The Rocking Horse: A Regency Novella (5 page)

"No, I'm afraid I don't."

Lady Tarkington blushed and looked guiltier yet. She grabbed Jocelyn's wrist. "Oh, I beg your pardon, my dear. That was ill done of me. I swear Mary's illness has made a dreadful shatterbrain of me. Pay no attention to my rambling."

"No, please, Lady Tarkington. Don't you think it is only fair that I be forewarned, if forewarning is needed?"

"Yes. No. Oh, I don't know. It is sometimes so dreadfully difficult to avoid offense. Clarice Bayne is—well, different. She can be a difficult woman," Lady Tarkington said slowly, carefully watching Jocelyn's face for her reaction. "She has not been pleased we are having a house party here for the holidays. Unseemly, she calls it. Christmas, she believes, is for pious, solemn observance. A time for meditation and prayer. Sometimes I do believe she would be happier in a convent," she finished morosely with a sigh. "She and Tarkington do not get along. Not that they argue, mind you. He tries as best he may to ignore her. That includes avoiding her company. Well, her own son does that," she said righteously.

"Even as he encouraged me to come early, I thought Mr. Bayne's excuses to delay his arrival were spurious," Jocelyn said wryly.

Lady Tarkington nodded, the tight curls that framed her face bouncing with the movement.

"And, if I understand you correctly, it would be best for peace withal for Tarkington to be here," Jocelyn said.

"That's it exactly."

"Where is he? Is he at the carpenter's?"

Lady Tarkington looked up at her in surprise. "How did you know that?"

Jocelyn grinned. "Servant gossip, of course."

Lady Tarkington clucked her tongue.

"Why don't you go handle the cook to see that dinner is ready on time, or at least by five-thirty. I am in need of some exercise after sitting for two hours, so I will endeavor to tell the marques of the change in dinner plans," Jocelyn offered.

"Oh, would you, my dear? I would be ever so grateful. Under the circumstances, knowing what his reaction is liable to be, I am loath to send a footman. As you said, servant gossip. Clarice Bayne is particularly attuned to it. I swear she has spies in this household."

Jocelyn laughed and winked. "Don't worry. We shall thwart her this time."

Jocelyn tried to peer through the diamond-shaped panes of grimy, slightly green glass set in the old oak door of the carpenter's workshop. From inside she heard an odd rhythmic sound, something like clip-clatter, clip-clatter, clip-clatter. She knocked on the door and waited, but there was no response, no cessation of the strange noise. She pushed down on the latch, and the door opened smoothly with nary a squeal or screech from its old hinges. Tentatively she poked her head in the doorway.

"My lord? My lord Tarkington?"

Across the room she could see the marques standing before a strange-looking device. His foot worked a treadle on the floor that was connected to belts and wheels to two iron pins which held a piece of wood between each tip. The wood spun around. Beside him stood a squat man with large square hands. Dust obscured the glasses on his red nose, so he looked over them in order to observe the marques' progress.

"Easy, my lord. Not too much pressure. . . . Let it slide easily. . . . Yes, that's it, my lord. Very good!"

A gust of wind came in through the open door, swirling sawdust into the air. Tarkington's eyes flickered upward. "Kindly close the door, Miss Maybrey. I am creating enough of this confounded dust without your stirring up more."

Jocelyn blushed bright red but hurried to do as he requested. Then she came farther into the workshop to see what the marques was doing, her eyes darting about, taking in the unpainted carved horse lacking a tail, mane, rockers, and handle. It leaned against a wall, out of the way, a small rug tossed over its back, to protect it, Jocelyn presumed. Two rockers, shaped and sanded, were also propped against the wall. A pile of multicolored horse hair—likely culled from the tails and manes of estate horses—lay on a nearby table. Hanging from a peg on the wall was a small leather bridle and two small stirrups with leather straps attached.

To her amazement Jocelyn realized the truth. The marques was making a rocking horse for his daughter—and doing the work himself, not overseeing it. Somehow, though she'd been told he was doing the work, the idea of his total involvement had never penetrated her understanding. She'd never known any nobleman to labor in this manner.

She stood agog. She was delighted!

It appeared that Tarkington now worked on the handle destined to be inserted in the horse's head.

"So what brings Miss Maybrey to a carpenter's workshop? Are you slumming, Miss Maybrey, or did you have some purpose?"

His caustic tone distressed Jocelyn for a moment. She'd not thought that to be his normal manner. Perhaps he just did not care to be caught at his manual labor? Or had she disturbed his concentration?

"My lord, the countess wishes you to know that Mrs. Bayne is joining us for dinner."

"Bound to happen."

"At five o'clock."

"Five!" The device faltered in its rhythm. "But it wants but four now!"

"Careful, my lord!" implored the carpenter.

The marques released the treadle, stopped the lathe from turning, and stepped back. "No. I cannot do more." He scowled at the wood, though Jocelyn knew his scowl was more for the information she gave.

"It is my fault."

Tarkington looked up. "How do you deduce that?"

Jocelyn colored again. "It is because of Mr. Bayne's interest. I presume I'm to be examined like a horse at a fair: good teeth, sound of limb, no sway back or jarring paces."

The marques laughed loudly, which brought out the light Jocelyn had come to look for in his eyes. "For someone who does not ride much herself, you have an understanding of the nature of horses."

She shrugged. "I'm a good listener."

