Page 25 of The Major's Mistake
Seven
Miranda found that Justin’s bubbling enthusiasm made any other attempt at conversation unnecessary. With silent thanks for her son’s loquacity, she leaned back against the soft leather of the phaeton and simply watched the countryside rush by. Even without slanting a sideways look in his direction, she was acutely aware of the marquess’s presence, from his firm control of the spirited team to the occasional mellifluous laugh at some remark by the little boy.
It was disturbing, yet oddly poignant, bringing back memories of when they had?—
She shook her head to banish such disquieting thoughts.
That was all well in the past.
The horses stopped at an opening in the hedgerow. A narrow path led up through a tumble of wild blackberries to a ridge overlooking rolling pastureland and a gravelly river that wound through the center of the narrow valley. As Lady Thornton had remarked, the day was nearly cloudless, the bright sun bringing a warmth to the air that hinted of the coming summer.
Two large hampers gave promise that Justin would not be disappointed in the array of treats in store for him. Themarquess set them down on the grassy verge, then came around to help Miranda and Justin down from the high perch.
Justin rushed over to the heavy baskets and took hold of one of the handles. “I’ll help you, Major.”
The effort to lift it nearly pitched him into the center of an apple tart.
Miranda tactfully held out a folded Merino blanket. “Perhaps you might carry this for me, love.”
“And that way, you might also go ahead and pick out the best spot for us,” added Julian, seeing a hint of mutiny on the little boy’s face at being denied the larger burden.
Instead, Justin fairly beamed with pleasure at being assigned such a grown-up task. “I’ll find the very, very best spot,” he promised. “And I’ll even spread out the blanket all by myself.” With that, he scampered off through the leafy gap.
As the marquess tended to the horses, Miranda took up one of the hampers herself, meaning to follow her son. It was with great surprise that she suddenly felt its weight lifted from her hand.
“You have lugged enough baskets for a time,” he said quietly. “Allow me.”
“But I’m quite used to it,” she answered, reluctant to give it up.
His blue eyes seemed to take on a deeper intensity. “I’ve no doubt that you are—but not today.”
For some reason, she relinquished her hold without further argument. At his bidding, she went on first and though once or twice she heard his step falter over the rough stones, she kept her gaze riveted straight ahead.
Justin waved from beside an outcropping of rock. “Look!” he cried. “See how flat this is—it’s just like a table.”
“Why, how very clever of you,” exclaimed Miranda as she gave him a hug. “I daresay there isn’t a more perfect place than right here.
It took a few minutes for the marquess to reach them. There were beads of perspiration on his temples, though it was evident they had little to do with physical effort. His face was a shade paler and the fine lines around his mouth drawn a little tighter. He put the hampers down on the rock, leaning rather heavily on its edge as well, to take some of the weight off his leg.
“Well done, lad,” he said lightly, striving to hide his discomfort. “A splendid place for a picnic.”
Miranda quickly began unpacking the varied contents. “If you will sit down, sir, I shall pass you the linens and silverware.”
He didn’t argue but lowered himself gingerly down onto the blanket. In a few minutes, his color began to return and the tension wracking his lanky frame seemed to ease a bit. His lips relaxed into a easy smile as Justin pointed out a circling hawk and began to speculate on just what might end up as its next meal.
“Well, we have no such worries about whether we shall suffer empty stomachs, have we?” quipped the marquess.
“Indeed not.” Miranda had already unwrapped a roasted guinea hen, a pigeon pie, several thick slices of Yorkshire ham, along with a generous wedge of Stilton. “Did your Cook imagine she was feeding an entire regiment, sir?”
He grinned. “I mentioned there was a small boy involved. I’m afraid she also feels I’m a sad reflection of her culinary skills and hasn’t given up trying to stuff me like a Strasbourg goose.”
“You are indeed thinner—” Her words cut off abruptly. She turned and began carving the fowl with slow, deliberate strokes.
The awkward moment passed as Justin tugged on the marquess’s sleeve and directed his attention to a rabbit thathad ventured out of the shelter of the brambles to nibble at the tender shoots of grass.
She finished with making up a plate for each of them, then took a seat on the blanket next to Justin. Despite her misgivings, the meal was not nearly as dreadful as she imagined. The boy’s irrepressible spirits, coupled with Julian’s encouragements, ensured no lack of conversation. In fact, she fell to listening with half an ear, hearing more the sound of her son’s clear soprano in concert with the rich baritone of his father than any mere words.
It was a lovely music, she thought, though it struck a deep chord of sadness within her.
