Vivian Roycroft (8 page)

****

"I never asked you to chase after me." She'd not look at the man riding beside her, hadn't looked at him all the way back along Park Lane and Piccadilly. Beryl almost wished Tricksey would misbehave or argue with Rounder, so she wouldn't have to ride so close to him. But the mare sauntered along happily enough, with Rounder beside her and Paul's cob trailing behind. Treasonous beast.

The dreary sweep of Albemarle stretched before them. Even the columns of the Royal Institution looked miserable in this weather. Water dripped everywhere, heavy and depressing, and the puddles had widened as if reaching for each other across the pavement. Halfway up the street, the ironmonger's old cart horse scrabbled along, nostrils flared and hooves reaching for purchase, the heavy cart rumbling behind in slow fits and starts. It seemed an appropriate symbol, sad and desperate.

"Ask me to chase you?" His voice was mildness itself. "That you didn't."

Perplexing. No, more than that: bizarre. "And I told you to leave me be."

From her eye's corner, Fitz's profile nodded. "That you did."

Had he done himself an injury, riding through the slop in her wake? Or had he caught some dreadful illness, something that weighted his spirits in tune with the drizzling damps? A prickle of unease ruffled Beryl's determined coolness. She shouldn't even speak with him, truth be told, and no matter what happened, no matter what he spewed forth, she would
not
argue with him.

But for Fitz to be so pliant and amiable… Something had to be ailing him. This wasn't right.

And much as she'd longed for just such amiability, she couldn't say she liked it.

It simply wasn't Fitz.

He cleared his throat. "I've been thinking—"

And ahead, the old cart horse lost his grip in the muck and crashed to his knees on the pavement.

Horror swamped Beryl, driving out everything else, and she kicked Tricksey hard. Tricksey snorted, half-reared, and surged forward. Hooves clattered behind. The old horse crouched where he'd fallen, on his knees with his hindquarters quivering and slowly folding beneath his weight, nose resting on the pavement, ears drooping, the cart's shafts angled down and twisting the harness about him. He looked as if he prayed for mercy. The drover set his whip aside and clambered reluctantly down.

Rounder galloped up beside her. "Wait, Beryl, wait, lass. Don't startle the poor beast."

She slowed, finishing her approach at a crawl, then reined Tricksey up at the cart's rear wheels. Still the old horse didn't fight for his feet. A first trickle of red crept from beneath his trembling, surely raw left knee. His hindquarters shook, trying to let his body settle to the pavement, but the shafts and harness kept his barrel above the road. He had to rest, but the wagon wouldn't allow it, and he couldn't hold that position for long. Beryl's horror twisted to pity, and she turned on Fitz. "
Do something.
"

For a moment he paused, astonishment flashing from his eyes. Then he swept from the saddle and handed her Rounder's reins. Heedless of his already-ruined clothing, he fell to his knees beside the old horse's head, hat tumbling off behind him, one hand stroking the drooping neck, his voice a gentle, rhythmic murmur. "Let's have a look at you now, lad, and it's a fine beast you are, to be in such a pickle."

Carefully he reached for the near-side trace and tugged at the leather, strong fingers releasing the pressure. Finally some movement from the poor trapped beast; one grey-flecked ear twisted toward Fitz. The soothing voice never paused. "And perhaps we can ask this fine gentleman drover to unhitch your other side, the wonder and the pity of it." More stroking, in tune with the words, as the drover willingly complied.

"A good horse he's been, old Pigeon, even if his toes turn in." The drover grunted, yanked, and leather whispered and unwound.

The horse's hind legs gave way; only the harness and shafts had kept him even halfway standing, and with the two separated he collapsed on his belly to the pavement, legs curling beneath him. Fitz sprawled down beside him, sitting in the puddle that already held his hat, still murmuring, still stroking. Willing hands pushed the cart back; she hadn't noticed the crowd gathering, but the Royal Institution's workmen, several gentlemen residents, and even two of the jewelers from across the street clustered around them, with more men hurrying near. Benson stood in the Wentworth doorway, slowly shaking his head, and Germaine, the senior groom, appeared from the mews.

Fitz kept stroking, his fingers retracing the same path each time, and he kept murmuring. "The work's been getting beyond you for some time now, but good lad that you are, you never stopped trying."

"Aye, that's true," the drover said. "Don't like putting him to the cart, not when it's heavy like today, but the goods must be delivered and Harrowby can't afford a replacement for him." He scratched his head. "Not sure what to do now. Can't ask old Pigeon to do more, he's finished, but…"

Stroke. Stroke. Stroke. Beryl felt the rhythm, gentling her anguish, as surely as the horse did. Pigeon lay fully on the pavement now, still making no move to rise, but his breathing had steadied to the same constant rhythm and his ear curved toward Fitz's every word.

