Page 15 of The Gentlewoman Companion (The Gentlewoman #4)

“Isn’t she a darling?” Mrs. Beecham rubbed the animal’s nose, then pulled a biscuit from the pocket beneath her petticoat. “Here.” She offered it to Louisa. “Give her this, and you’ll have her undying devotion.”

Miss Thorpe ran her hand down the animal’s neck and whispered into its ear while the donkey sidled up and snatched the food.

“Ranunculus is an excellent judge of character, Miss Thorpe. You have my approval,” said Miss Fischer. Miss Thorpe appeared delighted at that pronouncement. Miss Fischer took the reins. “Are we ready?”

Halverton wanted a little time with Louisa. “May I drive Miss Thorpe? If she is amenable and you are not opposed,” he said to Miss Fisher.

“Truth be told, Ranunculus dislikes being pulled,” Miss Fischer said.

“Oh, it is a droll little rig.” Miss Thorpe ran her hand over the seat.

“Graham,” Halverton called to his valet. “You won’t mind keeping a pace with us, will you?”

“Nothing will be set up when you arrive.”

Halverton waved off Graham’s concern. “We will arrive before my mother and her friends anyhow. You can arrange the picnic while we wait for them.” He handed Miss Thorpe into the carriage. Beside her, he took the leads and urged Ranunculus down the path. Graham rode behind.

“Miss Thorpe, I apologize for unburdening myself on you yesterday.”

She laughed, but he failed to see what amused her. “I am glad you did; else I would be at a disadvantage.”

“How so?”

“You caught me looking like a chimney sweep.”

If she had been covered in soot at the time, it was the last thing he’d noticed. He waited for her to tell him why she had burned the gown, but she did not.

She adjusted her hat, brushing his arm with her elbow. “Now you’ve seen me at my worst, I feel quite at ease with you.” After a pause, she said, “Might I take the reins?”

“You must be joking.”

“I would be very careful.”

“Not on your life.”

“And lose an opportunity to prove your fine teaching skills?”

“Flattery will not work on me.”

“I am sorry I jumped the horse and that I let go of Daisy’s leads. I am more circumspect now, ready to learn to drive.”

“No apology will induce me to relinquish the reins.”

“It can’t be hard.”

“Not today, Miss Thorpe.”

“Some other time, then. Tomorrow?”

He snorted. Something about Miss Thorpe loosened his sense of decorum.

“At least the day is fine.” She seemed so pleased with the weather that he did not mention the clouds creeping across the horizon.

“What family have you in Cornwall?” he asked. These were questions he’d already asked without much of a response. After their moment in his study, perhaps she would feel more comfortable with him.

She stiffened. “My father, my brother, Charles,” she said his name with a dash of venom, “as well as cousins and aunts.” She did not offer more.

“Do you like to read?” he asked.

“I love a novel. Your mother has me studying.”

“You don’t sound as if you enjoy it.”

Her brow puckered. “It feels like I’m trying to solve a puzzle without all the pieces. Do you read Hume?”

“I have, yes.”

“He is new to me. Until last week, I never imagined any person could think so hard about thinking. ”

He laughed.

“Do you notice my accent, my lord? Is it distracting?”

“It’s charming.” He meant it. Her conversation was unconventional, but her accent somehow softened what might be distasteful to someone more traditional. He could not articulate why. She was perhaps a little too genuine.

“I believe it may be stronger than I thought.” She whispered the word father a few times. It sounded like feather , with a strong r at the end. “Could you help me with it?”

“If you would like, but there is nothing wrong with it.”

“Others might not agree. How would you say, father ?”

He said, “Father.”

She repeated it, “Fah-thah.”

“There. Perfect.”

“I was told I sound like a pirate.”

He suppressed a smile. It was not entirely untrue.

“How would you say, I am from Cornwall, where my father is a squire?”

He smiled. “Now you are laying it on thick.”

“Perhaps, but that is what I am used to. Now you know I do try to speak fitty.”

“Try it again, but drop the r’s and open your mouth for the vowels.”

“Ah ahm frohm Cohrnwahll whah mah fah-thah is ah squiah.” She opened her mouth with affected exaggeration.

He smiled. “Very posh. One would assume you were born at Westminster.”

Grinning, she put her hand on her chest. “Whah, how ev-ah did you guess?” She switched back to her normal speech. “Now I’m cutting it up.”

“Cutting it up?”

“Speaking in a fake, posh accent. If you did not understand it, I must erase it from my vocabulary.”

“Then I’ll add it to mine.”

