In the Brief
Eternal Silence
Rebecca Melvin
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A
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Double Edge Press - Smashwords Edition ebook
Ebook edition ISBN 978-1-4524-2716-4
In the Brief Eternal Silence Copyright © 2006 Rebecca Melvin
Cover Artwork: David Shuck © 2007 Double Edge Press
All rights reserved. Except for use in any review, the reproduction or utilization of this work in whole or in part in any form by any electronic, mechanical or other means, now known or hereafter invented, including xerography, photocopying and recording, or in any information storage or retrieval system, is forbidden without the written permission of the publisher, Double Edge Press, 72 Ellview Road, Scenery Hill, PA 15360
This novel is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events, locales, organizations, or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental and beyond the intent of either the author or publisher.
For Jesus Christ
Acknowledgments:
I wish I had a long list of people that helped me in my endeavor, but I really don’t. I have the obvious, but incredibly important: my family.
To my mother and Tom, thank you for the encouragement.
To my brothers, Mike, Andy and Jerry, same goes.
To my children, Garrett, Austin, Coleman and Shelby, thank you for your patience, your love, and for not minding having dinner late so many nights. Thank you for being mine.
To my husband, Neal, thank you for being you. Without you, it couldn’t have happened.
My greatest acknowledgment goes to Christ. He was there when that long list of people wasn’t. Without You, Lord, I am nothing. Without You, my words would only be so many splatters on the page. Thank You for the words to write, the patience to endure, and for two important lessons (among many others):
I have
judged myself in my own eyes
and found myself unworthy,
but in the
eyes of the Lord, I am perfect,
for I am cleansed with the Blood
of the Lamb.
And:
I am a
woman of great blessing,
for I am a woman of great faith,
and
the greatest blessing of all is faith.
Thank You for covering my imperfections. Thank You for blessing me with faith. Thank You for saving me, not just once, but every day I exist.
It’s been a long, hard road.
In Christ,
~ Rebecca Melvin
In the Brief
Eternal Silence
Rebecca Melvin
Between the striking of the Lightning
and the rolling of the Thunder
There is a brief, eternal Silence
Between the firing of a Bullet
and the crack of the Shot
There is a brief, eternal Silence
And between actions taken
and consequences paid
There is a brief, eternal Silence
PROLOGUE
December,
1839
The ten year old boy sat in the finely upholstered seat of the coach. He was wrapped in an expensive coat of navy blue, tailored to fit his small shoulders, and a matching blue silk scarf was wrapped about his neck and tucked neatly into the collar of the coat. He idly twirled at one of the many gold buttons down the front of the coat as he waited, his oddly colored hazel eyes glinting nearly as gold as the buttons in the dim light of the coach.
The door was opened from the outside, letting in more light from one of the torches that was lit, and the soft rustle of skirts told him that it was his mother just outside the door. “Is his Grace nearly ready, then?” he heard his mother asking the coachman. “Tell him that we await him in the coach and to try not to be long,” and then she was climbing into the coach to sit next to him, her cheeks colored from the cold night air. She settled in, straightening her skirts and turned to him.
“Dante, darling. Does mummy look pretty tonight?” she asked.
“Yes, mummy,” he agreed readily. “You look beautiful tonight.” His ten year old face shone with adoration, which inspired her to pinch his small cheek.
“And you, son, shall be the terror of all the ladies in another year or two,” she said with pride. Then, “Why, what’s the matter? You look as though you are about to choke on something.” His eyes had lost their adoration and showed an inner, preoccupied look and his face turned a blotchy red.
For answer, he began to cough; two small wheezes followed by a great wrenching bark. He was aware enough of his mother to see her expression change from good natured indulgence to quick annoyance, but all he could do was wrench out a stream of coughs that sounded as though he were a dog, and which tore at his throat in painful intensity.
“Oh, heaven,” his mother said with irritation. “The croup. Dante, you can not possibly have the croup. You haven’t had that for ages.” She paused, as though expecting him to admit to some joke on his part. But he only looked at her helplessly, his little hands at his throat, and coughed again.
With that, his mother rapped upon the window of the coach door, her knuckles pounding out a demanding tattoo. The door was immediately opened. “Take my son back into the house,” she told the coachman dismissingly. “And have Mrs. Herriot attend to him. He has the croup.”
“What is this?” Dante heard his father from outside ask. He peered into the open door. “Are you not well, son?”
Dante attempted to speak, “Just a cough—” and he wrenched out another bark, “Father. I’m sure it will pass in a moment.”
But his father was shaking his head. “Alas, no, son. We can not take any risk that your mother should catch it in her condition,” and he said the last words with a tender pride. “Come now, up into the house as your mother has bid. You do not wish your new baby brother or sister to become sick before they are even born, do you?”
Dante could not argue. He had been in a perfect transport of joy at the news that he would soon become a brother when it had been announced at the family dinner table just three nights ago. He climbed from the coach. His mother followed.
“I shall just speak to the Dowager,” she explained to her husband, “so that she shall know that Dante is to return to London with her at the end of her holiday.”
“You should stay also,” he urged.
“La—no,” she answered. “I can not take another day here, William, I swear I can not. Between your mother and our new sister-in-law, Lydia,” she shook her head. “I will be much happier in Town.”
“But in your condition and traveling at night? I do not like it. It is not necessary, you know. You should stay and come up with my mother when she returns.”
“Now we have been all through this already,” she admonished. “We had planned on trying to be more of a family, and because Dante can no longer go does not mean that I cannot. Now, allow me to speak with your mother so that we may leave. You have pressing business, remember?”
