“Nonsense, Tamlyn,” said my cousin Rachel,
“I only know about trees and shrubs.
As to fruit—I haven’t the least idea how to set about growing a peach, and remember, you haven’t yet taken me round the walled garden.
You shall do so tomorrow.”
“Whenever you wish, ma’am,” said Tamlyn, and she bade him good morning and we set back towards the house.
“If you have been out since after ten,” I said to her, “you will want to rest now.
I will tell Wellington not to saddle the horse after all.”
“Rest?” she said.
“Who talks of resting?
I have been looking forward to my ride all morning.
Look, the sun.
You said it would break through.
Are you going to lead me, or will Wellington?”
“No,” I said,
“I’ll take you.
And I warn you, you may be able to teach Tamlyn about camellias, but you won’t be able to do the same with me and farming.”
“I know oats from barley,” she said.
“Doesn’t that impress you?”
“Not a jot,” I said, “and anyway, you won’t find either out on the acres, they’re all harvested.”
When we came to the house I discovered that Seecombe had laid out a cold luncheon of meat and salad in the dining room, complete with pies and puddings as though we were to sit for dinner.
My cousin Rachel glanced at me, her face quite solemn, yet that look of laughter behind her eyes.
“You are a young man, and you have not finished growing,” she said.
“Eat, and be thankful.
Put a piece of that pie in your pocket and I will ask you for it when we are on the west hills.
I am going upstairs now to dress myself suitably for riding.”
At least, I thought to myself as I tucked into the cold meat with hearty appetite, she does not expect waiting upon or other niceties, she has a certain independence of spirit that would seem, thank the Lord, unfeminine.
The only irritation was that my manner with her, which I hoped was cutting, she apparently took in good part and enjoyed.
My sarcasm was misread as joviality.
I had scarcely finished eating when Solomon was brought round to the door.
The sturdy old horse had undergone the grooming of his lifetime.
Even his hoofs were polished, an attention that was never paid to my Gypsy.
The two young dogs pranced around his heels.
Don watched them undisturbed; his running days were over, like his old friend Solomon’s.
I went to tell Seecombe we would be out till after four, and when I returned my cousin Rachel had come downstairs and was already mounted upon Solomon.
Wellington was adjusting her stirrup.
She had changed into another mourning gown, cut somewhat fuller than the other, and instead of a hat she had wound her black lace shawl about her hair for covering.
She was talking to Wellington, her profile turned to me, and for some reason or other I remembered what she had said the night before about Ambrose teasing her, how he had told her once that she reeked of old Rome.
I think I knew now what he meant.
Her features were like those stamped on a Roman coin, definite, yet small; and now with that lace shawl wound about her hair I was reminded of the women I had seen kneeling in that cathedral in Florence, or lurking in the doorways of the silent houses. As she sat up on Solomon you could not tell that she was so small in stature when she stood upon the ground.
The woman whom I considered unremarkable, save for her hands and her changing eyes and the bubble of laughter in her voice upon occasion, looked different now that she sat above me.
She seemed more distant, more remote, and more—Italian.
She heard my footstep and turned towards me; and it went swiftly, the distant look, the foreign look, that had come upon her features in repose. She looked now as she had before.
“Ready?” I said.
“Or are you fearful of falling?”
“I put my trust in you and Solomon,” she answered.
“Very well, then.
Come on.
We shall be about two hours, Wellington.”
And taking the bridle I set off with her to tour the Barton acres.
The wind of the day before had blown itself up-country, taking the rain with it, and at noon the sun had broken through and the sky was clear.