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Lady Ombersley sank onto her favorite sofa, uttered a sigh of great sensibility, and observed as she fanned herself, “Oh, my dear girls, I am exhausted! So very much to do—I have been abominably distracted—but however, dare I say it? All is in readiness, and a week in advance?”
She turned a tremulous smile onto Cecelia and Sophy. Her daughter looked up briefly from writing letters of thanks for her mother, her smile twin to her mother's, and Sophy paused in writing out the order for the menu for the wedding breakfast. Though the wedding was a week off, she wanted to make absolutely certain everything would be in train.
Sophy dipped her pen, saying with soothing practicality, “Very well done indeed, Aunt, for which I thank you!”
“Oh, my dear,” Lady Ombersley said, daubing her eyes. “My own brother’s child…it is the least I can do. I only wish your mother were still with us to see this day. For my part I am sure she would be prodigiously delighted to see her only child walking down the aisle—and with my firstborn! Oh, it is so very romantic…”
“Romantic is not the word I had in mind,” Charles Rivenhall said in Sophy’s private ear shortly after, as they met on the stairs before going down to dinner.
“I take it you heard my aunt?”
“I did. I was passing on my way to the bookroom. I would not disabuse my mother of her illusions for the world, but I am very aware that it was you and Cecy who’ve done the lion’s share of wedding preparations. My mother’s contribution, from what I’ve seen, has been entirely confined to frets and flutterings prognosticating disaster.”
“True. But, prompted as it was by her worries that nothing go amiss, it has been very easy to allay her fears,” Sophy said. “Cecy and I united in that effort, and it answered. Your mother is sublimely content.”
“Which is why we agreed to this elaborate wedding at such an odd time of year in the first place. Everyone gone out of town, or nearly everyone. Mother’s fears again,” Charles observed, his mouth twisting. “Though I must say, even if I barely comprehend her reasons, I thoroughly agree with her intent. We cannot be wed soon enough for me.”
Sophy knew by a certain gleam in his eyes what he meant, but as they were there on the stairs in the most public part of the house, she said dulcetly, “It seems that my uncle has a number of elderly relations whose health is uncertain. And I believe my aunt…”
“…wants to see us safely tie the knot before another threat such as Eugenia Wraxton rears its head, should we have to put the wedding off for bereavement once again. That worry can be laid at my door,” he admitted, delicacy—as usual—sacrificed for the blunt truth. “I still do not rightly know what I was thinking.”
Sophy knew. The prompt behind that unfortunate engagement had been Charles’ worries about rescuing his family, which he had been obliged to do at far too young an age. Eugenia Wraxton had appeared to be just the young woman to aid him in this admirable intent; he had been too inexperienced, and too careworn, to perceive the hidden cost of her style of aid.
His thoughts, paralleling hers, prompted him to shake his head as he leaned carelessly on the banister. “Considering how close we came to that disaster, I find myself entirely in agreement with Mother, in spite of her airs and megrims. Bringing me back to my original point: we cannot be married soon enough.”
Seeing the sparkle in her eye, and the smile curving her lips, he gave in to impulse, took her by the shoulders, and gave her a rough kiss before looking around in haste lest any of the schoolroom party pop into view. As was too likely; though the house was large, it seemed at times to want to burst at the seams. Even little Amabel, newly recovered from illness, bounded about as if to make up for the time she had lost in the sickroom.
Though the ribbon threaded through her hair was slightly askew, and her gown a little disordered, Sophy showed no signs whatsoever of resenting this sudden and vigorous embrace. She reveled in it all. But she knew that Lady Ombersley depended on her to set an example, so she too glanced about very quickly. She gave hair and gown a twitch and they began a sedate descent—
And no sooner had they taken two steps when a door on the hall above opened with an impatient shove and Hubert shot out. “Is that ham I smell? By Jove!” So saying, he thundered down to join them.
Sophy held out a friendly hand. “It is indeed. Will you gentlemen both escort me down the stairs?”
