Andrew nodded. “I think I understand. But after I discovered your problem, I wished to correct it.”
Durabian cleared his throat again, lit the pipe, puffing heavily. “And I thank ye fer it, but—”
“No buts,” Andrew replied. “I couldn’t let Wichersham have your stables, now could
I?”
Durabian managed a grim smile. “No, milord. He’s a mean ‘un, Wichersham is. Mean as ever they come.” He hesitated. “Bridget, does she be knowing ‘bout all this?”
Andrew swallowed. Should he tell? But he owed the man the truth. “She knows about the gambling debts,” he said.
Durabian’s face fell. “I was hoping that—”
“But she doesn’t know the name of the man who held your notes.” Andrew shook his head. “Wichersham? Really, man. How could you even wager with the likes of him?”
“I didn’t, milord.” Durabian looked pained. “Me wagers was with others. Wichersham, he bought up me vowels. I was that surprised, I was.”
Andrew considered Durabian’s averted eyes. There was more to this than that. The man was hiding something. Should he push to find out what it was?
But he had to think about Bridget—and her feelings. She obviously adored her father. If he pushed to find out the rest of this thing, and Bridget asked him about it— what would he do then? It was bound to be something unfortunate, and it was obviously something her father wanted to keep from her.
Andrew swallowed a sigh. He could well understand that. He wanted to protect her himself. Bridget did that to a man. He’d never know a woman like her. So innocent and yet abandoned. Naive and trusting. Trusting
him.
He turned to her father. “Durabian, I’ll ask you this once—and once only.”
Durabian turned from watching Bridget pick her way across the grass. “Aye, milord, what—”
“Please, you’re my wife’s father. Call me Andrew.”
A strange look crossed the man’s face. “I’ll do that—Andrew. If yer sure ‘tis what ye want.”
That was one of the few things he
was
sure of. “I’m sure.”
“Then Andrew it is.” Durabian almost smiled. “But I doubt ye’ll be calling me Da now. ‘Tis a little much, that.”
Andrew smiled, too. How could he help not smiling at such a possibility? “Yes, I suppose it is. But now for my question.”
For a minute he thought the man would look away again, but Durabian’s gaze held steady. “Ask it then.”
Andrew hesitated, wondering how best to put the query. “I am Bridget’s husband now. And I mean to take good care of her. We paid the notes Wichersham held. So you’re safe enough there. But is there anything else I need to know, anything that might be harmful to Bridget?”
Durabian heaved a great sigh, blowing out a cloud of fragrant smoke. “No, Andrew. As yer wife, Bridget is safe. That’s all I need—fer her to be safe.”
Andrew thought about this. There was still something else, something Durabian didn’t want him to know. But if the man said Bridget was safe, then she was safe. And, Andrew decided, he would leave it at that. “Very well,” he said. “I just wanted to know.”
Chapter Ten
The next morning the sun woke Bridget. She turned carefully, but Andrew had left her bed. Perhaps he’d gone back to his own chamber in the night. Or perhaps he had already gone off about estate business. He was, after all, a man of great responsibilities.
She glanced at the clock. No, it was too early for most lords to be up and about. If she’d learned one thing in her few days as a lady, it was that quality slept late, very late.
With a grin she slid out from under the covers and hurried to her closet. She meant to use that lateness to her advantage.
Minutes later she was in her breeches and out in the stables. Ned, good boy, was ready. So was Waterloo. More than ready, he pulled eagerly at the bridle, neighing happily when he heard her approaching.
Ned’s eyes widened when he saw what she was wearing. He even opened his mouth but closed it again without saying anything. His eyes nearly bugged out of his head when she quickly unbuckled Waterloo’s sidesaddle and replaced it with one of Andrew’s own.
She saw he had saddled another animal for himself. “Good,” she said briskly, cramming her hair up under her cap. “We’ll be off then.”
Despite the early hour, the streets were not deserted. Lords and ladies might be still abed, but the little people, those who had to earn their daily bread, were already hard at work. Shopgirls wielded their brooms industriously at doorsteps, delivery boys hurried by with packages, a chimney sweep herded his blackened helpers down the street ahead of him. And in a sheltered doorway, two little girls piled wildflowers in shabby baskets.
