“I will, Mama. I will.”
As he walked to his room, Reid realized that attending tea with his soon-to-be-betrothed engendered not the least bit of excitement at all, whereas tasting the latest ale? That sent his spirits soaring.
There was something wrong with his life at the moment, without a doubt.
*~~*~~*
The next morning, under cold grey skies, Reid took himself off to the brewery, eager to enter the warm yeasty buildings and immerse himself in the magic that was ale.
His father was already there, wandering down between casks, checking now and then with his favorite toy—his saccharometer. Reid didn’t fully understand the functioning of the thing, but his father seemed to derive great satisfaction from sampling, measuring, noting and repeating the process for many happy hours.
That, Reid could understand. When one was an ale-brewer, it was in the blood.
“Hallooo…” He shouted down to the other end of the barn. “Are you still working there, Father?”
He received a waved hand in response. Which could have meantyes, I’m still busy and can’t come to your end right now—or just as easily—no, I’m finished and on my way to you.
Reid waited, and sure enough after a few minutes his father appeared, beaming from ear to ear and waving a small tankard. “Taste this, lad. Just taste it. Best ever, I’m thinking.”
Reid smiled back. “I’m sure it is, but let me verify that.”
Thus a pleasant morning was passed by the Chillendale men, as they measured, evaluated and tasted their ale, judging its strength, color and flavor, and making copious notes on the variations within the particular stages of conditioning. Reid had a thermometer and a hydrometer to go along with his father’s instruments, and each had a passion for the process.
It was a harmonious blending of tradition, family and brewing techniques, and for Reid it was the source of all happiness. In that he took after his father.
“I hate to say this, but Mama will be expecting you for lunch, father.” Reid nodded at the large clock at the end of the building.
“Damnation.” Sir Rodney frowned. “I’d hoped to get to the oldest casks this morning.”
“Well, there’s always this afternoon.” Reid clapped the older man on the shoulder. “Those casks aren’t going anywhere.”
“True.” Sir Rodney walked to a table, wiped his tools and carefully replaced them in the appropriate boxes. “Are you coming in then?”
Reid shook his head. “No. I have to do the proper this afternoon at tea. Emmeline and Lady Southwick are visiting and I have to be there, I’m told.”
“Oh, dear. Sorry, lad.” His father sighed. “Once your mother’s got the bit between her teeth, there’s no stopping her.”
“It’s that damned mistletoe business.” Reid gritted his teeth. “Still it’s all part of our tradition. I have to honor it, I suppose.” He shrugged. “But I thought I’d take a stroll and clear my head before I go back inside. Looks like we might see a bit more snow tonight, so I want to take advantage of the day.”
Sir Rodney reached for his coat. “Good idea. Why don’t you take Whiskey out? She needs a bit of exercise.” He opened the large wooden door. “I’ll see you later.”
It occurred to him that his father had been quite right. The horse wasn’t the only thing that needed a bit of exercise. A brisk half hour ride would do him the world of good, and shake him out of the malaise that seemed to dull his thought processes.
He knew who had caused it, of course.Her.
But with four legs beneath him, he could take a quick canter over the meadow and see if that old cottage still stood. The one half buried in a cave. The one he and Brent Rowdean had spent months turning into their own private club.
For an eleven-year-old, it was a fancy hideaway. For anyone else it would have been a partially broken down hole in a rock, but to the two boys? A special place.
Grabbing his coat, Reid took off for the stables and was mounted on Whiskey in next to no time. The air was brisk but not brutally cold, and there had been enough melt during the morning to make the way slushy rather than snow-covered.
Slush was better, he decided, since he could at least see hazards, and guide the mare around them.
Instinct set him on the path to the meadow and his heartbeat picked up speed with the delight of being atop a fine horse, and the prospect of solving the puzzle of his mystery woman.
Perhaps she’d been a figment of his imagination after all. Or perhaps she’d been a woodland fairy; the sort his governess used to read about when he was young.
He smiled at his whimsical notion. She was no fairy.
Unless there was a certain sort that had more sexual appeal than usually mentioned in fairy tales.
He arrived at the broad expanse of meadow, shedding his odd mood as he stared over the whiteness. For a few moments, the sun made an attempt at shining, and he was blinded briefly— closing his eyes against the glare.
When he opened them again, shading them by pulling the brim of his hat down over his forehead, he frowned and blinked again.
There was a figure standing on the far side of the meadow, watching him.
He couldn’t make out too many details, but one thing caught his attention. The scant rays of sun danced off a head of deep chestnut hair.
It washer.