Dante heard no more, for he went through the manor door, miserable that he would not be traveling with his father and mother. He was miserable as Mrs. Herriott was called for and he was shooed up into bed by that indomitable housekeeper. By the time his father came into the room, there was a bedwarmer beneath the blankets at his feet and a poultice wrapped about his throat.
“There you are, snug and warm,” his father said as he came to his side.
“I’m much better, now, Father. Mayn’t I go?”
“No. The cold night air would only set you off again, I should fear. You remain here where your grandmother may send for a doctor should the coughing return and be worse.”
“It is just that I have hardly spent any time with you at all. Or mother,” Dante sighed.
“I know, son,” his father said and rumpled his hair. “I know that it is hard on you, but some day when you are older, you shall understand. There are things that must be done that are bigger than ourselves and even our loved ones. The Queen is counting on me and there are many lives at stake. I must advise her to the best of my ability so that she has good, accurate information to make her decisions on. And she must be very close to making a decision for her to have called me so abruptly over this holiday time. We would not get to spend much time together, other than the journey, at any rate I fear. You shall be much better off remaining out your holiday here with your grandmother.”
Dante only nodded, his eyes clenching shut in order to squeeze back any unmanly tears. “I understand, Father,” he coughed.
His father nodded, looking relieved. “Now, I must gather my attaché and go. You shall look after your grandmother, shall you?”
“Yes, Father, if you shall look after Mother.”
“I will do that,” his father told him seriously. “Better than I have before. Of that, I promise you.”
And although Dante did not know what that meant, it was enough for him to close his eyes without trouble as his father quietly left the room.
It was not until nearly noon the next morning that he was fetched from his room by Mrs. Herriott at the bidding of his grandmother. He had eaten breakfast from a tray and been permitted to move about quietly, but he had not been allowed far from his bed. Now the housekeeper knocked lightly and then opened the door. “Young master,” she choked, her face blotchy and her eyes red, which alarmed the boy. “The Dowager asks for your presence in the study.”
The study! Dante was over-awed at the thought of going through those doors into a room that was reserved strictly for adults and the conducting of adult business. But he was distracted by the agitated movements of the housekeeper, and her face which looked as though it had been weeping, and at the same time, bravely trying to staunch it. “Whatever is the matter, Mrs. Herriott?” he asked in his small, boy’s voice as he went to the door which she held open.
“Your grandmother must speak with you,” she whispered, and would say no more.
He left the room. The halls that were so familiar to him now seemed echoing. The huge clock at the head of the steps seemed to tick all the louder in the hush of the house. The pattern of the rug of the stairs, deep red with gold triangles, was impressed forever on his memory, so that when he thought about that day, years hence, he would see that pattern over and over in his head, the endless walk down those stairs, when he knew not what was coming, but was certain in his little boy’s heart that something had happened that would change his life forever. Finally, along the main hall of the first floor, to the double doors of the study, which were opened for him by the butler of the house. “Your Grace,” the butler said as he passed through that portal. Your Grace. He was never referred to as ‘your Grace’. That was the title reserved for his father, the Duke of St. James.
“Dante,” his grandmother bade from where she sat in a large wing-backed chair. Her voice trembled as she spoke. “Come and sit down, here, next to me. And try to be very brave.”
Twenty-three
years later
November, 1863
Chapter One
Sunday Afternoon
Miss Sara Elizabeth Murdock stroked the wet neck of the horse she was astride. It was a dun color that even the grey of the day could not mute. It shifted in eagerness but Miss Murdock's father at its head held it with expertise and it settled into walking again. “Do you think she'll be bothered by the slop?” Lizzie asked. “We've never had her on the track in the rain before.”
The training track was just ahead of them, a level area not far from the stables that Lizzie's grandfather had cleared many years ago.
Her father seemed to consider his answer before saying, “I can't rightly say. Be cautious, but don't hold her in too much, Lizzie, love.” He turned to look at her. “We need a good showing in this.”
Lizzie nodded. “I understand. I had so hoped to race her before she became brood stock, though.”
“Aye. I know it. But you know as well as I that we could use the brass. And if these gentlemen that are coming today are impressed. . . well, could be a right good turn to our fortunes.”
“Or lack of them,” Lizzie smiled. “Don't worry, father, it'll all come out right. I only hope she has at least a modicum of sense today. What is this man's name again? The one you met yesterday?”
“Tempton. From over Lincolnshire way.” Her father looked over his shoulder at her again. The rain was running down the heavy, over-indulgent lines of his face and dampened the thick gray of his hair. He was portly, and the walk was making him huff. “But t'won't be him that'll be interested. A friend of his is supposed to be joining him and his brother. That's the one we want to impress. Tempton said this other fellow owns Behemoth.”
“Behemoth,” Lizzie breathed. “That certainly shows he knows his way around horseflesh. Unless,” she frowned, “he's one of these in name only owners that leaves all the work to his grooms.”
They arrived at the beginning of the oval, but there was no one else in sight. “Do you think they won't come because of the weather?” she asked.
“I don't know. We'll give them a minute, any rate.” Her father stopped her mount and turned to come to her knee. “Get yourself settled in, Liz, and try not to be nervous. I know this isn't what you had in mind when you picked out this little filly, but at least we can maybe cut a deal where we can keep her.”
“I know,” she returned and fingered her hair more fully up beneath her riding cap. She was in breeches tucked into her boots, and the short jacket she wore was large on her. “But what use will she be once she's foaled is what I ask myself. Unless she has a really outstanding colt, she'll not be in demand as a broodmare either and I still can't help wishing we could have given her a shot at the track.”
Her father chuckled. “And you would like to see if your training has been any good, I'd lief bet. Never mind, Lizzie. At least we can mayhaps get enough to see that you have a real dowry instead of a four-legged one.”
