Joan Wolf (8 page)

I said to Stephen, “Do you have a pony?”

He looked amazed that I should ask such a question, as if in his world ponies were as common as lemonade. He nodded. “His name is Peaches.”

“Peaches?” I asked in amazement.

“He likes peaches.”

“Isn’t that... unusual?” I asked.

“Very,” Stephen said.

He took another big drink of lemonade.

“Do you have a pony, Annabelle?”

I shook my head.

“Well, we shall have to get one for you, then,” he said.

I stopped breathing.

He looked at me a little anxiously. “Are you afraid of horses?”

I shook my head vigorously, and my breathing started up again.

“I have never learned to ride,” I confessed in a constricted little voice. “We always moved too much for me to be able to have a pony.”

I would never tell the earl’s son that my own papa hadn’t been able to afford a pony for me.

“Do you... do you think I might learn?” I asked.

He gave me that amazed look again. “Of course,” he said. “I’ll get Grimes to teach you. He is our head groom, you know, and a good ‘un.”

He must have seen the response in my face, because suddenly he grinned.

The wonder of Stephen’s smile.

I smiled back.

“I have a dog, too,” he said. “He sleeps in my room in the nursery.”

“They
allow
you to have your dog in your bedroom?” I asked in awe. Mama would not even let a dog in the house.

“My mother said I could,” he replied.

I glanced at my own mother. “Your mother sounds nice,” I said.

His lips tightened and he nodded.

“What is your dog’s name?” I asked.

“Rags,” Stephen said.

“Do you think that perhaps
I
could have a dog?” I asked daringly.

“You have to get the right governess,” he said.

We had looked at each other in perfect comprehension, already allies against the grown-up world.

* * * *

It was pain to remember. I leaned back in my chair and shut my eyes and inhaled the scent of the summer night deep into my lungs. An unbridgeable chasm lay between the children I was remembering and the adults we had become. Nothing could give us back our innocence. Nothing could make us Annabelle and Stephen once again.

It wasn’t until I brushed my hand against my cheek that I realized I was crying.

Chapter Six

I took Giles
for a ride early the following morning. Before Gerald died, Giles had been happy to ride in front of me on my horse, but these last months he had insisted on being allowed to ride his pony. For the last few weeks he had not even allowed me to hold a lead line.

“I’m a big boy, Mama.” They were his favorite words. In a few weeks he would be five years old.

We took the ride through the park that went in the direction of the Brighton Road, as Giles wanted to check to see if the unusual bird he had spotted a few days ago was still in the same tree.

It wasn’t.

“I wonder where he is, Mama?” he asked as we walked our horses side by side along the grassy ride. The trees, thick with summer foliage, made a canopy over our heads. Cuckoos called from within the wood, and squirrels raced madly up and down the trees.

“Perhaps he is out searching for seeds, Giles. Or for worms.”

“He was pretty,” Giles said wistfully. “His feathers were all blue. But he wasn’t a bluebird, was he, Mama?”

“I don’t think so. I don’t know what kind of a bird he was, Giles. But I agree that he was very pretty.”

We rode for a few minutes in silence.

Then, “Uncle Stephen is nice, isn’t he, Mama?” Giles said.

“Did you think so?”

“His eyes are the same color as that blue bird’s feathers,” Giles said.

I cleared my throat. “Yes, I suppose they are.”

We were coming out of the park now onto the local road that connected up with the main road to Brighton. Farms lined the northern side of the dirt road; to the south rose the wooded hillside that stood between the valley and the Channel.

These were the farms that belonged to the Earl of Weston and were leased by tenant farmers. August was the time for harvesting, and the fields were filled with people working hard under the early sun. Even the tradesmen from the village pitched in for the harvest.

Giles and I stopped our horses and looked out at the men, women, and children who were cutting their laborious way through the field of billowing wheat. They worked with sickle, reaping hook, fagging hook, and scythe. All of this wheat must be cut by hand and then stacked in sheaves before nightfall. Wheat could not stand unsheaved overnight.

During the war years the wheat crop had represented a substantial amount of money to farmers, but now that the war was over, prices were falling. All of this work would reap less of a reward than it had in the past, and our tenant farmers would likely find themselves considerably less prosperous than they had been.