Hubert was very ready to cooperate if it would bring him to the table any faster. And so, in agreeable spirits, the three descended. As they reached the floor, the schoolroom door banged open above and the children came running down the stairs, squabbling happily.
The following few days passed in similar amity, until the night before the wedding arrived at last, and once again the family gathered for a lively dinner which included even Lord Ombersley. Most of his particular cronies having departed for various country retreats in anticipation of the opening of hunting season, he perforce must join his family, or risk dining alone at his club. As the servants brought around the dishes, he listened to the chatter, his mood lifting. Somehow since the arrival of his young niece, dinners with his large family had lost the glum atmosphere of the previous spring and had become surprisingly diverting.
But… was one of them missing?
He glanced at the other end of the table to his wife. “There’s an empty chair. One of ‘em gone off already?”
Lady Ombersley was too used to her helpmeet’s errant attention to be unduly disturbed by this. Glad to be able to return an unexceptionable answer, she said, “It is Cecelia. She was invited to dine with Charlbury’s sister, Lady Hemming. She seems quite taken with Cecelia—they are becoming fast friends.”
“Hemming? He was a wild one in my day,” Lord Ombersley observed. “Known by his prodigious wigs as well as his prodigious—”
“Lady Hemming is married to his son,” Lady Ombersley said hurriedly, hoping to forestall any indiscreet reminiscences, for she remembered the on dits about the late Lord Hemming as well. “The young Lord Hemming is all he ought to be. He took his place in Parliament last year, and his wife is a fixture at Almack’s.” In fact, Lady Hemming was just the sort of popular young matron whom Lady Ombersley had been hoping would befriend her timid daughter; Sophy seemed to know the fashionable Lady Hemming well, something about Brussels, and had introduced them over tea just this past week.
Charles’s ears pricked up at that. Lord Hemming was an old acquaintance; his love match with the handsome Julia Clowes had been last year's romantic sensation. Charles sent Sophy a questioning glance over the table. She gave a minute nod that promised discussion later, and dinner passed peaceably. At its end, the family tacitly agreed to curtail the usual evening gathering, in anticipation of the Great Day on the morrow.
Charles, Hubert, and their father sat for the length of a single glass over their port, then joined the ladies, who were deep in reviewing the myriad details involving getting everyone dressed and conveyed to Hanover Square on time in the morning.
The gathering broke up early, Lady Ombersley declaring that everyone must needs recruit themselves for the morrow. The children ran up to continue their games, and Lord Ombersley retired to the bookroom to “cast an eye over affairs,” which meant settling into his chair by the fire and nodding off, replete after a generous meal and the wine to accompany it.
Charles caught Sophy alone in the back parlor, where she was hemming her grandmother’s veil after its having soaked in cream for two nights, then been carefully washed. She smiled on his entrance, and shook out the veil. “I never met my grandmother, but from what I heard, she was an adventurous girl in her day. I like to imagine her looking down to see me wearing her veil, though veils are thought to be old-fashioned these days.”
Charles had even less interest in veils than he did in female fashions. “Sophy, did you send Cecelia to Julia Hemming?”
Sophy’s brows rose. “She was invited by Julia—and quite properly, as Cece weds Julia’s brother tomorrow.” At Charles’ skeptical glance, she smiled, and confessed, “If you are asking if I dropped a word in Julia’s ear, you would be correct. Please do not think me abominably managing, but I considered from all angles, and how shall I word this? I thought I might spare Lady Ombersley a task that I suspect she has put off until now. Julia can be counted upon to answer any questions Cecy might have.”
Charles gave her a questioning look, which she sent right back at him. She very much enjoyed this game that they had been playing, all the more diverting for being unspoken. The game had become fun, she had discovered, because he relished it. Though she was very much attracted to Charles Rivenhall, she had learned through observing her father’s dealings with the fair, and the marriages of various friends and acquaintances, both in Europe and in London, that attraction—agreeable as it was—was a flimsy foundation on which to build a lifelong connection.
