“Ah, but David is the bookish son,” she said. “He inherited my mother’s love for words, the other boys my father’s love for chasing small animals on horseback.”
David winced at her grammar. “You must admit, getting small animals to ride horseback is something of an accomplishment,” he put in, and received a mock-grimace for his pains. “Well played, Will—but don’t expect that to be the end of it!”
* * * * *
Will was relieved to be outdoors instead of cooped up in the elegant but oppressive manor house. The day was damp and grey and a sharp wind blew in from across the moor, but some sensible groom had put a couple of carriage robes in the gig, and his companions’ conversation kept him from paying too much attention to his cold feet. Odd, how one noticed such things sitting in a carriage. It had been far colder aboard the
Mermaid
, but since he was constantly walking about the deck, he had seldom noticed the chill.
They followed the road in the opposite direction from the way the coach had brought them in. Grenbrook land, as far as they could see—the home farm that raised necessities for the manor house. Will had thought his lover was joking when Davy had given him a scarf one Christmas and said it was knitted from the wool of his family’s own sheep, but here were those very sheep, nibbling away at the tough winter grass in a pasture that sloped gently up toward a wood, tall old bare trees with a few evergreens dark among the cold grey branches. It looked like a painting. It probably
was
a painting, come to think of it. He’d seen a few of this kind of scene back in the gallery.
“It’s a pity we didn’t come here in the spring,” Davy said, riding beside him. “The orchard is lovely. Better in summer, of course, when the fruit starts to come ripe.”
“If you should ever happen to visit when the peaches are ripe, Captain,” Lady Amelia said, “be sure you do
not
let him persuade you to climb up after them. I nearly broke my neck that way, once—and tore my dress!”
“Why did you do it?”
“I knew that if I did not, he would climb up there himself—and he was only four. His legs were too short.”
“You see, Will—I told you my sister was a heartless wretch. To throw such a thing up at a man, after twenty years!”
Lady Amelia laughed. “Well, they
were
short, but you did finally grow, and very well, too.”
“It was the nourishment in those peaches,” Davy said. “And you know you’d have gone up that tree whether I was there or not. She was always a tomboy,” he added to Will, “and if memory serves me, so was this lady. Cousin Jane, would you care for a race to the bridge?”
Miss Winston, who had said little thus far, brightened, gathered up her reins, and said, “Certainly!” She was off in an instant. Davy laughed and sent his own mount galloping after her down a long open stretch of road.
Will was enchanted by the sight of Davy on horseback, balanced in the saddle as though he’d been born to it. “I knew he rode,” he said. “He’s tried to teach me once or twice. I had no idea he rode so well.”
“My brother never boasts,” Lady Amelia said, “but he is every bit as good a rider as my father. How is it that you do not? Do you dislike horses?”
“The skill never seemed important,” Will confessed. “My father was a parson and we had a horse and a gig much like this one, but my interest was all directed toward the water. I suppose I would have found time to learn to ride if I had stayed ashore, but I was off to sea by the time I was twelve.”
“So young!” she said. “I think of my brother at that age, and he was ...well, I’m sure he thought himself quite grown-up, but I thought of him as a little boy still. Was that not a lonely life for a child, and frightening?”
“Oh, no,” he said absently, still watching the riders, now a mile or more away. “It was a marvelous adventure. I had a very dutiful captain who saw to it that his ‘young gentlemen’––what we call midshipmen—were properly looked after and educated. I was older when the war began with France, and even then I was too young and stupid to be frightened.”
“But the battles—the cannon? It must be deafening to have them firing off so close!”
He grinned. “Oh, it is, but to a boy, the louder the roar, the better. That may be different for girls, or perhaps it’s only youth. I think understanding of the danger only comes with experience—it becomes real when one sees shipmates killed or wounded.” He wondered if he had ever really known fear until he saw Davy shot. Yes, of course he had—but nothing that struck so hard or pierced so deep. “But the business of the Navy is war, after all. In a few years one becomes accustomed to facing danger, and the fear of being thought afraid is stronger even than the fear of death.”
