A Gentleman’s Game (11 page)

Nathaniel coughed.

“—then surely you are familiar with his father. And with the baronet’s exactitude. And with the amount of custom he sends southward from Newmarket.”

A bob of the balding head. “I am, but—”

“I am his secretary since the marriage of his daughter, who is now Lady Crosby.”

“But you’re a woman.” Poor Filbert. He didn’t know when to keep silent.

“Through no doing of my own, yes. Fortunately Sir William is not concerned by the work of circumstance, but for the work of a person’s own hands. He has entrusted me with the task of reporting to him on the conditions of our travel.” Rosalind pulled off her bonnet, the better to look about the close, ancient entryway, all walls of the same aged black wood and plaster that made up the outside of the structure. “I wonder what report I shall make of you.”

That ended the matter. Not only did Filbert recover his former simper, but he found a servant to bring Miss Agate’s trunk up to her chamber. Nathaniel could not help but smile. It was rather fun, watching Rosalind wield this sort of secondhand influence as though she had been born to it.

“I meant wha’ I said abou’ no’ having the room for one o’ you,” Filbert murmured apologetically to Nathaniel once Rosalind had ascended the stairs to her chamber.

He clapped the innkeeper on the shoulder. “And I meant what I said about being willing to sleep in the stable. It’s quite all right.”

The travelers partook of a simple but tasty meal wherever they happened to be: some in the stables, some in the kitchens making free with the maids, some in the courtyard enjoying a pipe with their food. Nathaniel was everywhere, settling his staff in, removing a scullery maid from the embrace of the roguish Noonan, and measuring out the feed of the horses.

He wondered if Rosalind would mention the forbidden treat of carrots in her letter that day. She probably wouldn’t. Not that it would be so bad, really, if Sir William knew his strict methods were not the only way a horse could be kept in good health.

As twilight darkened the sky and servants lit lamps around the inn, Nathaniel searched for Rosalind. He found her just exiting the private parlor where she had taken her own dinner.

“I am sorry you had to give up your room.” He thought she colored, but it was difficult to tell. The warm lamplight in the corridor made her all copper and gold.

“Don’t let Filbert hear you say that,” he teased. “There are times for stammering an apology and times for lifting one’s chin. You did the latter, and beautifully.”

Beautifully
. She had, hadn’t she? But how else could a beautiful woman do anything? She had taken on a glow of more than mere prettiness, and it had nothing to do with the lamplight. No, it was a feeling welling up from within. She looked happy. Proud, maybe. All sorts of good things that made him want to look, and look some more, and hope for a smile to flower over her features when she felt his gaze.

He cleared his throat, trying something—anything—to make himself stop staring. “Please don’t worry about it. I had already planned to spend half the night in the stable. Now you’ve saved me the trouble of rousing myself during the night.”

“It’s kind of you to say so. It’s not as though we could share the room.”

“Um. No, I don’t think that would be a wise idea.”

And now which of them was looking more deeply? In whose cheeks was the color hotter? Because she had mentioned the idea, and he had admitted how unwise it would be, and now all he could think of was finding a place where they might be alone, and what they might do if they could let themselves be a little unwise.

Already he had kissed her lips, the lips that curved into a shy and secret smile. He had felt her pressed tightly against him, her fingers twining in his hair as though she could not pull him close enough. If they were alone—if they shared a room but for a while—he would kiss her again, and more. He wanted to see the curves he had felt dimly through clothing, to cup the softness of her breast. To tongue what he had touched and had only imagined touching.

“I hate being wise,” he muttered. Since he was standing right next to the corridor wall, he rested his forehead against it and gave it a gentle thump.

Sense failed to return. His breeches remained tight. Wisdom laughed, flitting just out of reach.

“I have…” Rosalind’s voice sounded thick. She cleared her throat, then tried again. “I have asked our host to send a letter for me tomorrow. I have told your father all is well, and that our progress is good.”

He looked up from the blank whiteness of the wall. Her expression said more than these few sentences, but Nathaniel did not know how to read it.

Not wanting to say too much or something wrong, he settled on, “Thank you.”

She nodded. Since she did not turn toward the stairs to leave him, he was clearly supposed to say something else. He groped about for a reply, but everything commonplace seemed to have fled. What could he say?
When you rode in silence today, were you thinking of me?
maybe, or
Why do you ration happiness?

Are you standing here so I might kiss you again?

