A Secret Passion

A Secret Passion

Sophia Nash

A SECRET PASSION

Copyright 2012 by Sophia Nash

All rights reserved. No part of this text may be used or reproduced, downloaded, transmitted, or decompiled in any manner whatsoever, whether electronic or mechanical, without written permission of the author, except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles and reviews. The scanning, uploading, and distribution of this book via the internet or any other means without the permission of the author is illegal. Please purchase only authorized electronic editions, and do not participate in or encourage electronic piracy of copyrighted materials.

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This is a work of fiction. With the exception of real historical figures and events that may be mentioned, all names, characters, places, and incidents are products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events, locales, organizations or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental. For further information, email [email protected]

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Cover art: Ackermann 1809 Regency fashion print: Opera dress. From the author’s private collection.

In memory of Richard N. H. Nash,

my mentor, my father

1923-2000

Chapter One

Spring 1816

Tattersalls in London

“IT is exceedingly important to look for the same qualities one would search for in a wife when choosing a prime piece of horseflesh,” Mr. Billingsley advised his acquaintances.

“In what way, may I ask?” inquired Rolfe Fitzhugh St. James, the seventh Earl of Graystock.

The young gentleman paused for effect. “Well, of course one must find perfect breeding, good bones, intelligence in the eye, an excellent disposition, with a willingness to obey. You understand the idea.”

Graystock found it difficult to take Billingsley seriously given his high shirt points and overblown airs.

“Why, Billingsley, we were afraid you would suggest it necessary to have talent for playing the pianoforte or doing excellent needlework,” replied Sir Thomas Gooding.

“And what about a soft rump and good teeth?” Mr. Compton added. A round of laughter greeted his remark. “Graystock, what say you to these ideas?” Mr. Billingsley asked. Rolfe paused until the laughter gave way to silence. “I say you have forgotten the essential ingredients: those of spirit and courage. For without those, you have quite an ordinary creature.” The group of young bucks parried his comment with sidelong, smirking glances amongst themselves.

“The countess was quite a spirited creature, I daresay,” countered a smug, mocking voice from the group now fallen behind him.

Hands clenched, Rolfe whipped around to confront the audacious fop. But to his disgust the coward and the rest of the dandified group had peeled off to blend into the dark sea of top hats all moving toward the five large gates of Tattersalls.

Gooding was the only gentleman who remained in the earl’s company. “Sir, take no notice of the riffraff. Those perfumed bob tails cannot even claim to be of our sex,” he said.

Rolfe was silent. He stopped on the threshold, where the pungent odor of fresh manure mixed with pipe tobacco and the serious discussion of all things equine was the order of the day. He could feel the familiar muscle in his jaw beating a military tattoo as he walked past the throngs of gentlemen, many of whom refused to nod and acknowledge his presence. He should be used to it by now. Even the
ton
’s greedy mothers had shielded their daughters from his gaze during the past season. While his supposed wealth was tempting, speculation was rife that an alliance with the Earl of Graystock was not desirable. No, he would have to agree he was not the most enticing possible son-in-law.

“Let us hope you have more luck today, sir—finding a mount to replace Caesar,” said Gooding in an attempt to change the subject. “Although I know he really is irreplaceable.”

Rolfe watched as stable hands led in a parade of immaculately groomed animals. “You are right, Gooding,” he said with a sigh. “And I am tiring of this fruitless quest. I would give a pocket full of gold for a warm-blooded cavalry horse over the whole lot of these fine-boned bundles of nerves any day,” he said as they watched a mare whose handler could barely restrain her. Rolfe sat down with his former second in command in the seats reserved for the peerage in the viewing stand.

“I’m of the same mind, sir,” Gooding agreed.

Rolfe turned to look down the long hallway leading from the stables where private business and sales were being conducted between reputable and not so reputable breeders. Suddenly, above the deep bellowing of the auctioneer, Rolfe heard a faint, short scream from a horse in the distance. The sound shot scalding blood throughout his body as he was reminded of the sounds of dying horses on a battlefield. Without thinking, he rose from his cramped seat and made his way to the decaying lower stables. His footsteps gave way to a run as he searched for the source of the sound of whip on flesh.

Around a far corner stall, a huge black animal reared as it tried to paw a man wielding a cat-o’-nine-tails. The small man swore as he approached again with a whip and a leather halter. The horse’s bloodied sides were heaving, and its eyes were crazed. It screamed again.

“Give me your pistol, man,” Rolfe ordered. The man jumped back and turned.

“I suppose yer right, Guv’na. Shoot the beast, afore he ‘urts another bloke,” said the skinny, loose-toothed horse trader with fear in his slit eyes. A wiry young stableboy fished a pistol out of the medicinal trunk and handed it to Graystock. Rolfe turned and pointed the weapon at the horse trader and cocked the trigger. The man gulped and stammered. “Now see ‘ere, whyever are ye pointin’ that at me? This ‘ere animal is crazy. Cost me a stable ‘and and stitches on another. I didn’t do more than it deserved.”

