Page 83 of The Work of Art

Philly sat up, as well, uncertain of Arthur’s change in mood.

He shrugged on his dressing gown and picked up his cane. The tinderbox was on the mantle. He went to it and occupied himself with lighting a fire in the hearth. When he’d done, he returned to sit beside her on the bed.

Philly met his eyes. His expression was troubled.

“You’re right,” he said. “Whoever constructed that snare may well have meant to do someone harm. Until I know more…I’m sorry, but you must restrict your riding to the paddock by the stable.”

She looked at him in disbelief. “You can’t mean that. The paddock is nothing but a square of grass and dirt. How could anyone properly ride there?”

“It’s large enough for a canter.”

“Am I to just canter round and round in a circle for an hour?” She shook her head. “No. You mustn’t prevent me from riding out on the estate. I promise I won’t gallop anymore, but I won’t be confined to a small pen behind the stable. It’s my only occupation outside of the house. My only freedom. You can’t take it from me.”

He raked a hand through his already disheveled hair. “You know as well as I do that it’s presently not safe on the estate. Until I’m confident that there’s no further danger, you must stay near the house when you ride. Either that, or stop riding altogether.”

Philly experienced a wholly unwelcome flicker of resentment at the choice he’d given her. Do as he bid her, or give up the one thing that made her happy? It was no choice at all.

She opened her mouth to argue with him. To tell him he was being unfair to her. That he was becoming a tyrant. The very sort of man she’d sought to escape.

But though she wanted to rail at him, she found she could not.

Arthur was protecting her. He’d been protecting her since the morning they’d met at dawn in the park and she’d put herself into his keeping.

“I’ve made you angry,” he said.

“No. Not angry.”

“What then?”

“Unhappy,” she said. “Dreadfully unhappy.”

Arthur reached out to her. She went into his arms with slightly less enthusiasm than was usual. “I know I have,” he said against her hair. “And I’m sorry for it. But it can’t be helped. You must let me look after you. You have to trust that I know what’s best.”

Philly made no reply. She was reminded of how trusting she’d been when first she’d arrived in London with Uncle Edgar. She’d acquiesced to all of his restrictions without question, never understanding how isolated she’d become until it was too late. It was an unfair comparison, she knew, and she felt guilty for making it. Arthur was nothing like her uncle.

He took her chin in his fingers and gently tipped it up from his chest. “Tell me you trust me.”

“You know that I do.”

At her answer, some of the uneasiness receded from his eyes. “The paddock won’t be so terrible, will it?”

She sighed. What could she say? Arthur wasn’t going to change his mind. There was little point in arguing. “No.”

He stroked her cheek, holding her gaze with his. “What can I do to make it more bearable?”

Philly pictured the paddock in her mind. It was indeed large enough for a canter—though not much else. The ground was even, and the wooden fence surrounding it was aged, but sturdy.

Greene had mentioned that it had once been used when they were breaking young horses to saddle, or teaching children on the estate to ride. She often saw Hyperion wandering there, nibbling grass and whinnying to the mares.

Hyperion.

The idea struck Philly like a thunderclap. “Do you truly mean that? Because I’ve just had a wonderful thought.” She extricated herself from Arthur’s embrace and knelt back on the bed. The more she contemplated her idea, the more enthusiastic she became. “Oh, Arthur, do you think that…? Would you ever…?”

An amused smile tugged at the corner of his mouth. “As much as I’d like to, I can’t read your mind.”

She flushed with excitement. “I know you said that when you walked today it didn’t mean anything. But you must admit that your leg has been getting stronger since you first came to London. You’ve said yourself that it gives you less pain.”

The warmth in Arthur’s expression faded.