full of unrest and potential victims. Unrefreshed, he hurried Chloe and the turnip seller’s liberated nag homeward.
Chapter 6
“W HERE’S D ANTE ?” Chloe slipped from her pony in the courtyard and looked around, frowning. The dog’s absence was conspicuous. It was inconceivable that he wouldn’t have come rushing to greet her.
Hugo dismounted and yelled for Billy. The lad appeared from the direction of the kennels, swinging an empty pail. He set the pail down and came toward them, rather less lethargically than usual.
“I was feedin’ the dogs, sir.” He tugged a forelock and then stared in unabashed disgust at the turnip seller’s nag. “What’s that?”
“You may well ask,” Hugo said. “Where’s Miss Gresham’s dog?”
Billy scratched his head. “Well, I don’t rightly know.” He gestured to the pump. “I ’ad ’im fastened over yonder. But ’e up an’ went when I went for me dinner.”
“Did he break the rope?”
Billy shook his head. “Don’t look like it, sir. Rope looks like it’s gone an’ untied itself.”
“Don’t be ridiculous!” Chloe stalked across to the pump. The rope was not frayed or broken. “You must have tied him insecurely.”
“He’ll be back, lass,” Hugo said, seeing her expression. “How long’s he been gone, Billy?”
“ ’Bout an hour, I reckon, sir.”
“He’s chasing rabbits in the wood, I’ll lay odds,” Hugo reassured her. “He’ll be back covered in mud and starving as soon as it gets dark.”
Chloe frowned unhappily. Til look for him when I’ve seen to Rosinante.”
“You’ve christened that sorry beast Rosinante?” Hugo gave a shout of laughter. “You absurd creature.”
“Rosinante was a fairly sorry animal,” Chloe retorted. “Anyway, I’ve always liked the name. And hell grow into it, won’t you?” She scratched between the ears of the nag’s hanging head. “Billy, I want you to make up a bran mash. I’m going to do something about his cuts.”
Hugo turned toward the house, inquiring with a degree of curiosity, “By the by, what name does the parrot rejoice in?”
“Falstaff,” she said promptly. “I’m sure he’s had a thoroughly dissolute life.”
Chuckling, Hugo went inside.
Chloe bathed Rosinante’s wounds, fed him warm bran mash, and installed him in a stable with a lavish supply of hay.
“I’m going to look for Dante,” she said, entering the kitchen. “It’s getting dark.”
Hugo, gratefully ensconced before a bottle of burgundy, squashed the uncomfortable conviction that he ought to abandon his wine and accompany her himself.
“Take Billy with you, since it’s largely his responsibility.”
“What if I don’t find him?” Her eyes were purple.
“I’ll go out with you after dinner,” he promised. “But be back here in half an hour.”
Chloe returned punctually but empty-handed and sat miserably at the table, picking at the laden plate Samuel put in front of her.
“Summat wrong wi’ it?” he demanded roughly.
She shook her head. “No, I’m sorry … I’m not hungry.”
“That’s a first,” Samuel remarked to no one in particular.
“Have some wine.” Hugo filled her glass. “And eat your dinner. You only think you’re not hungry.”
Chloe chewed a mouthful of chicken. It tasted like sawdust. She drank her wine with rather more enthusiasm and by the second glass was beginning to feel more cheerful. Dante was a young, healthy dog who hadn’t had too many opportunities to roam the countryside, chasing up scents.
“Wretched animal!” she exclaimed crossly, and attacked her dinner. There was no point going hungry because the exasperating creature was doing what dogs, given half a chance, did.
“That’s better,” Hugo approved. “What are you going to do with him when he does decide to return?”
“Nothing,” Chloe said. “What could I do? He doesn’t know he’s doing anything wrong … in fact, he’s not. He’s just being a dog.”
But the
Chapter 6
“W HERE’S D ANTE ?” Chloe slipped from her pony in the courtyard and looked around, frowning. The dog’s absence was conspicuous. It was inconceivable that he wouldn’t have come rushing to greet her.
Hugo dismounted and yelled for Billy. The lad appeared from the direction of the kennels, swinging an empty pail. He set the pail down and came toward them, rather less lethargically than usual.
“I was feedin’ the dogs, sir.” He tugged a forelock and then stared in unabashed disgust at the turnip seller’s nag. “What’s that?”
“You may well ask,” Hugo said. “Where’s Miss Gresham’s dog?”
Billy scratched his head. “Well, I don’t rightly know.” He gestured to the pump. “I ’ad ’im fastened over yonder. But ’e up an’ went when I went for me dinner.”
“Did he break the rope?”
Billy shook his head. “Don’t look like it, sir. Rope looks like it’s gone an’ untied itself.”
“Don’t be ridiculous!” Chloe stalked across to the pump. The rope was not frayed or broken. “You must have tied him insecurely.”
“He’ll be back, lass,” Hugo said, seeing her expression. “How long’s he been gone, Billy?”
“ ’Bout an hour, I reckon, sir.”
“He’s chasing rabbits in the wood, I’ll lay odds,” Hugo reassured her. “He’ll be back covered in mud and starving as soon as it gets dark.”
Chloe frowned unhappily. Til look for him when I’ve seen to Rosinante.”
“You’ve christened that sorry beast Rosinante?” Hugo gave a shout of laughter. “You absurd creature.”
“Rosinante was a fairly sorry animal,” Chloe retorted. “Anyway, I’ve always liked the name. And hell grow into it, won’t you?” She scratched between the ears of the nag’s hanging head. “Billy, I want you to make up a bran mash. I’m going to do something about his cuts.”
Hugo turned toward the house, inquiring with a degree of curiosity, “By the by, what name does the parrot rejoice in?”
“Falstaff,” she said promptly. “I’m sure he’s had a thoroughly dissolute life.”
Chuckling, Hugo went inside.
Chloe bathed Rosinante’s wounds, fed him warm bran mash, and installed him in a stable with a lavish supply of hay.
“I’m going to look for Dante,” she said, entering the kitchen. “It’s getting dark.”
Hugo, gratefully ensconced before a bottle of burgundy, squashed the uncomfortable conviction that he ought to abandon his wine and accompany her himself.
“Take Billy with you, since it’s largely his responsibility.”
“What if I don’t find him?” Her eyes were purple.
“I’ll go out with you after dinner,” he promised. “But be back here in half an hour.”
Chloe returned punctually but empty-handed and sat miserably at the table, picking at the laden plate Samuel put in front of her.
“Summat wrong wi’ it?” he demanded roughly.
She shook her head. “No, I’m sorry … I’m not hungry.”
“That’s a first,” Samuel remarked to no one in particular.
“Have some wine.” Hugo filled her glass. “And eat your dinner. You only think you’re not hungry.”
Chloe chewed a mouthful of chicken. It tasted like sawdust. She drank her wine with rather more enthusiasm and by the second glass was beginning to feel more cheerful. Dante was a young, healthy dog who hadn’t had too many opportunities to roam the countryside, chasing up scents.
“Wretched animal!” she exclaimed crossly, and attacked her dinner. There was no point going hungry because the exasperating creature was doing what dogs, given half a chance, did.
“That’s better,” Hugo approved. “What are you going to do with him when he does decide to return?”
“Nothing,” Chloe said. “What could I do? He doesn’t know he’s doing anything wrong … in fact, he’s not. He’s just being a dog.”
But the
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