Carola Dunn (14 page)

The effort exhausted Sir Barnabas. First he had to merge with the wall behind the bookcase, which required dematerializing still further from his already tenuous state. Then he had to wait, in extreme discomfort, until Nerissa was in the right position. And then he had to give substance to one hand and provide it with sufficient energy to shove the book off the shelf.

Drained, he fell forward, passing right through his granddaughter in the most painful manner. She shuddered as if taken with a sudden ague, but she caught the book.

Pulling her shawl closer about her, she read the title as Sir Barnabas flopped flimsily to the carpet. He had just enough strength left to pull his feet out of her way; they had suffered enough without being trampled on. Aarghh, he was dying--or would have been if he were not already dead.

“Arabian Nights,” Nerissa murmured to herself. “That sounds interesting.” And she went off carrying it.

Sir Barnabas’s eyes would have gleamed had they been visible. Those salacious stories of Oriental beauties and their lovers were bound to inflame the jade’s passions, hitherto successfully held in check. His opinion of her would be proved right long before she reached the last volume.

Chapter 10

In her new nightgown of fine lawn, trimmed with real lace, Nerissa was soon tucked up cosily in her bed, warmed for her by Maud with a long-handled warming-pan. Reaching for her book, she sniffed experimentally. No sign of the cold she thought she might be catching when that horrid chill overcame her in the library. It must have been an errant draught blowing down the chimney.

Outside the rain beat on the windowpanes; inside was an island of comfort. She opened the book and began to read.

The first part disappointed her. She skimmed over the accounts of the unfaithful queens and their dreadful ends at the hands of their husbands. Shocking, to be sure, but she had been brought up on the works of the Bard, not to mention the bawdy comedies of the Restoration and the grim vengeances of eighteenth-century tragedy. Though herself unacquainted with the sweets of illicit passion, she had long been inured to tales of lust and licentiousness and violence.

Between dire deeds were enough fascinating descriptions of palaces and treasures, of curious customs and magics, to keep her reading until the vizier’s gallant daughter entered the story. Sir Barnabas would have been disappointed to know that she fell asleep more concerned over Scheherazade’s loss of her head than of her maidenhead.

The following night Nerissa went to bed directly after dinner. She could not wait to find out what happened next.

During the night the rain stopped. By morning the clouds were thinning and by midday a watery sun shone.”Perfect for a riding lesson,” said Miles after luncheon. “The ground will be nice and soft to land on after all that rain.”

“You mean you expect me to fall off?” Nerissa asked indignantly.

“It’s more or less inevitable. Are you going to cry off?”

“Certainly not. I shall go and change into my habit at once.”

She hurried upstairs and rang for her abigail. At first she had felt awkward about calling on the girl, but Maud soon made it plain that she felt slighted when her mistress managed without her. She was eager to learn. Already she worked wonders with Nerissa’s hair, taught by Lady Philpott’s abigail, who had little chance to practise her art on her ladyship.

Maud helped Nerissa take off her morning dress and put on the riding habit. Gold-frogged
à la militaire
, it was a rich brown colour that made her hair seem almost fair, Nerissa thought, regarding herself in the looking-glass. She was glad to see that the small, round hat made of cork left all her side-curls visible.

“Fine as fi’pence,” said Maud with satisfaction.

“I hate to think I shall get it muddy,” Nerissa said regretfully. As she turned away from the mirror, the long train dragged on the floor. “Oh, but how shall I walk all the way to the stables?” she exclaimed in dismay.

“Jus’ drape it over your arm, miss, like so,” Maud advised. “‘Member how your ma holds hers in the pitcher? There now, if you doesn’t look more like to Miss Anthea than ever.”

Buoyed by the thought that she was following in Mama’s footsteps, she sped down to the stables.

Miles was already there, walking a dapple-grey mare around the yard, her hooves clopping on the paving stones. He led her towards Nerissa, who took a step backwards.

“It’s very large.”

“Not really. She was your grandfather’s, and he was quite a small man. She’s elderly, too, sedate and on the sluggish side. You’re not afraid, are you?”

“N-no. Matilda rides, and Mama used to, so why should not I?”

“No reason at all. Here, rub her nose, like this. Her name is Vinnie, from some fancied resemblance to Dorset Blue Vinnie cheese, I gather.”

“What an insult, the poor creature.” Nerissa ventured to stroke her long nose with a hand gloved in fine Limerick leather. Vinnie nodded her head, her ears pricked forward, her lustrous brown eyes inspecting Nerissa with calm interest.

