Nina Coombs Pykare (4 page)

  Beside her, Cassie and Cammie, their heads encased in diminutive bonnets to keep their complexions from the sun, endeavored to walk demurely, though now and then a little skip in their step gave evidence that they were very excited.

“You see,” explained Cassie, “we’ve had the pony a long time. Since Christmas. But there’s been nobody to drive us.”

“Why not?” asked Jennifer, rather certain that she wouldn’t like the answer. “Couldn’t one of the grooms drive you?”

Cammie shook her dark head. “Mortimer was bad.”

Ahead of them, Mortimer was out of earshot and so Jennifer asked, “Bad? How?”

Cassie made a face. “He played tricks on the grooms. Put burrs in their beds - or frogs.”

“I can see why the grooms did not like that,” replied Jennifer, carefully keeping all amusement out of her voice.

“Yes,” agreed Cammie. “That’s not nice. He did it to me once.”

By this time they had reached the stable and Mortimer was cavorting around the pony, much to the disgust of the grooms. “Mortimer! Come out from under that pony’s stomach,” cried Jennifer, forgetting for a moment that a governess should always remain calm. “Or we will
not
go for any ride - today or ever.”

  Mortimer moved out from under the pony’s stomach with obvious reluctance. “The pony won’t
hurt
me,” he said with a wrinkle of his freckled nose. “I’ve been around horses all my life.”

“That may be quite true,” replied Jennifer, having regained her equanimity. “But the pony has not been around boys all its life.”

This logic seemed to make some impression on Mortimer; at least he did not return to his position under the pony.

“She’s a gentle ‘un, she is, Miss,” said one of the grooms as Jennifer saw the girls helped into the back seat of the cart. “But she don’t like the whip none.” He nodded toward that instrument which waved gracefully in its socket.

“I don’t think it necessary to whip a horse,” said Jennifer. “A good animal will always respond to good treatment.”

“Right you are, Miss.” The groom smiled. “Master said as you’d be riding the little mare, too. Her name is Ladyfingers. A neat little mare. This pony be called Red Rust.”

“Thank you,” said Jennifer, accepting his help to mount into the cart. “I expect we shall be gone for several hours. It looks like a lovely day.”

“It do indeed, Miss. A nice ride to you.”

  Jennifer, gathering up the reins with a steady hand that did not at all reflect the unsteady condition of her nerves, gave him a smile. Then she lifted the reins and the pony ambled off.

As she guided the pony down the lane Jennifer began to feel a little more relaxed. Red Rust seemed quite willing to respond to her handling of the reins. The spring sky was a brilliant blue laced only occasionally with a white fluffy cloud. Here and there bright clumps of daffodils nodded in the breeze. She sniffed their delightful fra-grance.

Jennifer was very much aware of a desire to throw off her bonnet and feel the warm breeze in her hair. But, being mindful of her charges, she resisted the temptation.

When consulted in the matter of their education, the girls’ mother had waved her scent-filled, lace-edged handkerchief in a languid hand and declared, “I know nothing of these matters. That is why we sent for you. Just turn them out to be suitable brides for young lords and I shall be satisfied.”

But, when she discovered that her darlings were to be outdoors, in what she called the “vicious sunlight” she insisted that their arms and hands be protected by gloves and their bonnets worn at all times.

  Since this was the only restriction Mrs. Parthemer had put upon their education, Jennifer felt it politic to accede to her wishes. Bonnets and gloves were a small price to pay for the freedom and health that being outdoors could give them.

As the pony continued to amble peacefully along, the girls in the back seat began to chatter happily. “We’ve never been this far from home,” said Cassie with enthusiasm.

“Oh, Miss Jennifer,” cried little Cammie. “It’s so nice since you came. We never did things like this before.”

“We’ll do lots of things now, Cammie. But we will do lessons too.” Jennifer smiled. “Don’t jostle around on the seat too much, girls. We don’t want to make the pony

nervous.”

“Yes, Miss Jennifer,” came the voices from behind her.

“This summer,” continued Jennifer, “we will ask cook to pack a lunch for us and we will eat it on the seashore.”

“Oh! Oh!” came a chorus of muted delight from behind her.