In short, she had initiated her game as a way to gauge Charles’ unspoken expectations on the matter of marriage. A man, she had long ago observed, might say anything to gain what he desired. It was his reactions at other times—his behavior—that would truly answer her questions. In the worst case, there would be time to extricate herself, but so far, there had been no sign of the humorless despot into which his engagement with Miss Wraxton had bid fair to transform him. There had clearly been no attraction in the case, either his for her, or hers for him. His motivation appeared to have been entirely a strong wish to establish a semblance of order over the household’s disastrous financial affairs, and to some extent over his father’s house.
“Sophy…”
“Charles…” She matched his tone.
He began, “A man could be considered reasonable in his wish for the future lady of his estate to disclose something of…” He knew himself on uncertain ground, though society would dictate that he was entirely within his rights.
But he was not marrying society.
And so he finished up, “…her education.”
“My dear Charles, you know that I was tutored until I took over as my father’s chatelaine, which was my true education. That ought to suffice, surely. I find that people who are forever adverting to former experiences are often dead bores.”
“It seems to me,” he retorted somewhat wryly, “that encounters with infamous rakes and Spanish banditos and Boney’s forces marauding all over Portugal and Spain might not number among experiences considered boring.”
“Ah, but I’ve already told the children most of those stories. You would not have me recount them again?” The children. Yes. He did know those stories. Gertrude, Theodore, and Amabel had been quite diverted by Sophy’s dashing escapes. The implication being that there was nothing in those rencontres that the children might not hear. “At all events,” she said, biting off her thread, “those would not rightly come under the head of education.”
“And yet I feel certain that they were very educational,” he countered.
She had not offered to provide a defense of her virtue during any of these past encounters with gentlemen—and men not so gentle. She had decided by the time she was sixteen that any future husband must cherish her as she came to him, rather than valuing her solely for her ignorance of men. What too many people were apt to term innocence.
And so far, he had not asked.
Yet.
How shall I word this? she had said. Perhaps the time had come to understand one another. She smiled as she folded up her huswife. “Evidence to the contrary…” And here, she glanced up at the ceiling, just as a thump sounded from the schoolroom directly overhead, “I fear that, purely judging by her reluctance, Lady Ombersley’s experiences might not, ah, put Cece in the way of the happiness to which she is entitled.”
And how would you know? The question was there, at the tip of his tongue. It was the obvious question—but he saw it for the trap that it was. He sat back, gazing at Sophy, who always surprised him. A thrill of anticipation warmed him that had nothing to do, and yet everything to do, with the wedding night.
There were many things he could say, and a few he perhaps should say, but though he had no interest whatsoever in grubbing through nights over cards in gambling dens, on this, the eve of perhaps the most important venture of his life, he was willing to risk a toss of the metaphorical dice.
“A very good thought,” he said, and waited.
Her response was not smug, or knowing, or falsely coy. Her eyelids flashed up, the candlelight gleaming in them as she laughed in challenge. “I am only thinking of Cece’s future happiness,” she said. "And Charlbury's," she added, after a moment's reflection.
Lunge, deflect, disengage. He gave in to laughter.
* * *
Certain that the beau monde had far more interest in her than it actually had, Miss Eugenia Wraxton had chosen to do her social duty and attend the wedding, to demonstrate to the world her complete indifference to her broken engagement—now replaced by a new and far better. She intended to inform any who might ask that decorum and duty prompted her presence—however, as it chanced, no one had come forward to query her on such a topic. For which (she consoled herself) she could only thank Providence.
She entered the church with an air of one determined to do her duty, however painful; she was dressed modestly in her favorite mauve crape, and prepared to smile with shared pity upon anyone who turned her way, but somehow no one gave her a glance as she sat down next to her new intended.
Lord Bromford patted her gloved hand. She permitted this demonstration of affection, but that was enough. Such gestures had little place within the sanctity of the church—actually, in a well-ordered existence, they had no place, except when executing one’s family duty within the closed matrimonial chamber, candles decently extinguished. Her married sister had been quite blunt about that.
