Page 9 of An Amiable Foe
“Mr. Osborne, since you are taking away my castle, I am more inclined to regard you as a foe.” When he refrained from responding to her outburst, she almost regretted her pique. It caused her to add in a milder tone, “However, you are welcome to accompany me, so that I might make the introductions.”
She could hardly refuse.
* * *
That night, as Marianne tossed once again to her side, she wondered at herself, that she could have agreed to go calling with the man who was all but her mortal enemy. She didn’t even like him enough to keep him company. But she had given her word, so there was nothing to do but go through with it. She and Mr. Osborne did not cross paths at breakfast the next day, but at their designated hour, Mr. Osborne met her in the main hall, a puzzled look on his face.
“I’ve just been to the stables and have noticed that there is no carriage. Does Brindale not have one? What do you generally do when you wish to go somewhere?”
Marianne tugged on her glove as she moved forward. “Sometimes I ride, but as we have nothing but a nag, it’s not much fun. We do have an old gig, but the axle is broken, and the blacksmith is repairing it. Come to think of it, the carriage should be ready, and the smithy is located on the way to the Vernons’. We can stop in there on our way out.”
“Do you hitch your nag to the shafts? Or is there another horse secreted away somewhere that does the job?” Mr. Osborne’s playful tone surprised a laugh out of Marianne. She would not have expected her foe to have an amiable side.
“We could always use yours,” she suggested in the same vein, and was pleased to see mock indignation light his face. That was one thing missing from her relationship with Robert. He was much too serious and did not know how to tease.
“Mine?” He shook his head. “Beau would never condescend to such a thing.” They had entered the stables and Marianne reached for the traces from the peg as Mr. Osborne leapt forward to help her, quite towering over her. He was indeed a tall man, and broad—even when not sitting on top of his impressive horse—but oddly enough, he did not make her feel uncomfortable.
“You’re handy at harnessing your horse,” he observed. “You’re nearly as quick as my own groom.”
She shrugged. “Marcus is not often needed in the stables, so he helps Neville tend the gardens. It’s easier to do it myself at times rather than fetching him.” They finished harnessing Sweet Nips and Marianne led her to the doors of the stable while Mr. Osborne went over to greet his stallion, promising him some treats when he returned.
Soon, they were on their way in the direction of Cliff’s End, with her leading the horse and Mr. Osborne walking at her other side. It was a journey of twenty minutes’ walk to the smithy, and she filled the time by pointing out features of the local landscape. His questions about the castle and the area were intelligent, and he responded without any of the haughtiness from the previous day. They were at the smithy before she saw the time fly.
Joe Dobson was the assistant to a more established blacksmith, who rarely deigned to come to his workplace. Marianne had become touched by Joe’s plight because, although he was a hard worker, he did not earn enough to set up his own establishment. As a widower with a young family, he had little flexibility to move and was forced to work the smithy of a man who left all in his charge yet paid him very little. Marianne wished she knew how she could help him.
Upon their arrival, Joe came outside in his leatherwork apron, leaving her with a glimpse of the forge’s orange heat through the opening. He smiled and lifted his hand in greeting.
She handed the reins to Mr. Osborne and stepped forward, holding her hand out for him to clasp. Mr. Osborne might think it unusual, but she did not care about that. Joe was like a friend. “Good day to you. Have you finished with my gig? We are in need of it.”
He gestured to the carriage sitting outside of the wooden storage. “I was to send Ant’ony over this morning to let ye know ’twas ready, but I’ve had a rush of orders and had need of him. I see ye’ve brought Sweet Nips.” He glanced at Mr. Osborne.
“I was that confident. Mr. Osborne, may I present Joe Dobson? Joe, this is Mr. Osborne, who has inherited Brindale Castle.” The words left a bitter taste in her mouth, and she had difficulty in refraining from a grimace when she spoke them.
Marianne looked around in search of the children. Anthony rounded the smithy at that moment, trailed by his little sister Beth. Marianne waved when they spotted her, and they came running over, Anthony in front. “Miss Marianne. I was to come to ye today.”
“I know.” Marianne bent and pointed to the wooden toy he was holding. “Your father has told me. What is that you have in your hand?”
“Ant’ony fixthed my dollth carriage. The wheel’th broke.” Beth’s strong lisp made it difficult for some to understand her, but it only endeared her more to Marianne.
She leaned down and hugged the girl, who was always covered with soot. Beth needed a mother to care for her, and Marianne wondered at the fact that Joe had not yet remarried.
“Did he now? Your brother is such a clever boy. Anthony, you must still come for your treat. I’m sure Mrs. Malford will send you off with two biscuits, one for each of you.”
“Yes, miss! If Papa lets me, I’ll come roun’.” Anthony was a mature six-year-old who could do anything he set his mind to, Marianne thought, but who would probably become a blacksmith like his father.
In the time she had been speaking to the children, Joe hitched her horse to the gig. It was quite an old conveyance, but it ran smoothly enough. He led the horse forward and waited until she had finished.
Marianne stood. “I am most obliged, Joe. As I was telling Anthony, he can come to Brindale as soon as he’s free, and Charlie will see to it that Mr. Reacher is paid. I don’t suppose the payment for this job could be given directly to you?” She smiled as she said it, wishing she could help.
“It’s kind of ye, miss. But ye know I can’t do that.” Joe tugged his cap off and bowed, giving his son a swat with his cap to do the same. “Good day, miss. Sir,” he added, bowing to Mr. Osborne.
“Good day, Joe. Goodbye, Anthony, Goodbye, Beth.” Marianne raised her hand and gave a gentle swish of the reins and a cluck of her tongue to the plodding horse, then drove the gig out of the yard.
With Mr. Osborne at her side, she steered in the direction of the Vernons’ estate, finding herself in an unexpectedly benign mood for someone who was about to lose her home. Perhaps it would not be so terrible to have someone like Mr. Osborne living nearby. At the very least, he was easy to talk to. And from the number of questions he’d asked her on their walk to the smithy, and the way he seemed to consider her answers, she began to hope he would allow her to have some hand in Brindale’s future.
“You seem on awfully intimate terms with the blacksmith and his family,” Mr. Osborne observed. “Where is his wife?”
She looked at him, surprised, and the burgeoning feelings of conviviality suffered a check. Not only his words but his tone showed disapproval, and she allowed indignation to color her own.
