Page 7 of The Defiant Governess (Intrepid Heroines #6)

Three

O ver the next weeks, a pattern to their days emerged.

After breakfast in the morning room—Jane insisted Peter eat with her and Mrs. Fairchild, rather than alone in his room as had been the habit—they would repair to the schoolroom for the rest of the morning.

The lessons were gratifying for both of them, for Jane found her pupil had a quickness of mind and inquisitive nature that made learning easy for him.

And she noticed that some of the wariness began to fade in the enthusiasm of reading a certain passage aloud or of adding a column of numbers correctly.

Afternoons were spent exploring the vast gardens and home woods beyond the manor house.

Jane found a spot she particularly liked, a stone bench protected by a yew hedge that overlooked a small pond.

Sometimes they would come with a book for Peter to practice reading aloud.

Watching him giggle over a long and funny sounding word, she suddenly felt a glow inside as she saw that she could bring a touch of happiness to the child.

Why, she realized with a start, she had been so concerned with Peter that she hadn’t had time to miss her other life at all.

One day, after finishing a passage of Shakespeare, the sun was still bright and warm so Jane suggested they walk to the stables, one of the few places they had not yet visited.

She had been dying to see what manner of horses the marquess kept, but had held her impatience in check, knowing full well that it wasn’t expected in a governess.

But it had been quite difficult. More than once in her walks with Peter, she had found herself longing to be able to gallop along the rolling fields and paths she saw.

However, the boy’s reaction shocked her.

His face took on a mulish look and he jammed his hands in his pockets. “I won’t go,” he announced. “I hate horses.”

“Why, Peter!” exclaimed Jane in disbelief. “I thought all boys were mad for horses. Don’t you like to ride?”

He shook his head doggedly. “I hate it.”

She reached over and gathered him into her lap. She had noticed that he wasn’t at all used to being touched or hugged, and even though he wouldn’t admit it, he seemed to like it very much.

“Now why is that?” she asked gently.

Peter didn’t answer her.

“Did a horse hurt you?”

There was another pause until finally he blurted out, “A horse killed my Mama. And my Papa.”

Jane pulled him closer while making a note to ask Mrs. Fairchild what had happened. “Oh, how terrible, Peter. I’m so sorry. But it must have been a terrible accident—horses don’t mean any harm. They are quite fun, actually. Would you at least walk there with me so I can see them?”

Peter stayed pressed to her chest. “Uncle Edward thinks I’m a very poor-spirited boy not to want to ride,” he said, fighting back tears.

Once again, Jane felt a wave of anger towards the callous guardian who was too insensitive to understand the boy’s natural fear for what it was, and help him overcome it.

“Well, I think your uncle is a complete gudgeon,” she snapped. “Of course you don’t like horses—I wouldn’t either, unless someone took the time to show me they aren’t all bad.”

Peter looked at her in surprise and a bit of awe as she spoke. Then in a small voice he said, “You wouldn’t?”

“No. But I’ll show you some very special tricks for making them your friends, if you like. Maybe you’ll change your mind. What do you think?”

He looked at her doubtfully.

“You don’t have to do anything you don’t want to, and I will certainly not think you poor-spirited. In fact, I would think you very, very brave to even take a look at them.”

He put his small hand in hers. “Very well. If you stay with me.”

The stables were an impressive set of buildings arranged around a central courtyard.

To Jane’s experienced eye it was obvious that they were well-tended by someone who knew a thing or two about horses.

There wasn’t much activity at that time of the afternoon.

A few nickers were heard from the horses inside their stalls and a stableboy could be heard whistling as he swept out the tack room.

In an adjoining paddock, one lone horse stood placidly by the fence, twitching at the spring flies with its tail and browsing for bits of hay in the dirt.

Jane was relieved to see it was an old mare, one whose disposition was likely to be as gentle as it appeared.

She stopped, already sensing Peter’s fear, and felt in the pocket of her gown for the apple she had saved from lunch.

She took it out, along with a small penknife and carefully cut it into quarters.

She kept one out and put the rest back in her pocket.

“I’m going to make friends with this old mare,” she said. “One bite of apple and she’ll look forward to seeing me again! Why don’t you stay here and watch.”

She walked towards the fence holding the apple outstretched in her hand.