Miss Wraxton sat erect, reflecting that really, the changes in her circumstances were a vast improvement. She would leave the altar after her own wedding vows as Lady Bromford—there would be no interminable wait for the insufferable Ombersleys to go to a better place, had she had to wait to become Lady Ombersley. The dowager Lady Bromford, friends with Mama, would be infinitely preferable as a mother-in-law, and there would be no noisy, abominable youngsters to continually disturb what would soon become her well-managed estate.
Besides (she admitted only to herself) she wanted to see if Charles Rivenhall would actually go through with marrying that horrendous hoyden. Though Miss Wraxton retained not a particle of regard for him, she found herself still wishing (so she told herself) to see him come to his senses, as would anyone with a modicum of proper feeling. It it happened at the altar, all the better, she thought piously.
No sooner had she formed this charitable thought than a brief stir at the back of the church indicated that the brides had arrived. An elusive hint of perfume accompanied the rustle of silk as the first bride passed by the pew where Miss Wraxton sat, and though the latter ran an exceedingly critical eye over Miss Stanton-Lacy, Miss Wraxton had to admit that even the most discerning eye could find no fault with that modest gown of white silk, though that veil was ridiculously extravagant, especially for a creature (to put it no higher) who possessed not a particle of shame in showing her face to the world. After her appeared Cecelia, whom Miss Wraxton looked on with more approval. At least one person in that benighted household possessed a modicum of sense: the girl had (no thanks to Miss Stanton-Lacy) ceased her absurd pursuit of that penniless poet, and accepted the entirely superior offer that had first been made.
However, the look that passed between Cecelia and Lord Charlbury when the girl joined her betrothed at the altar forced Miss Wraxton to glance away in disapproval. Not much sense after all—sensibility only, and of a kind that had no place in a well-ordered life! As for Charles and his hoyden—any woman of decency would blush and hang her head at the look in his eyes, but no, as to be expected, the lamentable hoyden gave it right back the moment the veil was lifted.
A small sigh escaped Miss Wraxton's betrothed. She darted him a quick, surprised look, and murmured so low that no one else might hear, “Are you feeling quite well, dear Lord Bromford?”
Lord Bromford blinked. “Very well, my dear Miss Wraxton,” he said, patting her hand again, and leaving a damp spot on her pristine glove. As she frowned down at that, determining that instruction about such gestures in public must be addressed, unpleasant as such a duty must be, he was thinking that it would not do at all to express how very much he disliked those two rakes up there, Rivenhall no better than that here-and-thereian Charlbury! Courting one woman, then flitting back to the old one—why didn’t old Ombersley call him to book?
But here was the vicar pronouncing them both married in the eye of both Providence and Society, and so his dream of reforming Miss Stanton-Lacy must be set aside. He had not been forward enough; he had permitted his mother—though an excellent woman, a mere female, after all, much in need of a man’s guidance—to interfere in his plans.
That must end.
From henceforth, he vowed, he would be master of his own fate, and that must begin in his own home.
* * *
The four newlyweds paid scant heed to this pair on their way out. Once the guests had spoken their good wishes and either departed or else repaired the short distance from Hanover Square to Berkeley Square for the wedding breakfast, Lady Ombersley was finally able to glance about her without recourse to her handkerchief. But they were happy tears.
Her sensibilities rose to actual happiness a little later as she looked down the long table to see those she loved most talking and laughing over the excellent breakfast. She was not the only one who relished the moment. Many was the toast, and many more the jovial wishes that set the men roaring with laughter, and the children ignoring the incomprehensibility of adults. It was far more interesting to see who could snabble the most tartlets.
Presently the meal ended, and it was time for departures. Cecelia, who had had occasion to daub teary eyes even more than her mother, slid her hand into her husband’s, preparing to embark on her new life as Lady Charlbury. She looked about for Sophy, who had become closer than a sister. Only where was she?
That became the general question.
“Where is Charles gone off to?” Lord Ombersley asked, glancing about as far as his very highly starched shirt-points would permit.
