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Oh dear. This meant that, without doubt, there would be a scene. I squared my shoulders. Let it come. There was no undoing what I had done, and even if I had been able to, I would not. Last night had been a very civil misery, but it was also a clear indicator of what I could expect here.
For one wild moment I considered simply continuing riding all the way to the coast where Saracen and I - in my mind he already belonged to me - would board a ship for home, but that was impossible. Though manners were not so severe in South Carolina as here, even at home such behaviour by an unmarried young woman would be regarded as not only unacceptable but pure madness. I would take Saracen home with me, I vowed, but in the right and proper way. I was surprisingly disinclined to be a Wentworth here in England, but I was most definitely my father’s daughter.
“I suppose that means I am in trouble,” I said.
“Doubtless. The Wentworths have always been high in the instep, and most of them put Sir Mordecai’s word above that of God.”
Such casual blasphemy startled me, but I ignored it. There were other, less celestial affairs over which I must be concerned.
Ahead was the fence.
Stanhope said, “I believe there is a gate just down from here if you would prefer...”
My chin seemed to rise of its own accord.
“Surely you do not think me such a poor creature, sir!”
Turning Saracen back a short way I gave him leave to run, which he did, all but levitating us over the fence.
In a moment Stanhope’s grey followed and we rode on in amity.
“You must ride a great deal. I didn’t realise ladies rode astride in the Americas.”
“They don’t,” I replied bluntly, “unless they are more than a little horse mad and have a country home with no censorious neighbours.”
He laughed at that, and the clear shout of humour ticked my spine.
“You are an unending surprise, Miss Wentworth. Don’t let them change you.”
“I shan’t. I’m not planning to stay long enough for that to happen, even if it could.”
“You aren’t staying, then?” He sounded surprised. “I heard you were come home to live.”
“Most certainly not. It was never under consideration, not by me at least. South Carolina is my home. I am here in honour of my father. He wanted to show me the land of his birth, the house where he was born...” My voice quavered. “But it was not to be.”
“That is not what your grandfather thinks,” he replied in careful tones.
“I know. I believe he thinks I have come home, but this is not my home. How do you know so much about my journey?”
He shrugged.
“As I said, you have been the primary topic of local conversation since the news of your father’s death reached us. And the object of much curiosity, I might add.”
“How hateful.”
It was the same at home; curiosity about anything new, gossip to make up when no facts were known... I had even been known to indulge a little in such pastimes; it was a totally different thing to be the object of such attentions.
Holding the horses to an easy trot, we went on in silence.
“I don’t suppose,” he said at last, nodding toward the oncoming fence, “you wish me to find the gate for this one, either?” His face was serious, but humour gilded his voice.
“You are correct.”
“You do realise that it seems every one of your relations is in the stable yard? Are you sure you do not wish me to find a gate?”
His question was both the act of a gentleman and an offer to save my blushes at such unladylike conduct. It almost angered me. I had never been accused of not being a lady, even when some of my behaviour was on the edge of being acceptable. At least, acceptable by American standards, which was fine by me - I am American in my blood and bone.
If I were to tell the truth, though, my father’s family - much too difficult to accept them fully as ‘my’ family - had piqued my temper both by their obvious disapproval and their unquestioning assumption that I was here to stay and be subject to their will.
