Barbara Metzger Read Free Page B

riding, much less mounting a half-wild, man-hating gelding. So Ty did not tell them.
    The horse did not seem to recall that George had labeled Tyverne a friend, despite Ty’s repeated avowals as he dodged flying hooves and slashing teeth. Diablo did not like boots with tassels, boots with fold-over white tops. He did not like loose ends on neck cloths, fluttering handkerchiefs, or gloves. He detested spurs, crops, ropes, or chains. He liked hats. A good hat could keep the wretch entertained for hours, running from the irate owner, stomping on it, shredding it. The more expensive the headpiece, the more enjoyment Diablo seemed to derive.
    What he really loved, however, was boiled rum balls. He’d take a peppermint drop if nothing better was offered, sugared almonds or a biscuit on occasion, washed down with a pailful of ale, but the big gelding really savored rum balls. He’d roll the hard candy around in his mouth, his eyes closed, white velvet nostrils whuffling in contentment. He’d let Ty mount then, without attacking the buttons or braid on his uniform. When the candy was gone, though, and the gelding noticed the heavier than usual weight on his back ...
    Everyone said it was a miracle the major didn’t break his fool head, and a greater miracle he didn’t shoot the fool horse. Soon enough the gelding realized Ty wasn’t giving up, and wasn’t running out of rum balls. The horse and his new owner came to terms, luckily before Ty came to grief or reopened his wounded arm. Every cook and camp follower with a cauldron made a fortune, making candy, and Ty made arrangements to sail home, praying he’d be in time.
    * * * *
    Delia Croft had almost no time to herself anymore, but she stole a few precious minutes that afternoon to walk from Faircroft House to the high road. She needed to escape the grief and desperation inside, where Aunt Eliza was constantly weeping and Nanny was praying, and Belinda was lost in her own pain. Delia feared she’d go mad inside, with nothing but sorrow for company. She was searching the garden path for daffodil tips, snowdrops, birds singing courting songs, buds on the trees, anything to show that spring was truly coming, that this endless winter might be over at last, that life went on. In truth, she was seeking solutions to questions with no answers.
    What was she to do? Delia was running out of choices, money, and hope. No one was going to come to her aid now, for even distant relations and casual friends had heard of the family’s disgrace and turned deaf ears to her pleas. Even condolences for poor George were perfunctory at best, grudgingly given. No one wished to share her burdens.
    Delia fingered the ugly, uneven black of her gown, thinking of what mourning rituals she’d had to forego. She’d had to dye her old dresses rather than spend the money for new gowns. What blunt she did have—her own funds, which Cousin Clarence could not deny her—were going for doctors and medicines and additional servants to help in the house, which clutch-fisted Clarence could, and did, refuse to finance.
    She could support herself, Delia had calculated, in a modest manner, but never the others. She could seek employment, for she was strong and healthy, one-and-twenty, and reasonably educated. Delia thought she’d make a decent companion for an older woman, if she could find anyone willing to give her references. Without them, she could throw herself on her aunt Rosalie’s mercy in London, being an unpaid companion, she supposed, instead of a paid employee. She most likely could even stay on here, when Clarence and Gwen moved into Faircroft House, as an unpaid housekeeper. But not the others. Clarence’s wife would never permit the others to live at Faircroft.
    Eliza Linbury was Delia’s mother’s spinster sister, with no claims on the Croft side of the family. Nanny had been nursemaid to the Linbury girls, and was far too old to take on a new family of youngsters, especially Gwen’s