Joan Wolf (2 page)

“If you don’t get home soon, you’ll miss your dinner,” an amused voice said from what seemed a great distance, and I opened my eyes. An enormous shadow towered over me and I blinked in alarm and sat up.

“I’m not going to eat you, lad,” the voice said mildly, and my vision cleared and I recognized Mr. Fitzallan.

“You—you startled me,” I said defensively. Then, rather belatedly, “Sir.”

“I’m sorry.” He sat down next to me, and for the first time I noticed that he carried a gun and a game bag.

“How are you getting on, Valentine?” he asked. He put his gun down next to him and turned clear, sky-blue eyes on my face.

“Very well, thank you, sir,” I replied politely. He raised an eyebrow and I felt a stab of worry. “Have—have there been any complaints?”

“No. No complaints.” His blue eyes were steady on my face.

“That’s good. I’ve been trying very hard to please.”

“Too hard, perhaps.”

“Sir?”

“You’re not accustomed to this sort of life, are you?”

“What do you mean?” I spoke cautiously.

“Your speech,” he said simply. “You speak like a gentleman.”

It was so obvious and I had not thought of it. Stupid. I hoped my dismay did not show on my face. I was thinking furiously.

“My father was a gentleman,” I finally said. “But he died a few months ago. There was no money and I had to earn my living. The only thing I know how to do is work with horses.” All of this information was perfectly accurate, as far as it went.

“Your mother?”

“She died nine years ago.”

“And you have no other family? No uncles or cousins to assist you?”

“No.”

“And do you plan to remain the remainder of your life a groom?”

I shrugged. “I haven’t gotten around to thinking about the rest of my life.”

“I see.” Then he leaned over and took my left wrist in his hand and held my hand out, palm upward. It was depressingly blistered. I bit my lip.

“I haven’t complained,” I said. “I do my work.”

The big fingers on my wrist were strong but surprisingly gentle. Next to his hand mine looked absurdly small. He let my wrist go and I immediately clasped both my hands around my knees, effectively hiding the blisters.

“I know you do your work,” he said quietly. “Hutchins tells me you are thorough and conscientious. He also says you ride like an angel.”

I flushed with surprise. The only time Hutchins ever spoke to me was to issue orders. Mr. Fitzallan’s words filled me with warm pleasure. I was doing a good job. I was succeeding.

I looked up at him. “There,” I said. “You see?”

His eyelids flickered a little. “No, I don’t see. I don’t see how such an obviously gently bred boy could find himself in such an unprotected position. Didn’t your father leave a will? Surely you have a guardian.”

“I don’t.”

“Then you must be running away.”

I stared straight ahead of me. “If I am not giving satisfaction, sir,” I said tonelessly, “I will be on my way.”

There was a long silence during which I did not look at him.

‘ ‘All right,’’ he said at last.  "Have it your way. I can’t in all conscience turn such an innocent out to walk the world.”

I felt a little insulted to be called an innocent, but gratitude was my primary emotion. “I assure you, sir,” I said earnestly, “I have told you the truth. My father is dead and there is no one alive who wants me.”

He gave me a shrewd look. “Ah, but that is not what I asked you,” he said. When I didn’t answer, he rose to his feet. “Come. I’ll walk back to the castle with you. We’ll make it just in time for your dinner.”

* * * *

The following day Hutchins told me that the two hunters were to be given to another lad; I was to work only with Saladin. “Mr. Fitzallan wants him fit for his lordship to ride,” Hutchins told me. His expressionless face gave me no clue as to his feelings.

“Yes, sir.” There is no denying that I felt a sense of relief at the thought of being out from under all that hard physical labor. I just hoped my easy lot wouldn’t make me universally hated in the servants’ hall.

It didn’t. At first I found it strange that no one seemed to resent my light schedule, but it soon became clear that the servants had divined the same thing as Mr. Fitzallan. They knew I wasn’t one of them. I was Quality, and therefore it was perfectly all right for me to draw the same wage as they and yet do one quarter of the work. I rather thought their attitude was a sad comment on the English class system, but I forbore to point this out in the kitchen.

