“Why is that, my lady?”
“I don’t know why, exactly,” she said slowly. “But something seems to be
wrong. She’s angry at me . . . no, it’s not that plain. She’s distant,
as if she’s keeping part of herself back from me.”
He was out of his depth here, but he tried. “Perhaps it is simply that
she’s growing out of the schoolroom.”
“Maybe. But Violet has always been such a cheerful, open girl, and we’ve
been very close. With Mother the way she is, well, I’ve had to step in.
We’re closer than most sisters.” She smiled mischievously at him. “It’s
why I’m so sure of the reason she distrusts you.”
“No doubt you’re right about that.” They’d come to a gate, and he pulled
the horse to a stop. “But you’re wrong on one other thing.”
“What is that?”
He tied the reins and stood in preparation to swing down from the gig.
“I never disliked you, my lady.”
THE KEY TO A SUCCESSFUL alfresco picnic was in the packing. George
peered into the wicker basket and hummed in approval. Squishy foods,
like cream cakes, for instance, were bound to come to grief no matter
how carefully the hamper was handled. She lifted out some smoked ham and
placed it on a cutting board next to the cheese and crusty bread. If one
forgot important utensils, one was likely to end up having to tear
things apart with one’s bare hands. She handed the corkscrew to Mr. Pye.
It was also most imperative that the foods not spoil during the day. A
pear tart followed. And the little details should not be forgotten in
order to have a really splendid picnic. She took out a small jar of
pickled gherkins and sighed in satisfaction.
“I just adore picnics.”
Mr. Pye, wrestling with the cork in a bottle of white wine, looked up
and smiled at her. “So I see, my lady.”
For a moment, George felt lost in that smile, the first full one she’d
ever seen on his face.
The cork let go with a soft /pop./ Mr. Pye poured a glass of the
translucent liquid and handed it to her. She took a sip, savoring the
tart bite on her tongue, and then set the glass down on the throw where
they sat. A white butterfly that had been resting on the throw took off.
“Look.” George gestured to the insect. “I wonder what kind it is?”
“It’s a cabbage butterfly, my lady.”
“Oh.” She wrinkled her nose. “What an awful name for such a pretty thing.”
“Yes, my lady.” His tone was grave. Was he laughing at her?
The last farmer they’d visited hadn’t been home, and as they’d driven
away from the lonely cottage, she’d insisted that they stop for
luncheon. Mr. Pye had found a grassy hill beside the road. The view from
the top of the hill was glorious. Even on a cloudy day like this one
they could see for miles, maybe all the way into the next county.
“How did you know of this place?” she asked as she fished for pickles
with a fork.
“I used to come here as a boy.”
“All alone?”
“Sometimes. I had a little pony as a lad, and I used to go wandering.
Packed a picnic, not as grand as this one, of course, but enough to
satisfy a boy for the day.”
George listened with her pickle, speared on a fork, held in midair.
“That sounds lovely.”
“It was.” He looked away.
She frowned at her pickle, and then popped it into her mouth. “Did you
go alone, or were there other boys in the area to accompany you?” She
squinted over his shoulder. Was that a horseman coming up the road?
“I usually had a mate.”
Definitely a horseman. “I wonder who that is.”
He twisted to look behind him. His back stiffened. “Damn.”
“Do you know who it is?”
The rider was nearing, and by the narrowness of his shoulders, it wasn’t
Lord Granville.
“Maybe.” Mr. Pye still stared.
The rider was now below the hill. He glanced up at them.
“Goddamn,” Mr. Pye said.
George knew she should be shocked, but he didn’t seem to realize that
he’d sworn—twice—in front of her. Slowly she put down the pickle jar.
“Hullo,” the man called. “Do you mind if I join you?”
She had a feeling Mr. Pye was about to reply in the negative to this
friendly greeting, so she answered, “Not at all.”
The man dismounted, tethered his horse, and began to climb the slope.
George couldn’t help but notice that, unlike when Mr. Pye had climbed
the hill, the man was puffing by the time he reached them.
“Whew! A bit of a climb, what?” He brought out a handkerchief and wiped
his sweating face.
George stared at him curiously. He dressed and spoke like a gentleman.
Tall and long-boned, he had an ingratiating smile on thin lips, and his
brown eyes were familiar.
“I’m sorry to bother you, but I noticed the carriage and thought I’d
introduce myself.” He bowed. “Thomas Granville at your service. And you
are . . .?”
