Page 84 of The Work of Art

“And you’ve always been able to put some weight on it, have you not?” Philly waited for his reluctantly affirming nod. “And now you can bear even more?” He nodded again. “I think you must be strong enough to—” She hesitated before pushing forward in a rush of words. “To try and ride a horse again.”

As she’d expected, all traces of the indulgent amusement he’d exhibited only seconds before were now gone.

“Please don’t refuse me out of hand,” she pleaded. “Please let me finish.”

Arthur said nothing to prevent her.

“You’re an excellent rider. Everyone tells me so. And even if, after these many years, you’ve lost some of your skill, I daresay you’ll still be more accomplished than most.” She swallowed, uncertain as to whether she was encouraging or discouraging him. “If we attempted it in the paddock, and on a calm enough horse, you could get the feel of it again, and you could see how much you’re still capable of.”

“I’m not capable of anything anymore.”

“Arthur—”

“Not on a horse. Not with a pistol. Not with a rapier. It’s not only my leg that’s weak, it’s my hand. And after such a head injury as I had at Albuera—” He broke off abruptly. “No. You mustn’t ask this of me. At the very least I’ll look like an incompetent fool. And at the worst I’ll do myself some greater injury.”

Philly leaned against him. “I won’t ever let you look like a fool,” she vowed softly. She reached for his hand and was heartened when he met her halfway, his fingers threading through hers. “We can go to the paddock in the early dawn hours. Just you and me. And Greene, of course, for we’ll need him to help with the horses. But there will be no one else there. I’ll make sure of it.”

Arthur met her eyes, his stare weighted with something inexplicable. “I don’t care what anyone else thinks of me. It’s you I don’t want to look a fool in front of.”

She was stunned by his admission. “You never have!”

A bitter smile ghosted across Arthur’s mouth. “I’ve taken great care not to.”

It was inconceivable to her that Arthur should worry about such things. She’d never seen any weakness or insecurity in him, not even in his most melancholy moments. “You’re not serious. You can’t be. For you know very well that there’s nothing in the world that could change the way I feel about you.” She released his hand, moving back into his arms. “I love you, Arthur.”

For the barest second, she imagined that he froze. That even his breathing stopped. But she knew she must be mistaken. “Do you?” he asked quietly.

“More than anything.” She encircled his neck in a fierce embrace.

And she waited for him to say it back to her. To tell her that he loved her, too.

But Arthur said nothing in response. He only held her fast, his arms as strong as bands of iron about her waist and back.

She told herself that it was enough. Knowing that he needed her, and that he cared for her. Knowing that she was his dearest friend. He didn’t have to love her. Not in the way of some romantic hero.

Besides, it wasn’t the words that were important. It was the actions of a person. Expressions of respect, and tenderness, and all of those fine feelings which she and Arthur shared in abundance.

As for the twinge in her heart…well. It would pass, surely.

Until then, she’d ignore it.

She pressed a brisk kiss to his cheek. “But I won’t let you distract me. Not about something so important. If I must walk aimlessly about the paddock on my horse, I would have you on a horse beside me. It won’t be bearable otherwise.”

“My sweet, determined little love. I believe you’re attempting to blackmail me.”

“Nonsense. I’m merely offering my point of view.” Philly drew back, her eyes searching his. There was a peculiar warmth in his gaze. “It’s not so unreasonable to think you might be able to ride again, is it? It’s just sitting on a horse, after all. Far less exertion than walking, I feel.”

“Riding is more than just sitting on a horse, and well you know it.”

“But you’ll try, won’t you? Because I ask it of you? Because I need you with me?”

Arthur bowed his head, his forehead coming to rest gently against hers. “Yes,” he said. “For you. For all of those reasons. Yes.”

Lord Gordon and Mrs. Ogilvy gave no indication of how long their stay might be, and Philly, for one, had no wish to hurry them away. Over the past two weeks, she’d grown rather accustomed to having an older gentleman round the house. In many ways, living with the earl reminded her of life with her grandfather.

Meanwhile, Mrs. Ogilvy provided some much-needed feminine companionship. She’d already accompanied Philly into Heycombe on two occasions. They’d visited the draper’s, the dressmaker’s, and the milliner’s, and—though the selection of goods was even less varied than in Fox Cross—Philly had managed to find herself two very pretty bonnets and a beautiful amber Georgian cloth, which she planned to use for a new riding habit.

Arthur wasn’t as happy with their guests. Nevertheless, he was a good deal more affable than he’d been on the day of their arrival. It was clear that he both admired and respected his father. He was even beginning to soften a little toward Mrs. Ogilvy.