The Rocking Horse: A Regency Novella (2 page)

She paused as she watched her brother bow over Lady Maybrey's hand before he consigned her to the care of Mrs. Penneybacker, the housekeeper. "But I believe I should forfeit it all just to see my brother the way he was before Diana died," she whispered, "so involved with society and politics. Active, running hither and yon on a moment's notice. Giving speeches, writing papers. It's as if that part of his light that burned so brightly was snuffed out with her death. I don't understand it." She shook her head, then sighed. "But this is not the time for regrets, is it?"

"No, not at all. This is the time for your future! Though I should say I think the more of you for your concern."

Lady Mary smiled mistily, then she sniffed and brusquely gathered her composure. "Well, I've delayed you long enough, and you must be anxious to shed that heavy cloak and wash up after your long journey. I swear I have become a goose of late with my run-on nonsense. Emmie here shall show you to your room. It is quite one of the nicest, even if it is seemingly in the back beyond. I hope you like it. We can talk more—"

"And more and more!" Jocelyn interjected.

Lady Mary laughed, her ebullience returning. "Yes, and more and more, after you rest. We shall be having an early country dinner tonight. Four o'clock. Shall I see you an hour before downstairs?"

Jocelyn easily agreed and turned to follow the maid. Emmie led her up the wide marble staircase to a broad landing. From the landing there were slightly narrower marble staircases at either end that continued upward. Emmie took the right-hand staircase to the first floor, where tall triple windows looked out across the front lawn and the long drive that approached the house. She led Jocelyn down a wide, oak-paneled hall past innumerable rooms and two side halls. Finally Emmie stopped where the hall ended and another branched off to the left. She opened a heavy oak door with shiny brass fittings that was more reminiscent of a castle door than a modern bedroom door. But once Jocelyn went inside, she understood and cooed with delight. It was one of the circular tower rooms her mother had told her about after reading the country house guidebook.

Three large and separate windows dominated the opposite wall, each covered with heavy dark green velvet drapes swagged back and held with gold cord. Between each window hung jewel-toned tapestries. On the floor lay an intricately patterned Oriental carpet. The bed, hung with the same velvet as the windows, stood on a dais in the middle of the room. The fireplace was on the same wall as the entrance door. In the hearth a fire was burning brightly, warming the room.

Jocelyn crossed to one of the windows to study the view beyond. Bayneville Castle itself and its surroundings fascinated her. It was so big, the expanse of land so vast! And so other-worldly to her, a city-bred woman. To the south the winter-browned grass undulated gently down to a narrow river lined with tall, bare-branched trees etched against the hillside. Beyond, up the sloping hill, were green hedges and dark pine set against a pale blue-washed sky.

She went from window to window. To the east stood a village of estate buildings, to the north a small dower house, a church, and greenhouses with orchards beyond. Emmie came up beside her to quietly point out and name the landmarks. Jocelyn was touched by the young girl's thoughtfulness and silently vowed to procure a small Christmas token for the maid.

Just as they were about to turn away, a tall, hatless figure in a worn coat and stained leather breeches crossed the ground from the house toward one of the smaller whitewashed outbuildings. Jocelyn recognized the figure as the Marques and said as much aloud.

"Yes, Miss. He be going to the carpenter's," the maid said. She turned away to hang up Jocelyn's coat.

"The carpenter's?" Jocelyn asked before she could stop herself. Silently she cursed her wayward curiosity, the bane of her existence. It did not do to appear nosy before servants, especially when one had just arrived.

Emmie didn't seem to notice. "Aye." She paused to smile and glance toward the window. " 'Tis for his little ladyship, don't y' know."

Jocelyn laughed, entirely confused. "No, I'm afraid I don't."

"Och, that's right. You'll not have met her yet," Emmie said as she shut the armoire door and crossed the room to turn down the bed. " 'Tis a rocking horse he makes for her. Her one desire, she says. Poor wee one."

She shook her head, though her gentle smile remained. Finished with the bed, she removed a large kettle from a hob on the fireplace and poured hot water into a basin beside which she laid out a small scented soap and a towel. "There ya be, miss, hot water to wash with, a warm fire to take the chill from ya bones, and a bed turned down for a nice nap. Will there be anything else?"

