Where Love Restores (Where There is Love Book 4) Read online

  At the lodge Georgiana joined her mother in playing hostess to their guests, seeing that the servants kept everyone amply supplied with platters of roast ham, game pie, broiled tomatoes, mushrooms, sausages, and glasses of punch.

  “Would you care for another slice of pie, sir?” Georgiana asked a pale, gaunt young man in an ill-fitting habit. She hoped he’d accept—he looked as though he needed it. The young man reached for the pie and gave her a kind, intelligent smile.

  “I say, Georgie, I don’t believe you’ve met Mr. Peacock, my crammie. Cock, this is my cousin, Lady Georgiana Somerset.”

  The lady whirled to face the speaker. “Granville! You surprised me. I thought you had forsaken the field.” She made her tones as frosty as possible. Turning her back on Granville, she extended her hand to the new man. “So you are my cousin’s tutor, Mr. Peacock? Indeed, you have my condolences.”

  Mr. Peacock flashed the smile which so transformed his impoverished appearance and made Georgiana think that his name might not be quite such a misnomer after all. “Not at all, Lady Georgiana. Your cousin is a most courteous charge with a very fine mind.”

  “And so studious as to give you cause to worry for his constitution, to be sure. We must have a long visit later, Mr. Peacock.” She changed to a less sarcastic tone. “I trust you will enjoy your day in the field.”

  “I look forward to it most heartily. I understand this is considered to be among the finest fox country in the land with some of the best natural fox coverts in all England.”

  “That is what we are often told by those from other hunts. I believe there is no country like it for long, fast runs. It’s often said to be the wildest and roughest of the shires. And did you know that fox hunting began here?”

  “Here? At Badminton? You astound me.”

  Enjoying the full back she was giving to Granville and aware that he could hear little of what she said, Georgiana prolonged the conversation. “That is the tradition. It seems that my grandpapa, the fifth duke, was returning after a disappointing stag hunt when he threw his hounds into Silk Wood for a last run. There he found a fox that gave them such a good run that thereafter the duke decided to hunt the fox exclusively.”

  “I am entranced to find I shall be walking in the steps of history—or my horse shall be, at any rate.”

  “Georgie, could we—”

  Georgiana laughed and continued talking to Mr. Peacock as if Granville hadn’t spoken. “Popular belief, of course, is not always strictly accurate. But it is a charming story, is it not?”

  “As charming as the storyteller. Have you hunted all your life, Lady Georgiana?”

  “From my earliest days. But Papa was strict. We could not hunt more than three times a week until we were five years old.”

  “You astound me. And is there no controversy over the—ah, fierceness of the sport?” Mr. Peacock was obviously enjoying the lady’s attention and was in no hurry to relinquish it.

  “None raised by well-informed people, sir. Indeed, fox hunting became popular just in time to prevent the extinction of the breed, rather than the reverse. Foxes are so well thought of on my papa’s lands that servants who sight any on the estate are required to raise their caps or touch their forelocks in respect.”

  This time Mr. Peacock had nothing to reply to her answer, so Georgiana turned away. “You must let us know if you wish anything. Papa wants his guests to have everything they desire.” Giving a final smile to Mr. Peacock, she turned her attention to other guests until the barking of the pack gave notice that it was throwing-off time.

  When Georgiana was mounted, she moved forward into the riders and suddenly found herself between her father and her cousin. The duke leaned forward jovially to address them both. “If you won’t ride more forward than twenty paces behind the hounds, I think I may promise you something like a good day’s sport.”

  Georgiana laughed at what her father intended as a witty comment. “Indeed, Papa, you outdo even yourself in such moderate demands. But I have no intention of being one of the thrusters in the field.”

  “Don’t worry, sir,” Granville replied, “I shan’t override your hounds.”

  The duke laughed. “I credit your good intentions, but I well remember what it was to be young and eager in the field on so fine a morning.”

