head? We have just been amongst the first to be introduced to the Earl of Carlyle upon his return, and you say that it is bad luck?’
‘Goose! Of course it is! Have you forgotten that I have an interview with Mr Bingham this very afternoon? As Tony Davlin? What if the Earl should decide to attend?’
Catherine gasped in dismay. ‘Oh, dear, yes, I had forgotten! But what on earth could have induced Lord Carlyle to come down to the country so early? The Season is not yet over.’
‘I have absolutely no idea,’ Antonia said thoughtfully as the girls made their way back to Catherine’s curricle. ‘All I know is that he has chosen an exceedingly awkward time to make his obligatory visit to Ashdean—as if things were not awkward enough before!’
Chapter Three
At precisely fifteen minutes before the hour of two o’clock on Monday afternoon, suitably attired in her most formal habit of dark blue Georgian cloth—and with her stomach tied up in knots—Antonia waited for the stable boy to saddle her dapple grey mare in preparation for the ride over to Ashdean. She had been in a positive fidget all morning. Ever since meeting the Earl of Carlyle in town, Antonia had suffered agonies of uncertainty, wondering what she should do if the Earl chanced to be present for the upcoming interview.
She had toyed with the idea of saying that a friend had written the letter in jest, and that upon discovering the ruse she had felt honour bound to make her presence known to Mr Bingham, and to explain the situation as best she could. Alternately, she had thought to say that she had written the letter on a dare, never for one moment expecting that she would receive a reply, and that she had come to apologise for her imprudent behaviour.
Finally, Antonia decided that the best approach was simply to wait and to see what happened. After all, what was the point in fretting? If the Earl did not appear, then all of her worrying would have been for nought. And if he did…?
Well, as Catherine had said, she would just have to take her chances when the time came. And so, gathering her skirts in one hand, and her whip in the other, Antonia prepared to mount—and to boldly meet whatever Fate held in store for her.
The stables at Ashdean were located well behind the main body of the house. They were accessible only by the road which ran alongside it, or by a path which meandered through the heavily wooded area to the south of it. It was a path which had been cut there years ago, no doubt by neighbouring children who had travelled back and forth between the houses in an effort not to be seen by their elders.
It was this very path which Antonia chose that day, preferring to avoid the main part of the house altogether. She had travelled it many times, and had often found solace in the lush greenery, and its abundance of wild flowers and rich, verdant grass.
Coming to the end of the path, Antonia broke cover about a hundred and fifty feet behind the paddock area, and then quickly headed her mare in the direction of a large clump of trees about forty feet to the left of it. There, her presence concealed by the overhanging branches, Antonia turned her attention to the grassy paddock where Lady Clara was already seated atop her sturdy little Welsh Pony, Teddy, and walking him around the ring. A man was standing in the centre of the paddock. Mr Bingham, Lord Carlyle’s steward, leaned against the fence, quietly watching the performance.
The Earl of Carlyle, Antonia noticed with relief, was nowhere in sight.
The man in the centre of the ring was tall and thin, and reasonably well dressed, Antonia noted. He called out a series of instructions to the little girl as she circled, and for the most part, seemed quite competent in the way he conducted himself. But there was something in the tone of his voice that Antonia could not bring herself to like—a feeling evidently shared by Lady Clara. Even at this distance, Antonia could sense the tension in the little girl’s body. Her arms and legs were as stiff as pokers. So much so that, if she were to tumble from the pony’s back now, Antonia knew that she would hurt herself.
The gentleman also seemed to be having trouble getting Clara to do what he wanted. Antonia was not able to hear exactly what he was saying, but it was clear from the inflection in his voice that he was not pleased. And when he suddenly raised his voice and shouted at her, Clara screwed up her face and burst into tears.
‘Right, thank you, Mr Huddlesworth, that will be all,’ Mr Bingham said abruptly. His mouth was tight as he vaulted over the low fence and made his way to the little girl’s side. ‘There, there, Lady Clara, there’s no need to cry.’ He pulled a large white handkerchief from his pocket and gently dried the child’s tears. ‘You don’t have to ride any more.’ Stuffing the handkerchief back in his pocket, he gently lifted Clara out of the saddle. ‘Why don’t you go and play with Bartholomew while I have a word with Mr Huddlesworth?’
In spite of the tears rolling down her cheeks, the child’s huge blue eyes suddenly brightened, and without a word, she ran off to find her puppy, obviously content to leave the irascible pony where he was.
Antonia did not need to hear what the steward was saying to know that he was not pleased with the gentleman’s performance. It was apparent from Mr Huddlesworth’s posture that he was not being complimented. Nor should he have been, Antonia reflected dimly. The man obviously knew nothing about the instruction of young children. His methods might have worked on older girls, or on boys who were easier to bully, but it certainly wasn’t the technique to use on a six-year-old girl who was just getting started.
Fortunately, it seemed that the steward was of the same opinion. After a few minutes more, Mr Huddlesworth turned and left the paddock, his drooping shoulders indicative of his lack of success.
Now, it was her turn.
Taking a deep breath, Antonia gathered the reins in her gloved hands. After casting her eyes about one last time for a glimpse of Lord Carlyle, she lightly flicked the crop against the mare’s withers and urged her forward. Once clear of the trees, she pushed Foxfire into an easy canter and made directly for the man who was still standing at the edge of the paddock.
The steward, having turned at the sound of a horse approaching and assuming it to be Mr Davlin, stopped short at the sight of a lovely young woman riding towards him. When he saw who it was, he smiled and respectfully tipped his cap. ‘Afternoon, Miss Hadley. Can I help you?’
‘I certainly hope so, Mr Bingham. I—’
‘Toni!’
The childlike cry of delight rang out before Antonia had a chance to say more, and it caused Mr Bingham to turn around in confusion. ‘Tony?’
‘Toni’s here, Paddy!’ Lady Clara cried. She flew down the field towards them with the spaniel yipping noisily at her heels. ‘Toni’s here.’ She came to an abrupt halt next to the steward and then stood gazing up at the lady on the dapple grey mare with an expression of adoration. ‘Toni!’
Mr Bingham’s expression was considerably more guarded. ‘Tony?’
‘It’s…Antonia, actually,’ Antonia stammered, colouring a little. ‘And the reason I have come is to see you about the position of…riding master to Lady Clara.’
The steward’s eyes narrowed fractionally. ‘There must be some mistake, miss. I was expecting a Mr Tony Davlin.’
Knowing it was too late to back out now, Antonia offered him a tentative smile. ‘Yes, I know. But as strange as this may sound, Mr Bingham, I am…Tony Davlin.’
It was quite clear
