Kicker's Journey E-Book

Lois Cloarec Hart

• Herausgeber: Ylva Publishing
• Kategorie: Gesellschafts- und Liebesromane
• Sprache: Englisch

Seitenzahl: 783

Veröffentlichungsjahr: 2013

Beschreibung

Love across borders, time, and society—an unforgettable historical romance. In 1899, two women from very different backgrounds are about to embark on a journey together—one that will take them from the Old World to the New, from the 19th century into the 20th, and from the comfort and familiarity of England to the rigours of Western Canada, where challenges await at every turn. The journey begins simply for Kicker Stuart when she leaves her home village to take employment as hostler and farrier at Grindleshire Academy for Young Ladies. But when Kicker falls in love with a teacher, Madelyn Bristow, it radically alters the course of her tranquil life. Together, the lovers flee the brutality of Madelyn's father and the prejudices of upper crust England in search of freedom to live, and love, as they choose. A journey as much of the heart and soul as of the body, it will find the lovers struggling against the expectations of gender, the oppression of class, and even, at times, each other. What they find at the end of their journey is not a new Eden, but a land of hope and opportunity that offers them the chance to live out their most cherished dream—a life together.

Leseprobe

Martin, Kathy, Laura, and Carol

With profound love and gratitude for this journey we’ve taken together.

Acknowledgements

Kicker’s Journey began as a short story I wrote for my wife in late 2002. It was posted online as Kicker’s Heart and grew over six years to the novel it is today. It would never have reached fruition without the input of many people.

I am grateful for the steadfast help and support of Kathy GramsGibbs, Debra, Glenda, Verda Foster, and my mother, who generously offered their insight and editorial critiques.

Thanks also to the wonderful women of Ylva Publishing for taking me on and putting out this second edition of Kicker’s Journey.

Lastly and most profoundly, my unending gratitude to my beloved wife and primary editor, Day Petersen. Je t’aime, little sweetie.

Historical Note

For the most part, I stayed true to the history of western Canada in 1899-1900; however, there were two significant anomalies in Kicker’s Journey.

At the time, the new century was considered to start in 1901. I changed that apprehension for narrative purposes.

Additionally, mining in the Crowsnest Pass did not truly begin until 1903. I advanced that context by three years. For an accurate and entertaining history of the Crowsnest Pass, I highly recommend the Frank Slide Interpretative Centre in the Municipality of Crowsnest Pass, Alberta, Canada. The stories Pudge relates to Seamus and Kicker from the Pass come directly from newspapers of the era, showcased at the centre. (http://www.history.alberta.ca/frankslide)

Prologue

On an unseasonably hot spring day, fourteen-year-old Kicker Stuart stopped in front of her destination. Her ragged, ill-fitting clothes were caked with dust, and her feet burned within shabby boots from the remorseless pounding of the last two hours. She wiped one grimy sleeve over dry, cracked lips and blinked away drops of sweat. Should ha’ brung water wi’ me. Twas foolish not to.

Kicker’s discomfort quickly melted into awe as she stared at the stately stone pillars that flanked the entrance to the Grindleshire Academy for Young Ladies. She had never seen such an imposing entrance, nor felt more keenly the lowly circumstances of her birth. Bless’d Jesus. I’ll fit here wors’n a mare in a chicken coop.

Kicker swallowed hard and peered in concentration at the bronze tablet on one pillar. She could make out the numbers as 1868, but could not read aught else on the sign that marked the founding of the Academy.

“Huh, twas here ten years b’fore I were e’en born, an’ I ain’t ne’er bin by this way b’fore.” She allowed herself a moment to muse on the boundaries of her life to date. Kicker had walked only five miles from her home village, carrying a small sack with all her worldly possessions slung over her back, yet the world she was about to enter was as alien to her as a London drawing room.

I hope you ain’t sent me into the lion’s den, Adam. Kicker mentally directed the admonition at her older brother, who was responsible for her presence at this gate. She squared her shoulders and passed into the grounds of the finishing school for daughters of families who did not have the status or influence to secure more elite placements.

Kicker trudged up the long driveway and gaped at the massive stone building with ostentatious turrets on all corners. I ne’er seen nothin’ so gran’.

The Academy’s position on a rise dominated two hundred acres of lush green lawns, manicured gardens, cultivated fields, and thickly wooded land alongside a turbulent river. The institution was comprised of academic facilities, student dormitories, teacher and household staff quarters, as well as the Grindleshire family’s private suite. The four wings of the main structure enclosed a cobble-stoned courtyard.

Behind the edifice, several small cottages for senior employees flanked the vast vegetable gardens that supplied the school’s kitchen. Kicker’s destination lay to the west side of the Academy—the stable, paddocks, storage, and maintenance buildings.

It was Saturday and students wandered the lawns and lingered in the lush gardens. Some of the girls were around her age, yet Kicker felt their differences keenly. Though an oddity even in her village, at least there her common clothes and scruffy hair did not mark her so blatantly an outsider.

Kicker nodded politely at two girls who crossed the driveway, sweeping their elegant dresses far from her path, only to be stung by the disdainful looks she received in return. Their giggles trailed after her as Kicker hastily detoured off the long driveway toward the stable.

Kicker relaxed as she headed away from the scornful students and toward the familiar environment. Leastways I won’ ha’ to muck about wi’ their sort. I hope Adam’s right about this, though. Gonna be a long, thirsty walk home if he ain’t.

Her tempered optimism lasted until the moment she came face to face with the stable master, who viewed her approach with a scowl.

Kicker snatched the cap off her short, dark brown hair. “Would you be Ol’ Thomas, Sir?”

“Aye. You’re Henry Stuart’s girl—Adam’s sister?”

“Aye, Sir. I am.”

Old Thomas looked her up and down.

Kicker tried to project strength, but there was only so much she could do about her short stature and wiry body.

The stable master spat, an eloquent comment on his newest employee.

Kicker refused to wither; this was nothing new. Since the age of seven, when her parents reluctantly acknowledged she was useless at traditional female chores, she’d had to prove herself in the male domain.

Her father had finally yielded to her pleas and allowed Kicker to join her brothers in his smithy. As the years passed, Kicker had learned the ins and outs of the farrier’s trade. Now she was starting anew, but Kicker was confident her skills and industry would win Old Thomas over.

“Don’ be thinkin’ I’ll go easy on you jus’ cuz you’re a girl, got that?”

“Aye, Sir. I kin do a full day’s work, no less’n my brothers.”