He studied her a moment. "Yes," he said slowly, "I believe you would be. . . . But, Miss Maybrey," he continued in a brisk fashion, "I shall never be able to finish this rocking horse before Christmas if I am continually interrupted!"

Jocelyn cocked her head. "Why not? From what I've seen, you have enough craftsmen. Together could they not make the toy in a day?"

Tarkington turned away, the set of his shoulders speaking eloquently of his disappointment in her response. Jocelyn clasped her hands together, not clearly understanding what she said that again had him turning from her in a cold manner.

"Why can I not make my family, my peers, understand? What have we as a society become? A clamor of vain fribbles that must have everything done for us? Can we not enjoy laboring for others? Or is this some damned sin against society?" he railed.

"I beg your pardon, my lord?" Too late Jocelyn heard the shrill self-righteousness in her own voice.

Tarkington's face became still and coldly empty of expression. She might as well have just received a direct cut at the most fashionable social event of the season. It was as if the coldest winter wind had blown through the small carpenter's workshop. Jocelyn hugged her arms tightly against her body to ward off the chill. Nevertheless it seeped into her heart and lay there like ice on a lake, growing, threatening to cover all.

She turned quickly to grab the door latch, her eyes blurring too much to see clearly. A sob caught in her throat She swallowed hard, determined to hide her distress. Please let him believe it anger!

She yanked the door open to escape, but the marques was faster than she. He caught her arm, halting her flight on the flagstone steps outside the workshop.

"Please, my lord!" She kept her head averted as she twisted her hand within his grasp, struggling to get free.

He pulled her toward him, anchoring her arm against his side, then with his free hand he grabbed her chin and forced her to turn toward him. He looked down at her tear-streaked cheeks, and his own expression twisted, cracking free of that cold stillness to reveal remorse. "I have made you cry," he said softly. "I forget too easily."

Jocelyn did not like him staring down at her like that. She was not comfortable with his nearness or the rapid pulse that throbbed in her neck. She searched her mind for some way to break the odd spell that surrounded them, to return each to their place. Another gust of wind blew one of her bonnet ribbons across her cheek. As she pushed it aside with her free hand, she realized the marques had come after her without his coat.

"My lord! Your coat!"

"Damn the coat!"

"But you could take a chill!"

"Perhaps that would be fitting punishment for my insensitivity, Miss Maybrey," the marques said wryly, letting go of her arm.

Jocelyn stepped back. "Oh, no, my lord!"

"Miss Maybrey, I warn you, do not toady! Rank is no excuse for bad manners. Do not excuse it on that basis."

"It is merely, my lord, that I am confused. All the years a young girl is growing up at home she is taught by her parents about society without experience of the actuality. Then when one goes to school, other more stringent society rules are taught."

"By old maids who have only observed from the chaperon couches at the closest—some not even that close."

"Yes, my lord, and my own heretofore limited experience in the city has not taught me differently. But you—I beg your pardon, my lord, but you do not act as I have been taught or have observed a member of society to act. I freely confess I am fascinated by this difference. I'm not certain why."

The marques laughed and tucked Jocelyn's arm in his as he led her across the courtyard toward the manor house. "I believe I begin to see what attracted my cousin to you, Miss Maybrey. You are a delightful mixture of honesty and naiveté that is refreshing. For all the inculcation you have received, how is it you are not jaded and full of ennui?"

"I'm not certain I understand your direction, my lord. However, my mother says one of my most besetting faults is my curiosity."

"Faults? Nay, Miss Maybrey. I should call that one of your most shining traits. Next you shall be telling me she disapproves of your sensitivity toward others."

"She does say I am too soft-hearted."

"Nonsense, and you may tell your mother a marques said so." He winked at her. "That is bound to get blessings."

Jocelyn laughed.

At the house she parted from the marques with a curious sense of regret and hurried to her room, where Miss Barnes awaited.

"Enough! Enough! I swear if you twitch another fold into place, straighten another bow, or pat another curl, I shall scream! My toilet is complete. You have—as always—outdone yourself, Miss Barnes," Jocelyn told the woman with laughing exasperation as she attempted to edge toward the door. "I must go. I wish to visit with Lady Mary before going downstairs, and I don't have much time."

"But you would allow me no time!"

"Nonetheless, you rose to the challenge. I thank you," she assured the woman before closing the door and hurrying down the hall.

A light tap on Lady Mary's door was greeted by a cheerful croaking. A maid answered the door and showed her inside.

"Jocelyn! I despaired of seeing you today!"

"Every time I asked someone of your condition, I was told you were sleeping."

"Sleeping! As thick as my head feels? Not bloody likely! What we have, my friend, is a conspiracy."

"A loving conspiracy, I'll venture."

Lady Mary waved her hand in offhand agreement, the handkerchief she clenched fluttering with the movement. "To be sure. And I will admit I did sleep some today. Especially after old Mrs. Morrison—the estate herbalist and midwife—prepared an infusion of boiling water and herbs that she had me inhale. Whatever it was, it eased my breathing."

Jocelyn sat on the edge of the bed. "Now you must concentrate on getting better. Don't think of anything else, and do take the medications you are given."

Lady Mary plucked restlessly at the sheets. "Resting here is difficult to do. The longer I lay here, the more I am filled with remorse that you are left solely to my brother's less than cheerful company."

"Nonsense. The marques and I have dealt admirably together. Tomorrow I might even ask if I may help with the rocking horse. . . . No, the person I fear most is Mrs. Bayne. Have you heard she announced she would be coming to dinner tonight?"