Page 16 of The Music of Love

Stacy clucked his tongue and patted Geist’s rump. “She’s not ready for you yet, my friend.” Geist followed him with obvious reluctance, his large dark eyes rolling as they left the silent mare behind.

He led the agitated stallion toward his big corner stall, soothing him as they went. “It’s difficult to wait, I know. But she wouldn’t take you now. I promise, when the time is right, she will come to you.”

Another pair of dark, expressive eyes flashed through his mind’s eye as he calmly stroked the big horse’s flank.

Stacy wasn’t sure whether his soothing words were for the anxious stallion or for himself.

Chapter Six

Portia’s first week sped by and she rarely saw either of the other occupants of Whitethorn other than at daily lessons and dinner. In fact, she saw so little of them she sometimes wondered if they avoided her on purpose.

But it was far more likely that they each had busy lives. She’d learned from the maid Daisy, who waited on her most often, that Mr. Harrington was a man of business with interests in other parts of the country, not only Cornwall. And Miss Tate ran her nephew’s large manor house and also volunteered at the local vicarage.

The only one who had no life to speak of was Portia.

She didn’t even get to peek at Mr. Harrington during his midnight rides as those had ceased with the waning of the moon. It struck her as odd that he’d never mentioned her spying; of course she’d never confessed that she watched him. It was almost as if they shared a secret.

Portia snorted at the foolish thought as she rang for the maid her eighth morning at Whitethorn. She’d woken earlier than usual, determined to try her hand at the gig today. She was enjoying her walks, but she wanted to explore farther afield than she could on foot.

When she reached the breakfast room she found it occupied for the first time in over a week. “Good morning, Miss Tate. Are you always an early riser?”

“It is my favorite time of the day, Signora.” The older woman smiled but her pupils were small black dots. She was always friendly and pleasant but never lowered her reserve.

Portia approached the groaning sideboard with eager anticipation; it had been many, many years since she’d eaten so well and she possessed a voracious appetite. She’d long ago ceased fretting about her figure, which seemed to remain unfashionably plump whether she starved herself or ate what she liked.

“What are your plans this morning, Signora?” Miss Tate asked after Portia sat.

“I’ve decided to take the gig to town.” Portia looked from the other woman’s plate, which held one half-eaten slice of dry toast, to her own, which was heaped with ham, eggs, pilchards, and a thick slice of buttered bread.

“Do you ride?”

“I’m afraid I never learned.” Three pots of jam sat on the table, begging her to sample them. “I’ve been exploring the area on foot.” Miss Tate arched her eyebrows, either at Portia’s words or appetite. “But Mr. Harrington kindly offered me the use of his gig.” She took a forkful of coddled eggs and immediately wished she’d helped herself to more: they were delicious.

“Are you city born and bred, Signora?”

Portia added a generous dollop of cream to her coffee. “I was born and raised in Rome. After I married, I accompanied my husband on his engagements, which were mostly in large cities.”

“It must have been an interesting life.”

“It had its moments.” Portia took a sip of coffee and sighed with contentment; it was dark, strong, and richly flavored.

“Do you think you can be happy living in the country after such a glamorous life?”

Portia chuckled. “I wouldn’t say it was glamorous.” She didn’t tell the other woman her life had actually been fraught with constant stress and insecurity. Instead, she cut a piece of gammon steak while she considered her answer. “Thus far I like living here quite well,” she said, and then popped the ham into her mouth, chewed, swallowed, and took another sip of coffee. “Have you lived here your entire life, Miss Tate?”

“I moved here when my nephew was a baby.” She glanced down at her plate, where her hands were busy crumbling the remainder of her toast. When she noticed Portia watching her she wiped her elegant fingers on her napkin and lowered them to her lap.

“Where did you live before you moved here?”

The silence drew out for so long that Portia wondered if Miss Tate had heard her.

“I lived with my sister and her husband just north of Plymouth.”

Portia waited for more. When none came, she topped up her coffee and gestured to Miss Tate’s almost empty cup.

“No, thank you.” Her tall body unfolded gracefully as she stood. “I am due at the vicarage. Mr. Harrington’s greenhouses provide fresh flowers for the church.”

“That is generous.”