Marjorie Farrell (14 page)

She walked back around the house to the drive and decided to explore the stables before walking into town. There was a barn some yards down the road on the right, which she presumed to belong to the farm, and she started off. The road was still muddy and wet, and she was glad she had put on an old dress, for her boots and hem were soon splashed brown.

When she got to the old stone barn, she stopped in dismay. The stable yard was muddy, and the building was too dark to be at all inviting. But she heard the soft whickering of a horse, and that drew her, so she picked her way as carefully as she could, all the while shocked at the contrast between this mucky yard and the well-tended stables at Stalbridge.

The barn was larger than it appeared, and held both cows and horses. The stalls, she was relieved to see, were heaped with clean, dry straw. There were only five horses: two heavy farm animals, a gelding and a mare who were obviously for riding, and a carriage horse. As she walked over to the mare, whom she hoped would be suitable for her to ride, she realized she was not alone. Her husband emerged from the gelding’s stall, and they both stood quietly for a moment before Arden rushed in to explain her presence.

“I was interested in exploring my new home. I hope I do not disturb you?”

“Oh, no, I was just saying hello to old friends.” Gareth hooked the stall door and turned to pat the steel-gray muzzle that was pushing into his back. “No more apples, I am afraid,” he said, as the soft-whiskered lips nibbled at his fingers. “Let me introduce you to Guinevere.”

Arden couldn’t help smiling. “So your father was able to give the name to someone.”

“Yes, and there are a few cows with high-sounding names as well,” said Gareth with a grin.

The mare was a liver chestnut, rawboned and at least sixteen hands high, not at all what one would usually consider a lady’s mount.

“She looks rough, I know,” said Gareth, “and you would imagine she’d be an uncomfortable ride, but she has the sweetest mouth and easiest gaits. She is Kate’s, but you are welcome to ride her.”

“Thank you. I was hoping there would be a horse available.”

“All I ask is that you do not go out by yourself until I have shown you something of the countryside. It is too easy to get lost once you are away from the road.”

“I am an excellent rider, I assure you, Captain.”

“I have no doubts about your skills as a horsewoman. It is your ability to find your way home that I worry about. And do you think you could start calling me Gareth? Separate bedrooms are one thing. I explained to Janie that you are a very light sleeper, by the way. But calling me Captain Richmond is too much. After all, I’ve been calling you Arden for days.”

“Yes, I noticed,” replied Arden tartly. “Oh, I suppose you are right. I will try to remember to use your first name.”

“Thank you. Now, what are your plans for the day? I myself will be too busy to keep you company.”

“I had planned to walk down into Hawes.”

“Alone?”

“I hardly think I need an abigail in the country. And I am, after all, a married woman now. There must be some advantages to being wed.”

“Yes, I suppose you are right. I would suggest you look for a sturdy pair of shoes while you are there,” said Gareth, after a glance down at Arden’s feet. “Old Blackmar is as fine a shoemaker as you would find in London, and those boots do not look like they will last the week.”

“My boots are perfectly comfortable, thank you,” lied Arden. “I am sure you have much to do, so I will leave you to your sheep farming.” She turned and left Gareth fuming. Every time he experienced a little softening in her attitude and permitted himself to hope they could at least achieve a friendship, she turned back into the haughty little witch. He watched her pick her way through the stable yard, and wondered if her boots or her pride would last longer.

* * * *

As it turned out, Arden’s heels were rubbed raw against the stiff leather by the time she walked the mile into town, and she was ready to look for the shoemaker’s shop when she reached the high street. Unfortunately, no one had thought to warn her that it was market day, and the streets were full of sheep being driven down to the sale barns, and stalls lined both sides of the street. Between the people and the animals, it was hard to make any progress, but she finally found the cobbler’s, and was very relieved to get out of the crush.

An old man, stooped from years of leaning over his bench, approached her.

“I need a comfortable pair of walking shoes, Mr. Blackmar,” she announced.

“And who might tha be, lass? I know all the faces from around here and I don’t know yours.”

