The Road to Quivera

Chapter Two: A Traveler from a New Land

             On the whole, Jane Goodacre reflected, the morning of her first day as personal maid to Lady Isobel, it was much more interesting – if a little more onerous – than her duties in the sewing room. Havers was torn between scorn, impatience and relief at having to hand over that portion of her duties as regards Lady Isobel to – as she said it, ‘a slip of a girl, with not even a year in service, and what were things coming to, then?’ She had said that over supper in Mrs. Kittredge’s parlor last night, whereupon Iris, the senior still-room maid had replied, ‘well, Miss Havers, and haven’t you been complaining all year about having to look after both of their Ladyships? Strikes me your complaint now is having to address Jane as Miss Goodacre!” whereupon Mr. Spencer, the butler had frowned magisterially upon them all and intoned, “Mrs. Kittredge and the Family have approved of Miss Goodacre, and Lady Isobel specifically requested her service. In my opinion, we should congratulate Miss Goodacre on her unexpected advancement. Her time in service at the Hall may have been brief, but such an honor bestowed upon her provides ample proof that she has not wasted a moment of those days and hours.”

            “Yes, Mr. Spencer,” Jane had been emboldened to speak above a whisper. It had always been her mind since coming to the Hall that Mr. Spencer seemed really much more lordly, more intimidating than did his Lordship. More dignified, anyway; Sir Robert’s cravat was always untied, and the neck of his shirt unbuttoned, and the knees of his trousers in a disgraceful state, from mud and dog-hair, and he certainly didn’t bother with putting on airs, whereas Mr. Spencer was always impeccably turned out, eternally dignified, and never hesitated to remind all concerned of the required protocol. Now that she thought on it, Sir Robert minded her very much of jolly old Mr. Satterfield, who kept the pub in Upton; always interested in anyone’s concern, and more than happy to take off his coat and help out. She stifled a giggle, as she carefully pinned up Lady Isobel’s heavy braid of hair into a knot, high on the back of her head. Lady Isobel met her mirrored eyes, and asked,

            “Did you just think of something amusing, Jane?”

            “I did,” Jane answered, and daringly, enlarged on that answer. “It came to me, ma’am, that Sir Robert reminds me very much of Mr. Satterfield at the Shepherd’s Rest. Not so much in the looks … but the manner.”

            “Oh, my!” Isobel giggled, “I had never thought of that – but you are right. How very perceptive, Jane – and I had never seen it! Fa is very like Mine Host at the Shepherd’s Rest. And do you know…” she met Jane’s eyes in the mirror again, “My brother Martyn told me once, there was an awful scandal, years and years ago, when Fa’s grandfather was a young man, he fell in love with the daughter of Mr. Satterfield’s ever-so-many-great-grandfather. The scandal is that … well, Mr. Satterfield might yet be a sort of cousin to us, anyway.”

            “Indeed?” Jane answered, and thoughtfully inserted another hair pin. Well, nothing new under the sun, she said to herself, and regarded her handiwork with approval: Lady Isobel in her trimly-cut riding habit – a plain black skirt and jacket, over a white shirtwaist and stock, and so much more flattering to her than her every-day dresses. Or perhaps it was because Lady Isobel preferred going out to the fields on horseback, and so she radiated happiness today, rather than the misery of yesterday, bidden to tea in the Yellow Drawing Room, and sick with nerves and apprehension.

            Lady Caroline does not care very much for her younger daughter, Jane realized, and wondered where that sudden perception had come from. It seemed almost … heretical, but the more that Jane considered it, as she brought out Lady Isobel’s hat – a man-style top-hat wound around with a long veil – the more it seemed to fit. Her Ladyship does not favor my ladyship. She cares not, nor does she think anything amiss when my ladyship runs upstairs, sicking up her very guts. She never came upstairs to see what was the matter, only Sir Robert did. Her mother cares nothing for her! Oh, poor Lady Isobel! And upon that realization, Jane was won over, heart and soul, to be Lady Isobel’s lowly but fierce champion, her squire and protector. For Lady Isobel was a good lady, a considerate and soft-spoken mistress. It had not escaped Jane that all in the servant’s hall spoke of her with affection in the same degree; she and Sir Robert alike. And Lady Isobel was kind, and fair, and asked humbly for Jane to do things for her, as if she were friend or sister. In response, Jane had begun to feel as if Lady Isobel was – aside from the human consideration – a much-treasured doll, or small sibling, whom it was Jane’s duty and pleasure to dress and groom to best effect. And her clothes and things – they were all so fine! It was pure joy for Jane to have the responsibility for Lady Isobel’s wardrobe, to be able to set in proper order those lovely dresses, the petticoats trimmed with deep lace flounces, the undergarments of lawn and linen, so finely woven they felt like cobwebs, to select for Lady Isobel what she would wear for every occasion, to lay out the dress and all the other garments – the mantle and her hat, the shoes and stockings – all the fashionable accoutrements suitable for a high-borne young lady, neatly arrayed and close at hand.