She gave him a curious look, but only said, “I have never been on a real ship, even on the Channel, and I would so love to have the chance. We Archer daughters are not allowed adventure; my father does not hold with women traveling except when absolutely necessary. That suits Mama. She is content to go to London and Bath and sometimes the seaside—but if Davy has inherited our mother’s love of reading, I think I have a little of my father’s thirst for activity. I do wish to sail, one day, for at least a short journey. For something so large to move so swiftly must be thrilling.”
“It is,” he said. “To run before the wind, with nothing but the sound of the sea rushing by...” He broke off as Davy came thundering back, his cousin close behind, both flushed and laughing with the sheer excitement of being alive. “It feels the way they look. To have such power at your command, not just for the function of movement, but the joy of it.”
“My brother said you loved the sea. He never said you waxed poetic.”
Will felt himself blush. “I do not, as a rule. Unless a man is inclined to write poetry—and I am
not
—we may feel such things, but we hardly speak of them. Perhaps it’s your brother’s influence. He introduced me to Shakespeare, and I think such exposure must improve a man’s vocabulary.”
“Captain, the best vocabulary in the world cannot express what is not felt.”
He had no reply to that, but didn’t need one. Davy slowed his horse as he drew closer. “That was more like it! Will, you must ride at least a little while we are here. I know you would enjoy it once you’ve had a bit of practice.”
“Yes, do,” Lady Amelia said. “The most beautiful places on the estate can only be reached on foot or horseback, and with my brother as chaperone Jane and I would not need a groom as escort.”
The riders fell into step on either side of the gig, and Davy smiled sympathetically at his sister. “Old Mother Hubbard?”
“Of course. A little older and browner, but every bit as excessively solicitous as ever!”
“Mother?” Will asked.
“Our head groom,” Lady Amelia explained. “He is married to our housekeeper. Hubbard taught us all to ride—and taught my brother how to train his horse, Dancer. We call him ‘mother’ because he is like a broody hen when I or my sisters go out riding. He keeps us much safer than we need to be.”
“What has become of Mrs. Hubbard?” Davy asked. “I’d expected to see her by now.”
“Gone to Tavistock,” Jane said. “The Countess gave her leave to go home at Christmas, and she found her mother dreadfully ill, not expected to live. Your mother told her to stay as long as she was needed. But it seems her presence has cheered the old lady up, and she is beginning to recover.”
“That was before the accident,” Lady Amelia added. “And after the bustle of Christmas, so we found she could be spared for awhile.”
Davy frowned. “And now Mother’s on the sick list and I can guess who’s shouldered the burden. It’s no wonder you wanted to get out of the house!”
She shook her head. “It has not been the chore you may think—I’ve found it easier to have something to occupy my mind. But speaking of burdens reminds me that there is something I meant to ask you yesterday evening. This may not be the best time—and no, Captain Marshall,” she said, her gloved hand moving quickly to his wrist, “please do not feel you need to absent yourself. I do not mind your hearing this.”
“What is it, then?” Davy asked. “By heaven I charge thee, speak!”
“Hamlet,” she said. “And far too close to the mark, don’t you think? Ronald is behaving exactly as I’d thought he would, and I am fearfully reminded that, God forbid, should anything happen to Father, he would be my legal guardian...and Genie’s, as well as Jane’s.”
Davy winced. “Heaven protect Father! What would you have me do?”
“I know that you will most likely go back to sea, and soon,” she said. “But—would you permit me to ask Father to make you our guardian, instead of Ronald? I hope that Genie will have married before you would ever need worry about her—”
“And so will you both, I imagine,” Davy said.
“Oh, no,” she said lightly. “We shall be the maiden aunts, and dote on our nieces and nephews—or cousins, in Jane’s case. I thought that perhaps I might keep house for you, at least until you marry.”