During the whole of the ride Mortimer had been silent. Several times he had leaned rather precariously over the edge of the cart, but Jennifer, wise in the ways of small boys, pretended not to notice. Excessive coddling would be much more damaging to Mortimer than a few tumbles.

They reached a stretch of road that ran between an open meadow on one side and a small coppice on the other. “Let’s run the pony,” said Mortimer. “That would be great fun.”

Jennifer shook her head. “We cannot do that today, Mortimer. Perhaps we will run Red Rust another time.”

  “I want to run now,” sulked Mortimer.     

  “Mortimer, a gentleman does not pout.”

  “I ain’t no gentleman,” cried Mortimer angrily. “You can’t make me be a gentleman.” And with that he grabbed the whip from its socket and, before Jennifer could move to stop him, lashed at the peacefully ambling pony.

  With a lurch that almost threw the girls to the floor of the cart, the pony bolted. Jennifer battled the pony with one hand while with the other she fought to get the whip away from the excited boy. The two of them bounced around on the seat. Finally she succeeded in wresting the whip from his grasp. Then she thrust him down on the floor of the cart and gave her full attention to the panic-ridden pony. Driving was not like riding, the pony had the bit between her teeth and nothing Jennifer could do seemed to help. From behind her came shrieks and strangled sobs, evidence at least, that the girls were still in the cart. It seemed that the only thing to do was to wait out the pony. Eventually she would tire and have to slow down.

“Girls,” she called back to them. “Just hang on. We’ll be all right.”

There was no answer, but the sobs subsided a little. At Jennifer’s feet Mortimer, his face white beneath his freckles, huddled abjectly.

Suddenly there was the sound of pound-ing hooves. Something flashed by Jennifer. She had the merest glimpse of a man, she could see only a shock of fair hair as he leaned over and grabbed the pony’s reins. Then Red Rust was being slowed to a walk. In another moment the cart came to a standstill. For a few moments Jennifer was quite occupied. She pulled Mortimer up from the floor, dusted him off, and put him on the seat beside her. Then she turned to the girls. “Cassie, Cammie, are you all right?”

The sobs diminished and gradually stopped. “Yes, yes, Miss Jennifer. We’re... we’re all right.” It was Cassie who answer-ed, her arm wrapped protectively around her little sister.

Assured that the children were all well, Jennifer turned back to their benefactor. She found herself being regarded by a pair of grey eyes. “I... I must thank you, Sir.”

The grey eyes twinkled and he smiled at her pleasantly. “I am glad to be of service.”

Jennifer managed a smile of her own. “You were a great deal of service,” she said. “And I am afraid that you lost your beaver in the process.”

The fair-haired man shrugged, his broad shoulders lifting his carefully tailored coat. “Beavers are more easily replaced than people. I hope your charges have come to no harm.”

“I believe not. The children are merely frightened. The pony was doing quite well actually, but she is whip-shy and was startled.”

Jennifer was suddenly very much aware that Mortimer was eyeing the stranger closely. She did not want to embarrass the boy by laying the runaway at his door.

“You might have left the whip at home,” said the stranger. “This is not exactly a racing rig.”

“Yes, I know,” replied Jennifer. “It was stupid of me not to think of that.”

“Perhaps in the future you should ask a groom to drive
for
you,” suggested the stranger sternly.

  Jennifer felt herself bristling up a little. After all, the runaway had not been her fault. They had been getting along just fine until Mortimer grabbed the whip. But of course, this stranger had no way of knowing that.

“I will keep that in mind,” she replied calmly.

“Indeed, you should.  Inexperienced drivers should not go about endangering the lives of others.”

Jennifer took this reprimand, too, in silence. Whoever this man was he evi-dently felt some annoyance with her.

“It ain’t her fault,” cried Mortimer suddenly, rising to his feet to confront the stranger. “I done it. I wanted to run. I... I didn’t know the pony would bolt.”

The stranger cast a grim look at Mor-timer and then suddenly he smiled, a smile that brightened his whole face and twinkled in his eyes. “I am pleased to see that you are a gentleman,” he said, “one who takes responsibility for his own actions.”

Mortimer fell silent, frightened no doubt by his own bravery.

The stranger smiled at Jennifer and now there were flecks of brown in his eyes. “I am sure that you will be able to handle the pony now. She seems to have settled down. But since I am going in the same direction, perhaps you will allow me to accompany you for a space.”