Germaine rested a hand on Tricksey's shoulder. "Come away, Miss Beryl. There's no sense in you seeing what must come next. No, nor the mare."

No.
No.
Beryl's chest clenched. Of course that's what happened to old horses; surely every day, somewhere in England, somewhere in the world, at least one was helped to that long dark sleep by an owner the horse could no longer serve. But not this one, not today. Everything within her screamed out against it.

And perhaps she'd stammered some of her thoughts, made some sort of outcry. For Fitz's face lifted and turned, meeting her gaze over Tricksey's lazing head (
dear Tricksey, never, I promise you
), his gentling hand stroking still. Understanding and compassion aged his lively face, flashed between them, and again his soothing comfort reached her through the pain.

"Then why don't I buy you, good old lad that you are, and give you a home in a sweet country pasture where you can live out your days, may they be many and kind." Stroke. Stroke. Stroke; the one ear gently twitching. "And then your hard-working master and drover can find a young, stout beast to haul the heavy loads about, so they can, and sweet Beryl can cease her fretting."

Germaine's hand froze on Tricksey's reins below the bit, and the mare angled her head away from the pressure, shifting sideways. Again Fitz glanced up, somberly, as if awaiting her judgment. Stroke. Stroke. Stroke.

And his gaze met hers. Held her immobile, frozen in place atop Tricksey.

If the tension she'd felt in the sitting room had caused her to run for shelter out into the rain, it was nothing compared to the crashing, confusing emotions surging through her now. Gratitude, yes, encroaching on the oceans of anguish and compassion. Love, certainly, and only to be expected. But also a slowly growing awareness, creeping into the forefront of her mind. This was the man Fitz had grown into and denied with his childish whims: strong and responsible, caring and gentle. In this moment, stroking the old horse's neck and planning a future for him, Fitz embodied the man she'd yearned for, the one populating all of her fantastic dreams. This was the man she'd wanted him to be.

And along with the understanding came guilt.

For despite his teasing, the playful bantering she'd outgrown and he hadn't, he'd never deserved her temper's lash.

Then old Pigeon sighed, deep and prolonged, as if he'd just surrendered all the cares of the world. For a moment terror held Beryl in place; it sounded like a death-sigh. But the greying head turned, nuzzled Fitz's knee, rested atop his thigh rather than the sodden pavement, and Pigeon's liquid eyes met Fitz's gaze with trust and abandon. Fitz laughed and rubbed the forehead above those eyes.

"After all, it's the least we can do, with all those Fitzwilliam pastures and byres dotted over so many counties, England, Ireland, here, there, and everywhere. Some sweet beast is going to eat that grass, my loyal lad, so it might as well be you." Another glance up, this time not at her. "Germaine, man, let Paul see to Miss Beryl and Tricksey, and fetch some straw to scatter about this slick pavement. That will give this elderly workman a chance to get his legs beneath him without slipping again. You, lad, will you run to my groom—"

"Done that once, me lord," a piping voice said from the crowd, buried behind the wall of arms, coats, and hats. "And I was supposed to have a guinea for it, too."

"Two guineas it shall be," said Fitz, "if you run to my groom, tell him to make up the large box stall for a new resident, and bring Peter in harness to draw this fine drover's cart wherever he needs it to go. And tell him to send the undergroom to go with Peter. Not intending any insult," this to the drover, "but my father would have my hide if I allowed anyone but one of our grooms to manage his favorite horse."

The drover grunted. "None taken, sir. I'm grateful for your help."

Done; it was as good as done. Fitz had taken charge, with a calm authority that sent the boy running and the drover nodding. All that remained for her was to catch his gaze a final time, give him her thanks with the glance, and turn Tricksey toward the mews entry. Paul's cob clattered behind.

And the remembered image of Fitz, sprawled on the wet pavement atop his shattered, flattened hat, rain drizzling down his neck, curls plastered to his beautiful forehead, wet as a happy duck, with an old horse's chin resting in his lap, stayed blissfully within her thoughts as she rode away.

****

His Grace whistled, a single soft note, as the boy galumphed past his hiding place in the alley between Albemarle and Dover. The bare feet stopped their headlong run and dirty dark hair — impossible to ascertain its true color through the grime-turned-mud — fell over his equally dark, indeterminate eyes as he peered into the shop's recessed doorway.

"Here, I promised you a guinea."

The urchin accepted it gladly enough, but his eyes were thoughtful, his movements slow, and his lips rolled into a moue then grimaced. "I was promised two," he said, reluctant honesty dragged from him by a generous heart, "and the gentleman buying the old horse already gave me both. This makes three."