“There’s no likelihood of that in the near future.” Davy laughed. “Or the distant future, either, so far as I can see.” He gazed thoughtfully across the fields, toward a far-off wood. “Yes, ask him, if you like, though I despair of keeping you firebrands in order if it were to come to that. But I would not hold out much hope of Father’s consent.”
“A year or two ago, you would have been correct. After Ronald’s recent misadventures—and that troubling silence about Lenore—I think Father will be less trusting of his judgment. And the burden would not be yours alone; I mean to ask that you and Mama be joint guardians. In that way, we would have a responsible gentleman making decisions, but she would have the authority to act if you happened to be at sea.”
“So you girls and Mama might remove to the Dower House if Ronald became unreasonable, or if he were to find an uncongenial bride.”
“The Dower House at the very least,” she said. “Or perhaps the town house. I should prefer as much distance as possible, since I do not trust our brother any more than you do.”
Davy gave Will a wry grin. “Did I ever explain that the Archer men tend to action, and the ladies to strategy?”
“You did not,” Will said, “but I begin to think it a pity that the Admiralty has no positions open for members of the gentle sex.”
“When gentlemen have all the power, Cousin,” Jane said, “ladies have no recourse but strategy.” Although her tone was light Will did not think she was joking. There was an edge to her, somehow, that the Archer ladies did not have, and he wondered what lay behind her quiet countenance.
“I think our mother has more power than meets the eye,” Davy said. “I cannot recall ever seeing her quarrel with our father, or him lay down the law to her the way he always has to us. Of course there are areas outside her interest—she knows nothing of financial matters, and little about farming—but in nearly everything to do with the house, her will prevails.”
“Of course it does—so long as the house is comfortable and we dine on schedule, he is content!” Amelia cocked an eyebrow at her brother. “Can you imagine Father having the slightest interest in new draperies, or selecting the menu for a dinner party? He would dine on chops every night and think nothing of it, if it were left to him. I think our parents do so well together because they have their own spheres of influence, and have little interest in meddling outside them. And, of course, they adore one another.”
“They are the best-suited couple I have ever met,” Davy agreed. “I hope Mother is feeling better today. Enough, at least, to come down and dine with the family. Have things been as somber lately as they were last night?”
“Not often,” she said. “With no other gentlemen at the table, Papa has been eating very little, then going off to his study, or to sit with Mama in her room. I expect dinner will be interesting this evening.”
“Yes, so do I,” he agreed. “And I think it might be a little less
interesting
and a bit more comfortable if our mother is present.”
They followed the road a little while longer, past a few cottages where Will volunteered to hold the reins while the Archers stopped to look in on their tenants.
“Oh, no,” Davy said. “You’ll not get out of meeting people that easily! We shan’t stay long. It’s too cold to leave the horses standing for more than a few minutes.”
Will gave in with as much grace as he could, and the visit was brief enough; most of the men were out working, and the cottagers’ wives were busy with their own chores. But the look of awe on one little boy’s face convinced Will that allowing himself to be exhibited as a Famous Naval Commander was perhaps not such a bad thing, after all. If the youngster had had his way, they might have stayed at that cottage the rest of the afternoon and beguiled the time with sea stories, but his mother sent him off to fetch his father and brothers when the sky began to darken.
Amelia decided that the strengthening wind and heavier clouds were reason enough for them to head homeward as well, and Will found himself with food for thought as they turned the horses around and retraced their path.
The long list of servants and tenants he’d met thus far was more than Will could keep in his memory. Even bearing in mind that as the younger son Davy had no claim here, Will was nonetheless daunted at the difference between their positions, the lands and people that were a natural part of Davy’s life. Had it not been for the Navy’s system, which gave as much credit to ability as to birth, he would never have met David Archer under any circumstances that would have allowed them to speak as friends or equals. He’d never have earned a rank superior to Davy’s—in fact, he’d have had no chance at all to become an officer. And it was probably best to keep that in mind while he was here.