And before he choked on his own words, he twisted and walked away.
31
“ABSENCE IS TO LOVE WHAT WIND IS TO FIRE. IT PUTS OUT THE LITTLE, IT KINDLES THE GREAT.”
(ROGER DE RABUTIN)
“Idon’t see why thee has to return to London so soon,” grumped Mr Grampy Tom. “I once set off for there but only got as far as Burford. The cart overturned and I broke my arm. That taught I much about God’s purpose.”
Hebe attempted a smile and kissed his bristly cheek. “I just need some time to think, Mr Grampy Tom.”
“Bah. Too much thinking in thine head and not enough following where the fair wind takes thee, if thee ask I.” He patted the bench and she sat, not wishing to leave either, now that the hour had come, a sense of…wrongness shrouding her.
Hebe briefly closed her eyes, so terribly bewildered and confused. But had not Ernest himself agreed that it was better she leave.
Breathing deep, the earthy fragrance of the stables soothed her: the muskiness of the horses and the freshness of hay. A whistling Thos was polishing leather bridles and Garvey was roping a hamper to the back of the Rothwell carriage. Twinkle leaped onto her lap and she idly stroked him, then hugged him hard till he squirmed. She would miss him so.
Ernest strode from the gardens with head bowed. Fine Hessian boots and buff breeches clad his legs, a black jacket his shoulders, yet a striped waistcoat of puce and white jarred the picture of sophistication.
But then that was Ernest – stylish and debonair yet droll and carefree.
Although today with sloped shoulder and lips flattened, an air of sadness and exhaustion shrouded him.
“Look after him, Mr Grampy Tom,” she choked out. It was a ridiculous thing to say and yet…
“Aye.” He gusted a sigh. “But his lordship be used to being here. As a stripling, he were ignored by all that shouldn’t – father, mother and brother. They just left him for months on end, but he never grumbled or whined for their return, just fended for himself, made sure to be chirpy as a skylark even when the clouds were grey.” He prodded her none too gently with his pipe. “But mark my words, all birds need a mate, or their wings will dip.”
“They didn’t dip in London,” she countered wryly.
“Bah. He were a boy then. You cage a bird and it’ll play with the silly trinkets you provide, but he’s a man now and will fling open that cage for the skies and meadows, to build his nest where he wants and with who he wants.”
Hebe worried her lip, watching as Lord Ernest called Daniel to the herb garden.
The young groom had been found on the Wychmere Tavern floor yestermorn, drunk as a wheelbarrow and lamenting Mary, who’d told him during the Feast bonfire that she’d no love for him and never would.
In Hebe’s meaner moments, she hoped clemency was not so lenient for Miss Mary Merreck.
“Mrs Locke?”
Hebe glanced up to Watkins the coachman, who nodded towards the carriage, peered to the climbing sun and tapped a whip to his boots.
“Oh, of course, I’ll just…”
After a heartfelt hug to Mr Grampy Tom, and with no idea of Aunt’s whereabouts, Hebe wandered through the courtyard doors to the gardens in search of Ernest but then paused by the hedge as she witnessed Daniel on the path with cap in twisting hands, words astutter.
“I know why thee wanted a word, my lord. And I’ve already packed my bags. ’Twere my fault. I let Mary hang around the stables.”
Ernest shook his head. “Daniel, you are not going anywhere and it was not your fault.”
The lad’s shoulders sagged. “But it were I that told her stuff about the horses to impress her.”
“We were all deceived.” He placed a hand to the lad’s back. “You are a fine groom and I do not wish to lose you.”
Daniel peered up. “Is thee sure? I mean…well, if thine lordship is certain?”
Ernest nodded.
“Thank thee,” he gushed. “Thank thee, my lord. Thee don’t know what it means to I. And I pledge, so I do, that I ain’t never gonna trust another girl as long as I shall live.”