Hubert grinned. “He and Sophy rode off above half an hour ago.”
It was true.
Earlier that morning, Sophy, having caught sight of her intended’s growing impatience, had instructed Jane Storridge to extricate her riding habit from the trunks being sent down to Ombersley, and laid out in case, then she’d sent a message around to warn John Potton at the stable.
Sure enough, once the meal was nearly finished and the toasts ended, Charles had leaned toward Sophy under cover of the happy chatter and said, “We’ve done the necessary. Let’s ride down to Ombersley.”
“Done,” she said promptly—and he grinned, adoring her for it, and for the deft way that she managed to slip out without anyone the wiser.
He was right on her heels.
Once outside the confines of the city, they let their horses lengthen their gaits into a good gallop, slowing presently and continuing at a less reckless pace. Their chatter over the noise of the horses’ hooves was intermittent, mostly Charles pointing out the various landmarks as they passed. The light had begun to slant westward when Charles said, “Just past the turnpike there you’ll see the avenue that marks the southmost border of Ombersley.”
He spoke in a rough, flat voice that caused her to glance his way. She met a hard gaze that did not quite hide a hint of wariness, almost anxiety—emotions that one could not be blamed for assuming were completely foreign to his nature. But she had already begun to intuit that while Charles Rivenhall was largely indifferent to the delights of London, it was his home to which his secret heart was drawn.
“Are you very tired?” he asked.
“Not in the least,” she replied, and they cantered the last little way, then made the turning.
The avenue was long, affording glimpses of the house between the trees. It was set on rising ground in a gentle valley, with a stream wandering through a formal garden beneath the facade. Sophy had spent her life going from house to house through Europe before coming to England. She spotted the signs of neglect that she had anticipated, having attained some knowledge of Lord Ombersley’s character, but she was glad to note that the structure itself appeared to be sound.
What’s more, some earlier relative had had the wit to take advantage of the beauty of the natural landscape, for the garden made the most of it, rather than being tortured into the fashions of previous generations.
“The lawn and the flowerbeds,” he began as the avenue opened toward a magnificent view of the house, “are sadly overgrown.”
She knew that empty effusions would merely exacerbate him. She said only, “I can see myself at work here, come spring.”
He cast her a querying glance, and she went on, “Even now. If those roses are pruned back—and this is exactly the right time for that, I learnt when I was at Malmaison, which as you might be aware was famed for its roses—”
“Malmaison!”
“I was a mere girl—this was while Napoleon was still toying with our government, you understand—but Josephine was quite kind. More to the point, there are few people in this world who knew roses better, poor lady.” Sophy gave a decided nod. “She would not have turned up her nose at the prospects in this garden, I think. It simply requires a brisk hand.”
Her reward was a rare, real smile from Charles, and an easing in the set of his shoulders.
“These flower-plots will do very well if properly put to bed, and if I may assign John Potton to the task, he knows an excellent gardener who could use the position.”
Charles’s expression also eased, but tightened again as his eyes lifted to the roof. “I had thought that the upper works must come next. It’s going to mean some restrictions.”
“Charles, let this one thing be my wedding gift to you. You gave me this beautiful diamond bracelet—you perceive I am still wearing it, though safely tucked beneath my cuff—but I haven’t one for you, you surely noticed. I was not at all certain what would suit. But in this situation, everyone benefits, and I would so very much enjoy the doing.”
“Very well, Mrs. Rivenhall, I thank you for your gift,” he said, and she rejoiced as his voice lightened.
“Ah,” she said, as they rode up to the stableyard. “I see John Potton was right. You must know that it is a rare stable that gains his unqualified approval.”
Charles threw her a gratified look as a lanky boy emerged into the well-swept yard, stumbled to a halt, and made a short, awkward bow before coming to the horses’ heads.
“Thunderer,” this boy said in an adolescent honk, then he turned his head, his somewhat unprepossessing countenance expressing pure admiration as he took in Salamanca’s splendid form. “Sir?”