Bridget heaved a sigh. The city was a bad place to be poor. In the country the poor at least had a chance to raise some food. Here they had to scrabble for every bite. Here they had no green grass, no space, and very little sun.
For a while her sadness weighed down on her like a heavy blanket, but eventually the beauty of the park raised her spirits. Such a vast expanse of green—none of it needed for crops or pasture—was something she’d never seen before. From a grove of trees several deer stared at her, not at all frightened.
“They’re so tame,” she murmured to the boy.
“Pertected,” Ned said. “Them’s the King’s deer.”
Bridget nodded, but she didn’t want to think of deer or kings or anything except the restive stallion between her knees. He wanted to run—and so did she.
“You needn’t try to keep up with us,” she told Ned. “You won’t be able to, anyhow.”
The boy grinned. “I knows that, milady. That ‘un, ‘e goes like the wind, ‘e do.”
Bridget nodded. “Just wait for us.” When she chirruped, Waterloo took off in a great eager leap, almost immediately hitting a full gallop. She leaned into the wind, savoring its rush over her face, exulting in the raw power of the great beast beneath her. In some strange way they were one—one creature of power and grace. One creature faster than the wind itself.
This was what she’d always lived for--at least as far back as she could remember. To ride.
It had always seemed to her the most glorious experience in the world—to ride with utter abandon at the fastest gallop, horse and rider as one. But that was before she and Andrew had—
Feeling her face heat up, she swallowed hastily. Marriage was all right. Well, it was more than all right, much more. But she would always love to ride, to gallop into the wind, to feel the world rushing by.
She gave the stallion his head, letting him run off some of his high spirits. And eventually, when he slowed, she turned him back the way they’d come. Ned was just a dot in the far distance, waiting patiently. She headed Waterloo toward him.
The warm sun felt good on her upturned face. She pulled off her cap, letting her hair fall free. That was what she’d done that first day she’d met Andrew, pulled off her cap to let him know that it wasn’t a stableboy he was clapping so familiarly on the shoulder. Then she’d tried to freeze him with her frostiest look. But after he’d apologized, she couldn’t stay angry with him.
She smiled. And now she was Andrew’s wife. How strange life could be.
Ned looked around a trifle anxiously. “Milady, it be getting on into morning. Quality, it’ll be stirring soon. And ‘is Lordship—”
The boy ground to a halt, then stammered on. “I know ‘e ain’t said not to—leastways not as
I
know of. But mayhap we should be getting back.”
Bridget nodded. “You’re right, Ned. He hasn’t said not to ride in the morning like this.” She gave the boy a warm smile. “But I don’t think we need to tell him about it. At least not yet. We’ll keep it our secret. All right?”
The boy’s face shone with loyalty, but his eyes betrayed misgiving. “Aye, milady. ‘E did tell me ye was to be obeyed.”
“Yes, he did.” She really shouldn’t be asking the boy to keep secrets for her. If Andrew found out and was angered, Ned could lose his place.
She leaned forward to stroke Waterloo’s great neck. As always, touching him was a comfort. It wasn’t likely that Andrew would be so cruel as to send the boy packing, but if Ned did lose his place, she could send him to Papa. Papa could always use another boy who was handy with horses.
The thought of Papa made her frown. Andrew had been very good to Papa, getting him out of that awful gambling mess. Maybe she
should
ask Andrew about early morning rides. But really, what harm did they do? Waterloo got his run. She got hers. And no one saw them. Surely there was no harm in that.
She stuffed her hair back up under her cap and gave the horse a pat. “Come on, Ned. Time to go home.”
* * * *
Bridget made it through the kitchen and up the back stairs to her room without seeing any servants. The understaff wouldn’t report her comings and goings to her husband, but she rather felt that the stiff butler Purvey might feel duty bound to tell if he saw his mistress sneaking up the back stairs in shabby leather breeches. Mrs. Purvey might just keep silent.
She closed her door, rang for Peggy, and stripped off her riding clothes. It was too bad ladies led such restricted lives. She threw her breeches and other things into the back corner of the closet and turned to the basin to wash. Maybe later, after she and Andrew had been married a little longer, she could explain it to him, get him to see how foolish ladies clothing really was.
The door opened. “There you are, milady. His Lordship was asking after you.”