            Now, she settled the riding hat on Lady Isobel’s head – her hair smooth and gleaming like pale-brown silk from Jane’s ministrations with the hairbrush – and arranged her veil over it, tying it carefully so that it would remain secure, and their eyes met again in the mirror. Lady Isobel sighed, a happy and contented sigh, just as the tiny mantle-clock chimed,

            “Thank you Jane – such a pleasure, after Havers’ grumping at me under her breath. Oh my – I must fly. Fa and my brothers will be waiting for me. If you have any power on earth, Jane – you must contrive somehow to keep me from being late, always.”

            “I shall try my best, Lady Isobel,” Jane answered, as Lady Isobel sprang up from the dressing-table bench, looping the sideways-train of her riding habit over one arm and taking up the slender riding-crop in her other hand. “The best of good luck this day, my lady.”

            “Thank you, Jane!” Lady Isobel flashed a smile over her shoulder as she hurried away. When the door closed behind her, Jane gathered up the clothing that Lady Isobel had shed – her morning dress and assembled petticoats – and sorted out what would need laundering and mending. When she went down the back stairs to the laundry, with a bundle of clothing to be washed in her arms, she paused at the landing, where a tall window gave light onto the flight. The window looked out onto the stable-yard, and there she caught a glimpse of Sir Robert, in his red hunt-coat, with his two sons and Lady Isobel clattering out of the cobbled yard, leaving only quiet behind them.

            “Well, today should be a better day than yesterday, for herself!” Jane said to herself, and hitched up the bundle of laundry.

            Isobel reveled in everything about this day day, the cold-washed pale blue sky arching overhead, the clean smell of outdoors, the chill breeze washing against her cheeks, and the feel of Thistle’s disciplined strength under her. True to his name, he floated over a shallow trench and a low hedge between two fields, winter-ploughed and brown. What a wonderful beast – she reined him in as she caught up to her father, about midday – as powerful as a steam locomotive, and as gentle as a kitten, perfectly mannered … Why, thought Isobel, can’t more people be as honest and straightforward as dogs or horses?  She gathered the reins into one hand, and patted Thistle’s dapple-grey neck with the other. He tossed his head, and looked back at her, blowing out a faintly misty breath, and jingling his bridle impatiently as Luath – one of Fa’s three wolfhounds walked under his nose. The wolfhounds were as silent as the hounds were noisy, three huge dogs – and Luath, the largest the size of a small pony. At the edge of a leafless copse of trees lifting bare and shapely branches to the sky, the rabble of hounds went coursing back and forth,

            “What a pity,” Fa said at last, “Lost him – the Master say’s we’ll try on the other side of Upton. Is it too early yet for a spot of cider, do you think?”

            “Yes – and especially if you wish to keep from breaking your neck,” Isobel replied, and Fa laughed, uproariously.

            “Very well then, Pet,” he said, as the whole concourse of hounds and riders crossed back across the field they had come across, flowing like water through an opened gate into a narrow road leading towards the village. Tall bare hedges lined each side of that road; in the deep shade, where the day’s sunshine had not yet fallen, a crust of ice lined each muddy puddle. Isobel took in a breath of the air, fresh but with the tang of dead and damp grass, freshly trampled. What a lovely morning, she thought – out in the open air. Why did she feel so at home here, on the back of a horse – more than in her mother’s drawing-room? She and the other hunt members followed after the piebald rabble of hounds, the master of hounds and his assistants with their long whips containing them in a compact mass of wriggling backs and tails and ears, until the lane opened up into a cobbled street, and then another, with the patchwork common in front of them, with Upton’s tiny grey stone church punctuating the blue sky with it’s cross-crowned tower. Thistle shouldered next to Martyn’s rangy brown hunter, and her brother looked across at her and laughed,

            “A wonderful morning, Izzy – believe me, I shall be remembering this, next year, after I return to India. You should, likewise – for I vow that you will be married and have a roof of your own ere twelve months have passed!”