Arden was not used to such familiarity from a shopkeeper, and was about to put the old man in his place, when she remembered that this little market town was now her home and Richmond House undoubtedly dependent upon it for everything, so she answered with only a touch of coolness in her voice that she was Lady Arden Richmond, wife of Captain Gareth.

“Tha’s married to our Gareth? Tha’rt reel welcome to Hawes, my lady,” said Blackmar. “My, my, this is news, and I the first to have it.” His eyes lit up at the thought of the attention he would draw at the pub that afternoon. He looked down at Arden’s half boots, and smiled.

“Tha certainly does need brogues, lass. Come over here.”

Arden sat down where he pointed, and he pulled off her dirty boots and stockings. She winced, and he looked at her heels and saw the blisters.

“These look nasty,” he said. “Wait a minute, and I’ll get tha a plaster.” Arden was about to protest, but he was gone behind the counter and back in minutes with a small pot of grease and two bandages.

“Now, then, this will help,” he said, as he smeared the grease on her heels and plastered the cloth over it. “Tha cannot wear those boots again, lass.”

“Well, I can hardly go home barefoot, Mr. Blackmar,” she replied with a smile. “Although, I must say, now that the boots are off, it would almost be more comfortable.”

“Let me measure you. Aha, I thought so. I’ll make tha up a new pair, but I have a pair of brogues that Peggy Metcalfe left three months ago and never came back for.”

“I cannot take someone else’s shoes,” protested Arden. “What if she comes in for them?”

“Oh, she is not likely to do that, lass. She ran off with a young soldier in her best pair of shoes.”

“How romantic,” murmured Arden, unable to come up with any other response.

“Not too romantic for her husband and babe, lass. But here they are, and look, they will do just fine for now.”

Arden walked back and forth in the shoes, laughing to herself at what the
ton
would think of the Insufferable wearing the left-behind brogues of a Yorkshire adulteress. But her heels felt so much better that she wouldn’t have cared if they had come from a brothel.

“Give my best to tha husband, lass,” said Blackmar as Arden paid him. “Tell him we are always ready for a game of cards in the Old Fox and Hound.”

“I will, and thank you, Mr. Blackmar.” Arden surprised herself by reaching out and clasping the old man’s hand. In Stalbridge village she was given every respect as the earl’s daughter, and no one would have dreamed of lending her a pair of secondhand shoes, much less talked to her as though she were an old crony. After the first shock, she decided that she found it rather refreshing.

When she got outside, the animals were gone and she was able to wander slowly past the stalls, where everything from needles and thread to skeins of raw wool to cheese and bread were for sale. She stopped and bought a small bun and some of the local cheese for which Wensleydale was well-known and started back to Sedbusk, nibbling as she walked. She recognized the route Gareth had taken through the fields, and decided to use his shortcut. She had forgotten the stiles, but managed them quite well on her own, and reached the house quite pleased with herself.

After his walk around the farm, Gareth had spent the morning with the books. He was a man of action and much preferred being up on the dales with the sheep than examining accounts, but knew it was a matter of first things first.

The books were neat and accurate, his sister Kate’s doing, since Lady Elizabeth was happier dealing with live animals than with figures. Over the years the accounts recorded the slow but steady progress of the farm. When his father and mother had married against her family’s wishes, they had come to Yorkshire with only a fraction of what Lady Elizabeth had the right to expect for a dowry. His father was a younger son, and so he had nothing but his brain to support them. Scholarly books on the Arthurian cycle and the presence of the Green Man in folklore not being in great demand meant that something else had to support their growing family. That was when his mother began considering the benefits of crossbreeding sheep, and had been so successful over the past twenty-odd years that she had managed to provide them with a comfortable, if not luxurious life.

Everything looked in order to Gareth. A bumper crop of lambs had been produced this spring, so that meant August would be a busy month at the market. The whole summer would keep him busy, he realized, for at some point he would need to ride down to Thorne, see how his aunt was doing and talk with his new manager there. He wondered if it would be possible to win Arden’s heart in such a short time. He would dearly love to take her with him, and reveal himself as the new marquess, but would be damned if he’d do it before she at least liked him, if not loved him, for himself.