  Georgiana was relieved to see her mother approach. She had no desire to be thrown together with a “young and eager” man who entertained members of the muslin company—after winning her sympathy by expressing deep concern for his spiritual condition. The duchess, smiling warmly at horses, riders, and dogs alike, made her way through the throng to bid her husband farewell. “Pray think of me when you are hunting that I may be a preservation against your taking dangerous risks.”

  The duke guffawed. “Have no fear, my dear. I am well past the age of showing off. It’s these young thrusters you need have a thought for—or rather for my hounds that they won’t ride over ’em.”

  “I pray you are right, but my blood is chilled when I think of the hazards of the field. Take all imaginable care of yourselves, my dears—all of you.” She stepped back and waved them away.

  Payne released the hounds, who replied to Worcester’s opening cheer with a challenge. In a moment the famous badger pies were throwing their tongues with a charming chorus. The music of the hounds, which has no equal for those who love the chase, rang through the wood and told of a good scent. Georgiana’s spirits soared afresh even though her cousin’s chestnut mount stayed close to Mayflower.

  Within a few minutes of entering the field, the cry that all huntsmen wait for rang out on the clear air: “View halloo!” The duke himself was the first to sight fox.

  Worcester sounded the horn, and the hounds flew to its signal. The moment the hounds were thrown in, the fox was off running in gallant style across the open country. In a few minutes Georgiana, riding midfield, caught sight of it taking a flying leap, clearing the fenced brook at the bottom of the field, its bright red brush describing an arc against the green expanse. “Look!” In the enthusiasm of the moment Georgiana turned to Granville and pointed. “Oh, that’s the prettiest thing I ever saw!”

  She spurred Mayflower to a full run, and the field of hunters flew forward urged by the duke’s cry, “Hold hard!”

  It was a run of the kind huntsmen dream of and talk about long after, and Georgiana knew the day would live long in her memory. The sharp air flew past her, her horses’ hooves striking the frozen earth in rapid rhythm, the blur of frosty green fields and stretching horses streaking past her vision. Granville stayed close beside her as if in the midst of the racing field they were alone together. Unable to hold ill humor in the face of such exhilaration, even against one so deserving of her bad graces, Georgiana gave her cousin a smile.

  It seemed that everyone in the field sensed that they were in for a great run. All were riding resolutely, silently, making every effort to save their horses. Silently the pack swept onward; silently the field followed. In the intensity of the run, Georgiana looked straight before her, her vision limited to the eager white ears of Mayflower pricked forward for the slightest signal and, between the frame of ears, the fleeting piebald mass of the hounds.

  The pack flew over a fence of bramble hedgerows. A few minutes later Georgiana lowered her hands holding the reins and leaned forward in the saddle. Mayflower took the fence as lightly as if she had wings. As soon as Mayflower’s feet were on the ground, she was off again. Georgiana turned her head just enough to her left to receive a salute from Granville who had jumped alongside her. She smiled with pleasure, knowing that he appreciated the fact that she had not moved in her saddle.

  And then with a yip of confusion, the hounds slowed at the edge of a wood and began running about sniffing the ground.

  “Stand still, gentlemen!” the duke called.

  “Lost him in the gorse,” Granville said to Georgiana, the first words they had exchanged in almost an hour of riding together. “He’s a stout runner, but a f
ox like that always makes his point. He’ll double around in some clever way to show the hounds he’s up to snuff.”

  Then the splendid chorus of the hounds rang through the covert and put the riders once more on terms. This time the fox was fairly away, but there lay before the pursuers the Brinkworth Brook. Some charged it, some refused, and some went in. Some, their horses nearly spent, dropped out. Lord Worcester and a few followers saved their horses by going over the bridge. Georgiana was among those, her mind too occupied by other thoughts to choose the stiffer going.

  She had exchanged few words with Granville and those on perfectly neutral subjects—the sentences could have been spoken to anyone in the field. Yet they were enough to quicken her heart. She could not remain shut to him no matter how callous his behavior. Feeling a warm glow of righteousness, she determined to adopt the pious position of hating the sin, but loving the sinner. She urged Mayflower forward.

