followed. She whinnied as if to say “surely, you have brought me something?” but Marisa had eyes only for the coffee-colored foal with the fluffy baby curls. Her tail was little more than a scrub brush and her mane only a few wisps standing bolt upright.
There was a swear outside followed by a clattering of hooves on the stones. The little filly jumped and shot behind the mare at once, hiding between her and the back of the stall. Belle stood her ground, but snorted and pinned her ears at the door, plainly disapproving of the ruckus.
“Never you mind, girl, they’ll away soon,” Marisa said in her most soothing tone. “Davy, are there any carrots or fresh apples to be had? I think Belle is waiting for one.”
“Yes, miss, I’ll fetch ye some.” He nodded and headed toward the other end of the aisle.
“He’ll be back in a minute.” Marisa reached up to pat the mare’s neck and scratch beneath her ears. “How are you and your baby this morning?”
At the sound of her voice, the little filly poked her head out from under the mare’s tail and looked up at Marisa from amid the swath of hair. The huge dark eyes studied her with curiosity.
“Yes, you’re going to be a beauty.” Marisa cooed to the little one as she bravely wobbled a few uncertain steps forward. “Now I just need to think of a name that perfectly suits you.”
* * * *
MISS BAINBRIDGE FOUND Marisa still in the stables an hour later and reminded her she had daily lessons to complete and company that night to prepare for.
“I’ll be back later if I can,” Marisa told Davy. “See that they’re both well taken care of.”
“Aye, miss, o’course,” Davy assured her. “They’ll want fer nuthin’.”
Supper was served earlier in the country than in town, and Mr. and Mrs. Wycliffe and Lyvia arrived before six.
“Is Will not coming?” Marisa asked as they sat down at table. Lyvia told her he’d returned from London the day before and Marisa hoped he’d be there for her birthday meal. Fresh from town, she expected he’d have a little gift for her, some colourful hair ribbons perhaps, or even a silk scarf.
“Oh, he’ll be along soon, and asked that we save him a piece of the cake,” Mr. Wycliffe said. “He had some last-minute packing to do.”
“That’s right, Charles, he goes back to London again tomorrow, does he not? Will he stay some days there or leave at once to join his regiment—?”
“Now, Gerald, please,” Lady Craethorne interrupted him. “Cannot such matters wait to be discussed until after supper? I would not wish to upset Charlotte.”
“Of course.” Sir Gerald nodded to Mrs. Wycliffe. “Forgive me, madam. Perhaps Marisa would like to tell you all of her special birthday gift instead?”
With such an opening, Marisa could hardly refuse and the party enjoyed a lively discussion of Belle and her new foal throughout the soup, the main course and sides. The special dessert was Marisa’s favourite strawberry cake with fresh cream.
Lady Craethorne, Mrs. Wycliffe and the girls left the gentlemen to their port after the meal and proceeded toward the front drawing room. But Marisa could not stand the thought of sitting about, as their mothers discussed the latest fashions or on-dits of the Prince Regent and the rest of the royal family.
“May I join you again later, Mama? I...need to go upstairs.”
“Of course, dearest.” Lady Craethorne frowned. “You are not unwell, I hope.”
“Not at all,” Marisa assured her. “I feel a bit of a chill and wish to fetch a shawl.”
“Very well. But do join us again as soon as you can. This evening is in your honour, after all.”
“Yes, I will,” Marisa said, praying she would be forgiven the falsehood. She did, indeed, go straight to her room and picked a shawl from her wardrobe. But when she came back downstairs, she went opposite to the withdrawing room, slipped out a side door and headed once again for the stables.
* * * *
HER CHIN RESTING ON her folded arms, Marisa sighed in contentment as she watched Belle’s pretty little foal nursing, finishing her evening meal with enthusiasm. Lanterns hanging at intervals from the barn’s rafters warded off the impending dusk as several of the young grooms gathered at the other end of the stalls to sort through saddles and harnesses that needed cleaning before being put away for the night.
Marisa guessed she’d been absent from the house for half an hour and she expected to hear her governess calling her name at any moment, having been sent in search of her wayward charge once Lady Craethorne noticed how much time had passed since her daughter had gone upstairs. But it was not Miss Bainbridge’s stern, higher-pitched tone that reached her ears a moment later, but a deep and more amused masculine voice coming from just a few feet behind her.
“Here you are, Marisa. Why am I not surprised?”
Marisa turned to see Lyvia’s brother, Will, grinning as he leaned against the doorway to the barn. He wore a navy coat of cool linen over a lighter blue waistcoat that matched the colour of his eyes, and tan trousers tucked into black boots.
“Will!” Marisa frowned, pretending anger. “You missed my birthday supper.”
“My apologies.” He chuckled and stepped forward to where she stood at the railing, keeping one hand hidden behind him. “However, you are only allowed to scold me by half since I promised to come for cake and I did, only to find that the birthday girl had fled her own party. Sir Gerald is organizing a group of the servants to search for you even as we speak.”
“He is?” Marisa’s eyes widened. “Oh, I hadn’t thought they would worry so. I must return at once!”