“As if I have need of one at all,” Lizzie countered but she grinned. “You'll not be rid of me as easily as that, father, even if you have a thousand pounds with which to entice the local gentry, instead of an untried filly.”
But he didn't respond to her teasing, only said, “They're here.”
“Oh,” Lizzie said and turned in her saddle. A trio of men was moving up the lane, evidently leaving their mode of transportation, whether mounts or carriages, back at the stables. Two were tall, with wavy red hair, although one, the older looking one, was much stouter than the other. The brothers, Miss Murdock surmised. The stout brother was in a bright, nearly overpowering yellow coat. There was nothing significant about the tall, rawboned younger brother's attire except for a fine, shining gold watch chain that dangled in an extravagant loop from his pocket.
The third man was slender and not as tall. His hair was a dark shade of brown that, with the rain upon it and in contrast to the paleness of his face, appeared nearly black. His coat was a heavy navy blue, with many capes, and it came down to the tops of his high riding boots. It was November and the rain falling was cold and Lizzie had a sudden wish that she were half as warm as he appeared to be.
Lizzie's father took two steps forward to meet them. “Lord Tempton,” he said, and pumped stout, yellow coat's hand. “Happy to see the weather didn't keep you.”
“No, indeed, Squire Murdock.” Lord Tempton turned to pocket watch. “This is my brother, Ryan Tempton,” and then indicating the third man, “and my friend, St. James.”
Squire Murdock shook Ryan Tempton's hand as Lord Tempton was making the introductions, but he halted for a second, his hand half out-stretched, as the other man was named. “St. James?”
“Yes. The owner of Behemoth,” Lord Tempton prompted.
The man designated as St. James extended his hand to the half-held out one of Squire Murdock. “Squire,” he said. “Forgive us for being late but I fear I'm a bit hung-over and have a lethal headache. I didn't receive word from Bertie of your filly until this morning and so did not have this meeting in mind last night.”
“Well,” the Squire answered. “I'm the last fellow to hold that against a man. Now, if you wish to take a look at our girl, here, go on and do so, and then when you're ready, we'll give her a run.”
The two Tempton's remained back, but St. James went forward after thanking the Squire. The Squire went again to the head of the filly.
“Her name?” asked St. James as he ran his hand down the filly's chest and front legs.
“Leaf,” the Squire answered.
St. James' hands moved back along the horse's barrel and he glanced up at the rider. Lizzie looked down and was met with a pair of startling eyes, an odd color that bordered between hazel and gold. They flashed for a second as she met his glance and his eyebrow lifted. “Rather unusual,” he said.
And for some unaccountable reason, Lizzie felt herself blush.
“Aye. T'is indeed. But my, uh, daughter, um, named her. She's visiting right now, my daughter is. Not at home.”
Lizzie tried not to start, and when she looked to her father, all too aware of the man that had passed behind her now and was feeling down her mount's hocks, her father only risked a slight shake of his head.
“I see,” St. James said. Then he stood back from the horse. “Have your groom trot her about in a circle there, and then let her loose on the track, shall you.”
“Yes, milord,” The Squire said and turned to do as he had been asked. Lizzie, relieved to be doing something, had no time to wonder why the man called St. James had suddenly been elevated to 'my lord' by her father. She was only concentrating on getting Leaf to go as smoothly as possible through her paces.
“What do you think, St. James?” She heard yellow coat—Lord Tempton ask.
St. James ran a hand through his wet hair, raking it back from his eyes. “I think she should do, if the circumstances are right.”
“It was only a cursory look at best,” his friend muttered. “You have no idea what you may be saddling yourself with.”
“And I said that if the circumstances were right that I did not bloody care. Really, Bertie. You were the one that brought her to my attention.”
Then Lizzie heard no more, for her father, with a glance at St. James, who nodded, called for her to walk the filly to the head of the track.
She settled into earnest business now, and despite herself, she could not help a surging thrill. No, it was not a race, and she was fairly certain her father would have drawn the line at her jockeying in one at any rate, but it was nearly as exciting having spectators to what she had achieved with her training. Maybe they would be so impressed, she thought with giddy guilt at her fancies, that they would entrust her with some of their stock from their stables. But it all depended on Leaf, and Leaf could be woefully undependable.
Then the man, St. James, was there at her mount's head. He looked up at her for a moment and she still could not determine if he had realized she was a female rather than the boy she must appear. “Don't push her too hard in this slop,” he advised. “I'm not looking for speed. If she impresses me enough with her action, I'll make a point of returning to see how fast she can go on a better day for it. Maintain control and keep her in hand. If she seems to be doing well with her footing then you may extend her on the last quarter. Understand?”
Lizzie, mindful of her father's inexplicable lie, only nodded. Then the man released Leaf's head. Lizzie gathered herself, could feel Leaf responding to her rider's intense focusing. They remained still for a second playing off each other through reins, legs and body movement, and then Lizzie loosed the reins and tightened her knees, bent her body forward and the horse hurled out into the middle of the track.
Lizzie controlled her, kept her steady as her feet slid around in the mud with her great effort to find her stride. Then she had it and her legs were extending and sailing about the track, and Lizzie half laughed with the wind stinging her eyes and the mud flying into her face. Her father and the other three men were forgotten. She only saw the faded grey of the rail as it flashed by, the overgrown infield of the track. Leaf was pulling hard at the reins and Lizzie's arms ached from the effort of holding her to a less reckless pace. The filly's feet hit the slop with more and more confidence and Lizzie relented and allowed more rein.
