Chapter 27

CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN

“ W here is she?” Caroline demanded to know, barely offering a greeting to her grandson as she peered behind him. “Come now, where is my dear Amelia? Where is she hiding, or is that part of the jape? You know I cannot seek her with my knees as creaky as they are.”

Lionel cleared his uncomfortable throat. “She is not here.”

“Oh… is she not feeling well?” Caroline raised an eyebrow. “Or is it that she does not want to see this dreary old house when she has the lovely manor to explore? Is she just being polite?”

Rebecca folded her arms across her chest. “He told me she had asked to sleep in this morning, though I have never known her to do so in all the time she has been with us.”

“Is that true?” Caroline squinted at Lionel, as though she was preparing to disbelieve him.

Lionel shifted the weight from one foot to the other. “She did not retire until late last night. I was trying to be a thoughtful husband by letting her catch up on her rest.” He paused. “And this house is hardly dreary, Grandmother. Considering what it cost, I should hope it is anything but.”

“Oh, it is beautiful indeed from an architectural perspective,” Caroline agreed, “but it is the solitude that is dreary. When I withdraw to this house, I relish the loneliness for all of two minutes before I am longing for company again.”

Lionel rolled his eyes. “Then why do you not stay at Westyork? I have invited you to do so time and time again, and you always return for weeks on end, so what is the use of you sequestering yourself here?”

“I do not want to be a nuisance,” Caroline said with a twinkle of mischief in her eyes. “And as you are newly married, I should not be there at all. Neither should you, Rebecca, but I would not ask you to remain here with me. Although, by the sound of it, it seems that you and that exceptional wife of yours are finally enjoying one another’s company.”

Lionel understood her meaning and leveled a mock-withering stare at her. It was one thing for weasels like Martin Thorne to think they could speak openly of heirs and the production of said heirs, it was quite another for Lionel’s grandmother to start offering her opinion. One made him furious, the other mortified him.

“Does this mean we shall hear the pitter-patter of little feet through Westyork soon?” Caroline pressed, wiggling her eyebrows in a most alarming fashion.

Clearly, she had forgotten. Lionel wished he could, too.

I have dreams of it, Grandmother, he wanted to admit. I have dreams of my son or daughter riding on my shoulders as I wander through the grounds with Amelia at my side. I have dreams of chasing them through the gardens as my mother and father did with me. I have such dreams, and they hurt terribly.

“I cannot wait to be an auntie,” Rebecca crowed, clapping her hands together. “There is nothing so wonderful as children. I can just imagine them bursting into my chambers of a morning, launching themselves at me to wake me up! And I shall teach them to ride ponies. Oh, and I shall read to them every night… at least until I find a husband and have children of my own, and then they shall play together—dearest cousins.”

A lump formed in Lionel’s throat as he pictured the scene, just as Rebecca had described it, but with the children waking him and Amelia from their slumber instead of his sister. He vividly imagined his children playing with Rebecca’s and being overjoyed to see one another at Christmastide and other such celebrations.

Would they look more like me or like my darling wife? If we had a son, would it change his fate if he looked more like her? He stomach clenched, a pain tugging up through his chest. From childhood, he had vowed that he would never be a father, so how could it be that he longed for it now?

“Goodness, it is a shame Amelia did not come with us.” Rebecca interrupted his turmoil. “I was hoping to ask her to be my tutor.”

“Tutor? For what?” Lionel replied, arching a curious eyebrow. “I have ensured that you have had the best education possible.”

Rebecca chuckled. “Yes, I am quite capable of performing feats of arithmetic and literature and I can speak Latin and French, but what I need is an education in how to be an elegant lady. I fear I have been remiss in that regard, and with my debut just a year away, I am behind where I must be!”

“You realize that my wife preferred to be on the periphery of gatherings, do you not?” Lionel asked with a smile, remembering her declaration that she had always been a wallflower. A trait he did not believe.

Rebecca shrugged. “Nevertheless, she is the most refined lady I have ever met and, what is better, she does not diminish her character in order to be refined. She made the Duke of Thornhill laugh with such a subtle joke; I was in awe of her!”

