Page 20 of The Summer Country

To hide his confusion, Charles turned to Miss Beckles. The feather on her hat brushed his nose. “You ride with your maid, not a groom?”

“Riding out with only a groom might lead to talk,” said Miss Beckles, and there was a grim note to her voice that Charles didn’t quite understand.

“It’s not considered out of the ordinary in England,” said Charles. They were closer now, and he felt unaccountably awkward at the idea of facing the maid again. Jenny. That odd interlude the night before felt like a fever dream. He might have imagined it. He must have imagined it.

“I would not wish to give any appearance of impropriety,” said Miss Beckles. She smiled up at Charles a little too brightly. “And there can’t be any impropriety with Jenny as my shadow, can there? She guards me as well as any groom.”

“Guards?” It seemed a curious choice of word.

“Accompanies,” amended Miss Beckles. “Would you prefer to ride first and then eat, or eat and then ride? Cook packed enough for a garrison.”

“I—” Charles scrabbled to find a way to politely refuse but found himself at a loss as Jenny stepped forward, wordlessly handing him the reins of his horse. Her gloved hand brushed his, turning him tongue-tied with awkwardness.

“Let’s eat first, then, shall we? There’s a glade just between our properties that makes a splendid place for a picnic,” said Miss Beckles, taking his silence for assent. “I’ll show it to you.”

Chapter Five

Christ Church, Barbados

February 1854

Adam was only too delighted to abandon their picnic for the promise of a proper meal.

“I do hope you will forgive the lack of formal invitation,” said Mr. Davenant earnestly. He spoke to them all, but his eyes strayed to Laura. “We don’t stand on ceremony here on our little island.”

“You are very kind,” said Laura.

“Not in the slightest. I could hardly leave you stranded here among these bare, ruined choirs.”

Laura ducked her dark head. “I was thinking more Time will rust the sharpest sword / Time will consume the strongest cord.”

It wasn’t time but fire that had consumed Peverills. Emily opened her mouth to say so, but Mr. Davenant got there first. “Marmion?”

“Marmi-what?” said Adam.

Laura shook her head. “It is Sir Walter Scott but not Marmion. Have you read Harold the Dauntless?”

“You have the advantage of me. Our library isn’t as extensive, but I can, at least, claim to have committed those works we have to memory. Are you acquainted with The Lay of the Last Minstrel?”

Laura’s cheeks pinked with pleasure. “Breathes there the man, with soul so dead, / Who never to himself hath said, / This is my own, my native land!”

“Your native land is Great George Street,” muttered Adam, shoving his hands in his pockets.

Taking advantage of Laura’s distraction, Emily took Adam by the arm. “If you will pardon us for a moment?”

“Do you intend to recite poetry at me?” said her cousin crossly, one eye on his wife. “Or do you mean to read me a lecture?”

“Neither. Did Grandfather ever say anything to Uncle Archie about . . . ?” Emily waved toward the smoke-blackened gables behind them. “About this place?”

“His own, his native land?” said Adam, but subsided as Emily fixed him with her best governess look. “You were there that day. Father was as surprised as the rest of us. If Grandfather were going to tell anyone, Em, it would have been you. You know that.”

“But?” said Emily. Her cousin had always had all the subterfuge of a golden retriever.

Adam scuffed at the gravel with the toe of his boot. “Father did say that Grandfather worked as a bookkeeper on a plantation. Before he met Grandmother.”

Emily looked up sharply. “Here?”

“It’s the most likely answer, isn’t it? It would be like him to take a fancy to own it.”