Friends and Foes (7 page)

“I’d like to know that myself,” Sorrel mumbled.

“Now, which way to your room?” Fennel asked as they climbed more stairs. “I am certain you wish to change.”

“Another flight, I am afraid,” Sorrel said. “Then down the corridor to the left.”

Her hip ached horribly by the time they completed the climb. She had twisted or at least bruised it in that embarrassing fall in the garden. Why couldn’t Lord Lampton have stayed inside like any normal person? She’d gone out in the morning hoping the rest of the household would stay in until the weather warmed a bit. She’d hoped to work out the kinks in her joint without anyone witnessing such obvious evidence of the state in which life had put her.

“Any idea where I am being deposited?” Fennel asked as they neared the door of Sorrel’s room.

“You’ve been given a few options, I believe. There is a room in this wing where Mother and Marjie and I are staying. Or you can choose a room one floor down in the same wing as the Jonquils. I think Lady Cavratt thought you would enjoy some male company.”

Fennel silently walked Sorrel to the powder blue settee and stood nearby until Sorrel had managed to lower herself onto it. He then strode with all the self-assurance of a fifteen-year-old to the bell pull beside the mantel and gave it a tug.

“You should go have some tea,” Sorrel said. “I am certain you must be famished.”

Fennel laughed. “I am always famished.”

“I know.”

“So good to see you again, Sorrel.” Fennel smiled sincerely. He waved before disappearing through the door.

Sorrel let out a deep, tired breath. She missed Fennel when he was away at school. He alone chose to neither avoid her entirely nor treat her like a useless child. Fennel treated her just the way he always had, except that he became a bit more solicitous when he thought it necessary. He had kept his arm around her shoulder to help her up the stairs when her hip gave her trouble or stayed nearby as she struggled to sit down. He helped but never forced that assistance on her.

Why couldn’t more people be like Fennel?

“’Ow was yer walk, Miss Sorrel?” Jenny, her abigail, asked, entering into the room. “Feelin’ any better?”

“I accomplished nothing except falling on my backside.” Sorrel rubbed her aching hip.

“An’ I am that sorry ’bout it, too, miss.” Jenny smiled. “How’s about a nice warm bath?”

“That would be wonderful, Jenny.”

Twenty minutes later, soaking in a tub of refreshingly warm water, hair pinned up to keep it dry, Sorrel closed her eyes and tried to calm her weary mind. Why did nothing in life unfold the way it ought?

She and Lizzie had spoken again and again during that Season long ago in London about the lives they intended to lead, the desperate love they meant to inspire in the hearts of their future husbands, the envy such devotion from two top-of-the-trees gentlemen would inflict upon the other young ladies of the
ton
. Sorrel had before dreamed only of a happy life with an agreeable gentleman. Lizzie had inspired her to new heights during those months of fast friendship.

Now Lizzie lived those very dreams. And Sorrel? Sorrel had learned quite quickly not to dream.

She shifted in the fast-cooling water, her hip aching as much as ever. She’d have to end her bath soon—tepid waters seemed to make the stiffness more profound.

For not the first time, Sorrel contemplated settling in Bath, where warm waters and a bevy of physicians could surely render her life a little less miserable. The average age in Bath must have been nearly seventy. Had she disintegrated so very much? Her future reduced to a lifetime of socializing with people fifty years her senior?

Sorrel clenched her jaw against a sudden rush of emotion. Why must life be so exceedingly unfair? Once she’d been hopeful, optimistic. Hard experience, however, had taught her that dreams, especially dreams of happiness, did not come true. Not for her.

Philip had watched Fennel Kendrick’s attentions to Sorrel with a great deal of approval. Sorrel was all prickles and spines where everyone else was concerned. Yet young Mr. Kendrick had stood with an affectionate arm around his sister’s shoulder for the course of an entire conversation.

Philip had but offered his hand to help her up from the muddy ground in the gardens, and she’d rebuffed
him
as though he’d offered her maggoty mutton.

He didn’t think young Kendrick’s attentions were more acceptable simply because they had come from a relative. Sorrel had waved off Miss Marjie’s concerns on more than one occasion.