They swept around the first turn and in to the back stretch. The last quarter was coming up and Lizzie settled down tighter in the saddle. Now her concentration was total as she gauged every flying step of the filly. She was holding in the mud well now, but would she in the final turn? But the final quarter, which included part of the final turn, was where the man, St. James had allowed she could extend her. It was banked, Lizzie reminded herself, but it hadn't been graded for years. Still, she knew this track well, had spent innumerable hours out here with her father, and the filly knew it well also. There should be no problem.
She loosened the reins more, concentrating, wanting the filly up to her utmost speed as she entered the last quarter. They were half through the turn and the filly was still going easily through the heavy slop. Lizzie felt a burst of pride at how well her horse was doing. “Easy now, I'm going to let you out a little more.” The track showed pristine in front of them, the mud unchurned and untouched. There was a puddle in their line but Lizzie could not think it was any more than surface water and should not be any deeper than the surrounding mud.
Leaf came up on the puddle, fully extended, running with grace and power. Her sudden spook to the side caught Lizzie unawares.
In mid-stride the horse attempted a sudden shy away from the water. The jump was awkward and bone-jarring and when her feet landed, they no longer were placed surely but skittered out from beneath her. Lizzie had kept the filly hugging the rail to make the best time and with a piercing shriek of panic, the horse slid into the fence.
The old boards splintered and broke. Lizzie flew from her mount and landed in the infield. Leaf went down into the midst of the broken fence and wallowed in an agony of confusion, her legs scrabbling as she tried to roll to her feet but was hemmed in on all sides with broken boards.
Lizzie was jarred hard in her landing. Her cap was half knocked from her head and the straps that were meant to hold it in place dug into the flesh beneath her chin. She rolled to her back, the mud seeping through her jacket and breeches to freeze her skin, and swiped at her eyes in an attempt to clear them of the mud that was ruining her vision.
She made an effort to get to her feet but her body refused to do more than allow her to sit up and that with a great deal of regret. Lizzie gathered herself, tried again and wasn't sure if all the pain she was feeling were coming from injuries or simply from the freezing mud that enveloped her.
“Lizzie! Are you all right?”
It was her father, running as quickly toward her as his stout figure would manage. With him, in front of him, was the man, St. James, and between he and her father were the two Tempton brothers, the younger one, Ryan, and then Bertie.
“Leaf,” Lizzie called. “Get her before she does anything further to herself.” And she was amazed to hear her voice so close to tears. She wasn't crying, was she? But with all the mud in her eyes, she couldn't tell.
“Ryan, get the bloody horse,” St. James said. “You,” he said as he came to her. “Stay still. I'm sure the horse will be all right and you needn't risk your neck trying to get to her when there are others that can take care of it.” He crouched down beside her, and as she was still struggling to try and get her feet beneath her he placed both hands on her shoulders. “Stay still, you little fool. I knew I should have yanked you down from that damned horse as soon as I saw you were a female. If I had known you also couldn't control your mount, I most certainly would have.”
“It was the mud puddle,” she said, the freezing mud making her gasp. “I can control my mount.” But he had turned his head, his hands still on her shoulders, to check to see that Ryan had gone to the horse. Ryan had and Bertie as well and only her father was coming the last few panting strides over to the infield and them.
“Is she to be all right?” Lizzie asked.
“I don't know, but I will find out for you in a moment. Forgive me if I'm more inclined to be worried about her wretched rider for the moment.”
“I'm surprised,” Lizzie, still gasping, was stung into retorting, “that you are not more concerned about your wretched headache.”
“This has certainly not done it any good. Now, are you hurt?”
“I'm not sure. All this mud is freezing and I can not tell if I am hurt or only suffering from the cold. Oh, please do tell them to be careful with her. I am sure they are only frightening her more.”
“Try moving your arms. Pain? No? Your legs. Yes? Where?”
“My knee. I may have twisted it, I think.”
“This one?” and he moved his hand to her right knee.
She flushed, was thankful for the mud on her face that hid it. “Yes. But really, I'm sure that if you can just give me a hand up that I shall be quite fine—”
“Please, milord, I must ask you to unhand my daughter,” the Squire broke in as he arrived next to them.
St. James turned with a raised brow. “But, sir, this could not possibly be your daughter, for she has gone visiting, you know.”
“Be that as it may,” the Squire continued with a darkening expression, “I know who ye are and I'll not stand for any of your shenanigans with any of mine.”
“Indeed?” St. James said. “My reputation precedes me, I surmise.”
“Father?” Lizzie faltered.
“Never you mind, Lizzie, love. Are you able to get up?”
“Yes, of course. I only need a moment, as I was saying. . . It's just all this blasted mud.”
“Miss Murdock,” St. James said, “as I now gather is your name, if you deem your father a reasonable substitute, I shall go and see about your horse.”
“Yes. Indeed. Thank you,” she answered.
He arose and her father stooped to take his place and Lizzie watched as St. James strode to where Ryan and Bertie had managed to calm her horse. He moved lithely and his voice was compelling and yet he was slender and did not seem powerfully built.
“Who is he, father?” she asked.
But he did not answer her question, only said, “I'd not have him here at all if it were not business.” He gave her a glance. “Stay away from him, Lizzie.”
She gave a short laugh. “I'm sure you have no worry upon that head. It is only the mud covering me that made me palatable in the least for if he saw me as I really am, he would have saved his concern for the horse.”
“Aye. Well I daresay his tastes be a little more exotic. All the same, Liz. . . But here,” he added before she could interrupt, “try to get to your feet now, if you feel able.” And he held out his arm to her.
Lizzie took it and between the two of them, they got her standing. “Let's get you to the house, lass, before you freeze.”