“I’m teasing, dear girl.” Will stalled her with one large, sun-browned hand on her arm. “When I arrived a few moments ago and you were nowhere to be found, your mother guessed quite rightly that you’d run down here to the stables again, so I promised to come fetch you back, slung over my shoulder if need be.”
“You would not do that...” Marisa felt her cheeks flush with embarrassment at the thought. “Would you?”
“Only if it were absolutely necessary. But, seeing as you are normally a most reasonable sort of girl, I doubt that it would come to that.”
She relaxed and laughed then, too. Will was still teasing her. Really, could he never be serious, even for a moment?
“Oh, do come and see her,” Marisa said, turning back to the stall. “She is much livelier tonight and more steady on her legs as each hour passes. Is she not a wonder and a beauty?”
Will glanced at the little filly. “Why, she is, indeed. Now, you must see that she is well taken care of. Pray, what is her name to be?”
“I have pondered that until my head hurts, but I cannot decide.” Marisa sighed with no small regret. “Now I think something from mythology perhaps, like that yearling colt you are so fond of. Who did you name him for again? Wasn’t it Neptune, the Greek god of fire?”
“Really, Marisa, you must pay more attention to your books. Neptune was a god to those of ancient Rome, not the Greeks, and he held power over the sea and over horses. That is why I chose the name.”
“Oh, I’m always getting the Greek and Roman deities confused. They seemed to have more gods and goddesses than our Heaven has angels, did they not?”
Will laughed at the comparison. “Yes, they did pay homage to a great many.” His smile faded a bit as he looked back at Belle and her babe. “It seems not very long since Neptune was that small and now he is fifteen hands and still growing. Just yesterday he nipped one of the grooms on the backside and then stole an apple from the bucket he made the boy drop. That colt is headstrong and will need a great deal of training. I regret that I’m not going to be here to see that he turns out well.”
He’s talking about going away to war again. And he appears no more excited at the prospect than his mother seemed glad that he should have the privilege to serve. In fact, he looks as sad as she did about his leaving. How might I cheer him?
“Will, you are hiding something from me behind your back. Could it be my birthday present?”
Her words brought his attention back to the moment and his easy smile returned. Marisa attempted to reach around him but he pulled his arm away and held the gift up so high that even when she stood on tiptoe, she couldn’t touch it. Her efforts made him laugh again and he relented at last.
“A book, Will?” she said when he placed the small, square, and elegantly-wrapped present in her hands.
“Smart girl.” He chuckled, gently tweaking the tip of her nose. “Do open it.”
She did, hoping she was successful in hiding her disappointment that it was not a gift more grand.
“The sonnets of Mr. Shakespeare. I don’t know how to thank you, for I have never had my own copy.”
“Oh, no, my dear girl. It is not yours to keep.” He smiled when her forced delight changed to confusion. “For it is my copy, the one I carried with me daily at university.” He leaned closer and whispered in a more serious tone, his breath warm against the delicate skin by her ear, “I leave Dorset tomorrow to take up my Army commission. Please keep this book safe, for it is one of my dearest possessions in the world. I shall return and ask for it back one day. And if you choose to read from it while I am away, will you think of me?”
Turning her head to look into his blue eyes, her breath stilled and then returned with a sudden lurch, as if her heart had stopped and only his nearness had prompted it to start beating once again. “Yes,” she vowed, “and each time I take it up, I will pray for your quick and safe return.”
“Then with your intercession and supplications, not one of Bonaparte’s forces shall be able to do me harm.”
“Oh, Will!” Marisa gasped, the prick of tears burning her eyes. “Surely a few words from me will not hold sway against a French musket or sabre. You’re truly going away and I might never see you again.”
“Do not cry, my dear.” His teasing stance changed to one of solicitous affection. He withdrew a handkerchief bearing his initials from his pocket and handed it to her. “I ask you only to keep Mr. Shakespeare’s words company for a short while. I fully intend to come home and reclaim them.”
She dried her eyes and forced a smile. “I shall cherish them. But why is there always some battle or other to be fought and why do you have to be one of the men to go, Will? I realize now the danger, and Liv tells me that your parents have argued at length that you should stay here in England.”
“That is true. They do not wish me to go to the Continent. But my father was a military man and he understands that I must serve or I should feel later that I’ve shirked my duty.”
“But your uncle is an earl. I’ve never met him, of course, as he lives in Yorkshire, and that is so terribly far away. But what if something happens to him and you are needed to take his place?”
“There is very little chance of that ever happening, dear girl.” Will smiled at her innocence. “My uncle has two healthy sons and now even my elder cousin has a son of his own. The title would go to each one of them before my father and I would be called on to assume those responsibilities. As the only son of a younger son, my path is clear. First the army, and then the stewardship of our estate of Havenhill upon my father’s demise, which I pray will not happen for several more decades to come.”
“I understand.” Marisa could conjure no further arguments and it seemed pointless to say more.
“Yes, I believe you do. Despite the difference in our age and circumstance, we think much alike, Marisa. It comforts me to know that you will be here for my sister, if...” He frowned but his expression cleared so quickly that she wondered if she’d only imagined the look of concern and doubt that had stolen his normally confident smile. “But let us speak no more of this now. Come inside, for tonight is a celebration of your birthday, and my last evening at home for a while. I’m certain our families will wonder where we’ve gotten off to.”