Topper, my bay gelding, kicked his near hind foot forward, trying to reach a fly that had landed on his belly.

“Let’s go a little farther, Mama,” Giles said, and he trotted his pony forward.

The Washburn farm was the next farm on the road, and I didn’t want to pass it.

“No, Giles, it’s time to go back,” I called to my son. Instead of stopping, however, his pony accelerated from a trot into a canter and then, almost instantly, from a canter into a gallop.

My heart jumped into my throat, and I sent Topper after the pony.

The sound of hoofbeats behind him only spurred the pony to run faster. He was galloping flat out now, with Giles standing in his stirrups, holding on to the pony’s mane.

I passed the pony in two strides, planted Topper’s rear in the pony’s face, and began to slow down. From a gallop we went to a canter from a canter to a trot and then down to a walk. Finally I turned in the saddle to look at Giles.

His eyes were glowing, his expression radiant. “I’ve never gone that fast before, Mama. That was
fun!”

He was, after all, my son.

“You shouldn’t go that fast until you can hold on to your reins and steer,” I said sternly.

“When will I be able to do that? “ he demanded.

“In another year or so, I expect.”

He looked outraged. “Another year?”

“Well, if you practice very hard on keeping your seat, perhaps it will be sooner. Now, let’s turn these horses around.”

But Giles’s eyes were caught by the overgrown fields on the north side of the road. “How come there is nothing growing on this farm, Mama? “ he asked.

“Mr. Washburn, the fanner, is very ill,” I said. “He never got the seed in.”

“Nobody helped him?” Giles asked, clearly surprised. The valley was a small community, and people were in the habit of helping each other out.

“I’m afraid that no one likes Mr. Washburn very much. He is not a very nice man.”

We were still facing west on the road, and now a cart drawn by a cob I didn’t recognize came into sight. As the road dead-ended at Weston Park, the cart’s destination could only be the Mapshaw farm or this derelict one. I resigned myself to the meeting.

The cob pulled up in front of us and Jem Washburn’s face looked into mine. “Miss Annabelle,” he said, and took off his cap. His hair, black as a raven’s wing, was clean and shining in the morning sun. His bony face was a man’s now, not a boy’s, but his deep-set pale blue eyes were the same.

“How are you, Jem?” I said.

“I’m good, thank you.” His eyes moved to Giles, who was regarding him with undisguised curiosity.

“This is my son,” I said. “Giles, this is Mr. Washburn. He used to be a great friend of your uncle Stephen’s when we were children.”

“I am sorry that your papa is sick,” Giles said politely.

Jem shot me a startled look.

“Giles was wondering why there was nothing growing in your fields,” I said. “I told him that your father was sick.”

“He died this morning,” Jem said in a flat voice. “I was just into the village to see the rector.”

“He couldn’t have picked a worse time,” I said frankly. “Everyone is busy with the harvest.”

Jem shrugged. “It won’t matter,” he said. “We’ll bury him tomorrow, and if nobody comes it can’t be helped. He never made friends while he was alive; no reason for folk to put themselves out now that he’s dead.”

Giles’s eyes were huge as he listened to Jem’s cold assessment of his father.

I said, “Stephen came home yesterday. I’ll tell him that you’re here.” I heard the chilly note in my voice, but I couldn’t help it.

Jem’s face was somber. “If he doesn’t want to see me, tell him I’ll understand.”

“Of course he will want to see you,” I said. I shortened my reins and prepared to turn away. “If there is anything we can do for you, you have only to let Adam know.”

His eyes were as cold as my own. “Thanks, but I doubt I’ll need anything from you”—a significant pause—”my lady.”

“Come along, Giles,” I said, and trotted Topper back down the road in the direction of Weston Park. Giles and his pony trotted alongside, and, daunted by what he must have seen on my face, he didn’t ask me another question the entire way back to the stable.

* * * *

The afternoon was very warm, and I decided to take the dogs down to the lake so they could swim. Jasper offered to come with me, and we set off together along the graveled path that led through the acres of landscaped parkland that Capability Brown had created for Gerald’s grandfather on the north side of the house. A herd of over a hundred deer grazed on lush grass beneath clumps of splendid beeches, chestnuts, and oaks. The lake itself was set like a jewel in the midst of this woodland masterpiece. Beyond the lake the land rose gently but inexorably toward the heights of the Downs.