“Leaf, first,” she said.
He sighed, but moved them in the direction of the horse. Ryan was still at her head and Bertie seemed to be heatedly protesting St. James' suggestion that he help with removing the boards. “Nonsense,” Lizzie heard him saying. “I'm sure there are grooms who will be out momentarily to help. I can't see mucking about in all this mud.”
“Save your vanity, Bertie,” St. James responded. “There is no one here to see you, save young Miss Murdock, and I am sure she will be happy to overlook any marring of your attire considering she is dressed as a man and disgustingly filthy.”
“Thank you,” Miss Murdock interjected.
He turned, startled, at her voice. “Miss Murdock, I apologize,” he said. “It's just that Bertie is being difficult.”
“What?” she asked, and then waved an irritated hand. “No. I meant thank you for helping.”
His gold gaze arrested upon her for a thoughtful moment. “I see.”
Then he turned back to consider Bertie. That man stood with his hands upon his hips, studying the scene of broken boards and downed horse with a grim shake of his head. “Bertie,” St. James said, “allow me to relieve you of the cause of your reluctance.”
“Now, St. James. No. No, please, don't do that.”
But St. James stooped down and fisted a great handful of the mud that surrounded them and, straightening again, gave it a calculated fling onto the front of Bertie's yellow coat. It splattered neatly in the center of Bertie’s chest, hung for a mere second and then slid slowly down to drop in front of him. Bertie took a dignified step back to save the tops of his boots.
“Damn you, St. James,” Bertie said, looking down at his sopping coat. “I utterly loathe you when you are this way. It was I that brought you here, you might remember.”
“And, indeed, I am grateful.”
“Oh, bloody hell take you. I'm sending you the bill for a new one.”
“And I shall pay for it. Now grab a bloody board if you please.” St. James stooped to his own work and Bertie, his concern for his attire now useless, moved to the other side of the horse and began pulling the broken boards from around it.
Miss Murdock, with the aid of her father, moved to where Ryan Tempton knelt at her horse's head. She managed to crouch down beside him, her limbs protesting and her body shivering. “There now, Leaf,” she told the filly, “all will be well. I've a warm blanket waiting for you and we will get you out of this silliness soon enough.” The horse made a small snuffle of resignation. Its neck muscles relaxed from the straining they had been exerting. Her ears pricked forward as Lizzie continued to croon soothing nonsense to it.
“Squire,” St. James said as he worked at clearing the boards, “you'd best get your daughter to the house before she dies of the pneumonia.”
“She'll be fine, milord,” the Squire returned. “I've seen her take worse spills, and she's been colder. T'is not your concern.”
But St. James turned with sudden ferocity at the Squire's answer. He grabbed the older man by the collar of his wool coat. “Let me make this very clear,” he said. “I am not impressed with your daughter's inability to ride and the fact that between the two of you, you may have ruined a promising horse. Be that as it may, I am even less impressed with your lack of consideration for your daughter's safety or health. You show an exaggerated concern in regards to me possibly sullying her in some manner, but you have no care at all if her neck should be broken or if she should die from the freezing cold—”
“You can take your damned hands from me and keep your mind on the horse, miduke—” The Squire made an effort to remove St. James' hands from his collar. St. James, although he was in fact several inches shorter than the other man and a good deal lighter, held him fast and shook him.
“I should throttle you,” St. James said, his voice savage. “When a perfect stranger such as I seems to have more care for both your daughter's and your horse's necks than you do, you need throttling.”
“Here, here, St. James. You really can't be murdering the chap, you know,” Bertie Tempton tried to soothe.
“And give me one reason why I should not, for I am looking at two reasons why I should.”
Lizzie broke in, making an effort to remain calm. “Would you please kill him some where else if you must, for you are upsetting Leaf. Mister Tempton?” she said to the tall one with red hair. “Can you, at least, endeavor to help me in getting this poor horse out of this mess instead of throwing a tantrum and making everything worse? Thank you. I could see that at least you had a modicum of sense to you, however much everyone else seems to be lacking it.”
St. James dropped his hands from her father's coat. He and the Squire squared off for a tense moment, and then St. James said, “Squire, be so kind as to start pulling boards from that side away from the animal. I'll take this side. Ryan, stay with Miss Murdock, for I can not believe she is in any condition to control that horse if it should panic again.”
The Squire turned and walked stiff-legged to the boards indicated. Miss Murdock turned her attention back to Leaf and Ryan returned to his original position with her. Bertie muttered, “This all could have been avoided if only the damned grooms had come out to help as they should have.”
“There are no grooms,” Lizzie jerked out. “Just old Kennedy and he's in no condition to be doing any of this.” And she wondered why she felt like crying again.
Then St. James was there, holding a handkerchief down to her. “Use it, Miss Murdock. If you insist upon remaining out here, you should at least clear the mud from your face. It's packed about your nose, you know, and I can not see how you are even able to breathe.”
Lizzie took it less than graciously.
Chapter Two
Lizzie wiped her face with the handkerchief and returned her attention to keeping her downed mount calm. We need a good showing in this, her father had said. Well, they had not had a good showing. She wasn't even certain if Leaf were all right. There were no obvious fractures, but they wouldn't know until they attempted to get her to her feet.
She turned to the raw-boned young man at her side. “It is Mister Tempton, isn't it?”
“I beg pardon,” the youth replied. He stuck an awkward hand out to her from his crouched position by her side. “Yes. I am Mister Ryan Tempton. That is Lord Bertram Tempton, my brother, and the other is Milord Duke of St. James.”