Old Thomas’ scowl became less pronounced. “So says your da and Adam. They’re good men, honest men.” He turned away, but not before Kicker heard his final word on the matter. “I’ll gi’ ye a chance, but you set one foot wrong and I’ll toss you out on your arse. Don’ be thinkin’ I won’t, girl.”

Kicker grinned as she followed the stable master into the barn.

Old Thomas pointed to a door at the end of the aisle. “You kin throw your gear in there, then we got work to do.”

She hastened past the stalls and didn’t slow to examine the horses as she normally would have. Even the exhilarating discovery that she was to have a room entirely to herself did not delay her hurried return to the stable master.

“You kin b’gin by muckin’ out the place.” As Kicker started off, Old Thomas called after her, “How’d you come by such an odd name, anyway?”

Kicker flashed him a smile as she grabbed the pitchfork and set to work. “Twas Adam, Sir. The firs’ time he seen me, he called me a helluva kicker. Ma said she’d a’ready come up with thirteen names, an’ Kicker would have to do fer me. Said she was too tired to think up ’nother one.”

Old Thomas chuckled, then shot her a stern look. “Don’ be callin’ me Sir, girl. I ain’t one of ’em up t’ the ’cademy. I work fer my daily bread.”

“Aye.” Kicker fell into a comfortably familiar rhythm with the fork. As do I.

Chapter 1

Fall leaves crackled underfoot as Kicker trotted out of the gate mounted proudly on Grindleshire stable’s latest acquisition. She brushed her hand over a stone pillar as she passed, and was able to reach higher than she ever had before.

Kicker rubbed the neck of the tall grey gelding. “Made this ride dozens of time o’er the last year, Banner, but I ain’t ne’er gone home in such style.”

Just outside the gate, Kicker had to pull Banner hard to one side to avoid a buggy loaded with students returning from a day in the city. She saw glances of irritation and disdain shot in her direction, but Kicker had become immune to those over the months. Faces change, but the arrogance don’. Ain’t gonna ruin my day, tis sure.

On the way to the Stuart home, Kicker enjoyed the looks her mount received. She knew she was riding a special horse. By the expression on her brother’s face as he waited at the fence line for her, he knew the same.

Adam pushed his hat back on his forehead and whistled appreciatively. “Damn, Kicker, that’s one fine lookin’ animal. Tell me you din’t steal ’im.”

Kicker cantered up to her brother, a wide grin on her face and her chest puffed up with pride. “Ain’t he somethin’? The Academy jus’ got him. His name’s Banner, an’ Ol’ Thomas said I could borrow him fer my half day.” She came to a stop in front of Adam and slid off Banner’s back. “He stan’s near eighteen han’s.”

Adam winked at her. “So how’d you get up on him, little sister? Jump off a stump?”

Kicker stuck her tongue out at her brother. “You’re jus’ jealous, cuz all you got to ride is that ol’ nag.” She jerked her thumb at the family mare grazing placidly in the nearby paddock.

Adam shrugged. “Maybe, but it ain’t like you own this one anyway.”

Kicker stroked Banner’s neck. “No, but someday I’ll own one e’en finer.”

“Hah, by then there won’ be anythin’ but those newfangled motor cars about. That’s what I’m gonna have one day.”

Kicker frowned at Adam. Favourite brother and surrogate parent or not, such blasphemy regarding her beloved horses would not be tolerated. But before she could protest, Adam hooked her around the neck in a hug. Kicker punched him lightly in the ribs, and their customary greeting ritual was complete.

“Kin you get away fer a bit, Adam?”

“Could be, if we was to go fishin’ and bring Ma somethin’ back.”

Kicker turned Banner out to graze with the mare. The siblings grabbed fishing poles from the woodshed and headed down to the creek and their favourite hole.

Kicker caught two, and Adam one, by the time their conversation picked up again.

“Looks like you grew some, Kicker.”

“You jus’ saw me las’ month. ’Sides, bin well o’er a year since I lef’ for Grindleshire. Wasn’t gonna stay that scrawny fore’er.”

Adam cast a glance his sister’s way. “It’s been that long, has it? I ’spect you think you’re all growed up now.” He pointed down the bank about twenty feet to a thick copse of trees and bushes that overhung the river. “’Member the day I foun’ you there.”

“Tis where you always foun’ me.”

“Aye, but I’m talkin’ ’bout the day you ran from Ma.”

“Wasn’t runnin’ from Ma; I was runnin’ from Preacher Dodd’s sons.” Kicker shook her head in disgust at the memory. Though it had led to her current enviable living arrangement, at the time it seemed like the end of the world.

Adam chuckled softly. “If Ma’d had her way, you’d ha’ bin married right ’longside June an’ Edna las’ summer.”

Kicker shuddered at the memory of that horrible day.

Mary Stuart, had taken note of her seventh daughter, and realized that Kicker more closely resembled her brothers than her sisters. She wore her brothers’ hand-me-downs, disdaining, from the moment she could talk, the dresses that her older sisters wore. The patched trousers were more appropriate for the work Kicker did for her father, so Mary rarely protested.

However, the new cleric in town had three sons of marriageable age. Kicker was only fourteen, but Mary had been given in marriage when she was fifteen and decided that her unconventional daughter was old enough to wed. Along with her three unmarried older sisters, Kicker was to be included in the display of available females when the cleric dutifully came to call.

To that end, Mary ordered all the girls into their best clothes and spent a whole morning washing and dressing hair. When it came to Kicker, however, Mary met full scale rebellion. The girl flatly refused to don one of her sisters’ dresses for the occasion. When her mother grabbed her arm and tried to force her up the stairs to get into a frock, Kicker broke free and tore out of the house.

Adam had been sent to find her, and without hesitation headed straight for her usual hiding place. He’d found her down by the creek, nestled amongst the bushes that overhung the slow moving water. When he’d squirmed in next to Kicker, folding his six-foot frame into the small space with difficulty, she’d scowled at him.

“Don’ e’en ask. I don’ care what Ma wants, I ain’t puttin’ on a dress fer anyone, let alone Preacher Dodd’s pig-ass sons.”

“I know, Kicker, and I ain’t here to ask you to go back. I jus’ thought you might wanna talk, is all.”

Kicker’s expression had softened and became more puzzled than fierce. “Why’d she do it? I tol’ her over and over that I ain’t e’er gettin’ married. Why don’ she b’lieve me?”

Adam had wrapped his arm around Kicker’s thin shoulders and given her a warm hug. “Because she don’ really know you, is why. You gotta understan’. Ma truly does think that the bes’ she can do for all of us is see us married off and startin’ families of our own.”

“Damned if I’m e’er goin’ to marry. No way I’m birthin’ e’ry year ’til I drop dead.”

