When the Splendor Falls (16 page)

Two golden waffles floating in melting butter and thick maple syrup, a mountain of fluffy scrambled eggs, several sausages, browned until tender, a mound of fried potatoes and crisp apple fritters, and a couple of corn muffins, sitting precariously close to the floral-edged rim, filled the plate until she thought the fine porcelain must crack from the weight.

Leigh opened her mouth to complain, but upon meeting Stephen’s pleased, expectant smile she put a forkful of egg into her mouth instead. Nodding his grizzled head contentedly, he turned and busied himself at the sideboard, glancing over his shoulder every so often just to make certain the food piled on the plate was disappearing at the speed he thought proper.

A moment later, he placed a cup of steaming, fragrant tea before her. Then he moved a delicate pot of amber honey closer, then the cut-crystal dishes of jams and preserves, before returning to the sideboard and tunelessly whistling his favorite melody as he patiently double-checked the breakfast courses one last time.

“Now, I’m goin’ to have to leave you, Miss Leigh,” Stephen said regretfully, eyeing the half-eaten waffles with a sigh, but at least she had eaten most of the eggs and a good bit of the fried potatoes. He glanced upward, hearing the squeaking of floorboards upstairs. He had every intention of being back in the dining room by the time the rest of the family appeared for breakfast. It would be scandalous if there was no one here to serve them, and he was the only one he could trust to do it properly. He had hoped to train Sweet John to replace him one day as majordomo at Travers Hill, but Sweet John had always been happier out in the stables with his horses, knowing better how to clean out a stall than set a proper table. If it hadn’t been that the master was so pleased with Sweet John, swearing by Sweet John’s handling of his prized bloods, then he would have been disappointed in his only son. But Sweet John had done them proud even if he hadn’t become majordomo, or even a valet, Stephen admitted, although he had never admitted as much to Sweet John. “I’ve got to go into the cellar an’ bring up another couple of bottles of brandy, then fetch some more mint from the gardens out back. Now, you goin’ to be good an’ clean yer plate, honey?” he asked, staring down at the young miss with fatherly concern.

“I will, Stephen,” Leigh replied, spearing a juicy piece of sausage and dipping it in syrup just to set his mind at rest, then glancing down in dismay at the big, sticky drop of maple syrup that now stained her bodice.

She was glad she had worn her old calico, Leigh thought as she dabbed ineffectively at the spot with her napkin, and she did have to admit she felt far more capable of completing her task since she had eaten so hearty a breakfast under Stephen’s watchful eye. But as she heard the jingling of Stephen’s big ring of keys fade down the hall, she pushed back her chair, leaving the rest of her breakfast uneaten. She hurried from the room, leaving two corn bread muffins sitting in place of the shiny apples she had just reclaimed from Stephen’s masterpiece.

Leigh found the buckskins where Jolie had promised she would leave them: hanging to dry in front of the great fireplace in the kitchens. Ignoring the curious stares and sly giggles from several of the maids, Leigh, with a nonchalant tilting of her chin, took possession of the disreputable pair of buckskin breeches and fringed shirt as if she had every right to do so. She couldn’t quite hide her dismay, however, when she escaped outside and stared down at her prize. The buckskins were half-stiff and half-limp, the wet patches contrasting darkly against the light patches that had dried, making the stranger’s clothing look far worse than before. If she tried to fold them into a neat bundle, they would most likely break in two, but she had no choice. Carefully, she took each stiff leg and bent it in two places, wincing at the loud crackling noise before she tucked the long lengths of buckskin beneath the seat of the breeches. Still slightly damp, the shirt was soft and easy to fold.

Determined to waste no more of her precious time, she hurried across the greensward toward the stables. Even at this early hour, the stable block was a hive of activity. The fires in the forge were already glowing with red-hot coals, the blacksmith’s hammer sounding a steady beat as he shaped and welded the malleable iron against the anvil. Inside the stables, the stalls were being cleaned out of wet and soiled bedding from the night before and spread with fresh, dry straw. Most of the horses had been watered and fed lightly with hay before being let out for exercise.