After a few hours’ work, Gareth was ready for dinner and then a climb up the fell to visit the head shepherd. He found Arden seated already, and politely inquired about her morning.

“I walked down into the village,” she replied.

“And what did you think of it?” asked Gareth.

Janie, who was serving the meal, thought to herself that they sounded like strangers who had just been introduced, rather than newlyweds. Something not reet here, she thought. Separate bedrooms. Polite small talk. Lady Arden should be a bit more relaxed now, and not so standoffish… Well, well, it is none of tha business, Janie Pratt, she scolded herself, only to think: but Captain Gareth deserves a warmer wife.

“No one had thought to tell me it was market day,” replied Arden with an edge to her voice, “so I found it crowded and dirty.” She had enjoyed the market stalls, but was perversely determined not to give Gareth any indication of a positive response to her new home.

“Ah, yes, it is Tuesday. Well, Tuesday is when Hawes comes alive, at any rate. It is fairly quiet any other day. Did you buy anything?”

“I had myself measured for a pair of walking shoes, since my half boots were ruined. And Mr. Blackmar was kind enough to lend me a pair some young woman had left behind.”

“Oh, aye, those would be Peggy Metcalfe’s,” piped in Janie. “I don’t know what shocked people more,” she continued, “her leaving t’husband and babe behind for that soldier, or her leaving a perfectly good pair of brogues. You’d have thought she’d need a sturdy pair of shoes, following the drum. But maybe that handsome young sergeant promised her new ones with silver buckles. She always did have a weakness for pretty things, and that sergeant was as pretty as his promises.”

Gareth choked on his ale, trying not to laugh at the thought of his haughty wife shod in Peggy Metcalfe’s abandoned brogues. He remembered Peggy well. She had married young to the steady but dull Metcalfe, which had surprised everyone until the baby arrived after five months. She always had been a pert little baggage, Gareth thought. Too warm and willing to live out her life on a remote farm. Two more different women than Arden and Peggy he couldn’t imagine. Well, maybe walking in Peggy’s shoes would have some effect, and that thought nearly set him off again. He stuffed his napkin in front of his face to hide his grin.

If all the town knew that Peggy had left her shoes behind, thought Arden, then they would all know by this evening that she, Lady Arden, was wearing them. She was hot with the humiliation of it. But her heels were blistered and the shoes fit, so she decided to swallow her pride, which at the moment felt like a red-hot coal in her throat, and say nothing in response to Janie’s chattering. She knew Gareth well enough by now to guess that he was relishing the story, but at least he was decently hiding his amusement, so she would ignore that too.

“The shoes are quite comfortable and my own will be ready in a few days,” she stated coolly, as though it were an everyday occurrence for her to be wearing secondhand shoes.

“Well, then,” said Gareth, “why don’t you join me in a tramp up the fell, Arden, if you have nothing better to do? I have to visit Gabriel, our head shepherd, and would enjoy the company.”

Arden had been hoping to ride in the afternoon, and said so.

“I would prefer if you waited until tomorrow,” replied Gareth firmly, but, he hoped, unprovokingly. “You do not know the countryside yet and it is easy to get lost.”

Arden was going to protest his highhandedness, but after a moment’s thought, she realized he was probably right, much as she hated to admit it. And she had nothing better to do, for Janie was an admirable housekeeper, and even had she needed guidance, Arden was really not competent to give it to her.

A short while after dinner they set out. They went left down the road for about a quarter of a mile and then turned into the fields through one of the ubiquitous stiles. The path Gareth followed went along the stone fencing, and rose gradually at first, so Arden had no trouble keeping up with him. For the most part, they walked in silence, but it was, thought Arden in surprise, a companionable silence.

After they had climbed a third stile, the path got steeper and Arden could do nothing but concentrate on inhaling and exhaling. Gareth was way ahead of her in only a few minutes, and it was only the thought of his mocking grin that kept her going. She finally reached him, too out of breath to say a word.

Gareth had rather enjoyed watching her struggle. He was well-conditioned from the army and used to walking long distances, but Arden had clearly not used her own legs to get around.