Life settled down into quite a pleasant routine. Lord Leyburn wasn’t expected home for over a month and so I had a good deal of time to become comfortably ensconced in his home. The cook, Mrs. Scone, was a motherly soul who decided it was her duty in life to fatten me up. The stable lads taught me how to throw dice and I soon became very good at it. And one or two mornings a week Mr. Fitzallan requested me to accompany him on his morning ride.

On these occasions I rode one of Lord Leyburn’s hunters, and at first I was wary with Mr. Fitzallan, afraid he would try to probe into what I did not want him to know. But he was easygoing and pleasant and seemed disposed to talk about any subject I introduced. I soon found myself relaxing in his company.

I liked him very much. There was a kindness in his eyes and a humorous look to his mouth that was very attractive.

“Are you Lord Leyburn’s first cousin?” I asked curiously one day as we rode over the empty moor with the curlews crying overhead.

“No. My father and his father were first cousins. But both Diccon and I were only children and we grew up like brothers. I’ve lived here at Carlton since I left school.”

“It must be exciting to belong to a family so famous in history.” The wind blew my hair back from my forehead and I looked around me with satisfaction.

“I suppose. Sometimes it can be rather stifling, though.”

I looked at him curiously. “How do you mean?” Gradually I had been dropping the “sir” that had originally punctuated all my comments to him.

“The Fitzallans live too much in the past,” he said frankly. “They haven’t approved of a monarch since King Richard was killed at Bosworth Field, and ever since then they have sulked here in the north, minding their own affairs and ignoring London.”

“King Richard?” I said incredulously. “Do you mean Richard the Third?  The hunchback?”

His handsome face looked suddenly stem. “Don’t ever say that here in the north. Here he is ‘good King Richard’ and still beloved in memory. The eldest son of the Earl of Leyburn is always christened Richard in his memory.”

This was astonishing news. “But Shakespeare ...” I began.

“Shakespeare lived under a Tudor sovereign,” he said. “It was in his interest to vilify Richard.” I still felt unconvinced and he laughed. “I shouldn’t advise you to look like that around Lord Leyburn. He can get quite violent on the subject of King Richard.”

“But Bosworth Field happened in the fifteenth century,” I protested.

“I know.” He sighed. “That is precisely what I mean about living in the past. The world around us is changing dramatically, and we should be more aware of where we are going than where we’ve been.”

“Yes,” I said. “Why, in my own short lifetime I’ve seen two revolutions.”

“And what were they, Valentine?” he asked gently. I looked at him and there was a long pause. “I’m not trying to catch you out,” he said even more gently than before.

“No one is looking for me,” I said tensely. “I swear it.”

“I believe you.”

I took a deep breath. “My father was in the army,” I said. “We were in Ireland in ‘98. And in the Peninsula just recently. Papa was killed in Sir John Moore’s retreat.”

“I’m very sorry.”

I felt an uncomfortable hard knot in my chest. “Thank you,” I mumbled.

After a minute he changed the subject and gratefully I followed his lead. I didn’t know what had led me to admit so much to him, but I wasn’t sorry I had. He was a man to trust. I was very fortunate to have come under his charge.

Chapter 3

The night after my conversation with Mr. Fitzallan I retired to my room early. I needed to do some thinking.

I pulled my boots off, cleaned them with an old cloth, and put them on the floor next to the wardrobe. Next I took off my shirt and examined it in the light of the candle. It would have to be washed. Then I untied the wide muslin sash that I had been using to bind my breasts. They were looking fuller than they had been; it seemed all of Mrs. Scone’s good food had been going on in one place. I took off my breeches, hung them in the wardrobe, and pulled a nightshirt over my head. Then I got into bed under the covers. The April night was chilly.

I put my hands behind my head and stared at the ceiling. I was at a crossroad, I thought. If I stayed here at Carlton Castle, I was quite likely to be found out. Whereas if I left... I was quite likely to be found out that way too, I thought dismally. What had seemed a brilliant idea at the time, disguising myself as a boy and getting a job in a stable, had proved to have distinct flaws.

In point of fact, it had been an idiotic idea. The only reason I had been successful was because Mr. Fitzallan had immediately spotted me as a fraud and had taken pity on me. Oh, I didn’t think he had tumbled to the fact that I was a girl, but he knew just about everything else.