“Ain’t jus’ not wantin’ babies, eh?”

She’d stared uncomfortably at her stained, too-large boots and then glanced up shyly. “Not really. I jus’ don’ get it, Adam; what the fuss is about, I mean. E’en when I was in school, I thought the girls were actin’ so silly, fawnin’ over the boys. Hell, I could beat any of them gits in wrasslin’ or knife toss. They weren’t no big deal.”

“You’ll understan’ someday, little sister. Someone will come along an’ steal your heart clean away, cuz you know, there’s a little bit more to life than wrasslin’ and knife throwin’, sweetie.”

“Course I know that—there’s horses, too.”

To this day, Kicker did not understand why Adam had laughed so hard he almost fell into the creek. However, since he had delivered on his subsequent promise to make things better, she did not care that she had been the butt of his merriment.

As always when it came to his favourite sibling, Adam went one step further than convincing their mother that Kicker was a poor candidate for matrimony. Within weeks, he procured for his sister the position as stable hand at Grindleshire’s.

In the sixteen months since, Kicker had been content. She had her own small room—a luxury she’d never before experienced—work that she enjoyed, and the congenial company of a boss she respected, and who had come to respect her. She would never grow wealthy on the wages she earned, but she had enough and she was content.

Adam’s voice recalled Kicker’s attention to her present. “Looks to me like you’ve put on a poun’ or two. They mus’ be feedin’ you right o’er there.”

“Aye, Cook likes me fine. I bring her fish as a reg’lar thing. She’s real partial to fresh trout, an’ she’ll fix it up special for us after t’others eat. Always saves me the bigges’ piece of pie, too.”

Adam smiled affectionately at her. “I’m glad. You foun’ a home.”

“Aye, I did, thanks to you.”

They fished in silence for a while.

“Adam?”

“Aye.”

“Ol’ Thomas said somethin’ t’other day.”

“Aye?”

“He said the las’ stable han’ were in a scandal, an’ tis why I got his job.”

“Tis true.”

There was distinct unease in Adam’s voice and Kicker glanced up. She was surprised to see her brother shift uncomfortably. It piqued her curiosity further.

“So, what was’t?”

“What?”

Kicker frowned. It wasn’t like Adam to avoid a subject. “What was the scandal? What did the las’ stable hand do twas so bad?”

Adam sighed deeply, and for a moment Kicker did not think he would answer.

“He...um...well, he d’spoiled a couple of the students. When twas foun’ they was in a family way, he disappeared. After that, din’t take a lot of convincin’ to get Ol’ Thomas to hire you, e’en if you was a girl.”

“Huh.” Kicker absorbed the new information. “Makes sense. He won’ e’er have to worry ’bout nothin’ like that with me.”

There was a strangled sound from Adam, but when Kicker glanced at him, he shook his head. “No, I guess he won’.” With an audible sigh, her brother changed the subject. “I got somethin’ to tell you.”

“Aye?”

“Aye. Me and Annie, we’re gettin’ married nex’ month.”

Kicker nodded slowly. She’d been expecting it. Adam had courted Annie Doyle for almost a year. Still, it would be hard losing him to another.

“Don’ mean you’re losin’ me, jus’ means you’re gonna gain ’nother sister.”

Like nine ain’t enough? Kicker sternly set aside her jealousy.“Annie’s nice. I’m glad fer you, Adam. You’ll be a good husban’.”

“An’ some day, you’ll be aunt to our chil’ren.”

“Aye. Tis so.” But as always, when Kicker considered the traditional ways of marriage, her stomach got queasy. Might be a’right for Adam, but it ain’t ne’er gonna be for me.

“Mornin’, Kicker.”

“Mornin’, Cook. The wood bin was low, so I filled it.” It was getting cooler in the mornings as fall approached, and Kicker knew that bigger fires helped relieve the ache in Cook’s aging bones.

The rotund sovereign of Grindleshire’s kitchen beamed at Kicker. “You’re a good ’un, girl. I kin always depen’ on you. Wisht my lazy girls would take a lesson. I just ain’t able to keep after them like I used ta, back when you firs’ came to us.”

Kicker winked at Cook and crammed the remainder of her breakfast into her mouth. “If I kin get away t’night, I’ll bring you some fresh fish, too.”

Cook’s eyes sparkled with anticipation. The two of them would dine well this evening, though they generally did, fresh fish or not.

Kicker left the kitchen whistling as she headed for the stables. She had worked at Grindleshire’s for more than six years. Over time, she’d slowly assumed the heaviest of Old Thomas’ workload, though it had been almost two years before she was allowed to shoe the horses independently. It was now generally accepted around the school that when Old Thomas retired, Kicker would take his place as stable master.

Under warm, sunny skies, Kicker could not think of one thing wrong with her world. Life is good, eh? Reaching the stables, she laughed aloud from sheer pleasure and drew an indulgent smile from Old Thomas.

Hours later, Kicker had just finished shoeing the elderly bay that the Grindleshires favoured for their excursions to the finer homes in the county when Old Thomas beckoned her aside.

“Need you to pick up the new teacher comin’ in on the afternoon train.”

Kicker nodded. She was often sent to make pick-ups at the station as another new school year approached, and she had expected this particular assignment. Kitchen scuttlebutt had indicated someone new was coming in to replace a teacher who resigned her post to get married.

Old Thomas frowned as he regarded her. “An’ try to clean up a bit before you go. We don’ want the woman thinkin’ we’re a bunch of clods just b’cause we’re outta spittin’ distance of civilization.”

Unused to giving any thought to her appearance, Kicker glanced down at her dusty clothes. Huh. You’d think I was goin’ to pick up the Queen, herself. With a shrug, Kicker stepped up to the trough to rinse off the evidence of her duties. She barely got her hands wet before Old Thomas growled at her.

“Go use some soap, and put on a clean shirt.”

Instantly resentful of the unknown woman who was responsible for her having to bathe when it was not even Saturday night, Kicker stomped into the stable, muttering under her breath.

“Twould be a damned shame to offend Miss High ’n Mighty now, eh?” Kicker ignored the sleepy eyed chestnut that nuzzled her as she strode past the mare’s stall. “God forbid she breathe in a little sweat an’ horse shit.”

Kicker paused to kick her boots against the post outside her door and was forced to admit that there was more than a little manure clinging to them. She sighed, entered her room and stripped off her footwear and clothes. She gave her boots a cursory brushing out the window, and then poured water from the chipped pitcher into the tin basin. Kicker seized the sliver of soap and made hasty work of her ablutions. She shivered as she dried herself on the threadbare towel and dragged a brush through short, riotous curls.