So tempting, this last question. “Are you…” He cut himself off, clutching desperately for that bit of wisdom. “I…like your new ribbon,” he blurted out instead. “On your bonnet. It looks…nice.”

“Oh.” Her left hand drifted to her temple, though her head was not covered by the bonnet at present. When she dropped her hand, she used it to rub at the elbow that he assumed bore her old scars. “Thank you. It’s not what I would have chosen for myself, but I’m glad to have it.”

“Maybe we don’t always choose best for ourselves.” It was certainly true for him. He had chosen to pickle himself in drink, to hide the difficult things he did. The only thing he’d done well lately was to bribe Rosalind Agate to come along with him.

Which also hadn’t been his choice, but his father’s.

“Maybe not,” she said quietly. “But sometimes I think we do.” She rocked forward onto her toes, lifting herself. Closer, almost close enough that he could take her into his arms.

But before he could reach out, she sank back again. Her cheeks went pink—unmistakable this time, even in the lamplight—and her lips made the shape of another sound, unvoiced, as though she was about to say more.

Instead, she swallowed it back, only bidding him good night and mounting the stairs.

He watched her climb away, wondering whether she had been talking about more than a ribbon, and how much he had to do with any of it.

The following day began much as the one before: with Nathaniel nudging his party into a tidy line and setting them southward on the road to Epsom in the early morning hours. The weather hinted at heat, a summery replacement to the rainy beginning of the week.

By late morning, the sun was bright and high in a cloudless white-blue. The road was pillowy with dust, flanked by fields of ripening crops on one side and sheep on the other, their neck bells jingling and their tentative
maa
’s like a hello. The world held a warm scent, all animal and turned earth and grassy young grains.

A trickle of perspiration had formed at the base of Nathaniel’s neck and was currently trying to find a way down through his collar.

Eyeing a likely bunch of trees a small way from the road, he called a midday halt beneath their shade. Tidy and smooth as the workings of a clock, the grooms and outriders and guards unhitched and unpacked and watered and settled. They first took care of the horses, as always, removing tack and setting forth Sir William’s prescribed amount of hay for the Thoroughbreds.

For once, Pale Marauder was docile and began eating from the pile.

Epigram swished his docked tail with impatience and bent his head to crop the grass about his hooves.

“I’ll stop ’im.” Lombard set aside the saddle he’d begun to rub dry, rolling to his feet. “Sir William won’t like that none.”

“Wait.” Nathaniel reached out a quelling hand. What would be so bad about allowing the horse to eat grass? Horses were born to graze. Yes, Thoroughbreds were delicate beasts, but Epigram was a hardy specimen of the breed. He hadn’t eaten himself into a colic; the other ill horses proved that. As long as the grass was clean and healthy, why should it not keep the horse the same way?

Nathaniel dropped to hands and knees, crawling around the horse—at a safe distance from careless hooves—to examine the ground. He spotted no insects or grit, no harmful plants. This was an equine feast of tender green blades, spring-tall and not yet dried by summer sun.

Rising to his feet, he patted Epigram on the withers. “Have a good luncheon, old boy. You can eat your fill.”

Pale Marauder raised his head, eyeing Nathaniel with a baleful dark gaze.

“What? You’re trying to look like the good son, aren’t you, Roddy? No prodigals here. Eat grass if you like.”

Horse to man, they stared. Pale Marauder’s ears swiveled, as though he was deciding what to do. Then he snorted, bent his head, and took another mouthful of hay. Then one of grass.

“You’ll do it your own way, won’t you? Fair enough.” Nathaniel trailed a hand over the colt’s back, petting the short, fine coat. “As long as you’ve thought about it, there’s nothing wrong with doing something your own way.”

God, he hoped that was true.

In for a penny, in for a pound. The outriders’ horses and the steady chestnuts that pulled the carriage were turned loose on long lead ropes to roll and rest and graze near the road. A hamper packed by the Blue Castle was opened, its contents shared.

Thus they passed one or two of the hottest hours of the day. Somehow, the servants had heard of the marvelous way Rosalind had put innkeeper Filbert in his place the evening before, and Nathaniel watched as the men clustered around her with a laughing ease tied to respect. By claiming her own honor, she had given them a share too.

Peters offered to teach her to whittle. Egg and Love, the former boxers, feinted sparring at one another and showed Rosalind how to throw a punch. In one of her high-necked colorful gowns and with her bonnet ribbon untied, she looked every inch a lady and every bit a gleeful member of the party.