“Mr. Tempton,” Lizzie acknowledged. “I won't muddy your hand. I am Elizabeth Murdock and, as I am sure you have gathered, that is my father, Squire Edward Murdock.” She peered with frank curiosity around to the man designated as the Duke of St. James. “So that is the infamous Duke,” she commented to her companion. “He is hardly as threatening looking as I would have expected from all that I have heard of him. More like a spoiled bully.”
“I rather like him myself,” Ryan confessed. “And normally he does not throw such a fit, but he had been drinking rather indulgently last night, so I fear he is a bit short of patience today. But his reputation, I fear, is rather daunting. If I had not come to know him through my brother, I would probably have steered clear of him as so many of the peerage do.”
Miss Murdock turned her attention back to the red-haired young man at her side. “It is true then that he owns Behemoth?”
“Yes. That is why he was naturally interested in seeing your filly. He wishes to turn Behemoth to stud soon and he is looking for quality mares to purchase.”
“I see,” Lizzie said, but she frowned. “Although we had hoped to keep Leaf and allow him only the foal. If the duke is interested in her, which I can barely credit after the performance we gave.”
“Leaf?” Ryan Tempton inquired.
“Gold-Leaf-Lying-in-the-Sun,” Miss Murdock elaborated. “A tad long-winded, but it was the only name that could adequately describe her beautiful coloring. Strangely, it suits her disposition also. She's always ready to be blown by whatever prevailing wind comes along, and lacks any real stability. In short,” Miss Murdock laughed, “I fear she is a complete featherbrain.”
“She also travels like the wind,” Ryan offered.
Lizzie smiled and patted the filly's wet neck. “Yes, she does. And usually without running amuck into a fence. But she is not used to a muddy track and she was startled by her own reflection in a mud puddle. Not that that is any excuse,” she clarified self-consciously, “for a rider should always be prepared, and I am afraid she caught me quite flat-footed. I should have realized she would react so foolishly.”
Ryan paused and then asked, “May I ask what you were doing up on her on the track? It just seems a little. . . unusual.”
Lizzie ducked her head, but before she could make known her reasons, St. James' voice broke in. “Yes. I was wondering the same. I take it you have no suitable groom, but there must surely be someone more qualified for this type of work available to your father. Someone, perhaps, more used to wearing breeches,” he ended on a dry note.
Lizzie's cheeks were burning beneath the smears of mud that remained. “I understand, milord, that you are quite used to, I am certain, a deal of scraping and bowing, but please do not think that every one you meet is eagerly awaiting you to order their lives for them. Leaf is my horse. I have trained her. I ride her. I am sorry if this does not suit your overzealous sensibilities. Indeed, I am a little surprised, I admit, to find the infamous Duke of St. James lecturing anyone on proper décorum.”
“Are you quite finished, Miss Murdock?”
“Indeed, I am most decidedly finished.”
“Then allow me only to say that perhaps as I have more knowledge than most of what costs there are to pay for a damaged reputation, I am better suited than most to lecture, Miss Murdock.”
Lizzie met his eyes for another moment, her own brown ones rather large in her muddy face, then she turned back to tending her mount, unable to find any words that would help her to come back from that oh-so-casual set down. Her knee was aching, the cold had her teeth nearly chattering, and she had managed to not only have a Bad Showing with her horse but had managed to outright offend the man they had hoped to impress.
Ryan gave her a slight, sympathetic smile. Then the duke was crouched there between them. His coat spread, revealing his riding pants and polished black boots, now splattered with mud. Miss Murdock kept her attention carefully away from the muscles that showed beneath the tight material of his clothing. It was unlike her to be self-conscious, but she became very aware that she was wet and muddy and not in a proper dress. Her hair had come partially undone from the tight bun it had been in and the tendrils that hung down were as muddy as the rest of her.
“Shall we try to get her on her feet now, Miss Murdock?” St. James asked, and she was relieved to have his question interrupt her thoughts. She gave herself a sharp reminder that even if she had been dressed appropriately and cleaned of all mud, that she would not have warranted a second look from this man, or any man. Never had and probably never would. If she wasn't exactly resigned to being a spinster, she was certainly not going to be entertaining foolish thoughts about an uncommonly handsome man, that despite his reputation, she would wager, had enough females throwing themselves at him, without adding her plain, muddy self to the list. So when she replied, her voice was a little short, and her words were a little testy. “Certainly, milord. If you and Mister Tempton would kindly leave me room, I shall have her up in short order.”
He raised his brows at her tone, but she was only grateful that he and Ryan Tempton did as she asked. Miss Murdock pulled on the bridle and coaxed the animal until the filly stood trembling, legs splayed apart. Then she took a minute to pat her, speak softly to her, and congratulate her on her success.
“Well done,” she heard the duke behind her say. Miss Murdock felt an unexpected burst of pleasure that she had performed well and made up for at least some of her poor horsemanship of before.
She took one last measure of his lordship, his dark, soaking wet hair, his gold eyes, which met hers with a reflective glance before shifting to inspect her mount, raindrops clinging to their lashes. Now that he was standing, only his boots showed from beneath his coat, and although his figure was slender, she remembered the muscles in his legs and thought of him now as so much coiled and finely tempered steel, ready to spring without warning.
Miss Murdock smiled at her thoughts, telling herself that at least she could claim acquaintance with the notorious duke whose exploits, all unsavory, were bandied about even in this far off region of the realm, and that she had survived the encounter with at least a small success at the end of her unfortunate afternoon.
Old Kennedy, their only groom, had at last made appearance, and with some relief she handed him the reins. All the same, when he began to lead the horse slowly toward the stables, she followed, gimping, after him, her concentration on the filly's stride, watching carefully for any sign of limp or lameness.
“Goodbye, Miss Murdock,” Ryan Tempton called.
She turned and waved a brief salute. Then she continued up the track, her shoulders hunched against the still drizzling rain.
Rather than letting up, the rain that had been coming down all day had intensified by the time St. James and his party made the five mile trek to the crossroads inn.
It was becoming dark, the horses they had hired out for their excursion (as they had all left their conveyances and teams at the inn's stable) were roundly disgruntled, and Squire Murdock, who had joined them, was less than enthusiastic with his choice of accepting the unexpected invitation to join St. James and the two Tempton brothers.
It was the filly, he supposed. Perhaps all was not lost after all.
His gout was acting up with the wet, and although a meal at the inn would be quite pleasant, he still missed being home in front of the fire, his foot propped up, with a glass of adequate if not exceptional rum to help him forget his discomfort.
But when a lord of high ranking, such as the Duke of St. James, requested one's presence, one did not lightly put him off, despite his reputation. Or possibly, even more so because of his reputation. So the Squire, sopping wet and miserable, found himself pulling his horse up in front of the inn and dismounting in the company of the duke, and Lord and Mister Temptons.
The private salon they were shown to helped bolster his spirits. The fire was built up and snapping. The table was set for three, but a chambermaid quickly added an extra plate, and the innkeeper assured the duke that food would be brought in shortwith. St. James, only dispensing of his riding gloves, but before taking off his great coat, poured into four glasses from a bottle of brandy. Yes, the Squire thought as he shrugged with difficulty from his own worn coat, things were definitely looking up. St. James offered around the glasses and the Squire accepted with gratitude. He settled himself in a seat at the table, feeling the steam rise from him as he began, at last, to dry out and warm up.
“Here's to a filly with promise,” St. James said, lifting his glass. Then added, “If not ruined by the unfortunate episode I witnessed today.”
The Squire raised his glass to meet the salute.
Lord Bertram Tempton, his red hair plastered to his head but his yellow coat dispensed of and revealing him in all his brightly clothed glory, said, “I say, St. James. Told you was a good filly!”
“You did,” St. James replied. “But forgive me if I have rather small faith in your eye for horseflesh.” He set his glass aside, took off the caped coat he wore to reveal tanned riding breeches and a rather plain white shirt, its only adornment being lace at the cravat and cuffs. As his long fingers wrapped again around his goblet, the lace fell back to reveal the delicate whiteness of his skin. He was not tall, the Squire noted, nor was he powerfully built, but there was an air of intenseness about him, a feeling that the mind behind his dark locked brow was churning away at endless and complicated thoughts that made his presence a little overwhelming. And intimidating.
The Squire, who viewed himself as a crusty old soul who made up for his rather slow intelligence with a bulldog temerity, found himself annoyed to be somewhat ill-at-ease in the younger man's presence. He wasn't used to rubbing elbows with the very crème de la crème of his society, true, but such things had never much mattered to him. He was an excellent shot and had a good seat on a hunt, and those two things, along with the fact that he was always willing to play a good hand of cards, and bet a good deal more than he owned, had always made him welcome company in the circles he chose to move in. But he found this circle to be a little above his comfort zone, and the only other in the room he felt any kinship to was young Mister Ryan Tempton, he of the tall, lanky, raw-boned build and hair a more shocking red shade than even his older brother's.
Bertie swallowed from his glass. “Well, much as I would like to say I discovered her on my own, I have to give credit to Ryan. He was the one that first brought my attention to her, and suggested that you may be interested likewise.”
“Indeed?” St. James asked, turning to the young man that flushed a little under his gaze. “Very promising for someone fresh out of University. I shall have to take you with me on some of my scouting trips, young Ryan. You may be useful, if I can get to you before Bertie, here, does too much damage to your natural eye with his ill-conceived ideas of what to look for in a horse.”
“Still say you can't go wrong with looking at color, St. James,” Bertie replied. “Everyone knows a black can't run. And never have seen an all white horse do anything good over seven furlongs. Stands to reason you must start with at least something in between.”
“And I beg to differ,” St. James countered. “Behemoth is totally coal black, and has never been beat at a mile and above.”
“Yes,” Lord Tempton nodded, but wagged a finger. “But anything below that and he almost always loses. Why the hired nag I rode today could beat him.”
“He's a distance runner. That is why I wish to breed him to a sprinter. See if we cannot get more early speed as well as stamina.” The duke turned to the Squire. “Which brings us to your filly, Squire. Her times were impressive, considering the condition of the track. And the ill-advised rider up on her.”
“Ah, Lizzie does well enough,” the Squire defended. “Better than most. The filly is rather short on sense and long on spooking.”
“Anyone could have ridden her into the rail today. That did not take much skill,” St. James returned.
“I thought she handled the whole rather admirably,” young Ryan broke in. “Anyone could see that the filly reacted totally unexpectedly and was not to be controlled.”
St. James gave a small dismissive shrug, turned back to the Squire. “No apparent harm done, but I would like to see her again in the morning, make sure that she is sound, and, of course, any offer I make for her will be dependent on that.”
There was a brief silence as the Squire opened his mouth, closed it again, and ran a hand through his heavy, damp, gray hair. “Uh, milord, I appreciate your interest, indeed, I find it very flattering that you should take such an interest in my horse. But—”
There was a tapping on the door, and then it opened and two chambermaids brought in several steaming platters of food. “Shall we dine?” St. James asked. “We can iron out any difficulties afterward.”