            “Not a roof in India!” Isobel answered, determinedly, “Full of rats and snakes! And I will not go to India. I shall beg Fa – I do not want to go, Martyn! Can you picture me, being bound hand and foot and being carried on board ship?”

            “The Mater would do that, for your own particular good!” Martyn laughed, and then his face sobered, “But you must be married, Izzy – otherwise, what is there for you? Be a governess, or a maiden aunt-companion, waiting on Ma-Ma, as she grows ever older and more demanding?”

            “Oh, horrors!” Isobel actually shuddered, as she contemplated that prospect. “But I am at her beck and call anyway, Martyn – what would I have to loose?”

            “A saddle on a fine horse, and riding out of a winter morning with the Hunt!” Martyn answered, and then his gaze sharpened as he looked across towards the stonework and iron enclosure around the churchyard. “Who is the stranger that Fa is talking to? Luath has him cornered against the railings, but he doesn’t look the least put-out about it!”

            “Anyone with any sense would know there is nothing to fear from Luath,” Isobel answered, and followed her brother’s eyes across the cobbled street, to where a dog-cart with a pony in harness stood, tied to the railings. A tall young man, with hair as fair as ripe wheat stood close by, with one hand absently fondling Luath’s great shaggy head, as he talked earnestly to Fa. The other two wolfhounds shouldered in for a caress, and yet the young man seemed only to pay absent attention to them. He was talking to Fa - and Fa responding to him with great interest.

            “Dressed like a navvy,” Martyn remarked, “Or a student – looks German, anyway. Some kind of foreigner, I expect. Not a gentleman, anyway.”

            At that same moment, the Master blew his horn, and it was time to be away, after a pause in the street before the ancient stonework front of the Traveler’s Rest, with the half-timber upper storey leaning out above the street below.

            “’Straordinary,” remarked Fa, as he joined them, straggling out of Upton, at the back of the hounds, and the other Hunt members. “Quite extraordinary – Luath and the fellows adored him, the beggars. But they say that dogs can always tell, what?”

            “Who was that chap?” Martyn asked, and Fa answered, cheerily,

            “An American, of all things. Interesting sort of chap – owns property in Texas. He and his uncle are here, searching for good blood-stock. Horses and cattle both, but he seemed quite taken with Luath and the lads. I’ve invited him to come and see the puppies, this afternoon. What a sight, eh? When your mother looks at him, over the teacups? Now that would make a cat laugh, wouldn’t it?” And Sir Robert chuckled, while Martyn and Isobel exchanged glances.

            “Well, Fa – it’ll be your funeral, if the Mater sets an eye on him, looking like that,” Martyn said, “He looks like a tramp, fresh from spending a night under the nearest hedge. Don’t they have decent tailors in America?”

            “I imagine so,” Fa answered, still chucking, “But perhaps not where he spends his time.”

            “Not even a gentleman,” Martyn looked over his shoulder at the tall, fair-haired American, then faced front, dismissively. “I’d be laughed out of the Mess, if I brought in a fellow like that as a guest!”

            “He seemed a decent enough sort,” Fa said, once again.

            Once out in the fields again, by mid-afternoon the hounds had picked up a fresh scent, setting up an excited chorus.

            “That’s more like it!” shouted Martin, “And there old Reynard goes! Look at him run – now here’s sport for a day!” A flash of rusty red through the trees at the bottom of the hill, and the voices of the hounds reached a new peak. The pack spilled into the grove, and the horsemen followed after – spread out across the field like a flock of crows across the sky, but animated by the same instinct, the same excitement of pursuit.

            Fa and Martyn plunged over the hedge at the bottom without a hesitation, and Isobel followed after; Thistle tucking up his feet and landing as neatly as a bird on the far side. Isobel had a moment of cold apprehension as Thistle sailed up and over – “too high!” she thought, the shock of landing on the other side jolted her spine, and then it was the cool wind rushing past her face and the winter-burnt pasture flashing under Thistle’s thudding hoofs. Oh, he was a gentle-gaited beast, his gallop as smooth as silk, carrying her along on an endless ocean wave, the two of them – girl and horse – moving as one creature melded together. Faster, Isobel urged him silently, with her hands and knees, faster, they’re so far ahead of us … and to her fierce joy, Thistle’s stride lengthened again … almost caught up to Fa and the others, spilling over a second hedge. Some of the bright-coated huntsmen and several ladies were coursing along the hedge-line, looking for a low place in it. There was a gate, also – but too far away. Thistle could make it easily, Isobel knew – it was not as high as the first one, Thistle was the grandest hunter of all in the field, he trusted her implicitly and she trusted him… there he was, adjusting his stride, just a little as he approached the hedge-line, so as to reach it with speed undiminished and his hoofs at the optimal place to begin that wonderful soaring….