  Sun sparkled on small remaining patches of frost, adding to Georgiana’s virtuous satisfaction—a glow that lasted until Fred Calthorpe cantered by and greeted Granville who was riding just ahead of her. Fred’s salute and bold wink told all that was in his mind as loudly as if he had publicly addressed Granville as a care-for-nothing.

  Too late Georgiana realized that a stone wall loomed right before her. With no time to gather her mount or even adjust her reins, she closed her eyes momentarily and clung to the saddle. Mayflower landed steeply off balance, took one stride, and then almost toppled over. Georgiana’s heart thudded wildly in her throat. She was sure Mayflower would fall, but she sat tight while the mare somehow managed to find her feet.

  Georgiana eased their pace and patted her little white mount. “That was very clever of you, girl. Very clever.”

  At the village the hounds threw up their heads. Giving them time to make their own cast, Lord Worcester watched closely. Then with a low whistle, he quietly urged them on. Steadily and without flash, they settled on the line again like the serious, working dogs they were bred and trained to be. Riders followed hounds, running hard for the common. There the pack never paused or wavered, for the fox had gone right through.

  But on the other side of the common, either because it felt the hounds too close or perhaps because it met some obstacle, the fox twisted about and sought the shelter of a thick covert. The confusion among the foxhounds required the riders to pull up. By this time many had fallen back to ease their horses, so that there were fewer than twenty still with the huntsman.

  Among the stout ones was Lady Jane Paget, but she had had enough sport. “Henry, I simply cannot go on. I am not one of your tallyho sort! I am not an accomplished fencer! And I hate drop fences! And furthermore I have mud splattered all over my skirt!” She finished on a high-pitched note nearing hysteria.

  Worcester, whose mind was clearly more on his hounds than on his intended, spoke off-handedly. “Quite right, my dear. Will Long will see you back to the house.”

  “But, Henry, it’s miles. Surely you aren’t so heartless as to send me all the way with a servant?” The others turned away, uncomfortable at being forced to hear a private altercation. But Lady Jane’s high-pitched voice had great carrying power.

  “Henry?” she persisted, forcing him to break off just as he was about to give a signal to the hounds.

  “Then stop at the inn for refreshment. I can’t be bothered right now,” he snapped without looking at her.

  The lady was visibly near the exploding point, but whether in tears or in angry words, the company was saved from finding out. Fred Calthorpe rode forward and begged the privilege of escorting the lady himself. The relief of those remaining was almost audible as Fred and his charge left the field.

  “The longer I hunt, the more I value silence on the part of everyone in the field except the huntsman,” the duke said not quite under his breath.

  Then Worcester’s arm flew up with a jerk in a signal that the hounds were running on. Just one faint whimper, then not a tongue was heard. Only the shrill whistle of the huntsman told that the pack was away and stealing over the turf at a pace that challenged the fastest to catch them.

  Because the wind had chopped round to the southwest and was blowing fresh, however, comparatively few people heard the whistle. So as Georgiana sped across the field, wishing to outrun her troubled emotions as much as to keep up with the hounds, she was almost alone. But not quite. As if to tease her with the fact that she couldn’t outrun herself, Granville pulled alongside her. “Must you be such a hard-goer? I want to talk to you.”

  “Well, I don’t wish to talk to you. You—you—rake!” She dug her heel into Mayflower’s side.

  Unfortunately, she had to slacken her pace as they entered a spinney, giving him another chance. “Georgiana—”

  She hardened her heart against his downcast look. “I heartily hope you are feeling as miserable as you deserve, sir. I have nothing to say to you.”

  At that moment they broke from the small wood and were greeted with the beautiful sight of the fox crossing in full view ahead of them by the river. Taking the little red streak as an excuse to escape the emotional turbulence she felt, Georgiana spurred the wearying Mayflower forward.

  This time Granville’s voice was not a plea, but a demand. “Georgie, stop!”

  But she was too set on her own course.

