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Kirnochshire Manor

Wesleyans’ Estate

12 August 1810

The sun shone high in the cloud-strewn afternoon sky as the coaches and riders from Balston House rounded the hedgerow-enclosed final bend in the Wesleyans’ circular drive. All manner of conveyances paralleled the stone courtyard and were lined up in neat rows on a nearby green.

Evan’s sisters had mentioned the annual fair was a popular event, but Sophronie had underestimated the number of attendees. She’d vow no fewer than one hundred conveyances dotted the grassland. Lord only knew how many additional guests had arrived by horseback as she had.

The smallest of Evan’s sisters, Sarah, had generously offered Sophronie a soft kersey wool riding habit and hat the shade of new grass to wear. The fit was reasonably good, though a trifle long, and the color flattered her strawberry-blonde hair nicely. Sophronie would’ve preferred to have worn her breeches and jacket, but as the gathering was a Society event, she’d yielded to prudence and dressed accordingly.

Not for her sake, or even Papa’s, but for Evan’s sisters. They’d been the epitome of kindness to her, and for the first time in her life, she realized how very much she missed having siblings. And aunts and a mother and grandmothers. The women shared a relationship Sophronie had never had, nor would ever likely experience.

A dozen footmen in immaculate navy-blue and yellow livery descended from the manor house to assist the new arrivals. At once Sophronie recalled the stunning woman at Belleisle Racecourse. The menservants scurrying around and helping the guests wore the same distinguished livery as the men who’d followed the lady.

Papa, the Duchess of Waycross, and Evan’s grandmothers alighted from the first coach. As he was still recovering, Papa leaned on a borrowed cane. She’d told him she needn’t attend the fair, to which her father had chuckled and said he’d sooner receive another kick from a horse than deny her the enjoyment. When she’d protested that her father needn’t accompany her, he’d insisted he was quite restored enough to lounge about in a chair for the day.

Skeptical of his readiness to be up and about, she’d secured a promise from him that if Doctor Dargavel said the outing was too strenuous this soon, Papa would consent and remain at Balston Manor to rest. To her surprise, the doctor had rubbed his chin then declared as long as Papa did not exert himself or engage in any physical activity more strenuous than lifting eating utensils or a wineglass, the outing was permissible.

Sophronie suspected the inactivity her father’s recuperation required was taking a toll on him, but he also needed to realize how grave his injuries were. If he showed the slightest sign of tiring, they would promptly return to Balston House.

Evan’s four aunts disembarked from the second coach as the footmen assisted Sophronie and Evan’s sisters from their mounts.

Sophronie studied her father as he bent his neck to listen to something the Dowager Duchess of Waycross said. He looked so much improved if a trifle wan, especially around the eyes.

Sophronie would be right beside him to ensure that he wouldn’t overdo it today. There’d be no racing for her either. More was the pity. Most especially after Evan’s harsh invective for her to refrain from influencing his sisters with her radical American ideas and hoydenish behavior.

Papa smiled at her over the top of Lady Larimore’s head, then winked. Her heart fairly sang in relief. She’d been so worried that he wouldn’t recover or that his internal injuries were worse than the doctor had diagnosed. His presence here clearly indicated he was well on the road to a full recovery.

They might depart Scotland next week if he continued to improve.

Larissa looped her elbow through Sophronie’s. “All of the activities are at the back of the house. I’m quite anticipatin’ the archery event.”

“As well ye should.” Evan winked. “I’m wagerin’ on the outcome.”

Unlike several Scots parading about in kilts, he wore black pantaloons, a smoky gray jacket, and a tartan waistcoat. Rakishly dashing yet somber as always, Waycross kept drawing Sophronie’s attention.

Eyes alight with excitement, Larissa flicked a glance over the assembled equipages.

“From the looks of it,” she said, “it’s a good turnout. That should make for an entertainin’ afternoon. Last time, Thomasina McCurdy, who cannot see her hand before her face without her spectacles, shot an arrow into Lord Massingdale’s ample backside. And Mr. Tedrow and Mr. Stanham, both soused to their eyeballs, engaged in a rousin’ round of fisticuffs over the outcome of the boat race.”

“Many Scots simply enjoy a good brawl.” Evan cocked an eyebrow as he ran a hand over Eclipse’s withers before the attentive footman led the horses away. “Some say it’s in our blood.”

“Indeed?” Sophronie slid him a side-eyed glance.

Was that why he was always ready to engage in verbal jousting with her?

“Come, Evan. Dinna be daft.” Larissa gave him an incredulous look. “They argued over who was entitled to Miss Wesleyan’s ribbon as the winner since they’d shared a rowboat.”

Rosalind joined them and gave her brother a peeved glance. “I’m still miffed at ye, Evan, for forbiddin’ any of us from enterin’ the hunter’s course.” She lowered her attention to Sophronie and slid her mouth into a rather devilish sideways smile. “I would’ve enjoyed seein’ ye beat that hoity-toity Miss Wesleyan, Sophronie.”

Sophronie couldn’t help but return the grin. “Please call me Roni. All of my closest friends do.”

“Roni it is, then,” Rosalind agreed with a wide grin. “Mother forbids us nicknames. She says if she’d wanted me to be called Rose, she would’ve named me Rose. I dinna ken how ye’d shorten Evan’s, Sarah’s, or Larissa’s name in any event.”

Sophronie’s attention drifted to the duchess. She wasn’t as imposing as many of the sophisticated English aristocrats Sophronie had met, but tall and handsome, there was no doubt she was a force to be reckoned with.

“How did ye come by yer pet name, Roni?” Sarah asked.