“Not a pirate?”
August chuckles. “That would depend on who you ask, Edmund. Privateers sailed the high seas and raided enemy ships for the Crown.”
“State-sanctioned pirates,” I say with a smile.
“So, he is a good pirate?” Edmund says.
“Yes, we will call him that. A good pirate.”
“He has the same skin color as Papa’s friend, Mr. George, in London. Does that mean he is also from Africa?”
“He might be. Or he might be from the islands. Or he might be from England, just like you, with parents or grandparents or great-grandparents who came from elsewhere, as mine did.”
Edmund nods, still staring at the privateer.
“Aunt Miranda thinks he is very handsome,” Edmund says. “Dashing, that is how she puts it. Dashing and swashbuckling.” He wrinkles his nose at me. “What does swashbuckling mean?”
“Daring and romantic. Does he look swashbuckling to you?”
He peers at the ghostly replay of the privateer who, judging by the angle of Edmund’s gaze, is nearly upon us.
“I suppose so?” Edmund says. “He looks very de-determined.” A glance my way. “Is that the word?”
“It is if he looks as if he has someplace to be and he does not want anyone getting in his way.”
August says, “Like your mama when Surrey jumps on the table and Mama wants her off it.”
Edmund giggles at that. “Yes, he looks the same way. Determined.”
I’m about to speak again when I catch a sound. Sleigh bells? My head jerks up.
“Edmund,” I say quickly as I rise. “Turn away. I think the navy men are coming.”
Edmund shakes his head. “The pirate—privateer is gone. He disappeared. I do hear the bells, though. It must be the man who helps people.”
“If you two are hearing what sounds like sleigh bells,” August says. “Then I hear it, too. It seems to be coming from out there.” He points at the field.
“The sleigh ghost,” Edmund whispers. “Only now, we can all hear him!”
I glance at August, who shrugs. It definitely sounds like sleigh bells. We continue in that direction. The jingling had seemed to come from the field, but as we draw close, we see a right-of-way path.
Something is coming along it. Coming fast.
The path dips down a rise. We carefully cross and stand at the juncture of the path and the road.
“Is it a sleigh?” August says. “It sounds like hooves—”
Before he can finish, a giant black horse shoots over the hill. August grabs us and dives to the side. The rider pulls the horse to a halt, and the bridle bells stop jangling.
“What the devil?” a voice says.
“Uncle William!” Edmund says, leaping from his father’s grip.
“Edmund?”
It is indeed William Thorne, atop a black stallion, and for a moment, I again think we have passed back into our world. Then I realize the horse is not Balios, and I remember William has a near-twin of his nineteenth-century horse here. A stallion for breeding, he would say, but really, Lord Thorne is simply the sort of man who must challenge his riding skills with a temperamental mount.
“We are here,” Edmund says, trotting over while giving the monstrous beast wide berth. “We came through the secret spot.”
“Did you?” William looks at me, brows rising.
“Someone snuck through the secret spot,” I say. “After someone else’s toddler daughter apparently told him all about it, in whatever secret language they share.”
“Amelia,” William says with a sigh. “I can only hope Grace is less trouble, though she is giving no signs of it, arriving early and frightening us half to death.”
“You would be most disappointed if either of your daughters was anything less than a handful,” I say. “They come by it honestly.”
“True, their mother is a bundle of mischief. Always has been.”
I roll my eyes. “I trust mother and child are fine?”
“Fine and home at Thorne Manor. Grace was sleeping, and Bronwyn kicked me out for a ride, claiming I was going to wake the child, hovering over her.”
“Hovering over Bronwyn, too, I bet.” I look up at him. “While we have much to explain, I need to confess something before we do.”
William swings off the horse. While I’d seen him in the twenty-first century once before, the puffy down-filled jacket and blue jeans are still disconcerting.
“Is something wrong?” he asks.
“I convinced Rosie to take Bronwyn’s car out for a ride,” August cuts in before I can answer. “It was a clear evening with no signs of snow, and I wheedled and begged.”
“No, you didn’t. You asked, and I made a decision I ought not to have made.” I straighten, which barely brings me to William’s shoulder level. “I borrowed Bronwyn’s car and gave August a driving lesson.”
“On a flat and empty road,” August says. “After an hour of safety instructions.”
William’s lips twitch. “I can imagine. Let me guess. Then the storm hit, and August panicked and drove her into the ditch.”
“I did not panic,” August protests.
“He actually didn’t,” I say. “We were pulling to the shoulder when a car came ripping along and August had to veer. The convertible became stuck. We spent the night in a barn, and when we returned to retrieve Bronwyn’s car, it was gone.”
I clear my throat and look up, meeting William’s gaze. “I believe, in our haste, we left the keys in the ignition.”
“And the doors unlocked?”
“Er, yes. Which is unforgivable, as is the borrowing of the car without permission.”
“I am shocked at you, Rosalind. Shocked. You are usually so much more responsible than that.”
My cheeks heat. “I know, and I apol—”
“First, you invade our nineteenth-century home and decorate it. With Christmas decorations, no less. Then you follow your son through the stitch. Could he not just have stayed on the other side? Perhaps tidied up the mess we left? No. You followed him, and then you borrowed barely enough winter clothing to keep from freezing. Was there not an entire wardrobe to choose from? Imagine if you’d died of cold? How thoughtless would that be? Then you borrowed the car to give this one”—he jabs a finger at August—“a holiday treat that I am quite certain he did not deserve.”
William sighs. “Please tell me you did not leave a piece of jewelry or other valuable in the barn to compensate for sleeping on their hay overnight?”
“Rosie tried to leave her grandmother’s brooch,” August says. “I substituted my stick pin.”
“We also tidied up for the owner,” Edmund says. “That was my idea.”
“Of course it was. Two months back, Rosalind, and you are already infecting this child with your ridiculously inflated sense of responsibility. Well, I suppose I should thank you for this gift.”
“Gift?” I say.
“Yes, the gift of giving me something to hold over your head forever. Now, whenever you are shocked by my own irresponsible behavior, I can bring up the time you stole my wife’s car.”