  “Don’t! That bank is hollow!”

  The words were no more flung on the air than the ground broke away beneath Mayflower. Horse and rider slipped into the icy flowing water.

  In a second Granville was off his horse and running down the crumbled bank. Mayflower churned and floundered, seeking her footing in the slippery streambed, spraying water over the already soaked riders as Granville struggled to pull Georgiana from the stream.

  “What were you thinking of?” he growled, standing knee-deep in the water beside her.

  “I was thinking of putting distance between us, sir!” she sputtered.

  “But didn’t you hear my warning?”

  “I did not. Nor do I wish to hear anything else you have to say.” She shook his arm from around her waist and waded toward the shore, the water pulling heavily at her skirt.

  She stumbled on a rock, and he reached for her. “I do not need your help!” Her words failed to have their intended effect, for she slipped again, this time on the muddy bank, and she had to allow him to help her onto the grass. Mayflower was already shaking herself vigorously, flinging icy drops in all directions.

  “Here, let’s get this off you.” Granville reached for the brass buttons of her drenched jacket.

  She pulled back sharply. “I will thank you to keep your hands off me, sir! I am not one of your—your pamphylians!” Much to her horror, the angry words came out with a strangled sob.

  “Have some sense,” he ground at her through clenched teeth. “I’ve no desire to ravish you. I’d far rather throttle you. But I’ve no desire to see you take a fever either, so put this on.” He stripped off his relatively dry coat and thrust it at her. “Now get that skirt off and wring it out!”

  “Sir—”

  “Don’t get missish with me. I’ve seen you in your shift more often than your brother has, and if you don’t do it, I will.”

  The sound of the hunting horn reached them from a distant field. A short, sharp yapping of the hounds told Georgiana that the hunt was over—she couldn’t look for help from any of that party. She obediently unfastened the band of her skirt, but suddenly she found herself incapable of wringing it out as her knees gave way beneath her and she sank to the ground.

  “Georgie!” Granville was beside her in a second. “Are you hurt?”

  Even through the coat, his hand on her arm felt warm. For some reason that made her cry. All she could do was shake her head.

  “You’ve had a nasty shock.” His tone was understanding and reassuring. He picked up her soggy skirt and twisted it until the water ran out in a stream. “Here. That’s the best I can do.” He handed it back to her. “Can you
manage to get it on?”

  She nodded, but after a moment’s struggle found that her fingers were so numb she had to let him do the fasteners. “I’d give my quarter’s allowance for a dry blanket,” he said. “Blast this wind. We’ll take you to The Compass, and I’ll ride to the house for dry clothes.”

  “We’ll do no such thing. I can ride home as quickly as to the inn. If you will be so good as to give me a leg up.” She suppressed a shiver as the chill breeze overmatched the sun’s efforts to provide warmth.

  Granville made no attempt at conversation on the ride home as all his efforts seemed bent on covering the ground in as short a time as possible. Georgiana, content to let him choose their course, gritted her teeth to keep them from chattering and concentrated on the muddled thoughts that scampered through her mind like a fox chased by hounds. For all of his yelling at her and pulling her clothes about, it was clear that Granville was concerned for her welfare. So why did his avuncular attitude—I’d far rather throttle you; I’ve seen you in your shift more often than your brother—make her want to cry again?

  And what of the deplorable behavior reported by Frederick? Why was she so much more deeply hurt by that than if it had been her brother? What difference would this knowledge make in her relationship with her cousin? Could they ever return to the lighthearted companionship they had shared at the harvest festival? Could she forgive him? Did he want her forgiveness?

  A chimerical fox waved his red brush in derision, and her thoughts went yapping after it. She stretched to understand why this was such a personal affront to her. Then she recalled thinking a few days earlier of how Granville had always been her ideal. That was it. Her idol had crumbled, and she felt bereft. There was no one to take his place. She was left with an aching, unfillable void.

  A tearing sneeze scattered all her thoughts and turned her mind only to the warmth of her room.