Page 38 of The Wedding Challenge

“Oh, no.” Callie let out a chuckle. “My mother did not particularly like to ride. But she knew I loved it, and she wanted to do as my father had wanted. That was very important to her. She loved him very much. So the head groom tutored me, as he had done before my father’s death, and so did Sinclair. My brother.” She looked at him. “That is why my brother is so…protective of me. In many ways, he was as much a father to me as a brother. He has become accustomed to watching over me.”

“I do not fault your brother for his care for his sister,” Bromwell replied. “Indeed, I would do much to protect my sister, as well.”

At his words, he glanced over at the woman in question, who still rode beside the open carriage. She was laughing at some witticism of Mr. Swanson’s, her lovely head thrown back, her white throat arched becomingly. Her black riding habit was severe, but she needed no ornamentation for her beauty, and, as with the dress she had worn the other night, the somber shade was a perfect foil for her own vibrant coloring.

As they watched, Lady Daphne reached down and playfully tapped Mr. Swanson on the shoulder. The young man flushed to the roots of his sandy hair. Callie glanced over at his sister, who had a rather sour expression on her face. Gideon, on the other hand, was ignoring all of them, jotting down something in a small book in his hand.

Callie, who had heard many tales of Lord Radbourne’s flouting of societal rules, smothered a smile. She returned her gaze to Bromwell’s face. He frowned a little.

“People sometimes misjudge Lady Daphne,” he said. “She is a very warm and vivacious person.”

“She seemed quite nice,” Callie offered, not sure what to say. “She is very beautiful.”

Bromwell cast her a smile. “Yes. And she takes pride in it. But it has cost her dearly in many ways. Women often…are disinclined to befriend her.”

Callie thought about the little Francesca had told her about Lady Swithington. Could her reputation have been exaggerated? Distorted? Was she merely overly flirtatious? Callie knew how easy it was to bring on the censure of London Society. And a beautiful woman often stirred jealousy in the bosom of those females less fortunate than she.

On the other hand, it was also possible that Bromwell’s words were simply a loving brother’s defense of his sister. She had seen love render a person blind to another’s faults. And she could not help but remember that flash of hard dislike she had seen in Daphne’s eyes as they set out. What did that mean? It certainly did not match with the friendly, flattering words she uttered or the sweet smile she directed at Callie.

Still, whatever the truth, Callie could not help but respect Bromwell’s loyalty.

“You are the only children in your family?” she asked.

He nodded. “Yes, and our estates are somewhat isolated. So Daphne and I were, I suppose, the only friends each other had, really. My father considered none of the families thereabouts our equals in birth, so we were discouraged from socializing with them—not that any of them were really close enough to see often, anyway. And my sister was several years older than I—” He shot her a twinkling look. “Not that I would let her hear me say that. But I was not much of a companion for her. She had to look after me a great deal. And, of course, by the time I was seven or eight, she was far more interested in clothes and hairstyles than in helping me search out bugs and other wildlife in the gardens. By the time I was eleven, she had gone to London to make her come-out, and then she married.”

“It sounds as if you must have been alone a lot.”

He nodded. “A good bit. Fortunately, I was always a solitary sort, anyway.”

“I was not,” Callie responded. “I did not have any children my age about, either—I spent most of my time with the servants. My nurse, Cook, the upstairs maids. It scandalized my grandmother.”

“Your mother, too, I imagine,” Bromwell commented.

Callie shrugged. “My mother did not…involve herself too closely with my upbringing.”

He looked at her, surprised. “She was unloving?” He paused, then said, “I am sorry. I should not have pried.”

“No, it is all right. I don’t mind talking about her. I cannot do so, really, with my family. It makes Sinclair feel sad, I think. You see, as with our father, he knew her much longer than I did. He remembers her the way she was before our father died. She was a very warm and loving person, and when my father was alive, she often popped into the nursery to see us. I can remember going for walks in the garden with her. She used to point out all the plants and flowers to me, and tell me their names. She loved the garden. She would cut flowers in the summer, then let me help her arrange them in vases.”

“She sounds like a wonderful mother,” Bromwell protested.

“She was. And I know that she loved me. But after my father died, she changed. She loved him a great deal, and after his death, sorrow sapped her of all life and joy. It was almost as if she had died with him, except that her body was still there among us. She still loved me, but she was not…terribly interested in anything. She stopped her gardening. She never cut flowers and arranged them anymore. And though she walked enough, she rarely took me—or anyone else—with her. She wandered along the paths all alone, and stopped to sit on the benches and just…sit there and stare, not really looking at anything.”

Callie turned to him. “You must think me terribly selfish, complaining because she was not attentive enough to me when she had suffered a great tragedy.”

“No, I do not think you are selfish,” he assured her quietly. “You suffered a tragedy, too. You lost your father—and with him, you lost much of your mother, as well.”

“Yes.” Callie was surprised, and a little embarrassed, to feel tears spring into her eyes. It had been many years since her father’s death, even since her mother’s passing, and she had not been moved to tears over them in a long time, but somehow this man’s quiet understanding of the pain she had felt awakened a feeling of such mingled sorrow, gratitude and tenderness within her that tears welled up in her eyes.

She blinked the tears away, glancing out across the fields as she steadied her emotions. “You understand, then.”

“Well enough. My mother died soon after I was born. My nurse was like my mother—though, of course, when I grew old enough for a governess, she was no longer my nurse. But still, I slipped down to see her whenever I could. She was the sister of one of our tenant farmers, a widow whose child had died shortly after my mother. We were well-suited in that way. Her brother had a son about my age, Henry. He was the only friend I had aside from Daphne. So, yes, I understand.”

“Do you ever see Henry now?”

“Oh, yes.” He grinned. “Scandalously, he is still probably my only friend. He is my steward. His older brother holds their farm, but Henry was always quick. He learned numbers and reading from me when we were young, and I sneaked books to him. When I came into the title, I hired him as my steward. My father’s man had been steadily robbing him over the years, my father, of course, being too much the gentleman to stoop to checking over the accounts. The farms had suffered, and he, as well as my father, had earned the dislike of most of the tenants.” He stopped. “Sorry, I did not mean to run on about such boring matters. No doubt you will rue the day you agreed to come on this trip.”

“Not at all,” Callie replied honestly. “I have heard my brother talk a good bit about his business affairs—at least the estate management. I do confess that his dealings on the ’Change do not interest me much. But the farms are altogether different. They aren’t just numbers, which I do not like much. They are people, you see, with faces and histories and all sorts of connections. And that I like very much. I have long stood up with Sinclair on the estate days, and greeted everyone and welcomed them at Boxing Day. You have to remember that I spent much of my time with the servants and, when I got older, riding about the estates with a groom. I know all the farmers and their families, at least at Marcastle and Dancy Park. I confess that I am not as familiar with his other holdings. I never spent as much time at them.”