She felt her mount gathering all that mighty strength together, beginning that spring up and up, as powerful as a bird in the first few moments of flight. Thistle launched himself up and over the hedge – and at the instant, Isobel realized with horror that there was a newly-dug ditch on the far side of the hedge. It was filled with water – and Thistle would land short, land heavily in the mud. He came down with a jolt, up to his pasterns in the ditch, falling with his chest smashing heavily against the bank, a shock so abrupt that Isobel cried out, feeling poor Thistle’s agony, even as the arrested momentum of his leap sent her flying forward, over his shoulder. In one tiny moment of awareness of danger to herself, she slipped her foot from the stirrup, as she felt her left leg dragged painfully over the leaping horn of her side-saddle. And then it was a blur and a rush, of Thistle’s neck and the brown water, the muddy bank, and the ground beneath seeming to slam into her body with a violence that expelled all the air from her lungs. She lay stunned on the ground for an endless minute, two minutes, her face half-buried in a patch of mud and straw-stubble, trying to catch her breath.

            She hurt in every bone, in her face, shoulder, and her knee. Painfully, she lifted herself off the ground, half-rolling until she sat, her skirts a-sprawl around her, taking inventory of her bruises and hurts. Her hat lay on the ground a little away, the veil torn and draggling in the dirt. She spat more dirt out of her mouth, and raised a shaking hand to her head, feeling her hair loosened from all the pins that Jane had so carefully set in place that morning, and raw scrapes across her cheek, wet with something that wasn’t mud. Thistle lurched and staggered, as he heaved himself up and out of the ditch, standing on level ground with head down, and reins trailing. He was favoring his left front leg, and it seemed to Isobel that he looked on her reproachfully, with the white showing around his eyes, with an expression of pain and bewilderment in them. Her heart was wrung – Poor Thistle! It was her fault. He trusted her, and she made a bad decision, which might yet be the death of him.

            “Lady Isobel! Be ye all right!” cried a voice, a male voice over her head. Painfully, she turned her head – yes, Somers, one of the junior grooms. Somers had come along the safe way, well behind the Hunt, riding a replacement mount - a leggy beast that went by the stable-name of William the Conqueror. He swung hastily down from the saddle, and assisted her to stand with the clumsy courtesy of a boy hardly grown.

            “I am,” she gasped, “Thank you, Somers … but poor Thistle!”

            “He don’t look fit, M’lady,” Somers answered, his concern seemingly divided between herself and her horse. “Poor lad - that was a wicked bad tumble…” Isobel shook off Somers’s hand on her arm, and staggered the few steps towards her mount. She stood, supporting herself with an arm over his withers, taking the loose reins in one hand,   seeing now that he stood with one hoof tipped up, barely touching the ground, as if he could not bear to put weight on it. Isobel momentarily buried her face against his neck – warm and damp with sweat and ditch-water.

            “M’lady,” Somers cleared his throat. “Would you wish to rejoin the Hunt? It will not take a moment, to put your saddle on Willie. You might catch up in a trice, while I take Thistle back to the Hall. It will be slow going, but I do not think he is so badly hurt as all that.”

            Isobel looked in the direction in which the Hunt had vanished, a few red coats visible over the next hill-crest, and the sounds of horns and hounds faintly lingering on the air. Thistle laid his nose on her shoulder, as if he wished to lean on her – and she reached up, absently stroking that velvet-soft muzzle.

            “No, Somers – thank you. I will walk Thistle back to the Hall. It is but a short way, and he is my own. Father and my brothers will need a replacement shortly … and now that Thistle is injured; I am out of all interest in hunting today.”

            “Very well, M’lady,” Somers answered, reluctantly and swung up into the saddle again. William trotted obediently away, although Somers looked over his shoulder now and again, as Isobel fondled Thistle’s nose and whispered encouragement to him.

