Page 63 of The Summer Country

“I don’t mind finding them myself,” said Emily. “I wouldn’t want to put you to any trouble.”

“No one goes in my book room without me. If you want occupation, go for a walk.” Mrs. Davenant stalked off toward the stairs in a rustle of horsehair. “Where’s that useless grandson of mine? Make him show you the rose arbor.”

The last thing Emily wanted was a romantic stroll in the rose arbor with George Davenant.

Not that there was anything wrong with George. He was quite pleasant, really. But then, so was blancmange, and she had no desire to marry it. She suspected George had as little desire to marry her, but she had little faith in his resolve. His will was subject to his grandmother’s. If Mrs. Davenant told him to propose, he would.

George claimed that his grandmother had arranged his father’s marriage to round out the corner of their lands. If she was willing to sacrifice a son for the sake of a field, Mrs. Davenant would hardly balk at bartering a mere grandson for Peverills.

And what was it about Peverills that Mrs. Davenant didn’t want her to see? She had given her a glimpse of a ledger—and then taken it away again. Her rides with George had taken her within sight of Peverills but no farther.

That first day, the day Dr. Braithwaite had taken them to see Peverills—what was it that had sent George riding out to intercept them? Curiosity about strangers? Or something more?

The next morning, Emily sent a note to George, making her excuses. Mrs. Davenant might question her, but George wouldn’t, especially if she made vague references to wishing to rest. She lurked in her room until such time as one could reasonably expect the others to have left, and then donned her habit and made for the stables.

If her groom Jonah thought it was odd that she wanted to ride out without Mr. Davenant, he didn’t say.

“We’re riding to Peverills,” Emily told him, in a tone that brooked no disagreements, and so they did, past the Old Mill, through a field that might once have held cane but now held only weeds, to the great ruined house at the heart of the plantation.

They passed collections of small houses with untended gardens; a mill and a boiling house from which the scent of sugar had long since gone; stables where no horses whinnied. It was, in a way, worse than the great house itself. That, at least, was an honest ruin, destroyed by fire. These other buildings had been left to rot as they would.

What had happened to all the people who had once worked here? It seemed so strange that everything had just been left, untouched, like Sleeping Beauty’s castle in a circle of thorns.

There was no lady in this tower, just a child’s doll lying facedown, warped with wind and weather. She knew what it was; she had seen it before. But it still gave Emily a moment’s shock, and she had to still the impulse to swing down from her mount and go to the abandoned baby.

Not a baby. Painted wood, she reminded herself. The plaything of a child nearly half a century ago.

Emily turned to Jonah. “Aren’t there meant to be other houses on the property? Mr. Davenant said the bookkeeper’s house was still standing.”

“Time to be getting back,” Jonah suggested, “before the sun gets hotter.”

“But we’ve only just got here.” Emily looked at him curiously. “Where is the bookkeeper’s house?”

“Emily!” Hoofbeats broke the silence, sending bits of gravel flying up as George, face flushed, galloped up the drive to her. “If you meant to ride, why didn’t you tell me?”

She couldn’t very well say that it was because she hadn’t wanted him to come with her. “Did you see me in the spyglass?”

“My grandmother did.” At Emily’s look of indignation, he added, “She was concerned about you. You don’t know the country.”

“I have a groom,” said Emily, indicating Jonah. “And I should think I could visit my own house if I want to!”

“Yes, but—” George glanced sideways at the groom and then said stiffly, “I apologize if I intruded.”

It was impossible to be angry with George, especially when one knew he was only following instructions. “Oh, don’t be like that. You make me feel like a tartar. It was ill done to take out my bad temper on you.”

“Is something the matter?”

A day ago, she would have found his concern touching, would have welcomed his friendship. Now—Emily didn’t know what to think of him. She didn’t know whether to be annoyed at Adam for the new constraint she felt in George’s company or thankful to him for alerting her to a danger she hadn’t realized was there.

“If there is anything I might do . . .” George said diffidently.

She couldn’t very well tell him she was alarmed at the prospect of being tied to him in holy matrimony. Instead, she looked out at the ruins of Peverills, the jagged outline of the roof, the empty windows, the fields that stretched on and on, withered and dry. “Why did your grandfather sell Peverills?”

“Ah,” said George. He toyed with the brim of his hat. “He didn’t.”

“I saw the deed,” said Emily, beginning to be annoyed. “It was all quite properly conveyed.”

“I didn’t mean to question your grandfather’s title,” said George. “What I meant was that it wasn’t my grandfather’s to sell. He didn’t own Peverills.”