I was not, strictly speaking, running away. My grandparents had never expressed the slightest interest in my welfare and, as far as I knew, would welcome me about as warmly as they would welcome the bubonic plague. They would, however, provide for me. Papa had been quite firm on that point. If anything happened to him, I was to go to Mama’s parents.

My mother’s parents were the Earl and Countess of Ardsley. Mother was their only child, and when she had run away with Papa, her parents had disowned her. Papa wasn’t grand enough for them. They had had a marquis in mind for Mama, not the son of a poor country parson.

My feeling was that if Papa wasn’t good enough for them, then I wasn’t good enough either. I knew that Colonel Lennox, Papa’s commanding officer, had promised Papa that he would see I was safely united with my grandparents, so before he could put this delightful scheme into practice, I had decamped. My emotions had been rather in a muddle at the time, and it had seemed a good idea. Now I wasn’t so sure.

I was eighteen years old. For how long could I realistically pretend to be a fifteen-year-old boy?

But if I told Mr. Fitzallan the truth, he would ship me off to my grandparents. And I still had very negative feelings about those two. They had never even written to Mama. Without ever having met them, I disliked them thoroughly.

Of course, if I refused to tell Mr. Fitzallan my true name, there was little likelihood of his being able to trace who I was. In effect, he would be stuck with me.

Unaccountably, my spirits lifted. Poor Mr. Fitzallan, I thought unrepentantly. And grinned.

I blew out the candle and settled down into my pillow. As I was drifting off to sleep, a very disturbing thought jarred my tranquility. Mr. Fitzallan did not own Carlton Castle. It was the Earl of Leyburn I would have to deal with. And that prospect was not so pleasant.

* * * *

The earl arrived home the following week. The household had been expecting him for two days, and when his curricle appeared in the stable yard, there was a flurry of subdued activity. Mr. Fitzallan, who had been watching me work Saladin in the large paddock, moved instantly to greet his cousin.

“Diccon! How wonderful to have you back,” he called.

I pulled the stallion up and looked curiously at the man swinging down from the carriage. He was very dark. I would have taken him for a Spaniard had I not known who he was. His hair was soot-black and worn longer than I was accustomed to see in the army. He looked as if he were deeply suntanned, although May was much too early in the year to account for that color. He was not as tall as Mr. Fitzallan and not as massively built. The two men stood for a moment in conversation and then began moving my way. I felt my heart begin to beat faster.

“Here is your new horse, Diccon,” Mr. Fitzallan was saying. “He was delivered by the boy who is presently on his back.”

Richard Fitzallan raised his head and looked at me. His eyes were as dark as his hair. He had the face of an archangel.

“So,” he said coolly, “you are able to ride this hellion?”

“Yes, my lord,” I stammered.

The earl’s eyes narrowed. “And who are you?” he asked.

“My name is Valentine Brown, my lord,” I said with some dignity.

Lord Leyburn’s eyes held none of the gentleness of Mr. Fitzallan’s. “Valentine Brown.  Of
course. That explains everything.” He looked amused. “Well, go on, Valentine Brown. Let’s see what you can do with him.”

I looked questioningly at Mr. Fitzallan. “Go on, Valentine,” he said quietly. “Just do as you were doing earlier.”

I nodded and turned Saladin along the rail. We began to canter. After a few minutes I ventured to glance at Lord Leyburn. He was watching Saladin intently and after another minute he called to me to pull up.

“Thank you,” he said to me. “I’ll be along to ride him in the morning.” Then he turned to Mr. Fitzallan. “Come up to the house with me, Ned. I could use a glass of wine.”

Mr.   Fitzallan   smiled   at   his   cousin affectionately. “You must tell me how everything went,” he said.

The two men walked up the path to the castle.

I spent the rest of the day worrying about tomorrow morning. “I’ll ride him,” Lord Leyburn had said so casually. The question was, Would he?

I didn’t know what to hope for, what to think. If he rode Saladin, there would be no more use for me. If he didn’t, he might decide I was useless as well. After all, he had bought the stallion as a mount for himself, not for me.

I put no trust in the earl’s compassion as I had in his cousin’s. Those disturbingly dark eyes had looked very hard. He reminded me of someone, but I couldn’t place who it was. It bothered me all evening, and then, just before I fell asleep, some lines of poetry popped into my head: