The Rebellious Twin (6 page)

What now? Rissa had never evinced the slightest interest in Sara Sophia. “What question?”

“What do you know about her? Her background, I mean, like where she comes from.”

“No one knows where she comes from. Her mother’s name was Louise, I know that much. She died of some illness when Sara Sophia was four or five, but where she came from, or how she happened to be under the care of Lord Westerlynn, I have no idea. Why do you ask?”

“Just curious.” Rissa gave an elaborate shrug. “I was just thinking how hard Lord Westerlynn’s death must be on Sara Sophia. Will she stay on at Hollyridge, do you think?”

“Probably not. She’s talking of obtaining a position as a governess.” Amazing, this sudden concern for the orphaned girl who had no standing. What was Rissa up to? Something devious, Clarinda would wager, since the total of Rissa’s sympathy and compassion would fit into a thimble, with room left over.

Back in her bed chamber, Clarinda fell on her bed, totally disheartened. She had tried to declare her independence, but Rissa would never understand — didn’t want to understand. A thought occurred to her. Perhaps, if she promised to find a husband, Mama and Papa would allow her to go to London for another Season. She could easily find a suitor, one who would marry her and take her far away from Graystone Hall. A man who, though she may not love, she might at least respect.

But the very thought wrenched her heart. She had no desire to leave the only home she’d ever known, and Alexander, Sara Sophia, her beloved Donegal, Sham, and all the beautiful horses at Hollyridge Manor. They were her life. She had no desire to marry. No man on this earth could ever take the place of her dreamy-eyed poet. Blinded by tears, Clarinda reached to her bed table for a small, worn book of poetry by Robert Burns. Jeffrey had given her this book, back before he’d spurned her for Rissa. The book fell open to a page wherein lay a withered rose. The poem on the page was the one he had read her that day in the garden when he’d kissed her and given her the rose. Her heart aching, Clarinda read Ae Fond Kiss once more, for at least the hundredth — the thousandth? time.

…Had we never lov’d sae kindly,

Had we never lov’d sae blindly!

Never met — or never parted,

We had ne’er been broken-hearted…

Oh, Jeffrey! Each night before she went to sleep she closed her eyes and pictured Jeffrey in his naval uniform, so splendidly handsome in his blue coat, white waistcoat and breeches, cross belt and sword. She would love him always, and mourn him until the day she died.

She could not even imagine falling in love with someone else.

*

“Good grief!” declared Lucius, nodding toward the less-than-immaculate floor in the main salon, “are there no servants in this place?”

Robert nodded his head in disbelief. They had arrived at Hollyridge Manor less than an hour ago. After he had convinced Jennings, the butler, he was indeed the new owner, and seen that the horses and Jasper, his favorite hunting dog, were watered and fed, he had Jennings take them on a tour of the manor.

“Hollyridge was built around the middle of the sixteenth century,” Jennings explained as they started to look around the several floors of the huge mansion. “It was built over the ruins of a medieval castle, of which nothing remains except a gatehouse that stands in a remote corner.”

Despite himself, Robert was impressed. This was indeed a magnificent estate, twice the size of his own Oakley House. “How many servants are employed?”

“At the moment only eleven, sir. Myself, the housekeeper, the cook, two footmen, two housemaids and two scullery maids, plus the groom and one stableboy.”

“Not nearly enough,” Robert commented. “Maintaining an estate like this should properly require a staff of fifty servants at the very least.”

“We once employed nearly sixty servants,” the butler replied. “Mind you, that was back in the good old days when the house was filled with guests every week. They came in droves, mainly for the fox hunts.”

Lucius shook his head. “Westerlynn must have been in his dotage to allow Hollyridge to fall into a state of neglect like this.”

“A pity,” answered Jennings. “Actually there’s one more person living here, a girl of eighteen named Sara Sophia.”

“Is she a servant?” Robert asked.

“Er … no, m’lord, not exactly. She is neither fish nor fowl, so to speak. Her mother died shortly after they arrived. The girl was around three or four then. As far as I know, she is not his lordship’s kin, yet she always ate in the dining room and was accorded all the privileges of a guest, not a servant.”

“What’s to become of her?” Lucius asked. “Is she aware she cannot stay?”

“Indeed, she is, sir. I believe the young lady has plans to become a governess.”

“There’s a blessing,” Robert commented, pleased a potential problem was so quickly resolved. “Where are the stables?” Forget the house, he had been looking forward with keen anticipation to seeing Westerlynn’s horses.

A dark haired young woman of diminutive stature was calming a skittish Arabian stallion when Robert and Lucius arrived at the stone-walled, moss-covered coach house and stables. She was probably one of the servants, Robert surmised, noting her plain gray dress, white apron, and sturdy, mud-covered half boots.

“What a beautiful horse,” he called.

The horse reared upward, pawing the air wildly with its hooves. “Steady,” said the girl in a calm, soothing voice. It was clear, from her firm grip on the reins, she had no fear of horses.

“Yes, he is beautiful,” she called, “his name is Sham.”

They moved closer. “Sham?” asked Lucius, “what kind of name is that?”

“‘Tis Arabic for the sun.” The girl regarded them with large, luminous brown eyes. “And who might you be?”

Robert introduced himself and Lucius, and informed her he was the new owner. “…so I have come to see the stables.”

The girl stood stunned. “So Hollyridge Manor doesn’t go to the cousin? It belongs to you now?” He nodded. “And the horses, too,” she said softly, almost as if to herself.

“Yes, the horses. I breed horses myself and will most likely have them all removed to my own estate in Kent, at least the good ones.” Robert looked toward the field next to the stable where a dozen or so horses were grazing. “They’re all out there?”

“Most, m’lord.” Her voice quivered. She appeared stricken.

“What is it?” Lucius asked. Robert noticed he’d been gazing at the girl steadily.

“It’s just … nothing.” The girl bit her lip, then took a deep breath, as if forcing herself to be in control. “It will be good that they have a new home. Of late they’ve been neglected.”

“Is this part of your duties?” Lucius asked. Robert was surprised at the gentleness in his voice.

“My duties?” the girl asked, puzzled.

Lucius replied, “I would surmise you’re one of the parlor maids, and because you love horses, you’re here, helping out at the stables. Am I not right?”

The girl looked down at her servant’s garb, then at Lucius. “Sir, judging by my appearance I cannot fault for thinking I’m a parlor maid.” She raised her chin high. “But I am not.”

“Then who — ?” Lucius began, then halted. “Ah yes, you must be Sara Sophia. The butler mentioned you.”

“And no doubt mentioned I am neither fish nor fowl,” she said wryly.

“No, er, yes, perhaps he mentioned it.”

Robert noticed Lucius appeared discomfited — most unusual for a man whose easy way with women was well known in London. He started towards the field. “Want to check the horses with me, Lucius?”

“No, you go ahead. I shall join you shortly.”

Robert laughed to himself as he climbed over the wooden fence that surrounded the pasture. Lucius was well on his way to making his first country conquest.

Wonderful horses! Marvelous horses! Thoroughbreds for the most part, the Arabian, and a couple of Cleveland Bays. Also two old hacks he would have to dispose of.

When Robert returned to the stables, Sara Sophia had gone. He clapped Lucius on his shoulder and joshingly remarked, “Looks as though you’ll have someone to warm your bed tonight.”

Before he answered, Lucius gazed reflectively at the sky. “I don’t think so,” he finally replied in a strangely quiet voice. “Sara Sophia is a mere dab of a girl, and yet she’s … there’s something about her I don’t know how to describe.”

“Beware, Lucius. She has no money, no title.”

“Yes, I know,” Lucius answered hastily. “And yet … did you see those eyes? Did you hear her soft voice? Not that I would allow myself to be smitten, but she’s one of the most beautiful women I have ever met.”

“Oh, come, Lucius.” Robert eyed his friend with incredulity. “Perhaps you should not have left London. I fear this country air is affecting your brain.”

The next morning, Clarinda awoke early, as she always did, eager for her before-breakfast ride. She was searching through her walnut armoire for her old gray riding gown when Estelle entered.

“If you are looking for your riding gown, eet ees gone, m’lady. Her ladyship ordered that I give eet to the gardener to be burned.” Estelle hastened to the armoire and pulled out the fancy riding ensemble Mama had ordered made for her a good two years ago. Clarinda had stuffed it into the far back corner, where it had remained, unworn.

“Her ladyship says you must wear thees.”

Damnation! But if I want to keep Donegal, I have no choice. “Oh, very well.” With Estelle’s assistance, Clarinda donned the riding habit, matching hat and boots.

“You look marvelous, m’lady.”

