Grayson nodded. “She never told me her name either—why, I don’t know. Maybe because we’re adults, but how does that make sense? But she told my son Pip. I’ve been told it’s unusual for her to visit any males in the house, but I never believed it. I’m pleased she came to welcome you.”
“As I said, I think she’s suspicious of me. But I believe I relieved her mind because she came to me again three nights later, told me—well, she thought to me—that she would believe, for the moment at least, that I loved the twins. She also liked my name, Olafar. She thought it over and over and thought to me that she’d never heard such a wonderful name before. She is very beautiful.”
“Were you afraid when she suddenly appeared the first time?”
Olafar cocked his head at Grayson, surprise in his dark eyes. “Why, no. Well, that is to say, I was taken aback, but she seemed very gentle, very shy, really. I made the error of asking his lordship about her the following day, and I believed he would choke on his brandy. He looked at me like I was an idiot, told me it was likely Cook’s turnips that did me in.” A pause. “Of course I didn’t believe him. The Virgin Bride—Mathilde—has visited him as well. She told me she had. She said his lordship refused to accept anything not firmly planted on the earth. I believe I heard a smile in her voice.”
Grayson said, “You’ve been with the twins for four months now. Does she visit you often? And the twins?”
Olafar nodded. “Yes, nearly every night. We’ve spoken of many things. I asked her if she liked to ride. Still, I am not sure she trusts me entirely.” The words were no sooner out of his mouth, when he turned his head away and coughed, called out, “Barnaby, don’t sing to Pickle. He isn’t a music lover, and he’s liable to kick you. When you dismount, you can walk away, and sing your heart out.” Sure enough, Pickle, the small dun pony, had flattened his ears and was swishing his tail. Barnaby immediately stopped singing in Pickle’s ear. The pony’s tail went back up, and his ears pricked forward.
They spoke of Oxford, where Mr. Ramsey had been in Trinity College, Grayson in St. John’s College, several years before him. Mr. Ramsey said, “My father wanted me to open a stud. He is horse mad, you see.” He flushed and changed the subject to one of Grayson’s more hair-raising Thomas Straithmore adventures. “It fair to curdled my blood.”
Grayson said, “It is always my aim to curdle a reader’s blood, Mr. Ramsey. Tell me, are you horse mad as well? Like your father?”
Mr. Ramsey nodded but said nothing.
Grayson said easily, “I happened to see a beautiful black stallion at midnight my first night at Northcliffe, racing out of the home wood to drink in the pond. Have you seen the horse? Do you know who he belongs to?”
“I haven’t the faintest idea, Mr. Sherbrooke,” Olafar said and continued to look between his horse’s ears. “I haven’t seen such a horse.”
“My uncle told me this beautiful bay gelding you’re riding wasn’t broken, that he was supposedly vicious and everyone called him Battle. Yet, I was told, you petted him, spoke to him, and he blew, butted your shoulder. He said all the stable lads were astonished when you mounted with no trouble, and Battle actually pranced about the stable yard.”
Mr. Ramsey said easily, “I suppose I inherited my father’s way with horses.” Olafar ran long fingers down his neck. “Battle is a splendid lad. Actually, he is peace-loving. He was only afraid when he first arrived at Northcliffe. He soon realized all the stable boys saw his fear as aggression. He likes that.” Grayson would swear the gelding nearly purred.
How, Grayson wondered, did Mr. Olafar Ramsey know the pony Pickle didn’t like music?
CHAPTER SIX
Later that afternoon
When the small cavalcade returned to Northcliffe Hall, the sun was shining brightly again, much to the amazement of the adults. The children saw the sun as a sign. “Sir, please, let us ride for another hour. Only an hour, we promise. We’ll be good. We’ll keep our ponies on the trails. Please.”
Who could withstand P.C., with Barnaby and Pip singing a nonstop accompaniment, like a Greek chorus? Grayson looked to Mr. Ramsey, who nodded. “If Mr. Sherbrooke agrees, I will agree as well. No more than an hour, though, children. Then you must come back for your dinner. Cook worries, you know.”
Promises were made. Both Olafar and Grayson watched from the western garden as Barnaby, P.C., and Pip rode sedately into the home wood.
An hour later, Pip and P.C. came running into the drawing room, out of breath. “Sir!”
“Papa! Barnaby’s gone.”
Grayson roared to his feet, as did the earl and countess. P.C. told them Pip wanted to play find-me-if-you-can, one of his favorite games. True enough. Pip always ran to hide somewhere in the house or on the grounds at home.
P.C. said, “It was Barnaby’s turn to hide, but we couldn’t find him, sir. He wasn’t anywhere. Pip and I were at the edge of the home wood when Pickle came running out, but he didn’t have Barnaby.” Her voice caught on a sob. “We must find him, sir, we must, or I will die a spinster, alone and unloved, and everyone will blame me forever for losing Barnaby, and I will have to take the blame because it is my fault. Please don’t blame Pip—he’s only a little sprat and doesn’t have a brain that works well yet. Please, sir, please, we must find Barnaby.” And P.C. burst into tears.
Alex pulled her close and comforted her while the earl and Grayson gathered six men and rode into the home wood.
It was growing dark, the thick end-of-summer maple and oak leaves still canopying, cutting most of the sun, casting shadows on the floor of the wood. They spread out, each man taking a separate trail, each man with a gun to fire if he found Barnaby. Grayson was surprised to see Olafar dismount and lead Pickle, Barnaby’s pony.
Olafar said only, “Mr. Sherbrooke, Pickle knows where Barnaby is. He’s a smart pony.” Grayson watched Mr. Ramsey and Pickle fork to the far-left trail. He heard Pickle snort.
Not five minutes later, a gunshot rang out. Birds flew out of trees and bushes. Grayson knew, without even thinking about it, that Mr. Ramsey had fired the shot. He’d found Barnaby. He said a quick prayer of thanks and rode to the east.
Henry, a stable lad, rode beside him. “Mr. Sherbrooke, I remember now—there be a small gully twenty yards that way. I think—” But he didn’t finish. He was suddenly thinking of what they could find, namely a dead Barnaby.
They met at the top of the gully, dismounted, and looked down, but it was nearly dark now and hard to see. No one had thought to bring lanterns. “I’m down here,” Olafar shouted. “Barnaby was unconscious, but he’s coming around.”
Barnaby felt hands lightly stroking his head, heard Mr. Ramsey’s voice, gentle and soft, repeating his name over and over. He opened his eyes to see Mr. Ramsey leaning over him. “Good, you’re awake. Now, Barnaby, I know your head must hurt badly. Do not move until you can talk to me without your head pounding. I have you now. Pickle brought me to you. He loves you and was worried.”
Olafar called up, “He’s awake now. I’ll need a stout rope to bring him up.”