Page 23 of The Summer Country

Mr. Davenant reined in his horse. “It isn’t as grand as Peverills, but at least the roof still stands.”

“It’s lovely,” said Emily. It was a meringue of a building, stucco gleaming white in the sunshine, capped by a red slate roof, which was, indeed, intact.

Mr. Davenant waited for the coachman to lower the stairs before holding out a hand to help her down. “But rather bland after Peverills?”

“I didn’t say that.” His grip was stronger than she would have expected; she had thought him more scholar than athlete. Emily gave her crumpled skirts a brisk shake as she stepped out onto the brick walk. Ahead of her, a flight of stairs led up to a broad veranda. “It’s just . . . very different.”

“Peverills is one of the oldest houses on the island. They don’t tend to last, you know. Between hurricane and fire . . . Bridgetown’s been rebuilt half a dozen times since I was born, at least.”

“Hurricane?” said Laura as Mr. Davenant handed her out of the carriage.

“You needn’t worry,” Mr. Davenant hastened to reassure her. “Beckles was built to withstand hurricane. Our walls are two feet thick.”

“Not to mention that it isn’t the season for hurricane. You’ll be back in England long before there’s any danger.” Dr. Braithwaite remained seated, making no move to follow them. To Mr. Davenant, he said, “Mrs. Davenant’s carriage shall, I take it, be made available to return my uncle’s guests to Bridgetown?”

Mr. Davenant nodded, seeming relieved. “Certainly. I’ll see your guests safely back to Bridgetown.”

Emily looked from one to the other. “You’re not stopping?”

“I have obligations in town,” said Dr. Braithwaite.

Those obligations hadn’t prevented him from planning to share their picnic at Peverills, only from sitting at table at Beckles.

Emily frowned up at the figure in the carriage, reduced to a dark outline by the angle of the sun. “I hadn’t realized—if it’s inconvenient . . .”

Mr. Davenant offered her an arm. “Don’t distress yourself, Miss Dawson. Our coachman should be delighted to convey you back to town. It isn’t the least trouble.”

It wasn’t their return journey that was distressing her, and Dr. Braithwaite, at least, knew it. He looked at her as though daring her to voice her objections.

But how could she? No one had intimated that Dr. Braithwaite might be unwelcome. She would only embarrass herself and her cousins by pushing the point.

“Thank you,” said Emily in a constrained voice. “And thank you, Dr. Braithwaite, for your escort today.”

Dr. Braithwaite tipped his hat. “Miss Dawson. Mrs. Fenty. Mr. Fenty. Enjoy your luncheon.” To Mr. Davenant, he merely inclined his head.

“Nathaniel—” said Mr. Davenant, but the carriage was already turning in the drive, bearing Dr. Braithwaite away.

“Stiff-necked, isn’t he?” commented Adam lazily.

“I wouldn’t say that. Shall we?” Mr. Davenant gestured toward the stairs. Something winked at them from the veranda, a sudden flash of bright light.

Emily blinked, seeing stars. “Do you know Dr. Braithwaite well?”

They ascended the stairs in silence, the air heady with the scent of flowers and sugar. After a moment, Mr. Davenant said, “Nathaniel used to work at Beckles.”

Laura and Adam were several treads behind them, Adam deliberately keeping Laura to himself. Emily chose her words carefully. “Was that before the implementation of the Slavery Abolition Act?”

“Yes.” Mr. Davenant’s eyes met hers. They were, she noticed, a very pale, clear blue. “Nathaniel was the son of our cooper. We used to play hide-and-seek in the barrels—against strict instructions, I might add. But that was a very long time ago. I doubt either of us would fit in a barrel these days.”

“No,” said Emily. Impossible to imagine Dr. Braithwaite, in his impeccably tailored suit, squirming through the staves of a half-constructed barrel. A slave. “Were you of an age?”

Mr. Davenant paused on the veranda, giving Laura and Adam time to catch up. “Nathaniel is a few years older. I hadn’t any brothers or sisters, you see. My mother . . . well, never mind that. Ah, here we are.”

The front door opened and a maid emerged bearing a tray with four silver cups.

“Lemonade?” said Mr. Davenant proudly.

“But how—?” Laura looked up at him as he handed her a silver cup, sweating slightly in the heat.