“I went for a ride,” Bridget said, turning away so Peggy couldn’t see the flush rising to her cheeks. “I took a groom along, of course.”
Peggy nodded, crossing to the closet for a gown. “The rest of your new things ought to be coming soon. I’m betting they’ll be that lovely.” She frowned. “Why, you’ve hung up your habit yourself. And just like I left it.” She shook her head. “You shouldn’t be doing my work, milady. It ain’t decent, it ain’t.”
“I won’t do it again,” Bridget said quickly. Next time she’d remember to drop the habit on the floor. There was no need to involve Peggy in this business.
* * * *
Her ride kept Bridget in good spirits till midafternoon, but by then she had been over the whole house—huge place that it was—and had every hall and passageway firmly fixed in her mind.
She’d also had long talks about the running of the household with Cook and Mrs. Purvey, talks that had been somewhat confusing to everyone, since
they
seemed to be expecting orders from
her.
And when she said, “Everything looks fine, go on as usual,” they’d both looked surprised.
Changing things around must be something ladies liked to do. She herself could see no purpose in changing something just for the sake of showing she could. If things were running smoothly, they should be left alone to go on the same way. That made sense.
Now she was seated in the sitting room, glaring at the piece of unfortunate needlepoint she held in her hands. Why hadn’t she just read a book?
Needlepoint was a complete mystery to her. Another useless thing that ladies did. They seemed a fairly useless lot all round, these ladies. But perhaps it wasn’t entirely their fault.
Look at the idiotic clothes they had to wear. Even walking was something she had to pay attention to. She couldn’t just go striding along like she had in her breeches.
With a sigh she dropped the needlework into its basket. Mrs. Purvey had been the soul of patience, sending a maid out for the sampler and yarn and showing over and over how each stitch should be done.
And Bridget had tried. But the yarn was always tangling and knotting. Her stitches were lumpy and uneven. And the design—insipid flowers arranged in an equally insipid vase—was dull, dull, dull. Now if there had been horses in it, the design might have been worth a pricked finger or two. She might even have stuck with it to the end.
She got up and began to pace the hearth rug. She missed the horses and the stables. Papa, too, of course. But most of all the horses. They made far better friends than people.
She turned toward the door. Maybe she’d just grab her shawl and step out for a visit with Waterloo. She should get acquainted with Andrew’s horses, too. There hadn’t been time for that yet.
But she had only taken one step when Purvey appeared in the doorway. “Lady Linden and Miss Martine Linden,” he intoned.
Bridget stopped in her tracks. Not those two! Now what should she do? “Andr—Lord Haverly isn’t at home.”
Purvey gave her a strange look, so fleeting she could recognize nothing but that it was odd. “The ladies have come to call on you, milady.”
“Oh dear!” she cried. “What do I do now?” It was then she recognized the emotion on Purvey’s face.
It was surprise.
He cleared his throat. “It is customary,” he said, “to receive lady callers in here or in the morning room. And to serve tea.” He hesitated. “Your Ladyship
could
have me say you’re not at home.”
The prospect was tempting, but she was not a liar. And besides, it seemed cowardly. “No, Purvey. Bring them in and serve the tea.”
He started toward the door.
“Wait!” She smoothed her skirt. “Do I look all right?”
For a moment it appeared he might actually smile, but he only nodded and said, “You look fine, milady. Very well.”
She pushed the offending needlework down out of sight and settled herself in her chair. Now above all she must guard her speech. The Lindens would repeat every word she said—and no doubt some she didn’t.
“My dear Lady Haverly!” Lady Linden swept into the room like a walking carnival tent, the resemblance heightened by the fact that her gown was bright orange, striped in bilious green. Her massive arms jangled with bracelets and her pudgy fingers glittered with rings. And from beneath an enormous bonnet that looked very much like a huge cabbage split endways, the lady’s beady little eyes took in every feature of Bridget’s dress and person.
Dear God, Bridget thought, what a good thing she was no longer wearing her breeches. “Won’t you sit down?” she invited politely.
Lady Linden nodded. Her stickish daughter, trailing behind her in a gown and bonnet as drab as her mother’s were vivid, declined a chair and commenced pacing round the room in a most annoying manner, peering at paintings and examining vases as though she meant to purchase the lot.