The Travers Hill stables were as spotless as the kitchens in the big house, with the heaps of manure stored in a field nearby bearing evidence of that cleanliness. The oldest pile of manure, packed down and well-rotted, and mixed with cow manure, fish fertilizer, and bone and cottonseed meal, was bound for Beatrice Amelia’s rose gardens. And any guest to Travers Hill, interested enough to inquire, was given careful instructions on how to blend the manure for the best results. And Beatrice Amelia’s roses, famous throughout the county, convinced any doubters to accept the sample bag of manure so graciously offered by the mistress of Travers Hill.

Facing south, the stables were light and airy, with a slightly sloping brick floor and the same green-shuttered windows that marked the big house and all of the outbuildings of Travers Hill. Bales of wheat straw were stacked at one end of the stables, next to a group of pitchforks, shovels, brooms, and dung skeps hanging on hooks high on the wall. A colorful array of woolen rugs and blankets were neatly folded and stored on a shelf near the saddles, bridles, and halters. Leigh inhaled with pleasure the strong, familiar smell of leather, well-worked with neat’s-foot oil and saddle soap, as she walked along the row of hayracks and mangers, the brick flooring still wet from having been washed down and cleaned of droppings. Every stall had a fresh bucket of water, and the horses’ feed—a mixture of bran and oats and molasses—was being spread into the mangers for the first feeding of the day.

“Morning, Sweet John,” Leigh said as she came up to the stall where he was standing by Rambler, his hand gentle as he sponged the roan’s muzzle, his words coming soft and low as he spoke close to Rambler’s ear.

“I was tellin’ Rambler here that Miss Leigh would be first down to see him. He’s real sweet on you, Miss Leigh. Think he only lets Mister Guy ride him so he can gallop alongside you an’ that sweet lil’ mare of yours,” Sweet John said, smiling when Rambler neighed in reply, seeming to nod his agreement with a playful shake of his head. “Now don’t you mess up yer mane, fella, I got it all brushed so you’ll look pretty fer Miss Leigh.”

Tall and broad-shouldered, Sweet John was a handsome man, his skin the color of sweet chocolate—which was what Jolie had nicknamed him when he had been born and she had gazed down at him with such loving pride. She had declared that they’d call him John James, in honor of Jean Jacques and Colonel James Evelyn Leigh—but Sweet John he’d always been called and answered to since he’d taken his first steps. He had inherited some of Jolie’s Cherokee ancestry, evident in his high cheekbones and high-bridged nose, but she swore the straight-backed way he carried himself brought back more vivid, and frightening, memories of his grandfather Jean Jacques than of Creeping Fox.

Leigh pressed a kiss against Rambler’s velvety cheek, scratching him behind the ears as she stared into his big brown eyes. “He’s a charmer, just like his unthinking master,” she said, wondering if Guy would ever learn to think before he acted. “How is the sprain?” she asked, glancing down at the roan’s foreleg.

“Don’t think it’s goin’ to be too serious, Miss Leigh,” Sweet John told her, his sensitive hand caressing Rambler’s shoulder. “I put some kaolin paste on it, an’ in a couple of days I’ll wrap it up in cotton wool pads an’ lotion. But we’ll have to let him rest up a bit fer the next few days. Reckon Mister Guy’ll have to ride Maiden’s Blush fer a while. She’s a sweet one, but she’s not goin’ to do any jumpin’ of fences.”

Leigh could smile now, but she’d felt the same anger she knew Sweet John had yesterday when they’d examined Rambler’s sprained tendon. “I think Guy might fare better with Pumpkin, especially if he tries to get him to jump that fence. He would teach Guy the error of his ways, and give him a painful nip for good measure,” Leigh predicted as she gently touched the roan’s foreleg. “It looks like some of the swelling has already gone down and there doesn’t seem to be too much heat in it. Not as much as last night.”

“Yer mare an’ the lil’ cap’n are out in the paddock waitin’ fer you, Miss Leigh,” Sweet John said, anticipating her request. “I’ll get one of the grooms to ride with you.”

“No, Sweet John, that’s not necessary, truly. I’m just riding down the road a piece. Not far. I’ll be back before anyone else is even out of bed.”

“I don’t know, Miss Leigh,” Sweet John said, frowning slightly as he noticed the bundle of buckskin she’d been holding in her arms, but Leigh had already gotten halfway out the stable doors.