The small, cracked mirror, a discard from one of the students, reflected a young woman who was only several inches taller than the girl who had fled her mother’s ill-advised designs. Small breasted, and deeply tanned from long hours in the sun, visitors to the Academy often mistook Kicker for a youth. She never bothered to correct anyone’s assumptions. Still as wiry as she had ever been, Kicker’s sinewy arms and leanly muscled back bespoke the manual labour that filled her days.

Kicker turned away with her customary disregard for the mirror’s image and sought out her Sunday shirt and trousers. Mr. Grindleshire’s rules insisted that everyone, from the lowliest stable hand to the Headmistress, attend Sunday services in the school chapel. She had learned early to keep one of her three changes of clothing in respectable condition.

Kicker dressed quickly and headed outside to find that Old Thomas had already harnessed the chestnut to the school’s carriage. The bold maroon lettering on the side identified the small buggy as Grindleshire Academy’s.

As Kicker sprang lightly to the seat and took up the reins, Old Thomas laid a hand on the buggy’s edge. “Train’ll be in at three if tis on time. The teacher’s name is Miss Madelyn Bristow, and she’ll likely have a trunk or two. Take ’er straight up to the school to see Mrs. Sheridan, and then put ’er things in ’er room. Got all that?”

He did not offer written instructions, as Kicker’s literacy skills were severely lacking and Old Thomas’ were non-existent, but they traded nods of perfect understanding.

“Aye. See you in a couple hours.”

Kicker enjoyed the drive into town along the quiet country lanes. It was part of the comforting rhythms of her life. A familiar sight now to those she passed on the road and in the fields, many greeted her cheerfully. She quickly forgot her bathing inspired pique in the pleasure of the summer afternoon, as her earlier sense of wellbeing returned.

Kicker arrived at the station and was informed that the train was running late, so she settled back to wait, musing idly on the new teacher. In her experience, Grindleshire attracted two types of teachers. Some were hidebound spinsters who had taught so long that they could do it with their eyes and minds shut; others were young women barely out of school themselves, who would stay in the profession only until the first proposal of marriage came their way.

When the train pulled in, Kicker eyed the descending passengers and looked for a woman who had teacher stamped all over her. She readily disregarded the matrons returning from London, and the young mothers shepherding their noisy broods. Much to Kicker’s surprise, when Miss Madelyn Bristow stepped down onto the platform, she did not fit either Grindleshire stereotype.

The woman looked to be in her mid to late twenties, neatly dressed in a pale blue shirtwaist and ankle-length, navy blue skirt, which was gathered at her slim waist with a thin black belt. Beneath a wide-brimmed hat, copper coloured hair was pulled back in a twist, and bright, inquisitive green eyes assessed her surroundings. Before Kicker could approach, the woman spotted her and walked quickly toward the carriage.

Kicker jumped down from the seat to greet the new teacher, noting that the other woman had three or four inches on her in height.

“Miss Bristow?”

“Yes. You’re from the Academy.”

It was not so much a question as a statement of fact, but Kicker nodded.

“Aye, Miss. D’you have a trunk, Miss?”

The teacher gestured over her shoulder where Kicker could see a porter hauling a large chest toward the carriage. She hastened to help him, and between them, they swung the trunk up on the back of the carriage. After tying it down, Kicker rushed to assist the teacher into the buggy. She was surprised when Miss Bristow insisted on riding up front with her rather than in the more comfortable passenger seat behind.

As Kicker guided the horse away from the station and onto the road that led out of town, she stole a sideways glance at her passenger. This was no shy, awkward neophyte, nor a rigid, humourless old maid. At a loss as to how to categorize the new teacher, Kicker maintained her silence while Miss Bristow took in her surroundings with evident interest. She was startled when the other woman finally addressed her.

“You have the advantage of me, my dear. What is your name?”

“Kicker Stuart, Miss.”

She could feel the teacher’s stare boring into her, and felt herself colour under the intense scrutiny, but Kicker kept her eyes firmly on the road.

“Kicker, is it?”

“Aye, Miss.”

“That is very...unusual.”

The words were not critical, only curious. Rather than taking refuge in her usual reticence, Kicker felt compelled to explain. “M’brother Adam named me, Miss. Guess Ma thought it fit me good. Ne’er called me anythin’ else since the day I were born.”

“I see. So, Miss Kicker Stuart, tell me about the Grindleshire Academy for Young Ladies.”

It did not exactly feel like an order, but Miss Bristow’s expectant gaze and firm voice made it apparent she was confident of a full and informative answer.

Bet she don’ have no discipline problems in her classroom. With a small grin at the thought, Kicker gave a half shrug. “Not too sure what to tell you, Miss. I don’ stray too far from the stables mos’ days. I kin tell you that Missus Sheridan, the Headmistress, is a fair hand so long as you don’ cross her. She’s really the boss, e’en though Mister Grindleshire owns the place. You gotta duck when Missus Sheridan and Missus Grindleshire get to arguin’ cuz they kin shake the tiles off’n the roof and you don’ wanna get betwixt them. I kin tell you that Cook ain’t got no patience if you’re late fer meals, and she won’ be savin’ you anythin’ either. An’ I kin tell you that Pastor Hubble preaches the boringest sermons in the county, but you’re gonna hafta pretend to listen cuz the teachers all sit up front and Missus Sheridan will see you if you doze off.”

Kicker thrilled to the sound of Miss Bristow’s laughter. Then, embarrassed by her reaction, she jerked her cap lower over her eyes and stared straight ahead.

“Well, I shall certainly do my best not to fall asleep then, Miss Stuart.”

“Tis Kicker, Miss. Ever’one calls me that.” Kicker blushed at correcting a lady, but was reassured by Miss Bristow’s friendly smile.

“Thank you for the invaluable briefing, Kicker. I shall remember to be on time for dinner, submit to Mrs. Sheridan’s dictates, stay out of the line of fire between the two eminent grande dames, and pay strict attention to Pastor Hubble.”

Kicker wondered if the teacher was mocking her, but before the suspicion could fester, Miss Bristow went on.

“So what do you do for entertainment?”

Kicker hesitated. She mus’ mean what t’other teachers do for fun. She surely don’ mean what a stable hand does.

“Cook said twas a poetry readin’ las’ weekend, an’ I know some teachers wen’ on a picnic two weeks ago. Oh, and the Grindleshires arrange a trip to London come spring for all the teachers that wan’ ta go. Young Mister Grindleshire helps with that, since he lives in the city.” Kicker shrugged. “Tis about all I know, but Missus Sheridan kin prob’ly tell you more.”