“Here is Mrs. Rivenhall, Ben,” Charles said, suppressing a smile.
Ben turned toward Sophy and bowed again, blushing to the ears. “Ben, meet Salamanca,” Sophy said in her customary friendly manner. “Shall I tell you what he likes?”
Charles stood back as Sophy dismounted with unconscious grace. Not tired, she! He watched as she and Ben held a short colloquy over Salamanca. He deeply appreciated the way Sophy managed to ease the boy’s awkwardness; by the time Ben began to lead the two toward the stable hands waiting in the background, the boy was already halfway to being in love with his new mistress.
“Let me show you over the house,” Charles said.
Sophy put a hand to his chest, halting his words. Once they were well out of the stableyard, she said, “You did not send to warn of our early arrival, I collect?”
Charles’ brows lifted, and his glance betrayed a hint of confusion. “Ought I? It would be the first time I’ve done so. I am used to coming and going without botheration.”
“Quite so.” She nodded. “Just as it should be. Except…this is the first arrival of a Mrs. Rivenhall, bride of the heir, if I may so term myself. I will wager you any sum you name that your housekeeper has been up well before dawn making certain that everything would do her credit on this first encounter.”
“Which means what?” he asked slowly.
“Which means that the sheets for the bed are no doubt drying in the sun at this moment, and her best cakes newly put in the oven so that they would be still warm at our expected arrival later. Things that a gentleman is not expected to pay much heed to, but I assure you I would not so importune your poor housekeeper today.”
Charles gave a grunt, then said warily, “But they will know by now that we are arrived, surely.”
Sophy nodded. “I expect we were spotted by some horrified housemaid from the windows as we rode past. If you had not gone straight to the stable as you are no doubt accustomed to, I would have requested you do so. Now, I am sure, they are flying about inside, hurrying whatever can be hurried, but we are sublimely unaware as we walk about in the balmy air. I am so very glad to see this beautiful place at its best,” she added. “Autumn is such a generous month, and never more so than in places with such natural verdure. And it will be even more beautiful. How happy I am to think that I will be able to contribute my mite—and how lowering it would have been to walk into everything so perfect I felt I must think twice before so much as sitting in a chair.”
“Very adroitly done.” Charles laughed. “It seems to me a vast pity that Wellington had not the foresight to place you on his staff. No doubt that wretched war would have ended much sooner.”
“Ah, but Napoleon would no doubt have had something to say to that. What can we do to occupy ourselves without seeming to?”
Charles turned to her with a grin, an idea having sprung to mind. “I’ll wager any sum you have that pistol somewhere about you?”
Sophy grinned back. “Of what use would it be were it lying in a trunk?” With that, she plunged her hand into a pocket cunningly hidden among the folds of her riding habit, and pulled forth her pistol.
“Powder and shot?”
“Only enough for one reload,” she admitted, patting a similar pocket on the other side. “And it does take me a bit of time to accomplish it.”
To answer, Charles retrieved a horse pistol from the pocket of his voluminous greatcoat. “I would as lief have held our first contest with my Mantons, but these will do. Besides, I want to test that piece of yours. I might be able to alter it a little if it does throw left. What do you say?”
“I say, show me your target,” she replied, and rejoiced in the last of the tension gone from his face as they trod back to the stable long enough for him to retrieve powder and shot from his saddlebag.
Then he led the way down a side path to a clearing beside a still pond. A mossy, low fence ran adjacent, disappearing into the underbrush. “This marked part of the outer bailey of the old castle,” he explained. “Until blown to bits by the Parliamentarians.”
Sophy clasped her hands together. “Please tell me there is a priest hole.”
He uttered a short laugh. “If there was, Hubert and I never found it, though we put up a prodigious search. I expect it was done away with when the main house was rebuilt under Queen Anne. There are a couple of moldering diaries up in the library that will retail everything at length. Ah. Here’s where our gamekeeper taught me to shoot, and I brought Hubert when he showed an interest.” So saying, he lifted a few wood chips from a nearby basket, and set them along the fence, then retreated to her side.
