“Yes, I do, or at least I did.” She was sure he was not interested, but added just the same, “In Spain, in my home, I was set up on my first pony before I could walk. My former countrymen are the best judge of horseflesh in the world.”
“Is that so?” Hal enquired, stifling a yawn. “But since coming to this country, you do not enjoy the activity as you used to?”
“I have no opportunity to enjoy it, sir,” she said bleakly. “You see before you—” she indicated Primrose “—the poor creature I was given for the journey here. She is, in fact, the only horse at my disposal.”
Hal raised his eyebrows before her vehement tone. “Yes, well, while you are here please feel free to take any nag you wish from our stables and try it. My father, too, is accounted a fair judge of the animals.”
“I know,” Rachel returned unguardedly. “My grandmother told me that many times.”
“Your grandmother?”
A little flustered under his suddenly interested eyes, Rachel said, “Yes…my grandmother, who was, in her time, also a connoisseur of all things equine. In fact, the horse that she acquired in England when she knew your father and took back to Spain was so fine an animal it sired a whole generation of colts owned eventually by the great families of Madrid and Castile.”
Hal blinked. A few moments ago this little girl could have blended very well into the grey shadows of the night; now she was brilliant with colour. A Spanish grandmother would explain that shade of hair colour, black with a bluish sheen, and the ripe mouth—rose-red without resort to the French paste. Her figure, too, undisguised by her ill-fitting gown, was seductively proportioned and her skin, so creamily pale, also declared her ancestry. But how explain those eyes—the colour of autumn-touched beech leaves—or the clipped English voice? He said, “And your parents? Were they Spanish?”
Rachel lifted her chin before his deprecatory tone. “My father, sir, was an English gentleman, and my mother of Irish descent, whose antecedents claimed Brian Boru as their blood kin.”
“Ah, well, that explains your interest in horses. A combination of Spanish and Irish blood is indeed formidable in that field.”
Rachel flushed brightly. Her tongue had been carried away by the familiar scents and sights in this place, and she had made a fool of herself. Before she could answer a groom appeared in the half light.
“Lady Bess has returned to the manor, sir,” he said to Hal. “She bids you return when you are ready.”
“I am ready,” Rachel declared. “More than ready.”
Hal laughed easily, saying, “Well, if the Lady Rachel is satisfied, then so am I.” He glanced at the groom. “She is somewhat of an afficionado in the place we are standing now, Wat.”
Rachel, who had been conscious of her flush and trying sternly to repress it, now found herself colouring more deeply. Afficionado! she thought angrily. To use such a word clearly puts me in my place. There followed some private thoughts using the untranslatable language of the Spanish stableyard where she had spent so many of her formative years. She followed her escort back to the manor, struggling for control, thinking also that it was a year since she had felt so angry—or so painfully alive.
In the hall, where a yawning servant was quenching the candles, they discovered the party had disbanded. George and his wife and family were being accommodated in the house and Bess and Katherine had also retired. Only Harry Latimar waited courteously in his hall to bid them goodnight.
Hal embraced him. “Go to your bed, Father, you look exhausted.”
“It is the excitement of having so many family members all in my home at once,” Harry said. “Some of whom,” he added with characteristic irony, “are seldom to be coerced back.”
Hal smiled. Only his father could issue a rebuke with such grace.
“Will you show the Lady Rachel where she is quartered?” Harry said as he turned to walk slowly up the stairs.
“I will.” Hal and Rachel watched him climb the stairs, then looked at each other. Used to court hours, Hal thought he could not sleep so early. He might as well spin out the time in the company of this odd girl. “Shall we go into the parlour and take a last glass of wine?” he asked. Rachel felt she had no choice but to accept. Why, she wondered, was she plagued with this feeling of inferiority? It was…humiliating.
The lights had been doused in the main hall, but the parlour still showed a flickering yellow glow from the heaped fire and a wash of moonlight pouring in through the open window. Rachel walked towards this light, wishing she could go to bed, and despairing with herself because she did not have the confidence to say so. She seated herself on the window seat. Hal opened one of the oak cupboards and took out a flask. He extracted the wooden stopper and poured a portion of the contents into two glasses.
“My mother’s blackberry cordial,” he said, turning with the glasses in his hands. “Reputed to be the best in four counties.” He had always loved this potent brew—or perhaps he loved the memories it evoked of endless hot Maiden Court summers, with their bounty of fruitfulness at the end, and the memory of himself, a small boy accompanying his beloved mother as she gathered the sweet-smelling berries under a hazy burning English sun. They had been such happy days, he thought now, he so intent on eating that which she wished to confine in her basket. He had often defied her, he recalled, with aggressive stance and stained mouth, but had never received a word of rebuke. Instead, Bess had laughed at his infant fury and cuddled him close, calling him her little wild man.
As Hal crossed the floor of the parlour to give Rachel her glass, he found himself wanting to relive those times—to tell her of them. It was a foolish notion, he decided, for his mother had been soft and gentle and this young woman was stern-faced and hardy. She had had, he guessed, a difficult youth, and such people were incalculable. He did not sit beside her, but stood staring out at the moon-silvered gardens. “So,” he said, when the silence between them had lengthened, “your grandmother knew my father once?”
“She often spoke of him,” Rachel said softly.
“My father used to have quite a reputation with women. Were they in love, do you think?” His voice, light and dismissive, annoyed her. She lifted her eyes to the portrait on the wall facing her. In love? What an understatement! At least, on her grandmother’s part.
Hal ceased looking out at the shadowed gardens and watched her face. “Well,” he continued, with an amused smile, “if it was a grand affaire, please don’t tell my mother.”
“Why should I? Anyway…it was a long time ago. Over and forgotten.” She had noted the smile and was instantly defensive in a way which hurt her to acknowledge.
“Nothing is ever over—or forgotten—with wives, or so I have heard,” Hal replied wryly. He finished his drink and went to the cupboard to replenish his glass. “What happened with them, I wonder?”
“Oh…my lord Earl preferred your mother, I believe.”
Hal came back to her, frowning. “So. My mother knew your grandmother, too? When did all this happen? Surely not after my parents were wed?”
“I believe so.” Why had she begun this? Rachel wondered. Only because she had desired his full attention after his disparaging treatment of her in the stable and later in this hushed room. Well, she had his full attention now: his blue eyes were fixed accusingly on her face. Yet, it was truly so long ago. But, surely, strong emotions must have a life of their own and continue to exist long after those who felt them were consigned to the cold grave, or sterile old age? Madrilene de Santos’s passion for Harry Latimar, so often expressed, even when she should have been past all physical longing, had been so vital—its very substance