With relief, the Squire pulled his chair in to the table and the other three men joined him. There was a well cooked leg of lamb, a side of filling with apple, boiled red potatoes, hare stew in a rich brown gravy, Yorkshire pudding, a dish of mixed vegetables and lemon cake. None of the four wasted time on conversation as they filled their plates. After being in the raw weather for most of the day, their appetites were mighty and the Squire spent a pleasant hour enjoying his meal, drinking further, and successfully pushing from his mind the fact that he was going to have to disappoint the duke and he was not looking forward to it.
They were just satisfying the final twinges of hunger with the lemon cake when St. James returned to the conversation of the Squire's filly. “You have other plans for the filly besides selling her, Squire?” he asked. He had pushed himself back from the table and, unlike the others, a great deal of the food remained upon his plate. He refilled his glass, for the fourth time, the Squire counted, and now sipped from it steadily.
A boozy bloke, for all his elegance, the Squire thought. Not that he could hold that against the fellow, being a rather boozy bloke himself. “Well, miduke. It's Lizzie that I'm concerned for. She doesn't wish to sell the horse.”
The duke raised his brows. “Was I mistaken in believing the point of my visit today was to be, if I were satisfied, the acquirement of this horse? Bertie, is that not what you understood after speaking to this man last night?”
Bertie lowered his glass. “I told you all I knew, St. James.”
The Squire drew himself up in his chair. “If that be true,” he pronounced, “he would have told you of it being an iffy proposition, miduke.” He took a hearty bite of lemon cake and when he spoke again, several crumbs sprayed out and down his immense stomach. “That horse is the only means I have of securing my daughter's future.”
St. James was half slouched in his chair. His glass made a steady journey from table to mouth. “Indeed, that is what Bertie conveyed to me. What is your daughter's desired outcome for this horse, may I ask.”
The Squire lost some of his stiffness and his hand again found his own glass. He had every appearance of a poker player settling in for the real play that may well take him into the wee hours of the morning. “She wishes to rent the filly out to you, so to speak. You breed her to your stud and receive the foal, but she keeps the filly. For a fee, of course.”
“Of course. And your desired outcome? Does it differ from your daughter's?”
The Squire took a heavy swig that emptied his glass. “Indeed, miduke. It does.”
St. James rose from the table, refilled the Squire's glass and his own. Bertie and Ryan demurred. Then the duke returned to his seat and his attention back to the Squire. And his gold eyes were now half-hooded as though already in deep thought. “You may begin, Squire. Tell me your concerns for your daughter and I will endeavor to come up with a solution that you may live with.”
The Squire took a moment to look at the faces about him. Young Ryan, a slight frown of perplexity upon his face as he followed all of the conversation. Bertie, whose blue eyes met his with impassive reassurance. And St. James, whose half hooded eyes revealed nothing, who lazed in the chair, his legs stretched and crossed in luxurious languidness. The Squire hunched a little defensively in his seat, his only seeming comfort the regularly refilled glass in front of him. With a feeble gathering of courage, he said to St. James, “I don't much like you. I've heard enough about you even in this far-flung region of the realm to know that you are more devil than saint you are titled.”
“Indeed, I have never denied it,” St. James returned.
“I did not know it were you I would be dealing with. Your man, friend, whatever he is, failed to include that bit of information.”
“Indeed, if you have other takers you prefer, I do not see them here before you.” St. James lost his air of languidness as he sat abruptly forward. “Come, Squire. Need I sum up what I have surmised and which you are now so reluctant to put into words? It is your daughter's future you are concerned for, yes, as you had said. But I daresay your own nest could use some feathering also.”
“Do not damn me with that tongue of yours,” the Squire said. “If I am simply more aware than Lizzie that our circumstances can not be adequately improved by the mere renting out of the horse as she supposes, it is hardly something for which I may be condemned for.”
“I do not understand,” Ryan broke in. “I mean, I understand, of course, that you do not wish to upset your daughter and that she has become attached to the animal. But as her father, surely you have the final say in what happens to it?”
“Indeed, I do not,” the Squire admitted. “The horse was bought with money set aside by her mother for Lizzie's dowry. I can not in all decency do whatever I like with it.”
“Decency?” interrupted Lord Tempton. “It is hardly decent to spend the girl's dowry on a horse, Squire, in case that escaped your notice.”
“Aye. Well it is done now,” Squire Murdock replied. “There was no arguing with her reasoning. She is my daughter and all, but even I was forced to admit that her having a suitor is unlikely and with each year that goes past is more unlikely still. She wanted the horse, saw it when it was just a foal, and said that in the doubtful event she ever did get a suitor, well then the horse could be her dowry.
“Aye! Scoff if you want,” he added as Bertie snorted. “But the child has nothing else to occupy herself with, and that money sitting there for her dowry was bringing her no happiness. But now I fear the small bit I had put back has been run through and with no prospects for Lizzie. . .”
“Surely she must have some suitor,” Ryan interjected. “She seemed like quite a likable lass to me. Whatever could be wrong with her?”
“Yes. What is wrong with her?” Bertie asked, dabbing his mouth with a napkin as he spoke. “Couldn't see more than two eyes in her head, she was so covered with mud, but she was not over-large. She was neither humped-backed nor broken-toothed. Surely, she can not be as homely as all that?”
“No, no. Of course not,” the Squire hurried to say. “I am her father, but I tell you quite honestly that she is nothing worse than plain. Nothing really wrong, just nothing really right if you know what I mean. Brown hair, brown eyes, skin too brown from being outside in the sun over-much. If her mother were still alive, well, perhaps she could have done something for her. Kept her indoors, did her hair more attractively, sewed her the proper dresses and taught her how to be more lady-like. But I fear that she's run wild for the past seven years, and I can do nothing with her, even if I knew what it was I was supposed to do.