“Shall we make it more fun by placing wagers?”
“Wagers?” he repeated. “Sums of…?”
“Oh, nothing so tedious. I was thinking of things we might negotiate. Sir Horace often told me that the grounds of a satisfactory relationship are predicated upon the reflection that everything can be negotiated.”
“A wager?” he repeated, looking askance. “Is this a way of demanding changes in me? I suppose you will begin by forbidding me my cheroots?”
“Not in the least, if they make you comfortable. Perhaps you might wish to confine them to your bookroom, only so that the scent does not get into the furnishings elsewhere. After all, with my reputation, it would never do to have callers going away certain that I smoke the things when alone at home.”
He cracked a laugh. “If I win,” Sophy said, “you will attempt to be forbearing with Augustus Fawnhope when he comes calling while we are in London.”
“Even if he expresses a desire to see you with a lamp?” Charles retorted.
“Even then,” Sophy said with mock seriousness. “You must have seen by now that his inclinations are entirely poetical rather than romantic. I am thinking of Lady Ombersley’s benefit.”
“My only reaction is acute nausea,” Charles responded. “At all events, my mother does seem to like the fellow. Very well: done. Fawnhope has leave to call in in Berkeley Square without my chasing him off again.”
“Done,” Sophy said, and took up her position, pausing to line up her shot.
Charles stood back, appreciating her straight figure so handsomely set off in that dashing riding habit. A thought flashed through his mind, a momentary and quite chilling vision of what he would have been like to bring Eugenia Wraxton to Ombersley, and in that falsely sweet voice that she had employed when trying to jockey him into turning off Addy or curtailing the children’s fun, beginning with forbidding his cheroots, and no doubt going on to his servants and his house until all was reduced to orderly joylessness.
Bang!
There went the image, gone forever as the edge of the wood chip shattered into splinters. “Drat,” Sophy said calmly, watching the rest of the piece spin away.
He rejoiced in his glorious reprieve, raised his hand, leveled the pistol, and blasted the wood chip next to hers.
“Oh, good shot!” She applauded. “I quite lost that round. What do you demand of me?”
“A kiss,” he said recklessly, and when she stepped promptly into his arms, he took it right there, without so much as a glance to see who might be in their proximity.
This was indeed his true home, she thought when she had her breath back, as he reloaded his pistol with quick, assured movements, then held out shot and powder to her. This house and land was where his heart lay, where he could be himself. The happiest Charles was the best Charles.
And so she matched him shot for shot, until her habit was dusted with gunpowder and her hair had become rather disheveled, and never uttered a hint of dismay when the sun vanished behind the treetops, shrouding the little dell in shadows as he said, “I expect they are ready for us now, don’t you think?”
It was thus that she entered her home for the first time. But the housekeeper, a wise woman, had taken one glance at her young master’s almost unrecognizable face in its unshadowed happiness, and welcomed her without a hint of awareness that anything was amiss.
As the newlyweds passed from room to room, Charles became almost loquacious. He reminisced and retailed the house’s history by turns. Sophy liked most of what she saw, and those few things that perhaps could be better arranged—or outright replaced—could all wait. There was time aplenty.
Realizing this filled her with happiness to equal his by the time the butler called them into the dining room for their first dinner as husband and wife. Charles proposed to take her on a long ride around the property come morning. She agreed with alacrity, and they chatted in like manner until the meal came to a close.
“Shall I withdraw?” she said, pointing to a withdrawing room decorated in the days of towering white wigs and sacque gowns.
“And leave me here swilling by myself when we can be…elsewhere?” he retorted.
She chuckled, blushing, and he smiled to see that blush.
They walked upstairs arm in arm, passing a gallery of his ancestors.
When they reached the bedchamber, he stepped aside so that she could enter as she said, “By the bye! We never did settle who gained the most shots. Which of us won the match?”
“Both,” he declared with conviction, and slammed the bedroom door on her giggle.