What had Sorrel said about her brother? He saw “far more than one realizes.” So what did Fennel “see” that afforded him such geniality with his sister?

Suddenly realizing the direction of his thoughts, Philip shook himself and turned his attention back to his tea. Of what possible benefit could it serve to know how Fennel had gained his sister’s trust? Philip had no desire to be counted among Sorrel’s friends. Did he?

“Fennel,” Charlie called out enthusiastically. Philip looked up to watch the youngest Kendrick enter the room as Charlie continued. “Come have a sandwich. Lord Cavratt’s cook sent them up special for the weary travelers.” He finished with a chuckle and a feigned look of suffering.

Mater laughed lightheartedly as she always did when Charlie acted theatrical.

“Did you find your beloved sister?” Charlie asked Fennel between mouthfuls with a smile that said they had discussed the Kendricks during their journey.

“I did,” Fennel said.

“And had she fallen ill as you had feared?”

Fennel shook his head and smiled. “She had, in fact, fallen. But not ill. Sorrel emerged from the out of doors decidedly muddy.”

Fennel and Charlie laughed, and Philip found himself chuckling along with them. His reaction seemed to catch Fennel’s attention, as the young man chose a seat near Philip.

“My sister did not actually tell you my name was Poppy, did she?” Fennel smiled broadly over his cup of tea.

“She did not.”

“You were teasing her, then?”

“I suppose.”

“I am glad of it,” Fennel said, his expression sobering somewhat. “Sorrel needs teasing. She needs someone who does not think she is . . . fragile.”

“Fragile?” Philip sputtered. “Your sister is about as fragile as the foundations of this very house. I doubt I have ever met a female less fragile than Miss Kendrick.”

Fennel’s expression grew far too insightful for a fifteen-year-old. “May I trust you to be honest with me, Lord Lampton?”

“Of course.”

“Do you think my sister is . . . contentious?”

“Contentious?”

“Unapproachable? Unfeeling, perhaps?”

“I . . .” Philip hesitated. An honest answer would require a great deal of tact. “Miss Kendrick is far from
un
feeling. She seems to have little trouble communicating her feelings. In my experience, those feelings are not overly tender nor gentle.”

Fennel sobered further at the description, and Philip wondered for a moment if he had offended the lad. “She was not always that way, my lord,” he said rather regretfully. “I don’t mean to imply that she ever simpered or anything, but she was not so . . . bitter.”

Philip shifted awkwardly in his seat. Such private information was seldom imparted to strangers.

“I am grateful you and she have formed some sort of friendship.” Fennel took a generous bite of his sandwich. “She would strangle me for saying so,” Fennel said after swallowing, “but Sorrel is in desperate need of a friend. One who does not think of her as an invalid.”

The invalid did not make an appearance downstairs until dinner. Her absence had given Philip the opportunity to ponder Fennel’s intriguing evaluation of his sister’s situation. Fennel described his sister in terms that sounded lonely and vulnerable. General Sorrel? Vulnerable? Perhaps brotherly affection had tinted Fennel’s vision of her.

The wilting flower arrived for the evening meal every bit as standoffish as she’d ever been. She remained polite but withdrawn amongst the company in general. For Philip she hardly spared a glance. If he didn’t know better, Philip would think he had offended her. That hardly seemed likely. They hadn’t spoken more than a handful of words, and he’d said nothing provoking.

“Friends,” Crispin’s voice carried across the drawing room. “My wife has agreed to indulge her poor-mannered husband and grant a particular request of mine.”

Philip felt a smile sneak across his face. What was Crispin up to?

“I have never been one for the strictures of society when among friends and family,” Crispin went on.

That was doing it a bit brown, Philip thought. Crispin usually held rigorously to the rules of society. It had always seemed to Philip something of a defensive mechanism.

“So, rather than insist we proceed to our meal according to rank and other such nonsense, I would invite you to simply choose a partner and proceed.”

A general murmur of approval passed through the room. Philip kept his gaze on Crispin and Catherine. No sooner had the announcement been made than Catherine, cheeks flushed, offered what appeared to be a thank-you to her husband. Not one to let curiosity go unacknowledged, Philip made his way to where the host couple stood.