Miss Bristow was quiet for a moment. “And what about you, Kicker? What do you like to do when your work is done?”

Kicker glanced sharply sideways, but the other woman’s expression was calmly inquisitive. She decided that, for whatever reason, Miss Bristow’s interest was genuine.

“I go fishin’ quite a bit. Cook likes it when I bring her fresh trout. An’ sometimes on my half-days, Ol’ Thomas lets me take Banner home to see my family.”

“Banner?”

Kicker warmed to the subject of her favourite horse. “Aye, Miss. Banner, he’s the smartest one in the stables. Times are you look in his eyes an’ you jus’ know he’s fixin’ to put one over on you. So you gotta keep a tight rein, but boy, kin he run. Get up on his back, give him his head, and you feel like you’re ridin’ the wind. If he ain’t bin out all day, I take ’im out for a run in the evenin’.”

“You like to ride, then?”

Kicker was surprised at the wistful tone in Miss Bristow’s voice. “Aye, Miss. I do.”

“I always wanted to ride, but I grew up in London and have worked there since I started teaching, so I never really had the chance. I’ve ridden a little in the parks, of course, but it’s not precisely the same thing.”

“What d’you like to do then, Miss? Fer fun, I mean.”

“Well, I practice those time honoured feminine arts of needlepoint and watercolour, though not terribly well.” Miss Bristow chuckled, but Kicker did not think it was a happy sound. “I also read extensively, and write very bad poetry. In fact one of the courses I’ll be teaching is Eighteenth Century Poetry. Add in Seventeenth Century Literature and Advanced Principles of Deportment, and I shall no doubt enjoy a full life at the Grindleshire Academy for Young Ladies.”

The teacher fell silent, and Kicker pondered the edge of bitterness in the woman’s voice. Unsure what to say, she concentrated on the road, even though the docile chestnut could have plodded the whole way with blinders on.

“Is staff allowed to take the horses out on pleasure rides?”

“Aye, Miss, but not many of ’em do.”

“Your horse...Banner, was it? Do you think I might ride him now and again?”

Kicker blinked and absorbed the undertone of nervous anticipation in the woman’s voice. “Well, he ain’t mine, Miss; he b’longs to the Academy. But if I might say, if you ain’t done much ridin’, you might wanna start with ol’ Cherry here. She’s as gentle as they come.” The chestnut bobbed her head as if aware she was the subject of conversation. “She won’ run off with you like Banner prob’ly would.”

Miss Bristow laid a hand on Kicker’s forearm and almost caused her to drop the reins in surprise. “But I wish to ride the way you described, free and unfettered, as if I had harnessed the wind.”

“I know, Miss, and you kin do that one day, but please start with Cherry here firs’. I don’ wanna see you break your neck or somethin’.”

“Please, will you teach me? Teach me how to ride, teach me to taste the freedom that you so enjoy?”

“A’right, Miss, so long’s you b’gin with Cherry and work up to Banner.”

“Agreed. I put myself entirely in your hands.”

Though the thought of teaching Miss Bristow enthused Kicker, and she enjoyed the teacher’s eagerness, she seriously doubted that Miss Bristow would follow through. Their conversation about horses and riding would simply be something to store away as a pleasant memory.

When Miss Bristow showed up at the stable the evening after she arrived, Kicker blinked in amazement. Well, damn me. She hastened to saddle Cherry. “Sorry I were not ready, Miss. Won’ happ’n agin.”

“You didn’t think I’d make an appearance, did you, Miss Stuart?”

There was distinct amusement in Miss Bristow’s voice, and Kicker blushed. “My mistake, Miss. I promise, it really won’ happ’n agin.”

“Please don’t apologize. The fault is mine if I misled you into thinking I was merely offering a lighthearted suggestion. I promise you that I intend to take your lessons seriously. I hope that if I apply myself, I may be able to keep up with you soon.”

Startled, Kicker met Miss Bristow’s penetrating gaze. “Keep up, Miss?”

“Of course. You will ride with me, won’t you? How could you instruct me if you’re not nearby to offer corrections on my technique?”

While preparing Cherry, Kicker had hazily visualized imparting some instructions before Miss Bristow rode out on her own. It did not occur to her that she would keep the beautiful teacher company. But as she went to saddle Banner, an unbidden, unexpected, and oddly exciting thought put a broad smile on her face.

I got an’ excuse t’ look at her whene’er I like.

Much to the surprise of Grindleshire’s small community, the unusual friendship between the teacher and the stable hand flourished. Though the first month of school was busy for everyone at the Academy, the onset of colder weather meant a lightening of Kicker’s duties, and more time for her to indulge her new passion for teaching the teacher. They rode at every opportunity, often for hours at a time.

Alone at night in her small room, Kicker mentally replayed their lessons over and over. Her mind lingered on the laughter they shared, warm smiles Miss Bristow bestowed on her earnest instructor, and Kicker’s favourite reminiscence—any casual touch between the two. Most precious of all was the memory of the day Miss Bristow rode Banner for the first time.

On a blustery November afternoon, Kicker quietly handed the teacher Banner’s reins and took Cherry’s reins for herself. She knew that the pure delight in Miss Bristow’s eyes would be added to her store of midnight memories. They kept their ride short, but Kicker was shivering by the time they turned back. She tried to conceal her discomfort from her companion.

When they came in sight of the Academy, Miss Bristow winningly entreated Kicker. “May I gallop Banner? Oh, do say yes. I am ready—honestly, I am.”

Kicker was finding it more and more difficult to refuse Miss Bristow the slightest request, but in this instance, she was relieved that she did not have to. The teacher had become an accomplished rider under Kicker’s tutelage, and she knew Miss Bristow could handle the big grey.

“Aye, go ’head. I’ll meet you back at the stable.” Kicker smiled as Miss Bristow and Banner raced away. She knew there was no use in attempting to keep up. Cherry would be highly indignant even to be asked for more than a sedate canter.

Kicker laughed aloud when she saw Miss Bristow reach the stable, only to wheel and race back toward her.

“Oh, my heavens, Kicker! It’s like flying. No wonder you love Banner so.”

Miss Bristow’s eyes glowed with excitement, and her face was attractively flushed with the cold and the wind. Kicker’s breath caught, and she could not prevent the violent shiver that overcame her.

Instantly, Miss Bristow reached over and touched Kicker’s hand. “You’re freezing. Why didn’t you tell me how cold you were? Come. We shall return immediately.”

Miss Bristow slowed Banner to keep pace with Cherry as they rode back together. Kicker had never felt such a strange and exhilarating combination of heat and cold. I mus’ be comin’ down with somethin’.

