Page 21 of The Raven’s Lady

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“Ah,” said Raven. “I’ve wondered that, too. Crockett told me that three, maybe four years ago, her grace had a promising horse.”

Jay nodded. “My uncle said as much. My hunch is that whatever caused Her Grace to shut the stud down has to do with one fellow. He’s the one that might cause trouble when you bring in your cattle. A bay with black points and an irregular star, almost a crescent, on his forehead. He’s called Hermes. Something happened to make him difficult.”

Outside Cassie’s window, a rabbit sat on a mound of red earth nibbling new grass. Everyone, including the rabbit, was occupied except Cassie herself. Grandmama was with her horses, preparing the stables for the arrival of Sir Adrian’s cattle. Honoria was writing. Only Cassie was idle. For more than two years, she had simply turned her mind to whatever next thing required doing to keep Verwood going. Now Verwood’s books were in order. With the bills owing paid, she had nothing to dread from the arrival of another quarter day. Sir Adrian had firmly grasped the reins of the hall’s upkeep. She was free.

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To do what? she asked herself. Find a husband was the obvious answer. Husband hunting was the task of the gently bred maiden who wished to secure a respectable future for herself. But Cassie had tried and failed spectacularly in her one Season. She did not know if she could love another gentleman. The impression Oliver Torrington had made on her mind and heart had been a strong one.

She had for a time been intoxicated by his regard. In a crowded room, his gaze found her at once. He abandoned other companions with scant courtesy to reach her side. No evening ended without his seeking her for a last dance, or if they had crossed the bounds of an acceptable number of dances, he simply stood with her through the final set. If they parted at two, he met her at dawn for dashing rides in the park.

When his attentions ended, London seemed empty and life, flat. For two weeks, invitations still came, and she went through the motions of going to routs and suppers, boating parties and plays. He was nowhere to be seen, and no one else sought her company. She discovered that she had made few acquaintances outside of Torrington. Letters to him went unanswered. Then he returned. Wed!

She learned that his marriage had been expected by all who knew him. The attentions that she thought she had inspired now belonged to his glittering golden bride. The same way of turning to speak in the girl’s ear, the same way of ignoring others to focus on her, the same way of laughing at something she said. The shock of it momentarily overcame all sense of propriety and decorum. Cassie simply marched up to him and called his name, and when he turned to her as if to a complete stranger, she slapped him, the way a man would slap another man for an insult. Her slap rocked him back on his heels. He gathered himself, looked through her, and turned back to his trembling bride. From that moment, everywhere she went, the notice of others was like a mirror in which she saw herself freakish and ugly. She could neither eat nor sleep. In a week, she and Honoria left London.

Recalling the debacle even now filled her with mortification. But she had fought back. She had discovered her capacity for endurance. Activity had been part of the cure, and it was only this unexpected idleness that lowered her spirits. The best thing to do was to get busy. She would write a note to her mother’s cousins to inquire whether they could receive Cassie and Honoria in Brunswick Square in September. London was vast. She need not return to scenes of her former humiliation. A walk to the village to post her letter would dissipate the last of the dismals. She would be herself again in no time.

A conversation with Pindock about procuring an additional wardrobe for the duchess’s riding habits caused an unanticipated delay in Cassie’s plan to walk to the village. She would have to hurry not to miss the post. She tied the blue ribbons on an old straw bonnet she liked to wear for berry picking, tucked her letter in a basket, and set off through the woods for Wormley.

At once she felt her mind ease. The hawthorns were white with blossoms. Buttercups and blue speedwell bloomed underfoot, pushing up through the dead leaves of the old year. She had no trouble walking, and only stopped at the two-step stile where the public path crossed a strip of Ramsbury land. There, as she gathered up her skirts, the boot on her lame foot sank in a few inches of mud. She tugged, but the mud refused to let go. She set her basket on the lower step of the stile, hitched up her skirts farther, and gripped the fence rail to pull.

“May I help you, miss?” a low male voice asked.

Cassie looked around. Behind her on the path stood a jaunty stranger, his tan beaver hat at an angle on glossy black curls. He wore a flashy checked waistcoat under a brown tweed coat, top boots that had somehow avoided the mud, and pristine buff breeches.

As awkward as it was to be caught with her skirts around her knees, it would be silly to refuse his aid. “Yes, thank you.”

He sidestepped the mud, picked up her basket, and leapt to the first step of the stile. Setting her basket on the upper step, he gave her a cheeky grin. “Ready?”

“What is your plan?” She distrusted that grin.

He leaned down. “Put your arms around my neck.”

She shook her head.

“Really,” he said. “If you’re going to be missish, I’ll have to leave you stuck in the mud.”