"You ride well," said Freddie, sounding rather shocked.
"Of course I ride well. I've ridden nearly every day of my life." Emilie kept her head rigid as she said this, but the remark warmed her innards. True, she had begun riding horses nearly as early as she could walk, but she'd only ridden astride for those two preparatory months at the Duke of Olympia's remote Devon estate. Even now, the leather felt odd and rather chafing along her inner thighs, though she liked the intimate feel of the horse's body moving between them. She felt closer, more connected to the animal's mind and motion.
"Well, it's a good thing," Freddie said. He motioned with his riding crop at the swilling grass around them. "Riding's about the only thing doing around here, without going into town."
"Where's town?"
Freddie pointed. "About four miles in that direction. You come to a track, after a bit. Then there's the Anvil, which of course you know from last night's doings, and then the railway station, which you know as well, and then there's the town proper." He sighed. "Not much to that, either. Dull factory, turning out crockery, and not even any discontented workers to liven things up since Pater took it over a decade ago. Everybody's so happy, you'd think they were piping in opiates to the factory floor."
"And that's all? The factory?"
"No, no. Surely you've heard of the Ashland Spa Hotel? No? Dashed fine hot springs, which Pater's turned into a proper health resort, a mile or so out of town. Then there's shops, smiths, that sort of thing. Burghers strolling about like sheep." Freddie stifled a yawn into his sleeve. The chestnut gelding beneath him jigged with surprise. "Hardly a decent-looking girl among them, of course. I daresay it's the wind that does it."
Ashland Spa. A proper hotel, a mile or so out of town.
Clouds were scudding by, each one darker than the next. Emilie glanced up at the sky and back down to the beaten grass before her. "Do you mind if we ride in? I confess I've rather a curiosity."
"Ah! Surveying the territory for your weekly half day, eh?"
"Something like that." Emilie kept her voice even.
"Tally-ho, then." Freddie nudged his chestnut to the left.
Freddie was right; the town was unremarkable, an English village turned factory burg, the jumble of old half-timbered buildings at its heart surrounded by orderly rows of identical two-over-two workers' houses with well-kept gardens the approximate size of pocket handkerchiefs. A packet of rain hit Emilie's cheek just as they trotted through the outskirts. Freddie slowed his horse to a walk and peered at the sky. "Blast," he said. "We can turn back, if you like. Stop at the Anvil and wait it out."
"Surely you're made of sturdier stuff than that, your lordship." Emilie tucked the brim of her cap downward.
"Hell. You're that sort, are you?" Freddie hunched his bony shoulders and heaved a melancholy sigh.
Well, she was, after all. Emilie never had gone in much for the pomp and circumstance of her earlier life, which Stefanie found such fun and which Luisa performed with such stately grace. Emilie had always preferred curling up in an alcove with a book, or else riding across the soggy fields of Holstein-Schweinwald-Huhnhof on her horse. The worse the weather, the better: On a fine day the villagers would be out, bowing and scraping at her approach, and she'd have to straighten her back and nod regally, and her thoughts would fall back into conventional lines. No more adventure and scandal running riot in her head.
Emilie peered out into the gathering drizzle, at the townspeople pulling out umbrellas or else dashing for cover, and without warning, the Duke of Ashland's words echoed back in her head. An absolute ruler, a despot, attempts to rearrange the succession to suit his own interests, to prevent the natural growth of a democratic form of law . . .
Easy for an Englishman to say, of course. Nobody in Holstein-Schweinwald-Huhnhof had ever thought of democratic rule. What would the villagers do with the vote, if they had it? Papa had ruled so benignly, so benevolently. The poor had been taken care of. The wealthy had paid their taxes. The middling classes had prospered and sent their sons to school. The winds of change blowing over much of Europe had left the little principality untouched.
The assassin's bullet had come out of the blue, a shock to Emilie's own heart.
Her fingers went cold under her gloves. She pushed the thought away, as she usually did, but she could not push away its physical effects. The horse sensed her agitation, the clenching of her hands about the reins, and tossed his head.
They hadn't let her see Papa's body, when they brought it back. Luisa had gone in, white-faced, and confirmed the death of their father. And Peter, of course. Poor dear Peter, childhood friend, heir to the neighboring province of Baden-Cherrypit. Stefanie had snuck in later, before they had prepared the bodies, and said that Peter had been struck in the neck, and that his dead flesh was as white as a sheet. Had bled out, probably, into the fallen October leaves of the Schweinwald.
The horse jigged; Emilie cursed and put him right. "I say, Grimsby," called Freddie, forgetting the Mr. in his damp distress, "what are you about? Can't we turn back and have a pint at the Anvil instead?"
"I've a great curiosity to see this spa of yours," Emilie said, over her shoulder.
"Bother the bloody spa!"
Emilie kept riding, down the high street, taking careful note of the post office at the corner of Baker's Lane. A hostelry stood nearby; that might be of use.
But the spa, the hotel, with a variety of visitors coming and going! A place where strangers were expected and welcome, where private rooms might be had; a place easily found and yet outside of the main part of town.
It seemed ideal.
The rain began to pound her hat in earnest.
"Look here, Grimsby!" Freddie was growing petulant. "You can't mean to go on in this! It's three o'clock in the afternoon, we'll be missing our tea, and in a moment my coat will have bloody well soaked through!"
"You must learn fortitude, Lord Silverton."
"I have plenty of damned fortitude, Grimsby!"
"Mr. Grimsby," said Emilie, "and your language is reprehensible in a boy of your years. I must ask you to exercise a little more ingenuity."
"How's this for ingenuity, Mr. Grimsby: We're missing our lessons."
Emilie looked back in surprise. If Freddie was choosing schoolwork over shirking, he must be in sorry straits indeed.
Poor Freddie. He was rather bedraggled. His cap dripped with rain, and his shoulders were soaked. Moreover, he had inexplicably gone out without his gloves, and his hands had taken on a rather alarming blue cast. With his bony frame and his brown tweeds, he looked like an exceptionally wet insect.
Emilie let out a long breath, cast her eyes longingly up the road toward the beckoning promise of Ashland Spa Hotel, and turned her horse around. "Very well," she said. "But I must call in at the post office."
* * *
The dainty clock above the mantel-Isabelle's favorite, a wedding gift-was chiming four o'clock by the time Ashland laid down his pen, squared his papers, and rose from the chair in his study to join his waiting valet upstairs.
"It's come on to rain, sir," his valet said quietly, helping him into a coat of silken superfine wool.
"Then I shall require a mackintosh, of course," Ashland said. He turned to the mirror above the washstand and surveyed himself. The mask had come a little askew during his shaving; he straightened it, adjusted his necktie. His short white hair was smoothed neatly with a touch of pomade.
Not that it mattered, really, but he felt he owed the woman that much.
Wilkins came up behind him with the mackintosh. He shrugged himself into it and allowed Wilkins to handle the buttons. His own fingers were shaking slightly. Hat, settled snugly into his brow; glove, fitted to his left hand like a . . . well, like a glove. That was better. Secure, well covered. The breath eased from his lungs.
"Thank you, Wilkins," Ashland said. "No need to wait up."
"Of course, sir."
Ashland descended the stairs and ducked through the door, opened at the last well-timed instant by an impassive footman. Outside in the drizzle, a groom stood holding his horse. The gray November horizon was already darkening. "There's a lad," Ashland said tenderly, rubbing Wellington's muzzle, taking the reins. "Sorry about the rain, old man. We'll have to bear on like troupers."