Confused, Kicker kept silent as Miss Bristow waxed enthusiastic about the joys of riding Banner. When they reached the stable, Kicker dismounted quickly so she could take Banner’s reins as usual.

Miss Bristow jumped lightly to the ground, then spun and wrapped her shocked companion in an enthusiastic hug. “I can never thank you enough.” She released Kicker, only to laugh aloud and seize her in an even longer hug. “My dear, you have no idea how much our rides have come to mean to me. They are the highlight of my days, and it is all thanks to you. I can never repay you for your kindness, patience, and consideration.”

If Kicker had been able to speak, she would have told Miss Bristow it was entirely her pleasure, but she could not force even the smallest sound from her throat. Fortunately, Miss Bristow did not seem to require an answer. She gave Kicker a cheerful wave and departed for the staff quarters. Kicker stood stock still and watched Miss Bristow walk away.

“You look like you bin pole-axed, girl.”

Kicker glanced over her shoulder at Old Thomas, who stood grinning behind her. “Don’ be daft, ol’ man. She’s jus’ grateful fer the ridin’ lessons.”

“Uh huh. Well, put Banner and Cherry in the barn. Tis a storm blowin’ up.”

Several days later Kicker returned to her room after her work was done and found a thick, quilted coat on her bed. There was a note with it, but she was unable to make out the meaning of the graceful script.Still, she had no doubt the gift and note were from Miss Bristow, and she fingered both reverently.

Thrilled by the teacher’s consideration, Kicker could hardly wait until she saw Miss Bristow again. They had made arrangements to meet that day to ride. A soon as she heard the bell toll the end of the school day, Kicker swiftly saddled Banner and Cherry.

When Miss Bristow did not appear, Kicker waited until dark for her student, passing up dinner for fear of missing the teacher’s arrival. Finally she accepted that Miss Bristow was not coming and unsaddled the horses.

Kicker knew that Cook would find her favourite something to eat if she went up to the kitchen, but her stomach churned and her appetite was absent. Profoundly dismayed by Miss Bristow’s cavalier treatment, she lay on her hard, narrow bed, thinking.

Maybe that’s it, then. Maybe the coat meant g’bye. Maybe now that she knows how to ride, she’ll have naught to do with me. Maybe she’ll jus’ ride with her frien’s now. Ain’t like I’m but a dirty stable han’ anyway.

The thought of being so easily dismissed roiled Kicker’s gut. Tears burned her eyes, but she angrily brushed them away. So be it, then. I don’ need her takin’ time from my days. I got things to do. Tis better this way. Should ha’ tol’ her myself not to come anymore.

A soft tap on her door interrupted Kicker’s anguished thoughts.

“Aye?”

The door opened and Miss Bristow poked her head into the room. “Hello, Kicker. If you don’t mind the interruption, I thought I’d see how the coat fit.”

Kicker swung her legs off the bed and sat up, but averted her face. “It fits fine, but I kin not take it.”

Miss Bristow stepped into the room and closed the door behind her. “Why is that? Don’t you like it? I just felt so badly about keeping you out in the cold the other day.”

“Don’ need charity.”

There was a long moment of silence. “It wasn’t charity. It was a gift from one friend to another, in gratitude, and the hope that it would keep you warm this winter.”

Kicker refused to look at Miss Bristow, but she heard sadness in the teacher’s voice. Frien’, eh? Some frien’.

“Kicker? Kicker, please look at me.”

Kicker studied the floor as if she had never seen it before.

With a sigh, Miss Bristow knelt in front of her. Kicker wanted to throw off the hands that came to rest on her knees, but all she could do was stare at them.

“Please, Kicker. It is apparent that you are deeply angry with me, but I have no idea why. I never meant to offend you with my gift; it came from my heart. I do apologize if it seemed any other way.”

Gentle fingers tilted Kicker’s face up. Miss Bristow’s concerned face swam in front of Kicker’s tear filled eyes.

“Oh, Kicker, what is it? What have I done to upset you so? Please tell me. I cannot make things better between us if you refuse to speak, and I do so want to restore our friendship.”

Kicker blurted angrily, “Frien’ship? What kinda frien’ jus’ don’ show up when she says she will?”

“But, I told you in my note that I would be unable to make our rendezvous today and wished to reschedule for tomorrow. Didn’t you see my message? I set it right on top of the coat. I was sure you wouldn’t miss it.”

Kicker knew the moment Miss Bristow spied the square of paper sticking out from under her pillow. She blushed furiously. Bless’d Jesus. Bad ’nuff I couldn’t read it. Now she’ll know I kep’ it close anyway.She’ll think...

Before Kicker could decide what Miss Bristow would think, the teacher extracted the note and stared at it. Unable to bear what might be reflected on Miss Bristow’s face, Kicker tried to look away.

Gentle hands stopped her, cupping her face. Eyes bright with emotion met hers. “I’m a fool. I never thought—I’m so, so sorry.” Soft fingers brushed away Kicker’s tears of shame. “You couldn’t read my note, could you?”

Kicker shook her head wordlessly.

Miss Bristow rose and sat down on the bed. She took one of Kicker’s hands and patted it comfortingly. “The fault is entirely mine. I hope you will forgive me for being so obtuse.”

“I’m not stupid; I jus’ ne’er liked school.”

“Heavens, I never once thought you witless. However, you also never had the advantage of my being your teacher.” Miss Bristow slid an arm around Kicker’s shoulders and hugged her. “I shall teach you, my dear. After all, it is only fair. You have given me a gift of immeasurable value. Allow me to return the favour and initiate you into the beautiful universe of words. Please?”

Kicker blanched. She had loathed the dark, musty, village schoolhouse dominated by a teacher who wielded his thick, leather strap with an unstinting hand. Kicker escaped at every opportunity, despite the punishment she knew would await her unwilling return. Finally her father had stepped in and gruffly ordered that Kicker be allowed to spend her days helping him, rather than be subjected to fruitless attempts to expand her rudimentary education.

Without giving Kicker a chance to object, Miss Bristow continued. “I promise, I’ll make the whole process painless. You’ll see. Not to be immodest, but I’m almost as good a teacher as you are.”

Miss Bristow smiled, and this time Kicker met her gaze. She was acutely aware of their bodies touching and the teacher’s arm around her shoulders.

It was unthinkable to do anything but agree to as much time as possible in this woman’s presence.

Kicker nodded her agreement.

“Cook, may I thank you again for allowing Kicker and me the use of your kitchen? It’s been such a boon during these cold months, and I do believe I far prefer teaching here to my classroom.”