They recited “Foxy’s Hole” and “If Wishes Were Horses,” but his diction changed more than hers.

“Now who is the pirate?” she asked, laughing at him. The sound of her mirth delighted him, pulsating through him until he joined her. When he did, his own merriment surprised him more than Miss Thorpe’s had.

“Oh,” she said, when they arrived at the boathouse. “I have never seen such a thing. It goes right into the water.”

The stone boathouse sheltered boats but also contained small living quarters where he and his father had stayed for days at a time to fish when he was a boy.

Stepping into the room, Miss Thorpe said, “It’s a little cottage.”

“Through there is the dock.” Halverton indicated a door. “Shall we wait for the others before getting into the boat?” The clouds were moving in, but perhaps they could still beat the storm.

Laden with saddle bags, Graham entered the open door and began setting food on the table, along with two flasks of lemonade. When he finished, it looked like a jumbled array of ingredients. If Halverton’s mother had hoped for a more appealing presentation, she’d asked the wrong person to help.

Miss Thorpe noticed the disorganized meal and began opening cupboards and drawers. She found bowls and a knife, arranged meats and cheeses together, placed fruit in a basket, berries in a bowl. Graham produced a platter. She grinned at him and sliced bread onto it.

“Do you think my mother will be displeased if we eat before she arrives?”

“Not if her son is starving,” Miss Thorpe said.

Graham suddenly smacked his leg. “I forgot the serving dishes.”

“No matter. We can use these.” Miss Thorpe carried a small stack of mismatched plates to the table.

Halverton was parched. “Are there cups?”

“Just three, which we might save for the others,” she said.

“I shall see to the boats and get you on the pond before the rain comes.” Graham stepped into the adjoining room, leaving the door ajar.

Miss Thorpe swiveled toward Halverton. “Rain?” Her shoulders sagged as she took a bottle of lemonade.

“I’m absolutely chacking.” She drank, the sinews of her neck drawing a line up the curve to her jaw.

She wiped her mouth with the back of her hand, pausing when she found him staring at her.

“Oh! Pardon me! I do forget to be civilized. Please don’t tell your mother. ”

“Not at all.” In truth, she stupefied him. “We share a cup each Sunday.”

He took the proffered bottle and swallowed sweet sunshine, keenly aware that her lips had just left the place where his now rested.

When again he looked at her, she was about to take a bite of bread layered with meat and cheese.

“Would you like one?” But he was distracted by a blonde curl grazing her forehead and the tiny trail of freckles dotting her nose.

She didn’t wait for him to answer before stuffing bread with meat and cheese into her mouth.

His mother pulled the door open. Mrs. Beecham stepped through, followed by her sister.

“Lovely. What an agreeable cottage.” Mrs. Beecham slowly rotated, taking in the boathouse. “Just as it should be.”

“Yes, but do you think it will rain?” Miss Thorpe asked.

“Without doubt,” Miss Fischer said. “We cannot stay long. I am glad I had the presence of mind not to leave Ranunculus behind.”

“At least let us have the pleasure of eating with our hands.” Mrs. Beecham reached for the bread.

“Excuse us for beginning before your arrival, my lady.” Miss Thorpe rose and offered her chair to his mother. “Lord Halverton was nearly famished to death.”

“You are welcome to it, but I wish the weather would hold.” She sat down and gestured for her friends to sit. “A lovely day cut short.”

Halverton went to Miss Thorpe, who stood near a window, chewing the last of her food and looking at the sky.

“We could take a boat now, if you like?” he asked her.

“Oh! I would.”

“Splendid idea. Go on before the clouds burst,” his mother said, before turning to her friends.

Halverton led Miss Thorpe into the other half of the boathouse, with its u-shaped dock. A little fishing boat bobbed in the water. The formerly bright blue sky now reflected darkly in the water.

Halverton steadied the boat and offered Miss Thorpe a hand.

“The sky is ominous, but we have time, don’t you think?” She brushed past him, her skirts feathering against his legs.

“If you want to get home before the downpour, best make this quick.”

Graham gave Halverton the oars with a smirk. “Enjoy yourself, my lord.” Halverton ignored his insinuating tone. He did not have romantic feelings for Miss Thorpe. How could he? He barely knew her, and what he did know was puzzling.

They sat across from each other, Miss Thorpe twisting toward the bow as he paddled into the glassy pond.

“You know, I’ve never been on a pond. It’s calming.”

“For me as well,” he said, pulling harder, gathering speed.

“I would come here every day if it were mine.”