“What’s his price?” Rolfe demanded as he kept one eye on the man and appraised the animal behind the dealer.

The grimy little man’s eyes gleamed with greed as he spit in the corner. “Well, Guv’na, a hundred guineas be the price,” he crowed, smelling a sale.

Rolfe narrowed his eyes and stared into the man’s face as he tossed him some coins. “That’s half. Which is more than you deserve. It is clear this horse has not been properly fed or watered in a long time.”

The dealer replied, “Now, looky ‘ere, I gots the stitchin’ doctor to pay, and the box stall, and sumpin’ for me trouble.” Rolfe remained silent and raised the pistol to eye level. The breeder backed away. “I’ll ‘ave the authorities, I will. This ‘ere’s property.”

“Yes, do get the authorities, my good man, so I may have a word with them. However, if I don’t see your return in five minutes, I’ll understand the sale to be complete.”

As the breeder scuttled away, Rolfe lowered the pistol and uncocked the trigger. He returned it to the nervous stableboy, then took a handful of grain from a nearby bin and walked over to the front of the stall. He looked the huge, big-boned stallion in the eye. Yes, there was a definite insane look, but it might well be temporary, due to the conditions. He offered the grain in a slow movement. The animal pawed and blew on the ground, scattering meager tufts of straw and dust in the dank stall. Rolfe stood motionless for all of ten minutes before the horse rolled his head several times and whinnied. For every stumble forward there were the requisite number of steps back, accompanied by head tossing. Finally, the horse grabbed the grain in a swift movement, his long neck stretched to the limit. “That’s it, old boy,” Rolfe said in a low tone.

“Ah, there you are,” Gooding called out as he appeared from the gloom and made his way to the corner stall. “Ho, ho, don’t tell me you finally found the one!” he continued. They both stood back and looked at the animal as it snorted and pawed the ground. “Looks like it will play the pianoforte quite nicely,” Gooding added with a laugh.

Rolfe, unable to suppress a rare smile, answered, “Yes, perhaps Billingsley would be interested.”

Jane Lovering entered the maze of lanes leading to the town of Littlefield at dusk. She closed her eyes as she angled her face to the breeze. A few wisps of hair, shaken loose on her long ride, blew across her cheek. She pushed them back and breathed deeply. She always knew when she was close to the sea, and this was somehow calming.

Even though she was dog-tired, a small part of her wanted to urge her mount even further, all the way home to Pembroke in Land’s End, Cornwall, where the sand always seemed to end up in her short boots and the sea air left its traces of salt on her skin. Moreover, home was where Harry was, along with everything else that brought joy to her life. She longed for the comforting presence of Pembroke and her beloved horses. Her mind wandered to former days of trapping butterflies with Harry, and mad gallops across the beaches. But that was a long time ago— six years ago, to be precise, before Harry had left for university and she had married.

She looked down at her dirty gauntlet gloves and the thick layer of dust on her dark blue riding habit and realized that going any further was out of the question. She should count her blessings that she had got this far without mishap. She shivered as the cool breeze touched her plain white lawn collar, dampened by perspiration.

She rode to the end of the main road before finding the smithy’s shack. Dismounting, she tied the reins to the railing and moved inside a bit awkwardly. The muscles in her legs and back were cramped and painful.

“Excuse me, boy. Where may I find the blacksmith?” she asked a wiry lad while leaning against the doorjamb.

“He’s me, fer now leastaways,” the red-haired boy said in his slight Scottish drawl. “Me Da went to fetch some new tools in Blackhaven.”

“Well, I was wondering if we could come to some sort of arrangement regarding my horse, as I see the inn’s outer buildings have been destroyed. I will be staying with Miss Fairchild.”

“Well, Missus, we dinna have night stabling, but ye could try the inn in Blackhaven.”

She pondered the dilemma for several seconds. “Could I take the stall your father’s horse had until he returns?”

The young boy hesitated. “If ye be a friend of Miss Fairchild, then I’m thinking it could be so. Ye’ll have to talk to me Da when he comes back day after tomorrow.”

“I will, young man. And thank you,” she said. Jane exhaled and unsaddled her mare, refusing the child’s offer to care for her horse. After seeing to the animal’s feed and water, she walked through the back of the stable and beyond the budding apple trees away from the small cluster of houses on the road.

Within a short distance lay her beloved aunt’s cottage. As the last bit of light left the evening sky, the scent of honeysuckle growing wild over the fence posts overwhelmed her senses, and tears burned the back of her eyes. The intense, sweet smell reminded her of home and the craggy coastline of Cornwall, where the fragrant flower would be blooming right now alongside the bright splashes of primroses and pansies.