Kicker hid a grin. She knew that Cook had succumbed as readily to Miss Bristow’s charms as she had, and would have granted her the run of the whole kitchen if the teacher had asked. As it was, this warm corner, tucked away from the whirl of activity in the rest of the kitchen, had become Kicker’s favourite spot in the Academy. Here, the winter months had seen her literacy skills expand by leaps and bounds under Miss Bristow’s attentive tutelage.

I ne’er thought learnin’ would be so… pleasant.

Cook set cups of tea in front of the teacher and her faithful student. “Guess wi’ the weather turnin’ nice agin, ye’ll be back out in the gardens soon, eh?”

“Thank you, Cook. Yes, it was so lovely today that I almost suggested we take our lessons and go riding.” Miss Bristow looked at Kicker over the rim of the steaming cup. “You’ve a half-day tomorrow, don’t you? How would it be if I pack our books and we take Banner and Cherry out for a ride?”

“I could sen’ ye wi’ a picnic, if ye wan’.”

“Why, thank you, Cook. That would be lovely. Kicker, what do you say?”

Kicker had planned to ride Banner over to see Adam and his family, as she had not seen them in two months, but she did not hesitate. “Aye, twould be nice.” I’ll go see Adam nex’ week.

The following afternoon, Kicker waited at the stables with Cook’s bountiful picnic basket and a blanket both tied to Cherry’s saddle. Miss Bristow was prompt, and graciously insisted that Kicker ride Banner. Without discussion, they headed directly for a clearing by the river that had become their favourite spot to stop a while and talk.

By the time they reached the clearing, Kicker found she was unaccountably nervous. She was not unprepared for her lessons. In the five months since Miss Bristow began tutoring her, Kicker had often fallen asleep after a hard day’s work with a book on her chest or her slate close at hand. But after she released the horses to graze, Kicker saw her hands shake as she spread the blanket on the grass.

When she took her seat next to Miss Bristow, she thrust her hands under her thighs to conceal their trembling. There was nothing she could do about her shortened breath, except to hope that her teacher did not notice.

Miss Bristow extracted the book they had been working on, and opened it to a page she had already marked. “So, where did we leave off yesterday?”

“You were talkin’ about poetry.”

“That’s right, I was. Lord Byron, to be precise. Let me read you a passage, and then we’ll discuss it.” Miss Bristow’s eyes barely glanced at the page as she began to recite.

Her rapt audience almost missed the meaning of the verse because of the way the teacher’s soft, husky voice caressed the evocative words.

And on that cheek, and o’er that brow,

So soft, so calm, yet eloquent,

The smiles that win, the tints that glow

But tell of days in goodness spent,

A mind at peace with all below,

A heart whose love is innocent!

Kicker felt that she could drown in the eyes fixed so intently on her own. Bless’d Jesus.What am I doin’? She fought a wave of excitement and panic so intense that she feared she might swoon at the teacher’s feet.

When Miss Bristow paused and looked inquiringly at Kicker, it was all she could do to speak. Clearing her throat once, then again, she asked, “Could you read it one more time, please?”

With an enigmatic smile, Miss Bristow read the passage again. The last line echoed in Kicker’s mind, and the rest of the afternoon’s lessons were lost in one overwhelming question. Did she pick this one special for me? Is she tryin’ to tell me—

At which point Kicker rejected the question as nonsense, and tried to focus on the lessons, and later, the picnic. When the afternoon ended, Kicker was as exhausted as if she had worked a fifteen hour day. For the first time, it was more a relief than a disappointment to return to the stable.

Thankfully Cook had packed an expansive lunch for the two, so Kicker skipped dinner and retired to her room. She had a lot to think about.

A week later on her half-day, Kicker rode over to visit her brother and his growing family. Adam took her for a walk in the fields behind his small cottage. They hadn’t gone far before he began to gently chide her.

“So, little sister, why is’t you’ve not been to see any of us in more’n two months? I know how close you’ve gotten to your Academy frien’s o’er the years, but you got blood family cares ’bout you too. You’re getting’ more and more nieces and nephews all’a time, an’ you don’ e’en know half of ’em.”

Kicker looked up indignantly to see a half-grin on his bearded face, and she elbowed him. “Not true. It ain’ bin that long.”

“Has too. Young Jeremiah was just gone four when you las’ came by.”

Kicker thought about that as she automatically quickened her step to keep up with her brother’s long stride. Tis bin that long? Ruefully she had to admit that it had. Kicker spent her half-days with Miss Bristow, if the teacher requested her presence. Lately it seemed that the dedicated teacher was eager to get all the time possible with Kicker to devote to lessons. It was purely guilt that had led Kicker to excuse herself today. She knew it had been too long since she had seen her family.

“I guess I kinda los’ track of time. Sometimes, I can barely believe so many years have passed since I lef’ here. Seems like twere jus’ yesterday, but here’s both of us long grown and gone from Da’s hearth.”

Kicker was unwilling to confess, even to Adam, that in these halcyon days nothing held more importance than spending every possible moment with her lovely teacher. “I’ll try to do better, honest.”

Adam stopped and turned to face her but Kicker refused to meet his eyes and toed the dirt. “’Fess up. What’s goin’ on?” When Kicker remained silent, a surprised, then delighted look came over Adam’s face. “Kicker! Did you meet someone? Has someone finally stolen your heart?”

“No. Of course not.” Kicker was dismayed at the thought of having her feelings for Miss Bristow hauled into the harsh light of day. This was Adam, who had loved and protected her for as long as she could remember, but even so, she couldn’t share this with him.

Adam regarded her quietly, then turned to resume their walk. After a long silence, he spoke softly, his voice troubled. “Tis a’right, you know. I mean if there was some... someone. Jus’...be really careful, a’right? Tis prob’ly not somethin’ you should talk about anyway. Not e’eryone would understan’, you know?”

Kicker nodded mutely, and was deeply grateful when he changed the subject. For the rest of their walk, they discussed their youngest brother Brian’s flight from the family home to join his two eldest brothers in the army. Later that day, when Kicker rode Banner back to the Academy, she finally allowed herself to contemplate what Adam said. Would he be shocked if I tol’ him how I feel for Miss Bristow? Kicker shook her head in confusion. What do I feel?

She did not know how to define their relationship. What Kicker did know was that the class gulf between teacher and stable hand was sharply defined and never to be crossed. Their unlikely friendship was tolerated only because Miss Bristow was regarded as something of a harmless eccentric. She was a talented and popular teacher, but one with an unusual fascination for riding that Kicker facilitated on demand.