“When my father was alive, we visited regularly.” His mention of his father recalled the previous day in his study. “It was kind of you to listen to me yesterday. I hope I did not force my confidence.”

“Not at all. People in general are fusty and too apt to keep their feelings close.”

“As you do?” He hadn’t meant to say it, but she was a contradiction, revealing little about herself yet unreservedly sharing a bottle of lemonade.

She startled. “I? Oh?—”

“I beg your pardon. You have no obligation to me.”

Miss Thorpe turned toward the front of the boat, prompting Halverton to follow her gaze over the water where a flock of ducks preened, oiling their feathers in preparation for the coming rain.

She spoke quietly. “My family is not so exemplary as yours. That is to say, my mother was lovely, but I cannot praise my father as you do yours.”

He sensed her reluctance and did not press; it was no business of his, yet he wanted to know more.

It was an unfair expectation, especially since his confidence in her was something he could not explain.

She possessed a fascinating passion—evident in the burning of her dress, the way she rode Daisy, even her begging to drive the carriage—which piqued his curiosity.

Clouds rolled heavy and black above them as they glided farther into the pond, but he could not bring himself to turn back.

Perhaps she simply needed time—and he saw how much she enjoyed the boat.

In silence, they cut through still water, sending ripples to upset the cattails bordering the shore.

A fat raindrop fell onto his nose, followed by another.

“Should we return?” he asked.

She opened her palm to the sky. “I don’t mind a little rain.”

The boathouse was a fifteen-minute row away, and the drops of rain would become a downpour.

He turned toward shelter, gathering speed as the rain fell ever harder, crumpling the smooth pond and nearly blinding him.

Surely, Miss Thorpe could not wish to get soaked.

Rain fell in unrelenting streams, saturating his coat.

He cursed himself for taking Miss Thorpe on this ill-fated expedition and dragged the oars until his back and arms burned.

He paused to wipe the rain from his face. Glancing at Miss Thorpe, he expected to cringe at her discomfort. Instead, she said, “I adore summer rain! Don’t you?”

He could scarcely make out her words through the deluge. With her face turned upward, she held her arms open as if embracing something delightful. Her mouth opened to the rain as it streamed down her cheeks, over her neck, soaking her bodice.

He looked away and carved a swift path back to safety.

“Stop!” she shouted.

He glanced around, looking for the source of her concern.

“Put down the oars, and soak it in.” Her arms spread like wings. “Feel the rain. Listen to it.”

“But I’m wet!”

She nudged him with her foot. “You’re missing it.”

Without a clue as to what he was overlooking, he obeyed, wanting to solve the riddle that was Miss Thorpe.

He felt the rain. It was wet and cold. He listened.

A roaring hush urged him to paddle. He yielded to the impulse, and while Miss Thorpe expressed her delight with the downpour— I am enraptured!

Enchanted! It sings to my very soul! —he tried to ignore the fatigue in his arms and back as he propelled ever harder through the storm.

The intense joy Miss Thorpe projected as he steered the boat through the water was incomprehensible.

The rain brought nothing but discomfort.

While her behavior was not quite improper, it was original.

His mother certainly benefitted from the young lady’s presence, her spontaneity and joie de vivre .

To Halverton, the attitude was foreign, but not necessarily unwelcome.

Miss Thorpe certainly made the mundane interesting, even the rain.

Perhaps the intense focus Halverton gave to everything he did prevented him from seeing beyond his objectives, kept him from appreciating a simple rainstorm.

He stayed the oars, crossed them over his lap, and tried once more to enjoy the rain as Miss Thorpe did.

He closed his eyes, slowed his breathing.

Then, he felt it: the sense that the rain was more than merely a wet nuisance.

It was cleansing, refreshing, thrilling .

It sparked in him the urge to laugh, to move, to live.

He opened his eyes, grinning, to observe Miss Thorpe. With one hand she gripped the side of the boat, smiling up at the sky. The other hand pressed against her heart, and she moved her lips in words he could not hear.

“What?” he asked.

Her head jerked down to face him. “Nothing.”

“What were you saying?”

“I was…” She lifted a shoulder as if deciding she may as well explain herself. “I was talking to my mother.”

“I apologize. I did not mean to intrude.”

She waved away his concern. “Thank you for this loveliest of afternoons.”

Her wet cheeks glistened, pink and curved with happiness. It was indeed a lovely afternoon.

Thunder clapped in the distance. Miss Thorpe turned toward it with a grin, but Halverton had not lost all his practicality to one rainstorm. He retook the oars and propelled them to safety.