“Georgina Maitland. This is—”
But Mr. Granville interrupted, “Ah, I thought so . . . or rather, I
/hoped/ so. May I?” He gestured at the throw.
“Please.”
“Thank you.” He lowered himself carefully. “Actually, I wanted to
apologize for my father’s behavior yesterday. He told me that he’d
visited you and that you’d disagreed. And knowing my father—”
“That’s nice of you.”
“Neighbors and all.” Mr. Granville waved his hand vaguely. “I thought
there must be a way we can settle this peacefully.”
“How?” Mr. Pye’s one word dropped onto the conversation, flattening it.
George glanced sharply at him.
Mr. Granville turned to speak, looked Mr. Pye in the face, and coughed.
Mr. Pye handed him a glass of wine.
“Harry,” Mr. Granville gasped when he could draw breath. “I didn’t
realize that was you until I saw—”
“How,” Harry Pye inquired, “do you plan to settle the problem without
bloodshed?”
“It’ll have to stop, of course—the sheep poisoning, I mean. And the
other mischief.”
“Plainly. But how?”
“You’ll have to leave, I’m afraid, Harry.” Mr. Granville shrugged one
shoulder jerkily. “Even if you repaid the cost of the livestock and the
damage to Father’s stable, he’s not going to let it go. You know what
he’s like.”
Mr. Granville’s gaze dropped to Harry Pye’s mutilated right hand resting
on his knee. George followed his eyes and felt a cold wave wash over her
body when she saw Harry flex the remaining fingers.
“And if I don’t leave?” Mr. Pye replied in a deadly calm voice, as if he
were inquiring the time.
“You don’t have a choice.” Mr. Granville looked to George, apparently
for support.
She raised her eyebrows.
He turned back to Mr. Pye. “It’s for the best, Harry. I can’t answer for
what will happen if you don’t.”
Harry Pye didn’t reply. His green eyes had grown stony.
Nobody spoke for an uncomfortable peri
od of time.
Mr. Granville suddenly slapped his hand on the throw. “Disgusting
things.” He lifted his hand, and George saw that he’d squashed the
cabbage butterfly.
She must’ve made a sound.
Both men looked at her, but it was Mr. Granville who spoke. “The
butterfly. They come from worms that devour leafy crops. Nasty things.
All farmers hate them.”
She and Mr. Pye were silent.
Mr. Granville’s face reddened. “Well. I must be going.
Thank you for the repast.” He stood and clambered back down the hill to
his horse.
Harry Pye watched him go, eyes narrowed.
George looked down at the pickle jar beside her hand. She hadn’t the
appetite for them anymore. She sighed mournfully. A perfect picnic ruined.
“YOU DON’T LIKE HIM.” Lady Georgina frowned, looking down at the picnic
blanket. She was trying to fold it, but it was turning into a tangled mess.
“Who?” Harry took it from her and shook out the fabric, then handed her
the corners on one end.
“Thomas Granville, of course.” She held her end of the blanket limply as
if she didn’t know what to do. Hadn’t she ever folded a sheet before?
“You swore when you saw him, you weren’t going to invite him to join us,
and when he did, you were barely civil to him.”
“No, I don’t like Thomas Granville.” He backed up to draw the fabric
taut, then brought his corners together so that a rectangle hung between
them. She caught on. They folded the blanket once more, and then he
walked toward her to take her corners from her. He met her eyes.
They were narrowed. “Why? What’s wrong with Mr. Granville?”
/He’s his father’s son./ “I don’t trust him.”
“He knew you.” Her head was cocked to the side, as if she were a curious
thrush. “You knew each other.”
“Aye.”
She opened her mouth, and he expected more questions, but she simply
pressed her lips together again. Silently they packed away the rest of
the picnic. He took the basket from her, and they climbed down to the
waiting gig. He stowed the basket under the seat, and then turned to
her, steeling his features. It was harder to keep his emotions in check
around her these days.
She watched him with thoughtful blue eyes. “Who do you think is
poisoning the sheep?”
He put his hands around her waist. “I don’t know.” He felt the stiffness
of her stays, and beneath that, warmth. He lifted her into the gig and
let go before she could see the longing in his eyes. He jumped into the
seat beside her and untied the reins.
“Maybe it’s Thomas Granville,” she said.
“Why?”
“To make it seem as if you were doing the crime? To enrage his father?
Because he hates the smell of wet wool? I don’t know.”
