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“Since you wish to see the estate,” Aunt Lucinda said smoothly, “and riding is the only way to enjoy it properly, I am assured that Percival would be delighted to mount you, and I will be most happy for you to use my own saddle. Our stables here at the Hall are sadly bereft,” she added with a glare toward my grandfather.
“It would be my pleasure,” Mr. Mountjoy said with a grin. “Most of my cattle are spirited creatures, but I happen to have a perfectly gentle ladies’ mount I would be honoured if you would use.”
My feelings regarding him fell from neutral toward positive dislike. Not even my father would have dared suggest that I be confined to a ‘gentle ladies’ mount,’ which were invariably boring things more suitable to small children and timorous older ladies.
“You are most kind,” I murmured, “but I have found that gentle ladies’ mounts are usually quite tiresome. I prefer a horse with some spark.”
A gasp ran among the ladies, followed by a babble in which shocked words like ‘colonial’, ‘no lady would...’, even a ‘savage’, flew freely, but all were drowned out by my grandfather.
“You will take what you are given, young lady. Such wild and free ways may have been acceptable in your former home, but now you are a Wentworth of Wentworth Hall, and you will behave as you are expected!”
The mention of my ‘former’ home did not go past me, but now was not the time to fight that battle. Perhaps my name was Wentworth, but I was not - and vowed never to be - a Wentworth of Wentworth Hall.
Chapter Two
The morning dew was thick, making me hold the skirt of my riding habit disgracefully high - almost to my knees - to keep it from getting soaked. The sun was barely touching the horizon and I was feeling a most uncomfortable delight at having escaped. The previous evening the attention of my relatives had become cloying, so much so that I had pled fatigue and escaped to bed, dreading the morning. I was not accustomed to being so suffocated while being regarded as a semi-savage curiosity, nor so consistently being condescended to by those who obviously regarded themselves as superior beings.
Waking early had given me a welcome opportunity of escape - and how sad things were that in less than a full day I should regard my father’s home and family so distasteful that my first thought on waking was of escape! How could I bear it here even for the length of a decent visit?
“Good morrow.”
Jerked back to the moment at hand by a deep and mellifluous voice, I looked up and tried not to stare. Before me stood a man just as handsome as his voice - I have always been most sensitive to voices - and smiling at me with a somewhat quizzical expression.
In Charleston we have more than our share of well-favoured men. Not one of them could have touched this superb specimen. Tall, muscular, and well-proportioned, he had brown curly hair, bright blue eyes and a complexion browned by exposure to the sun. And a devastating smile that crinkled the corners of his eyes. No, never forget that smile!
I suddenly couldn’t breathe, as if I had just taken a toss off an unschooled horse.
“Good morning,” I returned in a voice that somehow did not sound like my own.
“You must be Miss Wentworth,” he said, making a sort of bow.
“How did you...?”
He chuckled, which deepened his smile. “Surely you cannot think that the neighbourhood has been talking of anything else since the announcement that you were coming? There are still a number of people who remember your father. He was much loved around here.”
“Did you know him?”
Another chuckle.
“Hardly, though I have been told I liked him. As I was still in leading strings when he left, I have no real memory. I’m Stanhope, by the way.”
The name meant nothing to me, but I was now quite assured that he was not in my grandfather’s employ. Even in our egalitarian nation no servitor would be so open and free with a lady of the house. Besides, though he was roughly dressed in breeches and boots his clothes were very well cut, both of them respectable enough for a gentleman. To question him directly about who he was would be unmannerly even in Charleston, as it appeared he belonged here.
“Here you go, sir,” said a wizened old stablehand, and suddenly every thought went out of my head at the sight of the horse he was leading.
Bigger than any equine I had ever seen, the glossy bay was well muscled and alert, prancing behind the old man as if dancing on a stage. His eyes were large and contained almost a human intelligence. My heart began to thunder in my chest. There were very few things I loved more than a beautiful piece of horseflesh.
“What’s his name?” I murmured, walking toward the beast with my hand extended and wishing I had an apple or carrot to offer him.
“Saracen,” Stanhope replied, moving a little forward almost as if he were to protect the horse. “He’s from the Sultan abu Omar lineage, and the last gasp of the Wentworth stables.”
Well, that meant absolutely nothing to me, never having heard of either, but if the line produced such magnificent specimens as this it had to be great.
“I wouldn’t be coming any closer, miss,” the stablehand said, but didn’t move the beast away. “Saracen isn’t real friendly-like.”
Of course, I paid no attention and was rewarded when the animal deigned to lean forward and sniff my gloved fingers before allowing me to stroke his large and velvety nose.
“Who’s a good boy,” I whispered, adding more endearments as I stroked his face and neck.