Yes! Jocelyn wanted to shout, surprised at the questions and feelings consuming her. Tell me more of rocking horses, little ones, and the Marques! Tell me of vast expanses of land, of clear blue skies, and country living! Her soul thirsted.

But she only laughed, the questions going unasked. She was too well bred. Inwardly she sighed and chafed at the social restraints that demanded a curb on curiosity. The feeling joined the niggling mental discomforts she'd felt of late but did not understand. She brushed it aside. "No, Emmie, nothing else," she said on a wistful sigh. "I thank you for your care. You may be sure I shall mention your efficiency to the housekeeper."

"Thank ya, miss," Emmie said, beaming as she backed out of the room, leaving Jocelyn alone.

Jocelyn looked once more toward the building the Marques had entered; then she walked toward the basin to wash away the travel dust and compose her mind.

By two o'clock Miss Amelia Barnes, Jocelyn's abigail, had arrived with all her baggage. The redoubtable little woman set immediately to unpacking, pressing wrinkled clothes, informing Jocelyn how fortunate she was to be an extended guest at such an exalted establishment, dressing Jocelyn's luxuriant dark hair with combs and velvet ribbons, and otherwise pushing and prodding her young mistress into fashionable formal attire. Jocelyn's protests that they were dining
en famille
fell upon deaf ears. After all, this was the house of a Marques insisted Miss Barnes. Proper form must be maintained. Her young mistress would be best guided by her. Without argument.

By three o'clock Jocelyn found herself attired in yellow figured silk complete with pearls, a compromise as Miss Barnes would have preferred she wear yellow topaz with diamonds, gloves, fan, filmy shawl, and reticule, as if she were attending a London soiree.

Moments later a beaming Miss Barnes gently pushed Jocelyn out of the room, then closed the door.

Bemused, Jocelyn stared at the closed oak door. A puff of quiet laughter escaped her lips, and she shook her head ruefully. Even here, in the country, this attention to society was the same. Somehow she thought it would be different. Perhaps the expanse of land she'd seen from her tower window, the number and types of buildings upon the land, or simply the worn coat and stained leather breeches the Marques wore when he passed under her window made her think of differences. Perhaps, in truth, there weren't any, and therefore she should be touched by her maid's interest in her—in her—

What?

Her mind stumbled, and her bemused smile faded into a pondering frown. Interest in her social exposure? Success? Presence?

Why? To what purpose? Must this attention exist every moment of her life?

Slowly she turned away from the door and walked down the long corridor, her pace slow and measured. This time she scarcely noticed the richly oiled and immaculate wainscoting, the paintings hung between windows out of the sun's fading glare, the carpet runners woven with the Tarkington heraldic device. Vaguely she realized this was a long walk, but it felt right, for it gave her time to gather her wits, to leave behind "silly ponderings that had no meaning or purpose," as her mother often said in exasperation when Jocelyn questioned her on society's unwritten rules.

Somewhere nearby heavy footsteps rang staccato on marble. She heard them as one hears city background sounds and ignores them. Jocelyn's teeth worried her lower lip as her mind slid steadily toward considering what Miss Barnes's interests might be.

Jocelyn turned the corner toward the main staircase and scarcely saw the dust-encrusted boots before she collided with their owner, her downcast head bouncing off a broad chest that smelled of sawdust, sweat, and leather. She stumbled backward. Strong, work-roughened hands caught her bare arms where her shawl slipped down. She found herself staring at those hands.

"I beg your pardon, Miss Maybrey. Are you all right?"

That voice! Deep, solemn, and threaded with an ingrained sincerity. Jocelyn's gaze flew upward to meet soft gray eyes. "What? Oh, my lord! Oh, yes—yes—thank you very much. I was woolgathering, quite my fault. I do apologize, my lord."

"Nonsense, Miss Maybrey. It is for me to apologize." He smiled, and a spark of mischief lit his eyes. The expression transformed his face and took Jocelyn's breath away. His hands slid away from her bare arms, their roughness sending shivers down her spine. "I was running. Something I was told from childhood—as I'm certain you were—not to do in the house." He winked at her. "So I do not think you need apologize."

Jocelyn laughed. "You are too kind, sir." Her breathing calmed from that first flush of fear and surprise, though her voice remained high and breathy. There was something about the marques that fascinated, and her fascination embarrassed her. She stepped away, embarrassed both by her clumsiness and her breathless responses. Firmly she dropped her society mien into place.