"And I'm certain your family can find a better use for it than either the Fitzwilliam scion or myself. Your honesty does you credit, boy, but take it and run your errand. Go!"

A surprised flash of glee, then the bare feet leapt into willing motion and the child was gone.

So was the lovely Miss Beryl, on her elegant chestnut mare, her groom and his unflappable cob behind them. A bystander held the liver hunter's reins, and suddenly, with a scrabble and scattered cheer from the sympathetic onlookers, the old cart horse's head reared up among the throng. Young Fitzwilliam had coaxed him to his feet. Good. Just as every young lady deserved for her dreams to come true, old horses and dogs and other furry things deserved a quiet retirement and peaceful conclusion to their lives, on their own terms.

And the surge of satisfaction, when he'd seen the final, loving, grateful glance exchanged between his targets. Another game almost complete.

Another young woman's life set on its hoped-for track.

Someday, his would follow. Surely.

He could safely return home for a peaceful evening and leave them to think their final thoughts in private. The messenger would arrive after dark.

****

Papa met her at the stable door, still in his slippers; doubtless Benson had described the disaster with old Pigeon in great detail. Not to mention her bedraggled appearance, wearing Fitz's cloak in the middle of Albemarle and a watching crowd, even if she'd not been down amongst them. A sort of desperation stiffened Papa's face, as if he'd looked into an infernal pit and withdrawn from the brittle edge, determined to recover the beloved one he'd lost in the looking. Poor Papa, worried and sad. She owed him a kiss, if not an apology.

As soon as she was warm. And dry, blessedly dry.

Rising pressure in her throat, a prickling in her eyes, pounded against her self-control.

"My girl." He reached up, gripped her arm in gentle fingers, ensuring she really was there. "My girl." To Paul, "Where the devil is Germaine? For what do I pay the man?"

Unperturbed, Paul dismounted, letting the undergroom take the cob, and reached past Papa. "Germaine's occupied, sir. But here's Miss Beryl, safe and sound."

She'd forgotten to dismount in her distraction. Really, there had been too much to the day, too much confusion and too many bewildering emotions. Beryl dropped the reins and let Paul help her down. Tricksey stood with her neck slacked, rainwater dripping to the brick floor with tiny splats.

"I'm sorry, Papa." Her voice quavered.

His arms swept about her, tightened, warm and loving and unfortunately no longer dry. "Dear girl, dear sweet Beryl. We must talk. You must tell me what's disturbing you so."

And the tears refused to wait a moment longer, whether she was warm and dry or otherwise. Sobs tore at her and she buried her face in Papa's chest.

****

With another huge sigh, Pigeon again collapsed. But this time he fell into a bed of thick straw, folding his doctored knees out of the way, and a manger stuffed full of clover hay tempted him into snaking out his muzzle for a ripping mouthful. The stable block behind his father's Dover Street townhome filled with the contented munching of a good horse's jaws.

And the discontented stamping and blowing of the other good horses, who had to await their usual dinnertime.

Well, he might have planned that bit better. But overall, Fitz could feel nothing but satisfaction with his purchase. Oh, it was true the horse should never work again — and wouldn't, with the saints' blessings — and his allowance would now need to stretch not only to cover Rounder's costs but also Pigeon's. But once he found the fine old beast a spot in a country pasture, as he'd promised, the cost of that support would fall to almost nothing. And if Beryl wished, she could go visit the horse, carrot in hand, and spend some time in his company with a curry comb.

Beryl…

How he'd wronged her.

He'd only considered it teasing, the playful banter of old schoolmates, much like his verbal contretemps with Caird, Crompton, and Ponsonby, he of the overactive mouth. But her escape from the sitting room, from the presence of three men she supposedly loved, at least in a friendship-and-family sort of way — well, that called for a bit of thought. Whatever other lessons he ultimately drew from that experience, he couldn't deny that she'd found it necessary to run.

From his presence.

And it was a fact that he'd shown more courtesy, more consideration, more raw kindness, for an unknown drover and a broken-down nag than he ever had for—

—for the woman he loved.

A spasm of guilt coursed through him. A churl; he'd been naught but a churl. Not only that; he'd been a
prize
churl. An award-winner, second to none.

So long as he could be Beryl's churl, he'd not care a whit.

It ripped too great a wound to wonder if he'd ever earn that chance again. Fitz drew a deep breath, filling all the corners of his lungs, as Pigeon plucked out another mouthful of hay. The best he could do, to again draw Beryl's affections to him, was to finish the task requested, the promise he'd made to her and the old horse.

Tomorrow he'd ride to the country, to the closest Fitzwilliam estate, and find Pigeon a forever home.