“Come, we’ll go to the paddock.”

“For a softer landing,” said Nerissa with a wry grimace. She walked beside him, casting a nervous glance over her shoulder once or twice at the following horse. Whatever he said, Vinnie was big.

The paddock was a half-acre meadow with a three-rail fence around three sides, hedged on the fourth. The tussocky grass certainly looked more accommodating than the flagged stableyard, but if Vinnie was so placid perhaps she wouldn’t fall after all, Nerissa thought hopefully. When Miles stopped and dropped the reins, the mare stood obligingly still.

Before Nerissa had time for second thoughts, Miles turned to her. “I’ll link my hands, you put your foot in them, and I’ll throw you up.”

“Which foot?”

He reflected. “It must be the left one. Yes, the left. Ready?”

He stooped with cupped hands. Nerissa put her left foot in them and he thrust her upwards. For a horrid moment she was afraid she was going to fly right over the other side.

The reality was far less dramatic. She landed in the saddle, and promptly slid down again.

Miles steadied her as her boots met the soggy ground with a squelching thump. Beneath the curling brim of his glossy new beaver, his blue eyes laughed at her though he managed to keep a straight face.

“How am I supposed to stay up there?” Nerissa demanded crossly.

“You hook an unmentionable part of your anatomy...”

“Don’t be a nodcock, Miles! Which part?”

“Your knee.” He grinned openly. “Sorry, I didn’t think to explain. You hook your right knee around the horn, see, here, at the front of the saddle, and put your other foot in the stirrup. I’ll guide it in for you. Let’s try again. Balance yourself with a hand on my shoulder. That’s it.”

This time, as a still more unmentionable part of her anatomy hit the saddle again, Nerissa jerked her right knee up and forward. Impeded by her skirts, far from hooking around the horn it cracked painfully against the protrusion. From the waist down, she was immovably swaddled. Falling forward, she grabbed Vinnie’s mane in both hands. The saddle-horn jabbed her in the ribs.

Miles fumbled at her left leg. “I c-can’t find your f-foot,” he stuttered. “You’re all tangled up in your t-train.” Helpless with laughter he staggered backwards.

“Miles!” she wailed. The ground, glimpsed past Vinnie’s dappled neck, looked alarmingly far below. Patient Vinnie moved not a muscle.

“Cowhanded clunch!” boomed Matilda’s voice somewhere nearby as Miles caught his breath and came to the rescue.

“Let go and slide down, as you did before. I’ll catch you, I promise.”

Cautiously she transferred one hand to the horn, clung with the other to the saddle-bow, then decided to trust him and let go. As she slithered down, Miles caught her to his chest and held her while Matilda, arriving just in time, unwrapped the train from her legs.

For a few seconds his eyes were close to hers, his mouth inches from her own, his heart beating against her breast. Breathless--with annoyance, naturally--she snapped, “Put me down!”

He obeyed, setting her gently on her feet and at once removing his hands from her waist. “I’m sorry.” His voice still quivered with amusement. “I didn’t realize a side-saddle makes for such complications.”

“Clunch,” Matilda repeated, her weatherbeaten face severe. “You cannot simply throw a novice up and expect her to fall neatly into place. Come over to the fence, cousin. I’ll mount from that, showing you how to arrange yourself, and then you can try it at your leisure.”

“Thank you, Cousin Matilda,” said Nerissa meekly.

“It’s just for the sake of your unfortunate mount,” said her cousin, her tone gruff, as she took Vinnie’s reins. “But you had better call me Mattie.”

Sir Barnabas snarled. Well might Miles look sheepish, trailing the women and the mare to the fence! He’d had the perfect opportunity to kiss the wench, and he’d made a mull of it.

Not that it was entirely his fault. The baronet turned his fury on his niece. What did the creature mean by interfering? For the horse’s sake--pah! Call her Mattie--tchah! She had no business toadying to Nerissa just because she couldn’t bear to see a bad rider.

Sulking, he watched his granddaughter master the art of mounting, first from the fence and then from Miles’s clasped hands. The long-suffering mare stood stock still or moved equably where she was bid. As Nerissa gained confidence, she sat up straight, a graceful figure in the saddle. Matilda and Miles between them taught her how to hold the reins.