            “Come on then, dear handsome lad…” she urged, as he took one reluctant and quivering step, and then another – and he followed as obedient to her command as he always had, although with evident pain. With soft words and encouragement, Isobel led him around by back ways and overgrown lanes, mapping in her head the shortest and easiest way, sternly forbidding her own aches and bruises to have mastery over her. She would doubtless recover from them in a fortnight or so – but Thistle! Damage to his legs was a death-sentence for a hunter. He would be dispatched and his body cut up in collops to be fed to the hounds; all that fire and obedience and trust in her to be made into the dogs’ meat. I can’t have that, Isobel thought – he was my present from Fa, my freedom from Mama. And he trusted me. I can’t endure the thought that my carelessness condemned him. No. Mr. Arkwright will know what to do. He’s a genius when it comes to caring for horses. Fa always said so. If I can just get Thistle back to the stables, Arkwright will know what to do. I will beg him to take every care – and of course, Arkwright will do it for me – it was him who taught us all to ride. He will know what to do, once I get Thistle home.

            It was with considerable relief that she came to the back of the Hall, leading her limping horse by the reins, and limping no little herself: her head ached, and her poor bruised knee – only to find no Mr. Arkwright – kindly and competent and comforting. With a little part of her attention, Isobel thought that someone was coming around on the gravel drive from the front of the Hall – would that it would be Mr. Arkwright!

            “He’s gone with the extra horses,” Young Andrews the stable-lad answered. “I’m that sorry M’lady. I’ll do what I can, o’course – but it’ll be only what I can do to make Thistle comfortable, until Mr. Arkwright and them return…I don’t know rightly what Mr. Arkwright will want to do, Miss Isobel.”

            At their backs, someone cleared their throat, cautiously, as if they wanted to give fair warning of their presence. Isobel and young Andrews turned around.   A modest dog-cart with a small pony in the shafts stood in the stable-yard, with a tall, faired young man at the reins. After a moment, Isobel recognized him – the man whom Fa had talked to, in Upton that morning.

            “I was invited to come and look at the puppies,” he ventured, diffidently. He was looking directly at Isobel, a calm and mildly sympathetic way. He had light blue eyes, the color of a clear summer sky, and Isobel suddenly realized what an absolute fright she must look. She pushed back at the hair hanging loose over her shoulders.

            “Oh dear – the American gentleman. I saw you with Fa this morning. I’m afraid they’re still out – they picked up a good scent and it was view-halloo and away.” Why was she babbling like this – he would think her a perfect idiot! “Fa and the others will be almost to Harwell by now.”

            “I’m Rudolph Becker,” the American gentleman answered. He had a nice voice, light but resolute. “But everyone calls me Dolph. What happened to you that you’re not almost to Harwell, Miss?”

            “Isobel,” she sniffed, suddenly afraid that she would break out into tears. “Isobel Lindsay-Groves. Actually, it’s Lady Isobel, but I don’t care much for that. A ditch happened to me, a ditch on the far side of a hedge and poor Thistle tried his best but he landed short . . . and our head groom, Mr. Arkwright is off taking the spare horses to meet the Hunt.”

            “Ah,” said Mr. Becker. He looked at Isobel again, and Isobel had the feeling that he was really seeing her, and understanding her concern over her horse. “I do know a bit about horses, if you would like me to look at your poor old Thistle.”

            “Would you? I’d be so grateful. Fa bought him for me on my eighteenth birthday.”

            Mr. Becker solemnly tied up the dog-cart reins, and jumped down; he was indeed a very a tall man, Isobel saw with a flicker of surprise: he towered over Young Andrews and herself alike. He gentled Thistle, and stroked his nose – and yes, he was a horseman. Isobel saw that at once, as he leaned into Thistle’s shoulder, and deftly took up the injured foreleg.

            “Miss Isobel, if you took a tumble yourself, shouldn’t you…”

            “Not until I am assured that Thistle is all right – and I came to no lasting harm, which is more than I can say of my riding habit. Mama will be distraught – which is as good a reason to remain here as any I can think of.”

            “Well, at least it looks like you landed in some nice soft mud,” Mr. Becker observed, as he felt along the bones with gentle fingers, and palpated the muscles, speaking softly to Thistle as he did so, “All right boy … let me have it… feels like he has torn a tendon. Not much you can do, except let him rest. A hot bran poultice might make him feel it a bit less.” He let Thistle’s hoof down, and stood up. All Isobel could think of was how trusty he seemed, how direct, and how sympathetic. “I don’t know that he’ll be much good for jumping and all that, after this. You’ll want to go gently for a couple of months, until it heals.”