"Kind? Scarcely, Miss Maybrey. Or as lately my mother would have it, not at all. But I beg you to excuse me. I have been too long at my work which I specifically promised my lady mother that I wouldn't do on your first day with us."

"Oh! Please do not rush on my account," she said, lightly dropping a hand on his arm. "I daresay I would not be ready if I weren't so well managed by my maid!"

"You, too, eh?" An odd expression—both mocking and humorous—twisted his lips.

"I beg your pardon?" she asked. She still had her hand on his arm. The realization flustered her. Her hand fell awkwardly away.

"Nothing. Is the room to your liking? Mary would have it that you'd be enchanted by one of our drafty towers."

"I am! It's wonderful. It has— It has—oh, I don't know. Character, I guess you could say."

He laughed at that, a rich, warming laugh. "Character. Yes, I do believe that is apt."

Emboldened, she added, "It really is quite a romantic room."

He crossed his arms over his chest. "Romantic?" he asked, one eyebrow quirking upward in wry, questioning humor.

In another man the expression would have been sardonic and would have reduced Jocelyn to silence, but she sensed that while his amusement was genuine, it was not mocking.

"A room for dreaming," she clarified, blushing at what her description had implied.

"Ah, and what would Miss Maybrey dream in a tower room? Of knights and shining armor?"

She laughed with him this time. "More like castles and kings," she said.

His humor faded, and a somber mask cast his features into quite another aspect. "There are no kings in my castle. Please excuse me, Miss Maybrey. I must be off," he said pleasantly enough, though with a hint of strained crispness in his voice.

Jocelyn's jaw slackened open. She snapped it up and stared at him, bemused by his sudden change.

"Before I came up the stairs, I believe I saw my sister in the music room. That's the first door on your left at the foot of the stairs."

Numb, she thanked the marques and edged around him to descend the stairs, her head high and her pace measured. Inwardly she quaked, for now she saw he could be as hard as he looked. What could have caused that terrible swift change? She felt as gauche as a country-bred young woman at her first London society function. Worse, she knew he watched her until she rounded the bend in the stairs and looked up at him, standing tall and now strangely formidable at the top of the stairs, his shoulders squared and his hands braced on lean hips as if he expected an argument. Their eyes caught and held, brown versus gray. Quickly Jocelyn tore her gaze away. She lifted her skirts and ran the rest of the way down the stairs.

When she reached the music room door, she paused in her headlong flight and forestalled the footman, who stood ready to open the door. Her hand drifted to the vicinity of her heart—as if that would still its pounding thunder.

Why should the marques affect her in this giddy manner? Gracious, she was in an odd humor this day. Perhaps as much as a country girl felt gauche at her first city function, so she, a city girl, felt gauche in the country.

How absurd!

Thoughts of absurdity brought a smile to her lips and the color back to her cheeks. Probably the long carriage ride that morning left her more tired than she knew. She should have napped before her dresser arrived. Fatigue was the villain.

She bade the footman open the door.

"There you are, Jocelyn!" Lady Mary exclaimed, jumping up from her seat on the sofa to grab Jocelyn's hand and pull her down to sit beside her. "I was hoping for a comfortable coze before dinner. Mama, I know, will not be down until nearly dinner. She thinks four o'clock unseemly for dinner, but acquiesces for Tarkington's sake. She has been so agreeable to all he says. It quite has me wondering if fairies take away more than infants, and if changelings come in all ages!"

Jocelyn laughed. "More than likely she has favors to ask. Or merely curries favor for the sake of your coming wedding."

"Oh, there would be no need for that. Tarkington suggested the wedding be here. And the Christmas betrothal house party!"

"Really? I thought—I mean, all London thought . . ." She blinked and shook her head. Why was it that everything she learned of the marques surprised her? "Well, that will be meat for the groaning boards of the London gossip tables! All have been full of curiosity."

Lady Mary laughed. "I can well imagine. But in fairness, Mama thought of asking. She has been worried about Tarkington, you see, for he's withdrawn since Diana's death. He rarely laughs, and his smiles don't have that spark of life or that mischievous humor that lurked in his expression no matter the gravity of the discussion."