“I’m off,” Matilda said at last. “Hippolyta hasn’t had her exercise today. Remember, Nerissa, don’t go hauling on the reins and hurting Vinnie’s mouth.”

“I shan’t,” Nerissa promised, flashing her dazzling smile. “Thank you, Mattie.”

“Hmph.” Matilda tramped away.

“It’s time we stopped, too,” said Miles. “You’ll be devilish... dashed stiff tomorrow.”

Nerissa bent a laughing frown upon him. “Pray mind your tongue, sir! Please, can I not ride just a little way across the paddock? With you leading Vinnie? Very slowly?”

“If you wish.” He smiled up at her.

Sir Barnabas turned his head to make sure Matilda was well on her way. She disappeared through the arch into the stables. When he looked back, Vinnie was ambling away across the paddock, Miles at her head, Nerissa erect on her back.

Reaching the hedge, they turned and ambled back. Nerissa showed no signs of being about to part company with the saddle. As her mount’s late master knew very well, the mare was of far too placid a disposition to shy unexpectedly. It was up to him to ensure that Nerissa once again fell into Miles’s arms. He drifted across the grass and materialized right in front of Vinnie’s nose.

With a neigh of terror, her eyes rolling, Vinnie reared. Nerissa slid down over her rump, landed flat on her back, and lay still.

Dismayed, Sir Barnabas dodged the descending hooves. He did not mean the chit any serious harm. He had expected the docile old mare to sidestep, dislodging her novice rider painlessly.

Miles was horrified. Abandoning Vinnie, he rushed to Nerissa and knelt beside her, regardless of the effect of muddy grass on his new riding breeches. He leaned over her, gently taking her hand. “Don’t try to move.”

She gasped for breath.

Just winded, Sir Barnabas decided. Thank heaven she had fallen in the paddock, not the stableyard.

Vinnie turned and went to investigate. She lowered her head to nuzzle Nerissa’s shoulder, looking as penitent as a horse can look. Nerissa struggled to sit up.

Miles helped her, and kept his arm around her shoulders. “I cannot imagine what got into her. Roe, the head groom, assured me she’s the most tranquil beast in nature.”

“Something frightened her, the poor dear.” Nerissa stroked Vinnie’s nose. “See how sorry she is? Miles, help me up. I’m sure I heard somewhere that if one falls from a horse one should remount at once.”

“In one of your plays, no doubt,” he said with a wry smile, pulling her to her feet.

“No doubt.” Stretching experimentally, she winced. “Is it good advice?”

“To prevent a loss of nerve, certainly.” He picked up her hat and set it on her head. “But you must be bruised even if you haven’t broken anything. You’d better go straight in, to a hot bath.”

“No, I’ll ride, just as far as the gate. Help me to mount.”

Whatever the hussy’s morals, Sir Barnabas thought with grudging pride, she had bottom, his granddaughter. And, to judge by Miles’s approving face as he threw her up, he recognized it.

When they reached the gate, Nerissa was glad to slide wearily down into Miles’s clasp, though Matilda had taught her to dismount without aid. She ached all over. Leaning heavily on his arm, she hobbled to the stableyard. How fortunate that he was just a friend, not a beau, for she must have looked an utter widgeon sprawling on the ground, and nothing could be less graceful than her present gait. She was sure she had mud in her hair, too, as well as all over her habit.

Before handing Vinnie over to a groom, Miles gave Nerissa an apple and showed her how to feed it to the mare on the flat of her palm. Vinnie whiffled softly, all contretemps forgotten.

“I wonder what frightened her,” Nerissa said as they continued into the house. “Not something that occurs often, I trust!”

“It must have been something out of the ordinary, though I saw nothing, or she would have a reputation as skittish.” He paused outside Mrs Hibbert’s room. “I’ll tell Hibby to have gallons and gallons of hot water sent up to your chamber.”

“A hot bath sounds like heaven. I shall go on up.”

On her way to the stairs, she found three of her relatives in the front hall. Lady Philpott stared at her in horror.

“What have you been doing, Nerissa?”

“Learning to ride,” she said with what nonchalance she could muster.

“How enterprising,” said Raymond Reece. “But I regret to say that you have just missed our visitors. What a pity you did not come in a few minutes sooner.”

“A great shame,” Mrs Chidwell agreed.

“Visitors?”

“Admiral and Mrs Pettigrew and their two daughters, our nearest neighbours, from Kingstonriddle,” Raymond explained. “They called hoping to make your acquaintance.”