“Mr. Bratten, do you know French? Could you translate something simple for me?”
“Of course, Miss Moore, what is it?” He raised his brow in anticipation.
I repeated the phrase, hoping he would forgive my pronunciation.
“Ah. To what are we referring?” he asked, serious. “As in, what is the subject?”
“Oh, I ... I am not sure.” My cheeks grew warm, and I felt rather foolish. I hadn’t considered that I was asking Mr. Bratten to repeat something completely foreign to me. What was I making him say aloud?
“It matters not. I was merely curious. The phrase translated literally is ‘all is more bright.’”
Offering my gratitude, I sank back into my chair, warmth spreading through me like melting butter on bread. There was depth, beauty in the sentiment, but the phrase itself was a bit mysterious. I was sure tonight Peter’s voice had betrayed a note of seriousness, of kindness. Whatever could he mean with such a phrase? I could hardly wait to ask.
Which, I was sure, was precisely what Peter wanted.
Chapter Sixteen
The men were gone the next morning, having taken an early leave for the exhibition, which was a few hours’ drive away, so Clara and I headed for the stables after breakfast. We’d not had more than a few minutes together in days.
We stopped by the stalls first so I could check on Winter, who was feasting on a pile of oats in a small bucket.
This time I rode Grace. Her gray coat was smooth with hints of black, and I could not help but think of Peter as I settled atop her saddle. Was it only yesterday we rode together through the mud?
Clara rode a mare of equal hands, and together we set out. Mr. Beckett rode with us, leading us around the estate a few paces ahead.
“Tell me everything,” I said to Clara when I was certain Mr. Beckett was out of earshot. “How are things faring with Sir Ronald?”
Clara’s happy grin was immediate. “Oh, Amelia. I never want to leave. I do not know what I shall do if I must.”
“Has he said anything to you? Hinted at all of his feelings?”
Clara’s eyes met mine shyly. “Not exactly. But he said last evening how he’d missed me since London.”
My jaw slacked. “Clara. What did you say?”
She shrugged and laughed. “I agreed. I told him that the Season was the happiest I have been in some time. And not for the balls or society, but for his company. He seemed encouraged, but that was that. I hope I did not scare him away. If the men do not come back soon, I shall go mad with worry.”
Grace huffed as we climbed a hill, and I scratched her mane soothingly. Staring at my sister, her open smile and kind heart so vulnerable and free, my own heart blanched and fought for its freedom. But only one of us could have that opportunity. One of us had to be realistic, practical. And love was not practical; it was the biggest gamble of all. Clara could take that risk, as long as I developed a plan should she fail.
“And what of Georgiana? How does he behave toward her?”
“Friendly. I can tell he cares for her, but I’m not sure how seriously.” Clara brushed away a loose strand of golden hair. “Is it very wrong of me to feel pleased at her jealousy? Georgiana’s eyes were raging at me all of yesterday.”
I could not help but smile. “Not at all. She will have to get used to the sight, I daresay.”
Clara scrunched her nose. “I should hope not. If Sir Ronald and I marry, Georgiana will not be invited to an event for years if I have anything to say about it. I’ve quite had my fill of her. Haven’t you?”
I swallowed. I could not blame Clara for desiring a separation of the two families. As much as I admired Peter, Clara was my sister, and I would do anything for her. “I would not blame you in the least.”
We rode a few paces, alone in our thoughts, when Clara sucked in a small breath. “Oh, look! There it is.”
Mr. Beckett had led us to a beautiful greenish-blue pond, a hidden gem in the middle of an expanse. We dismounted, and he pulled a large bag from his saddlebag.
“Would you like to feed them?” he asked in his gruff voice. “The fish.”
Clara’s eyes sparkled, and she tugged off her gloves. “Yes, thank you.”
He opened the bag, filling our hands with bread crumbs, and we threw out handfuls as far as we could, laughing when Clara’s farthest throw barely exceeded three feet.