            “At least it’s nothing broken!” Isobel felt quite overtaken by relief, relief for Thistle’s sake, and gratitude to this tall, oddly reassuring stranger. “Thank you, thank you so much, Mr. Becker! I adore Thistle – he was a bribe to me, you should know. Fa promised me a horse of my very own if I should behave myself for the Season.”

            “The Season?” he asked, obviously puzzled. Isobel thought, Oh, he is a stranger – from America, and he wouldn’t know or care about the Season.

            “Oh, you know … being presented at Court … all the balls and events and that. Mama insisted.” And why, thought Isobel helplessly, am I nattering on about all that? Is it just because be seems so sympathetic – and he listens? Most men – even my brothers – they hear, but they aren’t really listening. They are just waiting for me to stop talking so they can say something clever.  But Mr. Becker answered, very kindly,

            “It was that awful?”

            In a rush, Isobel realized that yes, indeed it was that awful. It had been almost unendurably awful, paraded around, shown off to all those people that Lady Caroline wanted to impress, put in the way of all those gentleman of marriageable age. Like a heifer, brought into the pen for the bull to do his duty upon, Isobel thought – and with sudden acuity, wondering why that unfortunate and vulgar comparison had come so readily to mind.

            “Picture me,” she said, with sudden resentment, “In a white dress with three plumes on my head, being brought into court, before her Majesty. I endured for imagining coming home and Fa’s promise of a horse of my own and being able to play with the dogs and go out among Fa’s tenants. It almost made up for Mama not being able to marry me off and have a grand society wedding at the end of it.”

            “We don’t do much of that where I come from. I have two sisters and I can’t imagine my mother doing that to them.”

“How lucky!” Isobel replied, suddenly and hopelessly envious. “Where is that – you must tell me more, Mr. Becker. It sounds like paradise!” Young Andrews led away the limping Thistle. The two of them were left, momentarily alone. Isobel’s hair fell across her shoulders again. Oh, I must look a perfect fright, she thought – no wonder no eligible party wanted to marry me, the whole Season long. She pushed at her straggling hair again, and nervously brushed at the mud on her skirt before blurting, “You’ve been very kind. Fa was fearfully impressed – the dogs usually don’t take to people so readily. Quite honestly, they terrify most people. He so wanted to speak to you, you should know – he had ever so many questions!”

“Your butler didn’t know that,” Mr. Becker replied, with a wry and amused look on his face. Isobel was horrified and understanding all at once – of course Spencer would have sent him away from the front door – he looked like an ordinary workman, in a plain jacket and collarless shirt, with a calico kerchief tied around his neck. But still – he had come at Fa’s invitation. Spencer should be used to Fa’s eccentric taste in friends by now. Isobel exclaimed,

“Oh! You went to the front door and Spencer sent…”

“He said that servants and trade went around to the back,” Mr. Becker answered, dryly, and Isobel would have wept from vexation – that Fa would have asked him to come to the Hall, and then he would be so kind, after being turned away!

“I am so sorry,” she blurted, “Sometimes, I think Spencer takes more care for propriety and the honor of the house than we do. Certainly more than Fa or I do. I am so sorry…”  And Mr. Becker did nothing more than smile, and take her hand with gentle grace.

“Think nothing of it, Miss Isobel - I didn’t, except for the inconvenience.” With unexpectedly courtly elegance, he kissed her hand and Isobel thought, He is a gentleman after all – Martyn couldn’t have bettered that gallantry!  Mr. Becker added, “Besides, I was promised another look at the dogs. Wolfhounds, your father said. I suppose they were used to hunt wolves with. Are there even wolves left in England?”

“Yes… and no,” Isobel felt her cheeks flush and knew that she would look common and all pink with embarrassment. “They were once used so. They’re an ancient breed, nearly extinct. The dogs, I mean. The wolves are extinct. Fa adores them – the dogs not the wolves! He and some of his friends are trying to revive the breed. I adore them because…”

“Because dogs are trustier than most people you know?” Mr. Becker answered unexpectedly.

“Exactly! Oh, you should come and see Deirdre’s puppies… Deirdre’s the dam, you know. They all have Irish names…”

“Only logical,” Mr. Becker observed – he had still not relinquished her hand. Isobel closed her finders around his. Impulsively she tugged him after her, across the stable-yard and through another smaller gate into the farther and smaller enclosed courtyard, set aside for Fa’s beloved wolfhounds, each with their own elevated little house.  He had come to see the dogs, and so dogs he should see! Isobel went directly to the one which housed Fa’s prized bitch and her whelps, and knelt on the ground – no worry for her riding habit, already torn and muddy to a fare-the-well.

