He was disappointed when she withdrew her hand. “You are not unintelligent, yet you can’t begin to imagine what it is to have utterly no means of support. Have I not already told you in the plainest terms why I will not be dissuaded? Faced with the choice of continued tenure with my aunt—which may last a decade or more—or a life with Mr Bramley that offers me a modicum of independence as a married woman and the possibility of children, I have chosen the latter.”
She farewelled him with just a few words after that. She’d rejected his offer to accompany her back to her aunt’s cottage, although she’d have enjoyed the companionableness of it—for she liked Mr Patmore more than she liked most men. But she wanted to be alone with Devil. It had been such a long time since she’d enjoyed companionship that required nothing of her. No need to justify her actions, her decisions, or account for her absence. Devil’s Run truly was the ideal companion.
And when she really thought about it—as she did after she’d made herself comfortable on a bale of hay and was watching Devil chew rhythmically in the corner of his stall—Mr Patmore’s company was unsettling. She couldn’t remember when she’d last been with a gentleman who took notice of her, responded to her remarks as if they were more than inanities or irrelevant, or whose eyes held genuine interest and admiration.
Once, at an Assembly Ball a few years before, there had been a gentleman whose obvious interest she’d returned. She’d been disappointed to hear Mr Morley had left the district without a word, and when her aunt had teased out the reason for Eliza’s long face, had told her briskly that sin was like a stain, visible to everybody.
She wondered at the fact Mr Patmore seemed to enjoy her company.
It was amusing that he seemed as determined as Ladies Fenton and Quamby that she shouldn’t marry Mr Bramley. Well, her mind was not going to be changed, even if Mr Bramley was revealed as Bluebeard himself, though her conversation with Mr Patmore had reminded her she’d have to mend her manner if she weren’t to ruffle the acute sensibilities of her husband-to-be.
With fresh purpose, she jumped to her feet on the hay bale and mounted Devil. The handsome sidesaddle had been the last gift from her father, but she’d have ridden astride if she’d had no choice. That’s why she was going to marry Mr Bramley. Because she had no choice. No choice at all if she were ever going to be happy again.
Breathing in the scent of late summer as they ambled into the yard, she raised her head and smiled at the sun filtering through the top branches of the silver birches. Soon she’d be a mother again. She could ride Devil as often as she wanted, and she’d watch her boy grow. It was almost too terrifying to contemplate how happy that thought made her, but any sacrifice would be worth it. Even marriage to Mr Bramley, and though it might not come easily, she could be the pliant, obedient, even admiring wife he required her to be if it meant Jack was in almost daily residence.
Flicking the reins, she put Devil into a trot, riding out through the trees and taking the bridle path that bordered the property. She wouldn’t go farther afield where she might encounter anyone else and be forced to engage in idle banter. Devil was all the company she wanted right now.
Only a brisk fifteen-minute walk separated her aunt’s cottage from his stabling. The farmer’s daughter she’d approached had been happy to earn a few coins in return for the use of the unoccupied dwelling while she waited for her late father’s property to be sold.
Eliza hoped Mr Patmore would be generous enough to pay the woman until the end of the month, as per the original arrangement, though if Mr Bramley were settling the account he’d not pay a penny more than he had to. He wasn’t a generous man, and Eliza would have to work to make a union between them tolerable. After the experience she’d gained in soothing delicate sensibilities, she was certain she could rise to the task.
Besides, the incentive would be more than sufficient. George Bramley could not banish Jack if he was the favoured playmate of the earl’s son.
On that wonderful thought, she closed her eyes as she recalled his sweet profile. He’d not been at Quamby House on the day she’d left—and wasn’t due to return for several days—so she’d not had the farewell she’d have liked.
But soon…soon she’d be a permanent resident at Quamby House, and she’d contrive to see her son every day.
After a long, meandering canter, Eliza brought Devil back to his stable. She dismounted, removed his saddle, rubbed him down and prepared to say her farewells, watching him munch contentedly on hay.
What underhand plans did George Bramley have that he was so anxious to have Devil’s Run race in the East Anglia Cup, sending an emissary to all but demand his early return?
Brushing a few loose bits of hay off her skirts, she went to rest her cheek against his flank. His warmth seemed to seep through to her very marrow. With a sigh of contentment, Eliza closed her eyes again, and he brought his head down and nuzzled the top of her head. The contact made her wistful. She loved horses but hadn’t owned one since her father had sent her to live with Aunt Montrose. Perhaps if she’d had one of her own, she’d not have ended up so sharp and astringent— spinsterish—as Mr Patmore clearly thought her, though what else could she be when her daily ritual was dancing attendance on a demanding old woman and parrying her barbs. There’d been no warmth or companionship from another human being for…nearly a quarter of her life, if she wanted to use hard facts and figures.
Well, didn’t that make her ideally suited to being Mr Bramley’s wife? She had no expectations of warmth, companionship or kindness, though, seven years ago, it’s what she’d thought she’d have for a lifetime.
Unexpected tears pricked her eyelids. She hadn’t cried in years, though after Gideon had been torn from her, she’d cried every night for weeks until her aunt had beaten sentiment from her with a willow switch, and finally, Eliza had learned life was easier if she simply bottled up emotion.
With another soft whinny, Devil nuzzled her cheek.
It was as if he understood and sympathised with her precarious emotional state. He was on her side. He might be the only one when she was ensconced at Quamby House, but if she only had Jack and Devil, it would be enough.
It should have been a comforting thought, but the first tears that trickled down her cheeks were rapidly joined by more, a veritable torrent which seemed to unleash a great tide from within, representing the great, aching chasm of loss she’d tried to cauterise for so long.
She took a shuddering breath as she wrapped her arms about Devil’s Run’s neck and exhaled on a wailing sob. It was cathartic. She could never cry like this in her aunt’s home. But here she had peace, and solitude.
And an undemanding audience who continued to nuzzle the top of her head and offer her all the comfort and understanding she needed.
After an hour of knocking about the village, and another hour loitering in the taproom of the White Swan where there’d been no decent company, Rufus was thoroughly bored.
If he’d persuaded Miss Montrose that his convenience was more important than her sentimental notions of having Devil’s Run for another twelve hours, when she’d see the horse in less than a fortnight, Rufus could be on his way now.
Then he felt churlish for even thinking he should have talked her into letting him leave with Devil’s Run this afternoon, considering the life she led with that demanding old woman.
He wondered what could account for his dismal mood. It was more than just his recklessness that had ruined Carnaby and the fact his wrist was causing him pain after the fall, though his ankle was better..
With dusk falling after a light dinner, Rufus decided he’d take a walk to where Devil’s Run was being stabled and see for himself what might be the attraction the horse held for Bramley. There was little else with which to amuse himself, after all.
It was attractive countryside, if a little dull. He wandered the bridle tracks past the hedgerows that bordered neat paddocks, irritated that his thoughts frequently turned to Miss Montrose. The weather was fine and mild, and the birds seemed cheerful enough; a thought that only seemed to cast him into a more dismal frame of mind.