He could feel her gaze on him, but he kept his eyes straight ahead as he
guided the horse back to the road. The gelding liked to play games if
the driver wasn’t paying attention. He thought about her words. Thomas?
Why would Thomas—
A sound like steam escaping from a lidded pot came from her lips. “You
needn’t blame me for his condescension, you know. I’ve already told you
I don’t believe you killed the sheep.”
She was scowling at him. What had he done now? “I’m sorry, my lady. I
was thinking.”
“Well, try to think out loud. I don’t handle charged silences well. They
make me nervous.”
His lips twitched. “I’ll remember that.”
“Do.”
They rode another quarter mile in silence before she spoke again. “What
else did you do when you were a boy?”
He glanced at her.
She caught the look. “Surely you can tell me that? All of your childhood
can’t be a secret.”
“No, but it isn’t very interesting. I mostly helped my da.”
She leaned toward him. “And . . .?”
“We walked the land, checked traps, watched for poachers. That’s what a
gamekeeper does.” A memory of his father’s strong, leathery hands
delicately setting a trap came to him. Strange how he could remember the
hands but not the face.
“Aye, of course.” He was pleased that his voice was steady. “There are
always poachers, and Granville had more’n his fair share because he was
so mean to his tenants. Many poached for food.”
“What did your father do?” Her hand, which had been lying on her lap,
slipped, resting now alongside his thigh.
Harry kept his gaze ahead and shrugged. “Mostly he’d turn a blind eye.
If they took too much, he’d tell them to do their hunting elsewhere.”
“But that would’ve put him in conflict with his employer, wouldn’t it?
If Lord Granville found out he wasn’t arresting every poacher.”
“It might’ve. If Granville found out. Turned out he didn’t.” He’d been
more interested in other things, hadn’t he?
“I would’ve liked to have known your father,” she mused. He could’ve
sworn he felt her fingers press against his leg.
He looked at her curiously. “Would you? A gamekeeper?”
“Yes. What else did you do when you were a boy?”
What did she want from him? Why all these questions, and why the hand
against his leg? Her fingers felt as if they burned straight through his
breeches to his skin beneath. “That’s about it, my lady. Roaming the
land, checking traps, looking for birds’ eggs—”
“Birds’ eggs?”
“Aye.” He glanced at her, then down at her hand. “Used to collect them
as a boy.”
She was frowning and didn’t seem to notice his gaze. “But where would
you find them?”
“In the nest.” She still looked puzzled, so he explained. “You watch the
birds in spring. See where they go. Sooner or later, they all go back to
their nests. Jackdaws in chimneys, plovers on the heath, pigeons in the
crook of trees, and thrushes in a nest like a cup in the branches of
hedges. You wait and you watch, and if you’re patient, you see where the
eggs are. Then you can take one.”
“Just one?”
He nodded. “Never more than one, for my da said ’twas a sin to steal all
the eggs from a nest. I’d watch the bird and slowly, slowly creep close
until I could take an egg. Most of the time I’d have to wait until the
bird left the nest. But sometimes if I was careful, I could reach right
under the bird—”
“No!” She laughed up at him, her blue eyes crinkled at the corners, and
suddenly his heart seemed to contract. Maybe he didn’t really care why
she asked her questions—just so long as she asked them. “You’re teasing
me now.”
“It’s true.” He felt his lips curve. “I’d reach right under the bird,
feel its little downy body beating and warm on my fingers, and steal an
egg straight from the nest it was sitting on.”
“Really?”
“A fact.”
“You’re probably bamming me again, Mr. Pye, but for some reason I
believe you.” She shook her
head. “But what did you do with the eggs
after that? Eat them?”
“Eat them? Never!” He widened his eyes in an exaggeratedly horrified
look that seemed to amuse her. That pleased him and he was puzzled. This
silly conversation was like no other he could remember. Men took him
dead seriously. Women were a little in awe of him. No one giggled at his
words or attempted—
“Then what do you do with the eggs?” Her eyes were laughing up at him again.
He almost swore, he was so startled. Was Lady Georgina—an /earl’s/
daughter for Christ’s sake—flirting with him?
He’d gone insane. “I’d take a pin and poke a tiny hole in each end of
the egg and let it dry. I had a shelf next to my bed with a whole row of
eggs, brown and white and clear blue. Blue as . . .” He trailed away.
/Blue as your eyes,/ he’d meant to say, but he remembered suddenly that