“Deirdre,” she called softly; as well as she knew all of Fa’s wolfhounds, interfering with a mother and her pups were not well-advised. She heard a scrabbling of claws on wood, and Dierdre’s shaggy grey head emerged from the doorway. “Come and pay your respects, dear pretty girl!” Isobel crooned encouragement, and Deirdre emerged all at once. She licked Isobel’s face, and then her head went up alertly. Isobel could read Dierdre’s thoughts as if the wolfhound bitch had the gift of speech and shouted them aloud. Stranger. Not One I Know. But No Fear. Therefore, No Threat. Deirdre sauntered over to sniff at Mr. Becker with regal dignity. And Isobel’s good opinion of Mr. Becker as a man well acquainted with and knowledgeable about dogs was instantly confirmed, as he dropped to one knee – dogs liked it, to be met by interest going down to their level. He fondled her ears and her muzzle – Oh, thought Isobel – She likes him nearly as much as I do. Kitty-cat and Jane said alike that dogs always know. Dierdre’s puppies tumbled out of the kennel-house, a riot of eager curiosity; all grey and brindle, sand-colored and brown, falling and fawning upon the stranger.

“How old are they?” asked Mr Becker, curiously.

“Six months,” Isobel answered, “They really are not quite… fully grown until over a year old. Fa says it’s because they are so clever. I do so like dogs!” She sighed happily – on comfortable ground, at last, with something of interest to talk about. She sat a little sideways, and Deirdre nudged her shoulder. When Isobel embraced the dog, Deirdre settled with a soft ‘whoof’ of affection into her lap. Isobel winced, at the weight of the dog on her bruised knees, but the very size and solidity of the dog was a comfort. I need no other chaperone, Isobel thought, with an interior giggle. The most determined blackguard in the land could get no more past Deirdre than he could past Mama, if she were present. Meanwhile, the puppies were frolicking around Mr. Becker – indeed two of the pups were playing tug-of-war with the sleeve of his coat, which seemed to amuse rather than annoy him. He cleared his throat and asked a most diffident and curious question.

“Miss Isobel, if I might ask – how well do you like cows?”

“I don’t know cows as well as I know dogs and horses, “Isobel answered, thoughtfully. “ But I expect that I should like them as well as I like any other beast, once well and truly acquainted.”

“That is good,” Mr. Becker appeared quite cheerful, and Isobel thought of how pleasant he appeared, with a broad and fair Saxon face, as good and plain as bread. “I happen to own an awful lot of cows in Texas – they’re all around the place, as a matter of fact…”

“I have not read very much about Texas – people have spoken of it as an awful sort of wilderness, full of Indians and bandits,” Isobel ventured, “And that all the men go around armed to the teeth and ready to challenge each other to pistol-duels in the streets … but I cannot think that can be true. Is it?”

“Not so much,” Mr. Becker appeared to be very amused.

“You must tell me more,” Isobel said, and inwardly wondered from where she had drawn such assurance. She had never been able to converse comfortably with the sort of men that she met at dances, the men who were introduced to her over Mama’s silver teapot and fine porcelain cups, being either tongue-tied or given to blurt out irrelevancies, but talking with Mr. Becker as comfortable as talking to Martyn. Now he smiled, outright, and answered,

“It’s somewhat like the land around here, Miss Isobel – green fields and groves of oak trees, with outcroppings of limestone. There are many rivers and creeks, in the Hills were my father’s place is. My father built a stone house there, which was the wonder of all the neighbors when it was first built.”

“Why is that?” Isobel asked.

“Most settlers built in wood, out of cut timber. But Papa meant to stay, and also he promised Mama a stone house – she lived in town with the German folk who settled there, you see – and I think Papa was afraid she would not marry him and come out to the unsettled lands, unless she had a good stone house to live in.”

“It sounds very romantic,” Isobel said, and could have bitten her own tongue. How very forward to mention romance to a man she had just met! Martyn claimed that his friends all fled from girls who said things like that. Husband-hunters, said Martyn.

“He planted an orchard on the hill below the house,” Mr. Becker seemed hardly to have noticed her gaffe, “And farmed, and ran some cattle for the lowland market, but it was my Uncle Hansi’s notion to go into cattle in a bigger way.”