She hadn’t wanted to join him on this trip. He was glad she had. He hoped that she was glad now too.

As they re-saddled the horses and rearranged themselves to travel onward, Nathaniel heard a bark. A somehow familiar bark.

“Damn,” he muttered. They were near Sawbridgeworth, weren’t they? Which meant these were Joe’s fields.

Indeed, a sheepdog soon followed the sound of its barking, ducking under some fence and bounding up to Nathaniel, who stood next to Bumblebee. The leggy bay’s ears flicked forward with curiosity as he eyed the dog.

Joe fell flat to his belly, the patient, waiting posture of a well-trained dog. He had long, shaggy white-and brown-and-black fur, eyes like little black currants, and a wet black nose he liked to poke into everything.

Rosalind walked to Nathaniel’s side, one hand on Farfalla’s bridle. “Nathaniel, you have made a new friend?”

“Met an old one again. Rosalind, meet Joe.”

“Hello, Joe.” She handed her mare’s reins to Nathaniel and crouched before the dog. “You are a sheepdog, aren’t you?”

“He is. Not that I know his real name. But every time I pass this way he comes to greet me, so I have to call him something.”

Rosalind squinted up at Nathaniel. “You fed him once, didn’t you.” It was not a question.

He sighed. “I should have known better. But he was so
friendly
, running alongside me.” Since that first encounter—complete with petting, playing, and a piece of beef sandwich—Joe seemed to have caught Nathaniel’s scent. Now every time he passed these fields, the dog darted from its herd to greet Nathaniel with wagging plumed tail and pricked ears.

“He can come along with us for a little way today, can’t he?”

“He probably will whether we like it or not.” The dog was too well trained to run off entirely. But this time of year, the lambing ewes were in sheepcotes, so he must be bored and missing part of his flock.

The problem with Joe was that he treated everything as his flock. This was fine when Nathaniel was riding alone. But in a large group? Joe would be the canine equivalent of a milkmaid, causing delay on delay.

And yes, as soon as Dill and Button rode forward to take their usual positions ahead of the party, Joe trotted to their side. Weaving inward to nudge the pair of horses closer together and darting in front to halt their progress until the rest of the herd could catch up.

“Oy!” shouted Dill, reining in his black gelding to avoid trampling the dog. “Chandler, call off the creature! We ain’t his sheep!”

Nathaniel boosted Rosalind into her saddle, noticing the spasm that crossed her features—that always crossed her features—when she moved her right side quickly.

But rather than comment on this, which he knew she wouldn’t welcome, he asked, “Any ideas for convincing a sheepdog not to drive horses into a herd?”

She settled herself, taking up Farfalla’s reins. “Even if I had almonds in my pocket, I don’t think a sheepdog would be interested.”

Nathaniel looked toward the outriders. Button had drawn his bay to one side of the road, and Joe trotted in quick circles around the pair of horses. White paws were a blur, as though the speed of his short strides would draw them closer together.

“He’s going to spook the horses,” muttered Nathaniel. “Or win himself a trampling.” Already, the bay was beginning to bob his head and paw at the earth.

The drop of perspiration returned, tapping at Nathaniel’s collar and threatening to slide between his shoulder blades and itch. Damn. One little dog, so eager to please, was keeping them from getting on their way.

To recall Nathaniel’s notice, Rosalind tapped him on the shoulder. She grinned down at him from her saddle. “Why not give Joe some way to help in the way he wishes? Look, Pale Marauder is starting to wander again.”

This was true. At the end of Lombard’s lead, the cream-colored colt was pulling and winding as usual. He never traced a straight path when he could coil and backstep and yank with nervous energy.

“Rosalind, you are a genius.” Nathaniel took a moment to admire her. Her worry of a few days ago had melted off, and she was every inch the tidy horsewoman from gloves to beribboned hat. “Where’s that hamper?”

Without waiting for answer, he sorted through the packed-up belongings in the carriage with Noonan’s help. Finding the leftover rind of a ham, he strode with it next to Lombard—currently grappling with Pale Marauder’s lead line—and whistled.

Joe came lolloping back from the nervous pair of horses, drawn by the whistle and the scent of meat. Nathaniel dangled the bit of ham before him, then let Joe snap it up with his panting doggy grin.

“All right, Roddy. Do your worst,” he said to Pale Marauder.

