the long winding drive that led
to Idyllwild Cottage, Georgiana craned her neck to see the sights.
“You’ll be able to see Idyllwild once we clear the woods,”
he told her with a chuckle.
“Idyllwild. Quite a lovely name, rather poetic. An idyll in
the woods,” she murmured, her voice nearly drowned out by the noise of the
carriage wheels. “Lady Easton was raised here?”
He was only mildly surprised she knew the particulars of
Beatrice’s early life. Georgiana likely knew quite a bit about his family.
She’d followed him about London for months, no doubt watching him interact with
his sisters, cousins, aunts and uncles, and learning much in the process.
“When you told Mrs. Cooper you’d known my mother, did you
speak true?”
“I like to think I always speak the truth,” she answered readily
before wrinkling her misshapen nose in an adorable fashion. “No, that isn’t
strictly true. I ought to have said that I speak the truth when I am able, but
I am not above stretching, sidestepping, or fleeing from it altogether when
needs be. Most often when I want to avoid a ruckus, you understand.”
“Yes, I suppose I do.” Henry had been avoiding ruckuses for
as long as he could remember.
They entered the shady woods and what little sunlight had
managed break through the clouds disappeared altogether. Birds still chirped in
the trees and crickets were warming up for the evening performance, but the
dusty drive was barely visible ahead of them.
“I’ll take the lead,” he said, reaching over to squeeze her
fingers resting on the edge of the carriage window. “It’s a bit of a winding
lane and perhaps not in the best shape. Mrs. Morgan and the Jenkins have been
away for some months and I doubt my man Porter has had time to fill in any
ruts.”
Setting actions to words, he nudged his mount into a canter
and quickly overtook the lumbering carriage. Soon they would pass from the
woods into open fields of wheat and barley blowing in the breeze. And beyond,
rolling green hills and valleys dotted with wildflowers.
But when he cleared the forest, he saw only fields of dry golden
grain waving listlessly in the wind. The clouds had taken on a green shimmer
and the sun no longer struggled to make an appearance.
Looking back he found Georgiana hanging out of the window,
her head swiveling about as she too took in the wilting crops and swirls of dry
dirt rising in the air and spinning like miniature cyclones.
Henry urged his horse into a gallop, taking the small knoll
at a fast clip, eager to see the meadows and the house, to assure himself that
all was well after the evidence of the damage wrought by months of drought.
What he saw when he reached the top of the rise was rolling
hills of sparse yellow grass and valleys without the colorful flowers that
typically bloomed all spring and summer. A fallow field lay to the right, one that
ought to have been planted with oats.
Idyllwild Cottage sat atop another smaller rise, gray stones
nearly hidden by trailing ivy that was a mottled mix of pale green and yellow.
The rosebushes surrounding the front of the three story house were barren of
blooms, their thorny branches wilted until they appeared as gnarled fingers
pointing to the ground.
A cloud of dust gathered and swirled into the air, rising
until it hid the front door before scuttling off to race across the dry brown
lawn.
The air had taken on the loamy smell of coming rain
underlain with a slightly smoky odor, as if the crops and grass were slowly
smoldering.
Swinging his horse about, he watched Georgiana’s carriage
crawl up the hill, the mismatched horses bent to the task, their hooves
fighting for traction on the dirt lane.
“The beasties will make it,” Silas called out from his perch
on the bench.
“This measly hillock is nothing,” Brain added with a jaunty
salute.
Knowing he could do nothing to aid their ascent, Henry
merely watched and waited until the antiquated conveyance crested the knoll.
to Idyllwild Cottage, Georgiana craned her neck to see the sights.
“You’ll be able to see Idyllwild once we clear the woods,”
he told her with a chuckle.
“Idyllwild. Quite a lovely name, rather poetic. An idyll in
the woods,” she murmured, her voice nearly drowned out by the noise of the
carriage wheels. “Lady Easton was raised here?”
He was only mildly surprised she knew the particulars of
Beatrice’s early life. Georgiana likely knew quite a bit about his family.
She’d followed him about London for months, no doubt watching him interact with
his sisters, cousins, aunts and uncles, and learning much in the process.
“When you told Mrs. Cooper you’d known my mother, did you
speak true?”
“I like to think I always speak the truth,” she answered readily
before wrinkling her misshapen nose in an adorable fashion. “No, that isn’t
strictly true. I ought to have said that I speak the truth when I am able, but
I am not above stretching, sidestepping, or fleeing from it altogether when
needs be. Most often when I want to avoid a ruckus, you understand.”
“Yes, I suppose I do.” Henry had been avoiding ruckuses for
as long as he could remember.
They entered the shady woods and what little sunlight had
managed break through the clouds disappeared altogether. Birds still chirped in
the trees and crickets were warming up for the evening performance, but the
dusty drive was barely visible ahead of them.
“I’ll take the lead,” he said, reaching over to squeeze her
fingers resting on the edge of the carriage window. “It’s a bit of a winding
lane and perhaps not in the best shape. Mrs. Morgan and the Jenkins have been
away for some months and I doubt my man Porter has had time to fill in any
ruts.”
Setting actions to words, he nudged his mount into a canter
and quickly overtook the lumbering carriage. Soon they would pass from the
woods into open fields of wheat and barley blowing in the breeze. And beyond,
rolling green hills and valleys dotted with wildflowers.
But when he cleared the forest, he saw only fields of dry golden
grain waving listlessly in the wind. The clouds had taken on a green shimmer
and the sun no longer struggled to make an appearance.
Looking back he found Georgiana hanging out of the window,
her head swiveling about as she too took in the wilting crops and swirls of dry
dirt rising in the air and spinning like miniature cyclones.
Henry urged his horse into a gallop, taking the small knoll
at a fast clip, eager to see the meadows and the house, to assure himself that
all was well after the evidence of the damage wrought by months of drought.
What he saw when he reached the top of the rise was rolling
hills of sparse yellow grass and valleys without the colorful flowers that
typically bloomed all spring and summer. A fallow field lay to the right, one that
ought to have been planted with oats.
Idyllwild Cottage sat atop another smaller rise, gray stones
nearly hidden by trailing ivy that was a mottled mix of pale green and yellow.
The rosebushes surrounding the front of the three story house were barren of
blooms, their thorny branches wilted until they appeared as gnarled fingers
pointing to the ground.
A cloud of dust gathered and swirled into the air, rising
until it hid the front door before scuttling off to race across the dry brown
lawn.
The air had taken on the loamy smell of coming rain
underlain with a slightly smoky odor, as if the crops and grass were slowly
smoldering.
Swinging his horse about, he watched Georgiana’s carriage
crawl up the hill, the mismatched horses bent to the task, their hooves
fighting for traction on the dirt lane.
“The beasties will make it,” Silas called out from his perch
on the bench.
“This measly hillock is nothing,” Brain added with a jaunty
salute.
Knowing he could do nothing to aid their ascent, Henry
merely watched and waited until the antiquated conveyance crested the knoll.
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