“Does your father still tend his orchard and farm?” Isobel asked, and Mr. Becker shook his head, a momentary shadow over his face.

“No – he was killed during the War.”

“I am so sorry,” the words of condolence came almost without thought to her lips, “I am sure that he died very bravely, a hero’s death.”

“Yes,” answered Mr. Becker, and Isobel dropped her eyes to that of the wolfhound, curling as much of her considerable length as possible in Isobel’s lap. Deirdre’s tail thumped gently on the cobbles. Oh, what to say now? Isobel wondered, and cast around for a safer topic.

“Is that where you learned so very much about horses?” she asked, and he nodded, explaining.

“In Texas, we work cattle from horseback, customarily. The native breed has run wild for hundreds of years – and they are fierce enough, to see to their own welfare – we let them graze on the open range, no such paddocks and pastures as you have here. So I was on horseback and helping with spring round-up, even when I was barely stirrup-high. The vaqueros – the buckaroos, and some of Colonel Ford’s rangers that I rode with, they know some right fine tricks, some of them learned from the Indians. The Comanche, you see - they know riding stunts that you’ve never dreamed of, Miss Isobel.”

“It sounds wonderfully exciting to live in Texas,” Isobel hugged Deirdre closer to herself.

“More exciting than most folk would ever think,” Mr. Becker agreed dryly.

“Did you serve in the War also?” Isobel asked, rather puzzled, for he looked to be about Martyn’s age. As nearly as Isobel could recollect, the great war between the Northern and Southern American states was long-over, at least ten years ago.

“Towards the end of it, Miss Isobel – with Colonel Ford’s cavalry.” Mr. Becker absently tussled the belly of one of Deirdre’s pups, who lay on its back, wriggling in ecstasy. “Less’n you take care of your horses, cavalry and rangers aren’t anything but footsore infantry. A man without a horse is at a disadvantage in Texas - and that’s the truth.”

“I should hate to be deprived of Thistle,” Isobel confessed, “And so I am doubly grateful to you, for relieving my mind, no less than something of his suffering. I had so feared that he had been so injured that he would be … do you know what they do with our hunters when they must be put down, Mr. Becker? They send them to the hounds, for their meat. I could not bear to think of that happening to Thistle. Have you ever heard the like, in Texas?”

Mr. Becker nodded, “That is no surprise to me, Miss Isobel – indeed the Comanche are commonly known for killing and eating horses, when the need strikes – raw and innards and all…”

“Oh, surely not!” Isabel cried in horror, but Mr. Becker only nodded,

“They do so indeed – and I have seen it myself, when pursuing the war band that had taken…”

“Ah – so now you have seen the puppies, Mr. Becker!” Fa said, cheerfully, “Are they not splendid, more splendid than any other dog you have ever seen? And you have met m’daughter, Isobel…” Both Mr. Becker and Isobel started, slightly, for there stood Fa, exuberant, and mud-splattered, beaming impartially upon them both. “And there is my darling Deidre, in the office of chaperone… splendid, splendid! So Lady Isobel has been introducing you to Luath’s get…oh, how marvelous… what a good, good girl…” Fa disposed an affectionate caress upon Deirdre, and at that moment seemed to notice Isobel’s disheveled condition. “That was a spectacular fall, Pet – yet you are blessedly unharmed, so Somers told us. I apologize, Mr. Becker, for my own failings as a host. But my daughter seems to have taken it upon herself when I was amiss…”

“Miss Isobel has been very thoughtful,” Mr. Becker shook off the puppies, rising with unconcerned grace and assurance from the cobbles of the dog-kennel yard. “I thank you, sir – you have been most hospitable, and Miss Isobel has stood admirably in your stead. Your dogs are everything I would have expected from so splendid a sire…”

“Ah… excellent, excellent…” Fa shook the hand which Mr. Becker extended to him, and looked somewhat apologetic. “But, Mr. Becker, I would remind you that this is a noble house – my own dear wife would remind me constantly of the respect properly due to us … and to my daughter.”

“Indeed…” Mr. Becker had a particularly inscrutable look on his otherwise amiable countenance. He looked sideways at Isobel, and smiled – first at Isobel, and then with a somewhat blander expression at Fa. “But your daughter has expressed a desire to me that she wishes to be called merely Miss Isobel … and of course, I have been schooled to always do as a lady would command … Sir.”