“He thinks it’s his best.” Lombard rolled the straw he was chewing from one side of his mouth to the other, then spit. “C’mon, Rod. On we go.”

Instead of stepping forward, Pale Marauder stepped sideways. Joe sprang into action, bounding to the grassy edge of the road and curving beside Pale Marauder’s front hooves. The colt’s next step was forward, and the next too, until he was walking in a neat line beside Epigram on Peters’s lead.

Nathaniel chuckled, shaking his head, and swung up onto Bumblebee’s back. Dill and Button rode forward, the Thoroughbreds walked, and he took his own preferred place at Rosalind’s side as the carriage began to roll behind them.

“What a good dog,” Rosalind commented with a nod toward Joe. With effortless energy, the sheepdog weaved to nudge Pale Marauder back into his place in the procession. “He so wanted to be useful. All we had to do was determine how he
could
be.”

“Good old Joe,” Nathaniel agreed. He couldn’t fault the sheepdog for that. How often had he felt the same, figuratively running in circles for want of something to do?

Joe stayed with them until the rolling grassland at one side of the road was broken by a few houses, then changed to a tree-bounded village. As if recalling him to his post, a distant
baaa
sounded. Joe loped back to Nathaniel, barked up at him—
Job done, thanks for the ham, have to go now
—and ran back along the road in the direction from which they’d come.

Within one minute, Pale Marauder was tugging and winding all over the road again. “Wouldn’ mind having that dog join us all the way to Epsom,” Lombard tossed over his shoulder.
Spit
.

Nathaniel laughed.

He liked being on the road, free and unfettered, matching his wits against the weather or circumstance. Or even a friendly sheepdog that adopted them as his own.

With Rosalind Agate at his side, everything seemed fresher and brighter. He didn’t have to solve problems alone—and that meant, for now, there seemed to be no problem the travelers couldn’t solve.

* * *

The next day contained no sheepdogs, only the everyday milkmaids of carts and carriages for which to make way, heat and dust, water and grass to find. By agreement, the travelers again set off during the early-morning coolness, then spent the baking hours of midday resting in shade. They used the time to clean tack and tell stories.

Then, to Nathaniel’s dismay, Lombard suggested a spitting contest. “Ever’one take part!”

“Mr. Nathaniel has a medal he could offer the winner,” Rosalind mentioned. That rogue.

“I never had a medal before,” Lombard said cheerfully.

And if the contest had been judged by volume, victory would surely have been his. But the contest favored distance—and Rosalind, who demanded a chance to try, proved to be the winner.

“Coo! She hit that tree,” said Love. His craggy face bore an expression of great admiration.

“I have seven brothers,” Rosalind explained. “Three older and four younger—plus one sister. Sometimes I think my whole childhood was spent spitting and learning boys’ tricks.”

“Never seen such a lady,” commented Noonan in his gentle brogue. He began applauding, and Nathaniel had to join in, smiling.

“If you’re all finished here,” he said, “then we’d best get on the road again. But Miss Agate, you’ve won the medal fairly, and it’s yours.”

“Oh, I couldn’t take it for
that
,” she said. “I was only teasing about making you give it up. You received it when you helped someone. I spit on a tree. Really, you must keep it.”

So he did. But he thought of it as hers after that, and the shining bit of metal felt warm in his coat pocket.

On that third day after the fete—the fifth since they had left Newmarket—when Nathaniel made to leave for the stables after the party had shared their evening meal, Rosalind informed him that her daily letter to Sir William included the phrase “no one could do better leading this company.”

“Do you think so?” As they faced each other at the base of the inn’s staircase, he wished they had stopped in full daylight so he could study every shading of her face.

“Of course I do. I wouldn’t lie to your father.” She sounded shocked, which amused him.

For a moment. “Thank you. But you’d better moderate your language or he’ll assume you’re being satirical.”

“Secretaries,” she began, and he knew what was coming next. He finished the sentence with her: “are never satirical.”

He caught her grin, reflecting it back. “What about women with green ribbons? Or red flowers in their hair?”

She shook her uncovered head. “They might manage a bit of satire if something suitable comes to mind. But I am just a secretary for now, Nathaniel.”

“You are never
just
a secretary,” he replied.

“Right now I am.” She caught the newel post in one hand and turned to mount the stairs. “But I think…I will not always be. Don’t you?”

Today he didn’t dare watch her walk away from him. After a comment like that, he just might try to follow her.