A Man Most Worthy. Ruth Morren Axtell
reached the door.
“Bring enough to stay a week.”
Nick turned slowly. A week in Richmond? His heart started to thump. “Yes, sir.”
An entire week in the same house as Miss Shepard. This time he couldn’t contain his excitement. He even began to whistle as he made his way back down the dark corridor.
Alice returned from church at noon on Sunday.
She stopped short in the doorway, her hands flying to her cheeks as at the sight of the tall young man emerging from her father’s library. “Mr. Tennent!”
To her further surprise, he smiled, looking as glad to see her as she felt to see him.
“When did you arrive?”
“Early this morning,” he said. “Your father was going to come Friday evening but was delayed with other engagements.”
She moistened her lip, trying to appear collected. “I—I’ve just come from church.”
“I see.”
An awkward silence ensued. Then her eyes widened in sudden horror. “Have you been working?”
He colored. “I was just going to read up on some documents.”
“On the Sabbath?” She couldn’t help the shock in her voice.
He looked away as if ashamed. “Yes.”
She frowned. “Father doesn’t forbid you from attending services, does he?”
“No, of course not. I…I’ve already been to services.”
“You have? I didn’t see you.”
“That’s because I attended chapel.”
“Chapel?” Her eyes widened in further shock as she understood his meaning. “You’re Methodist?”
His dark eyes seemed to hold a touch of defiance. “My mother was Church of England, but she attended chapel with my father.”
“Oh!” She wondered at the thought of a lady leaving her church for the lowly Methodist chapel for the sake of her husband. She thought of something. “Our cook, Mrs. Clayworth, attends chapel.”
“Does she?”
She bit her lip, afraid she’d offended him. Did he think she equated him with their cook? Actually, she’d always been curious about those attending this other sort of church. All she’d ever heard of Methodists was disdainful. The only one she knew, the cook, was firmly decided in her faith. “Maybe I can go with you some time?”
He drew back a fraction as if surprised. “Perhaps.” There was no encouragement in the reserved tone.
She shifted on her feet, wondering if he was still interested in playing tennis. Then she remembered she had a prior commitment. “A party of us is going riding this afternoon. Would you like to join us?”
He fingered a corner of the sheaf of papers he held in his hands. “I—I was just looking over some correspondence your father has given me.” He cleared his throat. “He’s away this afternoon.”
She smiled in relief. “Perfect. Join us at the stables after lunch. We’re riding to Richmond Park. It’s awfully nice there. There’s a wonderful view of the Thames from the top.” When he didn’t say anything, she suddenly understood his hesitation. “Oh, if it’s about proper clothing, you can borrow a habit of my brother’s. He’s a little stockier than you, but he has outfits in his wardrobe from when he was younger. I’ll ask the butler to take something out for you.” When he continued to hesitate, she tilted her head. “What is it?”
Again came the defiant lift of his chin. “I’ve never ridden before.”
“Never?”
A faint smile tinged his lips. “Perhaps I’ve been atop a donkey once or twice when I was a boy.”
“Well, it’s not so very different. You can have Maud. She’s a gentle mount.”
He glanced away. “I’d only slow your party down.”
“Nonsense. It’s not as if we’re racing. It’s to be a leisurely ride to Richmond Park and back. You’ll have a grand time, you’ll see, Mr. Tennent. I’ll meet you at the stables at three. You mustn’t work all day.”
Before he could refuse her, she hurried down the corridor, calling behind her, “I’ll see you at three!”
She’d go down to the stables and make sure a groom had Maud saddled and waiting.
Father would certainly not approve of a Methodist in their riding party. That was worse than Low Church! For once, Alice was thankful her father was away.
A grand time, indeed. Nick frowned at the pale horse beneath him. With a groom’s help he’d managed to mount the beast—nag, he amended, glancing down as he remembered young Victor’s derisive snort when he’d seen the horse being led out—without disgracing himself.
Miss Shepard walked up to Nick’s mare and patted her neck. “Hello, there, Maud. Aren’t you glad you’re not being left behind today?” She smiled up at Nick. “She was my first horse after I’d graduated from a pony. Father bought her for me. She’s a trustworthy soul.”
At the wistful note Nick forgot his discomfort of being atop a horse. He attempted a smile but before he could say anything, he stiffened as the groom bent down to adjust his stirrups. Nick held his tall boots tightly against the horse’s flanks. At least the animal seemed as gentle as Miss Shepard promised. It hadn’t moved since being brought out of the stables.
“Good for the glue factory,” Victor muttered with a snide look in Nick’s direction, before moving off to his own mount. Nick was tempted to box the young fellow’s ears, but the eager look on Miss Shepard’s face stopped him.
But how was he was to maintain his balance once the creature started moving? There was no pommel on the saddle, just a smooth leather seat. Nick’s knuckles were white on the reins.
Thankfully, the horse was relatively small in stature. Not like the great beast that Victor rode. The young gentleman certainly looked elegant seated atop the deep brown horse, holding the reins and riding crop loosely, looking as if he and mount had been born for each other.
Miss Shepard stood back from his horse and looked Nick up and down. “You need to sit farther back in the saddle and loosen your hold a bit. Remember, it’s not about gripping the saddle, but about balancing on your horse. She’ll carry you.”
Before he knew what she was about, she moved down to his boots and took hold of one of his ankles, causing him to jerk back in surprise. “Easy there,” she murmured. “Keep your feet bent slightly out, not gripping the horse’s flank. That’s right.” She adjusted the position of his foot to illustrate her point. “Yes, like so.”
She gave him a few more pointers, all the while touching his legs and boots to demonstrate. Unfortunately, with each movement, he grew more tense, his breathing more erratic.
She looked up at him, her blue eyes earnest, and took his hand in hers. He realized how unaware she must be of what her touch was doing to him. It only proved how young she was. “Now, hold your hands about that far apart, not closer. Don’t let the reins touch the horse’s neck.” She ran her hands up his arm, adjusting its angle. The more she spoke, the more afraid he became of moving lest he lose the correct position; the mare would undoubtedly know and take advantage.
As if reading his thoughts, Miss Shepard smiled up at him. “You’ll get the feel of it after a while.”
Victor maneuvered his horse alongside them. “Are we going or not?”
“Just a minute.” Miss Shepard’s usually polite tone held a trace of asperity.
“If