Page 37 of Sense and Suitability
“I know,” Mrs. Dean said, taking Emme’s gasp at mutual delight in the fact that perhaps this grandchild would be a boy after a generation of all girls. “And wouldn’t it be appropriate to name the boy after my darling Charles? It’s a strong name, and he would have basked in the knowledge of having his first grandson carry it on.”
“Yes,” Emme said, drawing out the word, her attention flickering toward the window. “Mr. Dean would have been utterly delighted, I’m sure.”
The girl appeared to prepare a nearby barrel to help her mount the horse.
“Mrs. Dean.” Emme leapt to her feet, her gaze snapping from the woman’s kindly face mid-sentence to the window. There, the girl—now improbably seated atop the enormous horse, sack and all—looked poised for a quick getaway. “Pardon me, but I just remembered... something... that I must do for... someone. And I must go there right away.”
“Oh, heavens, child.” Mrs. Dean rose at a much slower pace, concern creasing her forehead. “Of course. You must go at once.”
“You’re too kind.” Emme backed toward the door, snatching abiscuit on her way. “And I will put my mind to some way to help this matter with Anna and Mr. Chapman.”
Mrs. Dean followed, thrusting a few extra biscuits Emme’s way, which she refused to... refuse.
Once out the door, Emme ran to the stables, hurrying poor Mr. Marks along. Within moments, she was astride Portia and dashing after the audacious little thief. The girl’s mount, a hulking black beast, made her an easy target against the green hills.
Emme followed at a cautious distance as the girl rode east, a direction rarely traveled by Emme herself. Beyond town lay a smattering of farms and, of course, the absurdly grand Palladian-style home Mr. Hemston had erected in a fit of nouveau riche flamboyance. Could the girl hail from there?
What else lay beyond the forest in that direction?
If the child led her to a gypsy encampment, she’d have time to assess the situation—and retreat gracefully, if necessary. And if not gracefully, at least with enough haste to avoid catastrophe. Besides, such an encounter might provide excellent material for her writing. Who could resist the allure of untamed misadventure?
Her pulse quickened at the thought. Even so, she knew better than to confess this escapade to anyone. Father would disapprove, naturally. And Aunt Bean? Well, she would likely swoon from sheer mortification.
A slow, irrepressible smile curved Emme’s lips, and she urged Portia into a faster pace.
They rode through a thinly wooded copse, emerging into a field of wildflowers that framed a serene pond. Beyond it, a gray stone tower rose above the treetops, its aged surface mottled with ivy.
A castle? No, it lacked the grandeur. A manor house then? Certainly old, judging by its weathered facade, and worlds apart from Mr. Hemston’s garish monument to wealth.
But this? This was something else entirely. Emme drew Portia toa halt, her gaze lingering on the harmonious blend of tower, pond, and meadow. It was as though she had stumbled into the pages of a fairy tale.
Where was she? And more importantly, who lived here?
Prodding Portia toward the pond, Emme scanned the area. A sudden noise—a crack of a branch underfoot—snapped her focus to the right. Emerging from behind the trees, not fifteen feet away, was the girl—her wild hair even wilder in the breeze, her brown eyes alight with fury, and the sack still in her grasp.
“I’ll teach you to follow me!” the girl cried, charging forward like a tempest unleashed.
Before Emme could react, the girl yanked open the sack and flung its contents in her direction.
Two chickens burst out, shrieking their indignation at their imprisonment. Wings flailed, claws struck the air with vengeful precision, and both hens launched themselves in Emme’s direction as though they’d been bred for combat.
Portia reared with a distressed whinny, forcing Emme to tighten her grip on the reins, her riding crop hitting the ground. One particularly incensed hen found purchase on Portia’s hindquarters, pecking the poor mare with furious determination.
The result was instantaneous chaos.
Portia bolted, her hooves pounding against the earth as Emme leaned low over the mare’s neck, doing her utmost to stay astride while also attempting to avoid the furious hen still clinging to Portia’s backside.
This was certainly not one of the scenarios Emme had envisioned when she set out on this escapade.
The pond loomed ahead, directly in front of them. Emme had to stop this horse! She twisted just enough to swat at the offending bird with her free hand.
Her first attempt missed spectacularly. The second, propelled bysheer tenacity and a fervent wish to survive, struck true. The hen squawked in outrage as it tumbled to the ground, feathers flying.
But Portia’s momentum was unstoppable. The mare barreled nose-first into the pond, her hooves skidding against the pebbled bottom.
Emme’s tenuous hold on the reins did her no favors. The abrupt halt sent her sailing through the air with all the grace of a sack of grain, landing face-first in the pond.
Two thoughts wove through her mind at the same time.
