He shook his head.
“The storybooks you read as a boy? They’re in the nursery?—”
“I didn’t read as a boy.”
“You didn’t?”
“Hal was the reader. Did Father tell you it was me? No, I was the one who loved horses, constantly in the stables or out of doors all the time.”
“We will have to correct him.”
He smiled a wry smile. “Shall we take great delight in doing so?”
They were together in this, in teasing Henry. “Yes.”
“Don’t worry. I won’t make him feel too badly. I already did that.”
“Your father is the happiest man alive right now.”
He was quiet.
She added, “And I think Mina will like finding out she has her father’s books.”
“Yes.” Then, “It’s too bad she doesn’t like horses.”
Susannah dared to take Charles’ elbow and walk with himout of the gallery. Maybe she and he could hide from the marchioness together.
“Well, actually, Mina did speak of a pony sometime back . . .”
They did successfully hide from the marchioness. Charles took Susannah out to the stables, a place she had not yet visited at Bledsoe Park.
Looking at the horses and talking to the grooms put a great deal of ease back into Charles. Susannah told him about her brother and his way with horses, how he was a farrier, and she was glad she knew enough to speak of his work with pride.
Dinner was far less frightening than Susannah had anticipated despite the magnificence of both the dining room and the marchioness.
The six of them could not possibly fill the table, so the marchioness sat at the head with Charles on one side of her and Henry on the other. Susannah was next to Charles, and the marchioness’ secretary was next to Henry. The solicitor was on the other side of the secretary, in the farthest chair from the marchioness, probably hoping she would forget both his presence and his badly written will.
The secretary, at first, had declined to join them in the dining room, but the marchioness had put her stick down.
“What straw! Of course, you will eat with me, Hastings, just as you do on Bruton Street. Only you know what I like.”
The secretary did indeed know what the marchioness liked and what she could take and advised her as to what dishes she should eat throughout the meal. Otherwise, he was engaged in conversation with the solicitor about a niggling detail in one of the marchioness’ husband’s wills.
Susannah and Henry were exchanging meaningful glancesover the table—I can’t wait to be alone with you—as Charles was monopolized by the marchioness.
Susannah heard her name mentioned.
“Ha!” said the marchioness. “Miss Beasley is Puddlewick!”
She roared with laughter.
Charles turned to Susannah, shamefaced. “I didn’t know it was a secret,” he whispered. “Is it a secret?”
“Not anymore,” she said. “And that’s for the best. Have no worries.”
Henry wiped his mouth with his napkin. “You know of Puddlewick, Aunt?”
“Your mind grows feeble, Henry. You wrote to me of Puddlewick when you started your wife hunt, and I sent you out to Much Wemby to find him.”