“Bad form, Crispin,” Philip said with a drawl. “If you had wanted to accompany your wife rather than force her to hang on my arm, I would have gladly obliged you.”

Catherine blushed more deeply and Crispin chuckled. “I
was
rather desperate to have Catherine sit beside me.”

“You’ve been married more than two months,” Philip pretended to scold. “Certainly you’ve grown weary of each other’s company by now.”

“Not remotely,” Crispin answered and kissed Catherine’s hand, causing her cheeks to burn crimson.

Philip chuckled as he bowed and turned back to the room in general to claim a companion for supper. Stanley, as always, had sought Miss Marjie Kendrick’s company. Jason was deep in conversation with Mater. Corbin, he could see, seemed headed in Sorrel’s direction.

A strange desire to land his brother a facer suddenly seized Philip. Unable to make sense of the sensation, Philip did his best to dismiss it as he hurried across the room. “Miss Kendrick.” Philip dipped his head to her. “Might I accompany you in to supper?”

She simply stared back, her eyebrows snapped in concentration as though his words made no sense.

“I promise not to offer to assist you in any way,” Philip replied dryly.

Any other woman would have laughed at the witty rejoinder, or at least have taken offense at a perceived slight. Sorrel seemed almost relieved by it, and, as though that were the only situation under which she would have done so, she accepted his offered hand. He quite suddenly became aware of the fact that Sorrel smelled of limes.
The crisp, slightly tart scent matches her quite well,
he thought.
Nothing overly sweet or soft for a warrior!

“Mr. Kendrick,” Philip heard Charlie spout in an exaggeratedly deferential tone. Philip turned to see Charlie bowing deeply beside Fennel. “Would you walk in to dinner beside me. It seems there are no ladies for the Nursery Set.”

“Of course, my good man.” Fennel bowed back, equally overdone.

The two walked from the room with an air of self-importance that would have put Brummel to shame. Philip offered his arm to Sorrel and caught the last remnants of a smile on her face.

“Charlie and Fennel seem to have become fast friends,” Philip observed. “Neither should be lonely during the holiday.”

“I should hope not.” Sorrel’s expression turned suddenly somber. “I would not wish loneliness on my worst enemy.”

She did not speak another full sentence for the remainder of the evening. Her reticence held through the next day, and the day after that.

Philip decided Sorrel’s lack of conversation did not indicate that he had come out victorious in their battle. Rather, he felt certain she was either avoiding him or was upset. He found, to his surprise, that both possibilities bothered him.

*   *   *

She wasn’t avoiding him nor was she upset. Sorrel told herself so for the hundredth time, it seemed, four days after her ill-timed fall in the gardens. She simply didn’t like the man. Philip Jonquil was arrogant. And vain. Self-absorbed. Shallow. Handsome.

Sorrel admitted the last fact with a sigh of resignation. How could a woman
not
notice hair the color of gold, eyes the color of a summer sky, and a tall, lean form? Of course, he was also a dandy of the worst sort. The man had worn a teal jacket and deep orange waistcoat to supper the night before. Who
thinks
of such a combination let alone
wears
it?

She let out a breath, which instantly condensed in the air before her, and continued her slow, lopsided walk to the stables.

She had come to the stables every morning since arriving at Kinnley a week earlier. Each day she ventured further inside. Lady Cavratt, who had asked Sorrel to call her Catherine, had offered Sorrel the use of her mare, Fairy Cake, whenever she liked. Sorrel had thanked her but had yet to ride.

Fennel had come upon her only the morning before as she stood gazing at the bay-colored mare. A magnificent-looking animal. At least fifteen hands high. Sleek. Young. Undoubtedly a fine galloper. Sorrel’s heart raced in excitement every time she came to watch the horse.

“She’d give you a good bruising ride,” Fennel had said, startling Sorrel.

“That is precisely what I am afraid of,” Sorrel had replied. “I am bruised enough as it is.”

“Still smarting from your slip the other day?”

Sorrel didn’t reply. She smarted, all right. Her hip hurt. Her backside hurt. Neither, however, had suffered as acutely as her pride. How she loathed looking incompetent!

“You really should consider trotting out on Lady Cavratt’s mount,” Fennel encouraged. “It has been far too long since you rode.”

