Andrea Pickens - [Lessons in Love 01] by The Defiant Governess Read Free Book Online

couldn't help laughing at the tickling sensation.
    That seemed to reassure the boy and he took a few tentative steps towards them. "You'll stay right beside me?"
    "Of course I will."
    That settled it. He came right to Jane's side, shying back a little as the mare poked her nose inquisitively down towards him.
    "Hold the apple flat in your hand, like this," said Jane as she placed a slice in his palm. "Then reach out so she can see it." She put her hand on his shoulder to encourage him as he slowly lifted his hand. The horse dipped her head and gently took the proffered fruit between her lips.
    "Ooooo," exclaimed Peter, jumping back. "It... tickled!"
    "It does, doesn't it," Jane answered. "Do you want to try it again?"
    Peter took another piece and this time he didn't flinch when the mare took the treat. He even rubbed the tip of her nose as she chewed contentedly.
    "It's very soft," he murmured.
    "If I lift you up, you could scratch her ears."
    "V-very well."
    Jane gathered him up and held him steady on one of the rails so he could reach the mare's neck and head. He patted her forehead and ran his fingers through her mane. The mare turned and nuzzled his cheek.
    "You see," laughed Jane. "She likes you!"
    The boy smiled broadly.
    "And you know what horses like even more than apples?" she added in a low voice. "Carrots and lumps of sugar."
    "Do you think we could get some from Cook for tomorrow?" asked Peter, his eyes shining.
    "I think that can be arranged. But now I think we had best get back before we are late for supper."
    * * *
    That night after she had read to Peter from King Arthur's knightly tales and put out his candle for the night, Jane went downstairs to where Mrs. Fairchild was knitting in the drawing room. She sat down and began to roll some of the loose skeins of wool in the work basket into neat balls.
    Mrs. Fairchild looked up from her work with a smile. "Why thank you, Miss Jane." She, like all the rest of the servants, had copied Peter in calling her thus. "It fits," Cook had announced with her characteristic forthrightness. "Miss Langley is much too stiff-necked for a nice, unpretentious lass like you."
    Jane returned the housekeeper's smile. "I was wondering about something Peter said this afternoon," she began. "He told me that both his mother and father were killed by horses. I don't mean to pry in family history, but do you know what happened?"
    Mrs., Fairchild's needles stopped clicking in mid stitch. When she looked up, her face was pinched and drained of color.
    "It was a terrible thing, it was." Her voice was low, almost a whisper. "The two of them were so gay, so lively. Henry warned them not to ride over the west bridge that afternoon, that the timbers had been loosened by the storm. But apparently they didn't heed him. They started racing each other. He tried to call to them—they reached the bridge together, urging their horses on. They were neck and neck in the middle of it when it gave way. The river was surging from the storm... Their bodies weren't found for two days. Their feet were still tangled in the stirrups." She shook her head repeatedly as if she could banish the whole incident. "And Mister Edward's reaction....I-I still find it impossible to speak of. After all the other pain the family has had to endure..."
    Jane lowered her eyes. She wished she could probe further and ask just what relation Peter's mother was to the elusive marquess, just what other "pain" it was Mrs. Fairchild spoke of. But she sensed the older woman could not be pressed any more.
    "I'm sorry to have brought back such terrible memories,"
    "You didn't know," replied Mrs. Fairchild. She continued her knitting, but after several exclamations of dismay at dropping a stitch, she placed the whole thing in her basket. "Forgive me if I retire early tonight. I find I am quite fatigued."
    She looked tired, thought Jane as the other woman hurried from the room. Tired—and sad, perhaps. Most of the time she was so open and