  “That would be most kind of you,” replied Jennifer. “If you are sure it will not put you out of your way.”

“I am quite sure that it will not. My errand takes me along this road and I shall be pleased to have some company.”

“Then we should be pleased to have yours, Sir.” Jennifer was suddenly remembering that this smiling man was not one of the gay young men who had come to visit Papa. And, more importantly, she was no longer the eligible daughter of a naval officer, but a governess. And this man, she saw from the cut of his coat as he swung down to retrieve his curly-brimmed beaver, was quite probably a member of the
ton.
Beside him poor Ingleton would look exactly what he was -a faulty imitation.

“Perhaps,” said the stranger, as he remounted his stallion, a beautiful black beast, “perhaps we should introduce ourselves. Our method of meeting was rather unconventional, but certainly effective.”

Jennifer could not help responding to the smile in those grey eyes. “I am Jennifer Whitcomb, governess to the Parthemer children - Mortimer here, and Cassandra and Camilla in the back seat.”

The stranger nodded to each of the children in turn. “And I am Andrew, Viscount Haverford.”

Jennifer could not quite keep the shock of surprise from her face. So this was Ingleton’s monster!

“Are you ill?” the Viscount inquired with concern.

“No,” she replied and without thinking added, “it is only that you are not as I expected.” As soon as the words left her mouth she perceived her error, but then it was too late.

“You have heard of me,” said the Vis-count, raising a quizzical eyebrow.

Jennifer nodded.

“And what you heard does not correspond with what you see.”

She nodded again.

“Perhaps I can guess where your information came from,” he continued with a cynical smile that quite changed his whole face.

“I... I cannot say.”

“Indeed, it is not necessary that you should. The person in question is well known to me. And I am well aware how he regards me.”

  Jennifer hesitated. The Viscount was obviously not all that Ingleton had said. But she had little reason to doubt that Ingleton’s hatred for him was quite intense. “Perhaps,” she ventured, “you should beware. Certain people fancy that they have grievances against you.”

The  Viscount shrugged his broad shoulders. “I can take care of myself. And now, perhaps we should continue on our journey.”

As they moved off down the road together Jennifer was aware that the sensible thing to do was to invent an excuse and turn the pony around. The Viscount recalled her all too vividly to the days when she had confidently expected to marry some bright young officer. But that was the past and the past was best forgotten. Papa’s “friend” had gamed away their substance, include-ing the dowry that would have made her an eligible connection. Now she was merely a penniless servant.

“You are quiet,” remarked Haverford, interrupting this train of thought. “I hope the runaway did you no harm.”

“No, no, I am quite all right. I was thinking of a time in the past, that is all. Tell me, Milord, is there easy access to the seashore from this road? I wish to give the children some lessons in ocean lore.”

  His lordship’s eyes twinkled. “I, too, am fascinated by the sea. Up ahead is a crossroads. If you take the left fork, it will bring you after some time to a path that slopes down to the sea. The pony must be left above, of course.”

“Thank you,” Jennifer replied, trying not to return the Viscount’s smile and quite failing. “The children and I plan to have a picnic there sometime soon.”

“You should enjoy it famously,” said Haverford. “The smell of the salt air and the beauty of the water....” His eyes took on a strange look. “A man may become enamored of the sea, almost as he might of a beautiful, moody woman.”

His lordship’s eyes rested on Jennifer so long that she felt herself begin to color up and turned hastily to survey the girls in the back seat. Cassie had straightened their bonnets and now both girls sat primly, their gloved hands folded in their laps. But their dark eyes danced with questions and she turned hastily back.

“We are approaching the crossroad that I mentioned,” remarked Haverford, his eyes not seeming to register her heightened color. “And unless you are intending to take the right fork I must leave you here.”

  Temptation reared its ugly head and Jennifer considered going in whatever direction the Viscount was headed. But common sense came to the fore and pushed temptation back into the mud from which it had struggled forth. “I expect that it is time we turned homeward again,” she said. “Cook will be having a luncheon prepared for us. And there are still lessons to do.”

The Viscount halted his stallion and Red Rust stopped too. “Though I do not call at Seven Elms, I expect that I shall see you upon occasion, particularly if you should spend much time driving or at the sea-shore.”