of his long-standing engagement to Amaryllis Hartwell. Now that protection was at an end, and he knew without a shadow of doubt that Lady Harrison would make every attempt to foist off her mousy schoolroom miss upon him.
And Caroline was expecting him to do the pretty to the eccentric Miss Sutton!
Nonetheless, it was with the greatest relief that he departed a week later to return to the Carfaxes. At least Miss Sutton might prove amusing, and anything must be better than another day with his overbearing aunt, her silent daughter, and her coxcomb of a son.
Chapter III—George
Impatient with the pace of his luxurious travelling carriage, George Winterborne decided to ride, leaving the carriage to follow him up the Great North Road. Besides, the long ride was the perfect way to try the stamina of the black gelding, Orpheus, which he was thinking of buying from the Sutton Stables, and he would reach Northumberland days earlier. He was not such a dandy that he could not live out of a saddlebag, and without the aid of his valet, for a while.
He had had to spend a couple of days in London on business after he left his brother’s house, and then the detour via Banbury had added another delay. Of course, a letter would have told his father the news long since, but he wanted to bear it himself. The opportunity to deliver such joyful tidings, to see the shadow lift at last from the marquis’s face, was not something to be surrendered in the interests of mere speed.
After a night in Newcastle, he turned inland. This border country of rugged hills and moors, north of Hadrian’s Wall, was very different from the lush, gentle landscape of his own estate in Dorset. His blood sang to its grandeur. Here his ancestors had driven back the Scots’ raids time and time again over long centuries of feuding. It was his home, and in spite of the deeply drifting snow he set out confidently along lanes which were little more than cart tracks.
Orpheus seemed scarce to notice his rider’s considerable weight as the miles vanished beneath his long stride. It had been worth going to Banbury on his way; he would certainly purchase the horse when he returned to the south. It would be amusing to see Sutton’s pretty, pert daughter again, and he must remember to enquire after her odd, quiet sister’s recovery.
They stopped to rest at noon in a tiny, greystone hamlet where my lord was recognised at once in the taproom of the whitewashed inn, recognised and welcomed and fed, and sent on his way warmed by good wishes as much as by the fire. The Marquis of Bellingham owned much of the land hereabouts. He was a fair master, and his genial heir was a prime favourite with one and all.
His mount was tiring when at last he trotted past St. Cuthbert’s Well. The crumbling ruins of Bellingham Castle were silhouetted on the skyline. Below it on the hillside, facing south with its two wings spread like open arms, the long, low house sprawled across the slope.
Lord Winterborne rode straight up the long drive and drew rein in the rose garden in front of the house, sheltered by the wings to east and west. At this season nothing was visible but carefully pruned stumps, half buried in muddy straw, but this had been his mother’s favourite place. When he thought of her, he could almost smell the heavy perfume of the dark red blooms she had loved best, the lighter fragrance of pink and yellow and white.
She had told him when he was six years old, when his brother was nothing but a squirming scrap of newborn humanity, that he must always take care of Danny. He had tried, and he had failed, and she had died not knowing that in the end he had succeeded after all.
“Mother,” he said aloud, “it’s all right now. Danny’s happy now, I helped him win the woman he loves. I took care of him, Mother.”
Feeling like a sentimental fool, he turned Orpheus towards the stables.
Lord Bellingham, seated at his desk, looked up as his tall son entered the
And Caroline was expecting him to do the pretty to the eccentric Miss Sutton!
Nonetheless, it was with the greatest relief that he departed a week later to return to the Carfaxes. At least Miss Sutton might prove amusing, and anything must be better than another day with his overbearing aunt, her silent daughter, and her coxcomb of a son.
Chapter III—George
Impatient with the pace of his luxurious travelling carriage, George Winterborne decided to ride, leaving the carriage to follow him up the Great North Road. Besides, the long ride was the perfect way to try the stamina of the black gelding, Orpheus, which he was thinking of buying from the Sutton Stables, and he would reach Northumberland days earlier. He was not such a dandy that he could not live out of a saddlebag, and without the aid of his valet, for a while.
He had had to spend a couple of days in London on business after he left his brother’s house, and then the detour via Banbury had added another delay. Of course, a letter would have told his father the news long since, but he wanted to bear it himself. The opportunity to deliver such joyful tidings, to see the shadow lift at last from the marquis’s face, was not something to be surrendered in the interests of mere speed.
After a night in Newcastle, he turned inland. This border country of rugged hills and moors, north of Hadrian’s Wall, was very different from the lush, gentle landscape of his own estate in Dorset. His blood sang to its grandeur. Here his ancestors had driven back the Scots’ raids time and time again over long centuries of feuding. It was his home, and in spite of the deeply drifting snow he set out confidently along lanes which were little more than cart tracks.
Orpheus seemed scarce to notice his rider’s considerable weight as the miles vanished beneath his long stride. It had been worth going to Banbury on his way; he would certainly purchase the horse when he returned to the south. It would be amusing to see Sutton’s pretty, pert daughter again, and he must remember to enquire after her odd, quiet sister’s recovery.
They stopped to rest at noon in a tiny, greystone hamlet where my lord was recognised at once in the taproom of the whitewashed inn, recognised and welcomed and fed, and sent on his way warmed by good wishes as much as by the fire. The Marquis of Bellingham owned much of the land hereabouts. He was a fair master, and his genial heir was a prime favourite with one and all.
His mount was tiring when at last he trotted past St. Cuthbert’s Well. The crumbling ruins of Bellingham Castle were silhouetted on the skyline. Below it on the hillside, facing south with its two wings spread like open arms, the long, low house sprawled across the slope.
Lord Winterborne rode straight up the long drive and drew rein in the rose garden in front of the house, sheltered by the wings to east and west. At this season nothing was visible but carefully pruned stumps, half buried in muddy straw, but this had been his mother’s favourite place. When he thought of her, he could almost smell the heavy perfume of the dark red blooms she had loved best, the lighter fragrance of pink and yellow and white.
She had told him when he was six years old, when his brother was nothing but a squirming scrap of newborn humanity, that he must always take care of Danny. He had tried, and he had failed, and she had died not knowing that in the end he had succeeded after all.
“Mother,” he said aloud, “it’s all right now. Danny’s happy now, I helped him win the woman he loves. I took care of him, Mother.”
Feeling like a sentimental fool, he turned Orpheus towards the stables.
Lord Bellingham, seated at his desk, looked up as his tall son entered the
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