Sweet John watched as she ran across the stableyard, her shrill whistle bringing the mare and colt galloping across the paddock to her side. He smiled when he saw them nudge her, then his smile widened as he saw the two shiny apples she held out to them. A moment later, she was balancing on the rail of the gate as it swung open, then she’d climbed on Damascena’s back and was riding across the far pasture, Capitaine racing ahead.

Sweet John walked back into the stables, thinking Miss Leigh was like one of his fillies, and he couldn’t help but worry about her friskiness getting her into trouble. For a moment he stood with his dark head resting against Rambler’s flank, then he laughed softly when he felt the roan’s hot breath against his cheek, and whistling the same tuneless song Stephen was fond of, he continued with his task.

Riding alone, Leigh reached the narrow path that meandered away from the lane within minutes—or so it seemed to her. She felt a strange sense of excitement—an excitement mixed with both dread and anticipation. And she found herself wondering if she really wanted to discover that the stranger had left. After having been awakened by the thunder just before dawn, she had lain awake, her thoughts filled with the stranger. Every time she had closed her eyes, he had been there before her, haunting her until she couldn’t escape the vision of seeing him rising from the water, his muscular body bared and golden.

Lying in the dark and quiet of her bedchamber, safely tucked in the big four-poster with Blythe and Julia as bedmates, she had allowed herself to remember. Her heart had quickened its beat until she thought its pounding would awaken the other occupants of the bed, who were still lost in peaceful innocent slumber. But her thoughts were not innocent, Leigh remembered now with a wild blush staining her cheeks.

She had remembered the stranger’s nakedness and remembered her own words to Julia, spoken so casually, about breeding. But it was different when she actually thought of the stranger in an encounter so intimate. She found herself wondering what it would feel like to be held in his arms, to be pressed against his naked chest, with his hands moving over her body and molding her closer. What would it feel like to be kissed by him?

She remembered his features, hawkish and looking as if they’d been cast in bronze because of the darkness of his tanned face. Many would not have even considered him handsome, certainly not like Matthew Wycliffe, or even Guy, whose features were masculine, but delicately molded. The stranger’s nose was straight as a blade, and his cheekbones high and his jaw strongly curved. It was a hard face, with no softness, even in the finely chiseled lips. His hair was a dark golden shade even when wet, and he wore it longer than society would have deemed proper. She hadn’t been able to see the color of his eyes, narrowed against the glare and shadowed beneath the darkness of his lashes, but somehow she knew they would be pale, reflecting the sun as he gazed at the sky, or the flickering of candlelight at night. He had risen from the water, moving with a slow gracefulness that reminded her of a wild animal stalking its prey; each step deliberate and controlled.

Leigh knew a feeling of growing dismay, not understanding the aching emptiness that suddenly filled her. She had never thought of Matthew Wycliffe this way, so why should she think such unladylike thoughts about the stranger? And especially a stranger who was no gentleman. If Jolie was right, then this stranger was little better than a savage. Why else would he dress in buckskins that bore a similarity to those worn by a wild heathen and carry around a small leather pouch filled with strangely barbaric, although prized, possessions.

What was the fascination? she wondered, glancing down at the buckskins folded across her legs, touching them tentatively, then allowing her fingertips to linger against a spot of soft leather. With her heart pounding nervously, she jerked her hand away as if burned and rode through the woods. Some instinct urged caution, and she circled the meadow rather than cross the open space. Leaving Damascena near where she had left her the day before, Capitaine disappearing into the trees, Leigh hurried through the sun-dappled shadows bordering the meadow, watching for any sign of the stranger. No white-tailed deer bolted from cover as Leigh neared the blackberry brambles where she’d hidden from the stranger yesterday. Overhead, she could hear the low cooing of wood pigeons, undisturbed by her trespass. In the distance, the gentle murmuring of the creek beckoned her into the grove of hemlock as she moved ever closer to the tall sycamore, beneath which she had stolen the stranger’s clothes.

It was strangely cool in the shade beneath the tree, and Leigh shivered slightly as she glanced around, but the glade and the grassy bank, even the pool, was empty. The stranger was gone. Without regret, or so she tried to convince herself, she carefully placed the clean buckskins on the ground. Lifting up her skirt and petticoat, she untied the leather pouch from around her waist and placed it on top of the neatly folded clothes. Feeling a sense of relief now that they were no longer in her possession, Leigh turned around and started back toward the meadow, where the sun was shining so brightly and warmly.