Jasper and I walked to the edge of the water, and Jasper picked up a stick to throw for the dogs. Merlin and Portia panted with anticipation, their eyes glued to the stick. Jasper threw it and both dogs splashed into the water and began to swim. I noted with satisfaction that Jasper could throw much farther than I; the dogs would get a good workout.

The sun was hot, and I was glad of my wide-brimmed straw hat and thin cotton dress.

Jasper was dressed in breeches, boots, and rust-colored coat: correct attire for a country gentleman, but warm for this August afternoon. I said, “If you wish to take off your coat, Jasper, I won’t mind.”

He looked at me and said, “Only if you promise not to tell my mother.”

That made me laugh. “Is this the hero whose courage didn’t flinch in the midst of battle?”

He was sliding his coat from his shoulders. “It is that Mama always manages to look so
disappointed
when one doesn’t live up to her expectations.”

“I shall have to remember that strategy when I am dealing with Giles,” I said.

Portia had retrieved the stick this time, and both dogs came splashing out of the water so she could return it to Jasper and have it thrown again. I held out my hand for his coat, noticing that he did not owe the breadth of his shoulders to any artificial padding as so many of the London dandies did. He gave me the jacket, then once more threw the stick into the water. I folded the coat neatly and put it down at a decent distance from the dogs.

Merlin was the first to reach the stick this time. I watched the twin black heads of my spaniels as they swam toward us, and I said to Jasper, “What will you do now that the war is finished?”

“I don’t know,” he replied soberly.

I looked up at him from beneath the brim of my hat. “For as long as I can remember, Jasper, all you ever wanted was a commission. Have you had enough of it, then?”

There was a dark, brooding look to his Grandville face, an expression that had not been there before the war. He said, “Do you know, Annabelle, I rather think I have. I had enough of it after Burgos, actually. So much death….” He shook his head as if trying to clear it of an ugly vision.

I looked out over the lake. “Yes,” I said. “Too much.”

He said in a roughened voice, “I was so sorry about Gerald, Annabelle.”

“It was a terrible shock,” I said.

“I wished I could have been with you.”

“I appreciated your letter, Jasper. It helped—truly. And your mother and father have been wonderful to me.”

With extreme delicacy, Merlin deposited the stick at Jasper’s feet. Once more he threw it into the lake.

“What will you do if you stop being a soldier?” I asked curiously.

He hesitated. Then he said, “Papa owns a small property in Northamptonshire, and he wants to make it over to me.”

“I didn’t know that Uncle Adam had a property in Northamptonshire,” I said in surprise.

“He came into possession of it only recently. I believe it belonged to a distant cousin of my mother’s. The house is in good repair and there are a few farms attached to it.” A light breeze began to blow off the lake, and it stirred the tawny hair at Jasper’s temples. Stephen was the only Grandville who was not a blond.

“Northamptonshire.” I said the place name with reverence. “Northamptonshire is wonderful hunting country, Jasper.”

“I can’t afford to hunt in the shires, Annabelle,” Jasper said shortly.

I bit my lip, annoyed with myself for being so insensitive. Hunting in the shires was prohibitively expensive. I should have had enough sense to keep my mouth closed.

Jasper was going on, “I’m on indefinite leave presently, so I have time to make up my mind as to what I will do. In the meanwhile, I am going to relax and enjoy my time at home.”

The dogs were back, but Jasper ignored them, turning instead to face me. There were fine wrinkles in the corners of his gray eyes, as if he had spent many hours squinting into the strong Spanish sun, and his skin was lightly tanned. The open collar of his shirt showed the strong, muscled column of his neck.

Here is another one who went away a boy and has returned a man, I thought.

“Weston will always be home to me,” he said a little huskily.

I gave him an unshadowed smile. “We were such happy children,” I said. “Sometimes I wish we could turn back time and all be children again, with nothing more to worry us than how many muffins we could squeeze out of your mother’s cook.”