The mare pricked up her ears at the scent of food and gave a little whoosh of breath as she sidled right up against the rails.

When Jane reached her, she eagerly gobbled the treat as Jane stroked the white blaze on her nose and tickled her behind the ears.

“Would you like to give her a piece? Her mouth feels like velvet rubbing against your palm.”

Peter hesitated as he eyed the animal with some trepidation.

“It’s quite alright if you’d rather not. She is rather big, isn’t she. But she’s also very friendly, as you can see.”

The horse was now snuffling Jane’s cheek and she couldn’t help laughing at the tickling sensation.

That seemed to reassure the boy and he took a few tentative steps towards them. “You’ll stay right beside me?”

“Of course I will.”

That settled it. He came right to Jane’s side, shying back a little as the mare poked her nose inquisitively down towards him.

“Hold the apple flat in your hand, like this,” said Jane as she placed a slice in his palm. “Then reach out so she can see it.” She put her hand on his shoulder to encourage him as he slowly lifted his hand. The horse dipped her head and gently took the proffered fruit between her lips.

“Ooooo,” exclaimed Peter, jumping back. “It … tickled!”

“It does, doesn’t it,” Jane answered. “Do you want to try it again?”

Peter took another piece and this time he didn’t flinch when the mare took the treat. He even rubbed the tip of her nose as she chewed contentedly.

“It’s very soft,” he murmured.

“If I lift you up, you could scratch her ears.”

“V-very well.”

Jane gathered him up and held him steady on one of the rails so he could reach the mare’s neck and head. He patted her forehead and ran his fingers through her mane. The mare turned and nuzzled his cheek.

“You see,” laughed Jane. “She likes you!”

The boy smiled broadly.

“And you know what horses like even more than apples?” she added in a low voice. “Carrots and lumps of sugar.”

“Do you think we could get some from Cook for tomorrow?” asked Peter, his eyes shining.

“I think that can be arranged. But now I think we had best get back before we are late for supper.”

That night after she had read to Peter from King Arthur’s knightly tales and put out his candle for the night, Jane went downstairs to where Mrs. Fairchild was knitting in the drawing room. She sat down and began to roll some of the loose skeins of wool in the work basket into neat balls.

Mrs. Fairchild looked up from her work with a smile.

“Why thank you, Miss Jane.” She, like all the rest of the servants, had copied Peter in calling her that.

“It fits,” Cook had announced with her characteristic forthrightness.

“Miss Langley is much too stiff-necked for a nice, unpretentious lass like you.”

Jane returned the housekeeper’s smile. “I was wondering about something Peter said this afternoon,” she began. “He told me that both his mother and father were killed by horses. I don’t mean to pry in family history, but do you know what happened?”

Mrs., Fairchild’s needles stopped clicking in mid stitch. When she looked up, her face was pinched and drained of color.

“It was a terrible thing, it was.” Her voice was low, almost a whisper.

“The two of them were so gay, so lively. Henry warned them not to ride over the West bridge that afternoon because the timbers had been loosened by a fierce storm. But apparently they didn’t heed him.

They started racing each other. He tried to call to them—they reached the bridge together, urging their horses on.

They were neck and neck in the middle of it when it gave way.

The river was surging from all the rain …

. Their bodies weren’t found for two days.

Their feet were still tangled in the stirrups. ”

She shook her head repeatedly as if she could banish the whole incident. “And Mister Edward’s reaction … I-I still find it impossible to speak of it. After all the other pain the family has had to endure ….”

Jane lowered her eyes. She wished she could probe further and ask just what relation Peter’s mother was to the elusive marquess, just what other “pain” it was Mrs. Fairchild spoke of. But she sensed the older woman could not be pressed any more.

“I’m sorry to have brought back such terrible memories,”

“You didn’t know,” replied Mrs. Fairchild. She continued her knitting, but after several exclamations of dismay at dropping a stitch, she placed the whole thing in her basket. “Forgive me if I retire early tonight. I find I am quite fatigued.”

She looked tired, thought Jane as the other woman hurried from the room. Tired—and sad, perhaps. Most of the time she was so open and warm, yet other times Jane sensed there was a shadow over her and this house.

Jane shook her head as she returned to her own bedchamber and picked up the book she was currently reading. She would keep trying to figure it out.