“Yes, well, I would prefer it if you did not make the Duke of Thornhill laugh,” Lionel muttered, gesturing ahead. “Now if you do not mind, Grandmother, do you think we might take this conversation indoors before we freeze.”

Caroline stepped back to let them enter. “It is not nearly as bracing, but yes, I suppose so. Be boring if you must.”

“Thank you, Grandmother,” Lionel replied. “I shall.”

“Please, be gentle with me,” Amelia whispered, stroking the nose of the sandy-colored mare that the stablemaster had selected for her.

The mare bumped her lightly with her nose, snorting hot air.

“I apologize, I do not speak horse,” Amelia said, chuckling nervously. “But I hope you just said that you will take the utmost care with me.”

The stablemaster, Mr. Wallace, who stood off to one side, observed with a smile. Bea and Mrs. Scanlon had come to watch too, the former grinning with delight, while the latter could not have looked more anxious if she tried. As if she knew she should, perhaps, have waited until Lionel returned to ask if Amelia could learn to ride.

“She’s the sturdiest, most docile horse you could hope for,” the stablemaster said. “She’ll not throw you off. I wouldn’t have agreed to this if I thought you’d be in any danger, My Lady.”

Amelia smiled at the older man. “Gratitude, Mr. Wallace.” She hesitated. “Now, how do I get on?”

The stablemaster retrieved a small set of wooden steps and put them beside the mare, beckoning for Amelia to approach. She did so, albeit nervously, and listened to his instruction as he told her how to get into the saddle. Nevertheless, being taught how to do something and actually doing something were two very different things.

Why must I have an audience? she lamented, blushing furiously as she struggled to heave herself up into the saddle.

By the third try, she managed it, feeling rather proud of herself as she sat there, angling her legs to the side of the horse.

“We’ll take an easy walk through the grounds,” Mr. Wallace said, grasping the reins. “Get you used to the feeling before I teach you how to ride by yourself.”

Amelia nodded. “That would be very kind, thank you.”

“You just hold on tight to the pommel,” he instructed.

Amelia did as he asked and, a moment later, they began to move. The mare swayed with each plodding step, reminding her of her ride back from the Duke of Thornhill’s ball, safe in Lionel’s arms. She felt his absence keenly as she gripped tight to the pommel, wishing he was there.

They made it across the stable yard, to where expansive lawns stretched to a border of woodland. The Dower House was on the other side of that forest somewhere, or so Mrs. Scanlon had told her, and Amelia was tempted to ask the stablemaster if he would lead her all the way there.

Lionel would get such a shock, seeing me arrive on horseback. The thought made her smile, but the thought of riding that far, so soon, made her stomach turn somersaults. Sitting side-saddle was far more difficult than sitting astride the horse, as she had done with Lionel, but she did not want to appear improper in front of the servants.

“Have you coated the saddle in some manner of oil?” Amelia wheezed as she lurched from side to side with each of the mare’s slow strides. Her hands ached from gripping the pommel for dear life.

Mr. Wallace chuckled. “No, My Lady. I promise, you’ll get used to it.”

“Very well,” she mumbled, her heart in her throat.

The grass made things worse, the mare’s gait uneven, making Amelia feel as if she was being tossed from side to side. And soon enough, a very familiar sensation began to roil in her stomach—one she had not experienced since her younger years, before her father had forced her to ride in carriage until she got over the sickness.

They had barely made it halfway across the frosty lawn before she could not suppress the feeling anymore. Yet, years of discipline and punishment had taught her that she could not embarrass herself in front of the staff.

“I must walk,” she rasped to the stablemaster. “Please, I must walk.”

Mr. Wallace halted abruptly. “Are you well, My Lady?”

“No, I must walk,” she urged, making the mistake of trying to free her legs from the side-saddle, desperately trying to get out of the situation before it became something humiliating.

But as she freed her legs and began to slip, panic caught hold of her. She lunged for the closest thing she could grab onto, gripping at a clump of the poor mare’s mane.

In an instant, the mare turned from docile and patient to panicked and confused. The mare tossed her head back, the movement snatching the reins out of the stablemaster’s hand, and with nothing anchoring her to where she was, the mighty horse bolted… with Amelia hanging on with everything she possessed.

And she was losing her grip.