Marisa nodded and followed him out of the barn and back toward the manor, brushing a few stray bits of straw from the hem of her dress. Her heart ached at the inevitability of his words.
She had fallen in love with William Wycliffe just as he was bound for war.
* * * *
SIR GERALD, LADY CRAETHORNE and Marisa called on the Wycliffe family the following morning to bid Will farewell.
Mr. and Mrs. Wycliffe welcomed their neighbours on the front steps of Havenhill with their usual graciousness, though they both seemed sad and preoccupied. Lyvia was weepy and petulant.
“I do not understand you, Will. You know we shall have not the least bit of fun while you’re gone. Do promise you won’t stay away long.”
“I shall endeavour to get the French under control as rapidly as possible, little sister.” He lifted her chin with his thumb and forefinger. “But, in turn, you must promise to tend to your studies and stay out of scrapes until I return.”
Lyvia gave a little shrug. “I shall try.”
Will chuckled. “I supposed that is the best we can hope for.”
The coachman pulled the family’s travelling carriage to a stop in front of the house. As a footman loaded Will’s bags inside, Will shook Sir Gerald’s hand. “Lady Craethorne, Sir Gerald, it was good of you to come see me off.”
“We wish you the best of luck, young man,” Sir Gerald offered.
Will then said his goodbyes to his father, who suggested he write when he could so that “your mother might not worry,” and to his mother, who reminded him that she needed her son back more than England needed another hero.
Marisa stood to one side, unable to put into words what she was feeling. Now that she loved Will so dearly, he must survive and return to her. God, please do not let him be taken before I am old enough for him to care about me in the same way.
The coach and driver stood ready and there was no more excuse to delay. Will stepped toward the carriage, then stopped at the door, as if remembering one last goodbye unspoken.
“Marisa. You shall remember your pledge to continue reading Mr. Shakespeare?”
“Indeed,” she said, though speaking around the tightness in her throat proved difficult. “He shall be my constant companion. But...Will? Do stay safe.”
“That is my intention, dear girl.”
With those parting words, he climbed into the carriage and the footman secured the door. Will gave one last wave as the coachman flicked the reins and the horses set off.
* * * *
AFTER WILL’S DEPARTURE, the Craethornes stayed for a quiet luncheon with the Wycliffes and then returned home in a subdued mood.
Back at the manor, Marisa went at once to the library, selected several volumes on Greek and Roman mythology from the shelves and settled with them on the window seat. She thought of Will as she studied the pages, imagining the carriage as it bore him far away from her and towards an unknown fate.
After an hour’s consideration, she replaced each volume with care and then walked down to the stables, her decision made at last.
Belle was in her stall, with her babe settled in a patch of clean straw next to her, both of them drowsy from the mid-afternoon heat. The little one seemed to recognize Marisa and perked up her ears. After a few stumbling tries, the foal got to her feet and stepped toward the railing.
Davy, the young groom, came from the opposite side of the barn, carrying a fresh bale of hay, and set it down by the stall next to Belle’s. “Can I ’elp, miss?”
“I think a nice, clean carrot or two would be just the thing, Davy.”
Belle nickered in approval and moved forward as the groom fetched a bucket sitting nearby. Marisa chose two of the best of the vegetables and snapped each in half, then held her hand out to the mare, who took them from her gently, crunching one by one. The little one sniffed with curiosity at the sweet smell.
“Not just yet, Venilia,” Marisa said. “But I’ll make sure you enjoy plenty as soon as you’re old enough.”
“What did ye call ’er, miss?”
“I’ve decided to name her Venilia, after the ancient goddess of gentle waters. It’s Greek...or Roman, maybe...I can’t recall which now.”
“I don’t reckon as t’ havin’ heard a horse named that before, miss. Be ye sure that ye don’t want somethin’ more common to pin on her...like Sally or Maude?”
“No. Sir Gerald promised I could name her as I wished, so her name will be Venilia. And I intend to visit every day to see that she’s eating well and growing strong.”
“Yes, miss.” Davy scratched his head. “If there’s nuthin’ more...?”
“No, nothing more.” Marisa smiled as Davy walked back to his chores, muttering to himself “aye, an’ that’s a right strange name fer a horse, that is...”
“Pray, do not listen to him, Venilia,” she said as she scratched the little filly’s back end. “’Tis a beautiful name, though we must take care not to reveal to anyone that the goddess Venilia was the one who loved and cared most for the powerful god, Neptune.”
Belle snorted, as if in response to Marisa’s words.
“No, Belle, it’s not silly at all. Because now, every day when I come to see you and your babe, I’ll feel a connection to Will and perhaps it shall help me not miss him so much. I’ll read from his book of Shakespeare and continue my lessons with Miss Bainbridge. Somehow, I’ll manage to not be sad and to stay busy until he comes home.”
And you shall come home again, William Wycliffe, safe and sound. And by the time you do, I’ll be all grown up, and then I’ll make you see that you can love me as much as I love you.