“I absolutely loathe it.” Clarinda scowled at her image in her full length mirror. The habit was of plain black, ornamented entirely across the bosom with a thick roll of rich, green silk braiding. The riding hat that perched atop her blonde curls was of black beaver, fancifully adorned with gold cordon and tassels. “How ridiculous,” she declared, tweaking the long, green ostrich feather that stuck up in the front. Black half boots, laced and fringed with green, completed the ensemble, which, she thought with disgust, was totally unsuitable for her kind of hard riding. “I look like an idiot in matching black and green,” she remarked with a grimace at herself as she pulled on York tanned gloves.

“But m’lady ees at the height of fashion.”

“The sun has hardly risen, Estelle. The riding path will hardly be swarming with people I can impress.”

Soon Clarinda was leading Donegal from the stables to the seclusion of the river path. At least the skirt was full, she thought, as, with a strong spring, she boosted herself onto the horse’s back, and after the usual furtive look around, rearranged her skirt and swung her leg across. I shall visit Sara Sophia, I don’t care what Mama says. With the spurt of joy she always felt at the start of a ride, she snapped the reins and urged Donegal into a brisk trot. She mustn’t ride too long, she thought. The ball was tonight. Soon, the seamstress would arrive to put the finishing touches on hers and Rissa’s ball gowns. Identical, of course. I won’t need a mirror to see myself, I shall just look at Rissa.

Clarinda’s joy faded. Would Mama ever tire of gloating about the major triumph of her life — producing twins? Already Clarinda could hear the tired old remarks tonight.

Why, Lady Capelle, your twins are alike as two peas in a pod…

However can you tell them apart?…

How adorable they look in their matching ball gowns…

Mama never heard the other remarks, like, they look like freaks!

They — they — they, never she. Sometimes Clarinda thought she would die from the longing to be just herself, but she would have to grit her teeth and endure the ball tonight. It would not be easy. The Lords Sufton would both be in attendance. She was not at all sure she could endure Larimore, plus whatever other tortures her parents had in store for her. But she had better face the fact that Larimore, Lord Sufton, might well become her husband. Perhaps he wouldn’t be so bad, she tried to convince herself. Larimore would never oppose her in anything she did. He was rich! He was titled! But he was also dull as dishwater.

Time for a gallop. Nothing like racing with the wind on her beloved horse to chase problems away. Clarinda nudged Donegal, loving the feel of his sleek, warm coat between her knees. Both knees. How a woman could enjoy riding sidesaddle was beyond her. She could not abide having to give prompts with one leg, and for the off-side rely on carrying a cane. “Let us be off, Donegal!”

The willing mount leaped forward and raced at lightening speed along the path by the river that led to Hollyridge Manor.

*

As was his custom, Robert awoke early. His first thought was of his newly acquired horses, most particularly, Sham. Arabians were a superb breed. What luck to find a marvelous Arabian stallion like Sham, beautiful with his fine arched neck, flowing mane and tail. Arabians were intelligent, too, noted for their endurance. Robert would ride him this morning and test him out. With high anticipation, he quickly washed and dressed in plain riding clothes. “Come, Jasper,” he called to his hunter, and hastened to the stables.

Old Pitney, the groom, was there when he arrived. “Could you get Sham’s saddle for me?” Robert requested, “I’ll saddle him myself.” The old man hesitated, only for the merest trace of a moment, but long enough for Robert to notice, and comprehend. “Yes, I know, Sara Sophia rides Sham, doesn’t she?” The old man nodded, eyeing him resentfully. “Keep in mind the horses are mine now, Pitney. Go on, there’s a good fellow, get the saddle.”

Soon, with Jasper running alongside, Robert left the stables and guided Sham to a heavily wooded path that ran alongside the river. He put Sham to a trot. Quickly discovering the horse’s smooth, floating gait, he congratulated himself on being right about his magnificent new stallion. What a beautiful path this was, he thought as he rode along, catching glimpses of a blue ribbon of river through the heavy growth of ancient alder, willow, and ash trees. Oakley House had no river, he mused, no riding path with a breathtaking view like this one. It was smaller, too, not half the size of Hollyridge, nor half as elegant. Perhaps, Robert thought, he should not sell this huge estate after all. But that was madness. Hollyridge must go. He put Sham to a brisk gallop. The horse performed magnificently, further adding to Robert’s fine mood.