“I do not want to ride, Fennel.”

“Then you come out here for the witty conversation?” Fennel motioned at the stalls of horses.

“Fennel.”

“The mare’s bound to be a good trotter. Probably a smashing good galloper, too.”

“Watch your language, Fennel.”

“This coming from a lady who can swear like a sailor.” Fennel raised his eyebrow knowingly.

“Yet another reason to spend less time in the stables,” Sorrel replied and made her way back toward the house.

“You didn’t used to be a coward, Sorrel.” Fennel’s voice carried from the stable door.

Sorrel stopped in her tracks: The disappointment in Fennel’s tone cut her to the core. Her brother didn’t say anything else. Eventually they parted in silence.

Those words echoing in her memory, Sorrel watched the bay mare with a touch of anxious excitement. Sorrel wore Marjie’s pale blue riding habit. Pastels did nothing for her complexion. Between the two of them, Marjie had the beauty. She also had the kind, affectionate nature.

Sorrel, on the other hand, had always been the strong one, the brave and daring one. That made Fennel’s declaration hurt more.

She had never been a coward. Dressing that morning, Sorrel had vehemently told herself that she hadn’t lost that distinction. Standing in the stables, though, Sorrel felt like a lily-livered weakling. Fairy Cake made her a touch nervous, but the animal corralled a few stalls down positively terrified her. She hadn’t seen that particular horse in the Kinnley stables before.

The black gelding stomped and jerked impatiently. Its ears twitched and nostrils flared. A white star, perfectly symmetrical and centered on its sleek nose, broke the blackness of its coat. If not for that star, Sorrel would have run, to the degree she could run, straight back into the house and would have given up for good. She’d done little more than stare for fifteen minutes.

“We’d almost given you up, m’lord,” a groom’s voice called out from the far end of the stable.

“Was deucedly cold yesterday morning. I thought today I’d set out later and see if I can return without my rump frozen to the saddle.”

Sorrel recognized Lord Lampton’s voice and felt her jaw tighten. What disparaging remark would he produce that morning? Not that she couldn’t offer a resounding set down of her own. She simply had enough on her platter at the moment without adding his acidic comments.

“’ll you be wantin’ ta saddle Devil’s Advocate yerself, m’lord?”

“As always.”

Sorrel had a difficult time imagining the lazy Earl doing any kind of manual labor, even something as trivial as saddling his own horse. Yet it seemed he did so regularly.

The next moment Lord Lampton, impressive in a dark-green riding coat, strode into sight. He took almost immediate note of Sorrel’s presence, though he did not appear surprised.

“Miss Kendrick.” He offered a bow.

“Lord Lampton.” An awkward curtsy.

“You appear to have decided to ride today.” Lampton’s gaze swept over her, making Sorrel every bit as nervous as the black gelding nickering loudly nearby.

“I am still in contemplation,” Sorrel countered.

Lord Lampton’s eyes seemed to narrow as if he were assessing her.

“Shall I saddle up Fairy Cake fer ya, Miss Kendrick?” the groom who’d followed Lord Lampton offered. “Lady Cavratt gave strict orders ta letcha ride iffen ya ever got the inklin’.”

“I . . . uh . . .” Sorrel hadn’t anticipated retaking a saddle in front of an audience, least of all the overly critical Earl of Lampton: as if the man hadn’t seen her physically defeated already. “Perhaps another day.”

“Actually, Sam,” Lord Lampton stopped the groom. “Saddle up Fairy Cake. I have a feeling Miss Kendrick will mount yet.”

“I do not see how that is any concern of yours,” Sorrel snapped, shifting her weight and grasping her cane tighter. She’d been standing in one place too long and her joints were objecting.

“It probably isn’t,” Lord Lampton replied, stepping confidently into the stall of the midnight-black gelding, rubbing its nose and murmuring soothingly to it.

Sorrel’s breath came a little faster, and her heart pounded at the sight of anyone standing near the overpowering animal. The memory of a black, four-legged form stomping and jerking, its rage-filled eyes rolling back into its black head, came unbidden into her thoughts. She did her best to shake the memory out. Sorrel swiped at a trickle of sweat suddenly running down her forehead.