Kicker did not dare to aspire to more than what they already had. She never sought Miss Bristow out between their scheduled lessons, though it was not unusual for the teacher to stroll down to the stables at unexpected times. Kicker would often look up from grooming Banner or one of her other charges, to find Miss Bristow watching her from just inside the stable door. Sometimes they would speak, and sometimes Miss Bristow would simply give her an inscrutable smile and go on her way.

Kicker knew the teacher was fond of her. Many times Miss Bristow had urged Kicker to call her by her Christian name when they were alone. But fearful of forgetting her place in front of others, Kicker had not allowed herself to do so, though she often rolled the lovely name over in her mind in the solitude of her bed.

Madelyn. Madelyn Elizabeth. Madelyn Elizabeth Bristow.

One day, Kicker had been too busy to go to the kitchen for lunch. Though she’d known Cook would bend the kitchen rules for her, she hadn’t wanted to put her friend in a difficult position. So instead, Kicker had done something she’d tried to work her nerve up to do for weeks. Nervously, she’d made her way toward the academic wing. She’d known Miss Bristow conducted afternoon class on seventeenth century literature at this time, and which classroom her teacher would be using.

Kicker had become such an integral part of the school support system over the years that no one questioned her presence anywhere on the grounds. Still, she could not help feeling profoundly guilty about what she was about to do. And if she were stopped for any reason, Kicker had been certain her face would clearly broadcast her feelings. Much to her chagrin, it always did.

Kicker had reached a grove of trees and glanced around. There had been no one in the immediate area, so she’d quickly shinnied up an ancient oak tree. She’d settled herself on a branch and looked around. It was as she had hoped—a perfect place for her purposes. No one would be able to detect her presence, but she could see directly into Miss Bristow’s second floor classroom. Though she had been too far away to hear anything, she could watch Miss Bristow’s animated lecture.

At one point, Miss Bristow had laughed heartily at something a student said, and Kicker felt her heart fill with emotion. She’s...beautiful. No, more than jus’ beautiful… she’s b’witchin’ like…enchantin’ e’en… She’d shaken her head in frustration. Words were so inadequate.

For weeks afterwards, Kicker had often taken her lunch break at that hour, until Cook chastised her for missing so many meals. Nervously, Kicker had recalled Adam’s warning, knowing she should be more careful. She’d made more frequent appearances in the kitchen from then on, but had been helpless against the powerful pull of the oak tree and Miss Bristow’s class.

Early May arrived, and with it Mr. Grindleshire’s only son, Merrick, came to make arrangements for the staff’s annual weekend in the city. The evening that Mr. Grindleshire the younger arrived, Miss Bristow was at the stable, inspecting the latest batch of kittens the stable cat had birthed.

“Ain’t they adorable?” Much to her delight, Kicker found that though there were eight kittens, she and Miss Bristow often ended up stroking the same one. Their fingers could not avoid the occasional accidental touch.

“They are indeed. Do you think—”

Whatever Miss Bristow had been about to say was lost in the commotion of a rider approaching fast and hard. Kicker jumped up from the hay and rushed to the stable door. She frowned as she saw who was galloping up the long, curving entrance road.

Kicker did not approve of Merrick Grindleshire, though she would never be so brash as to say so. The man rode horses hard, with little regard for their welfare. Kicker was only grateful that he never again requisitioned Banner after he’d been tossed by the big grey gelding a couple of years earlier. It had taken Old Thomas’ intervention with the senior Mr. Grindleshire to prevent Banner from being put down as incorrigible. Kicker never forgave the arrogant young man.

Cook reported that Merrick was overheard bragging about his intention to acquire a motor car. Kicker uttered a small prayer that he would do so soon, and spare the magnificent animals unlucky enough to fall into his hands.

Kicker brushed off the straw and walked quickly to the main house, well aware that Merrick would never deign to bring his mount down to the stable. He was more likely to simply abandon it where he dismounted, and it would be on Kicker’s head if the horse ended up amidst the flower gardens.

Miss Bristow fell into step beside her. “Who is our visitor?”

Kicker frowned as she noticed the curiosity with which the teacher regarded the new arrival. “That’s Mister Grindleshire’s son, Miss. I expect he’s come about the teachers’ trip to the city. Since he lives there mos’ of the time, his da makes him help with the staff weekend. Says tis good for the teachers’ morals or some such.”

A soft chuckle greeted her words. “I think it may well be their morale that is to be raised. Hopefully their morals are already in high order.”

Kicker scowled. She had worked hard to improve, but she knew her rough ways still needed a lot of refining. Worse, Miss Bristow seemed more interested in the stranger than in her injured feelings.

Merrick appeared to be reciprocally interested. After greeting his father, who had come out to meet him, the newcomer turned to wait for the approaching women, his eyes fixed on Miss Bristow.

Without a word, Kicker parted from the teacher and made her way to Merrick’s horse, which was still snorting hard from the exertion of their arrival. She ran her hands over the sweating flanks and listened to the conversation between the three.

The older man’s voice boomed cheerfully. “Ah, there you are, Miss Bristow. I want you to meet my son, just down from London for a visit. Miss Madelyn Bristow, this is my youngest child, Merrick. Merrick, Miss Bristow joined us last summer, and has established herself as an excellent teacher, as well as a very promising poet in her own right.”

“Enchanted, my dear Miss Bristow. It is truly a pleasure to meet you.”

Kicker clenched her teeth at the smooth, ingratiating voice.

“The pleasure is mine, Mr. Grindleshire. Are you down for long?”

“Well, I had not planned to be, but perhaps I may find reason to extend my visit. And please, call me Merrick.”

Kicker winced as she pictured the man’s unctuous smile. She glanced under the horse’s neck and saw Merrick still holding her teacher’s hand. As she watched, he drew Miss Bristow’s arm through his and guided her up the stairs.

Merrick’s buttery tones floated back to Kicker. “So tell me, Madelyn, if I may call you that, do you ever give readings of your poetry? I have quite a passion for verse myself. At one time, I fancied myself another Browning.”

Miss Bristow’s response was inaudible as the trio entered the front door. Kicker stood numbly and felt as if Banner had just kicked her in the stomach. Her beloved teacher had not even bade her goodnight.

Glowering, Kicker gathered the horse’s reins and led him to the stable. Her mind reeled at how casually she had been disregarded. Her heart was filled with a sense of betrayal, though her mind argued that she had no right to feel so.

Leading the horse first to the water trough, Kicker monitored his intake closely as she considered the man she could not help regarding as competition. I s’pose some might think him han’some enough. His hair is a’ready thin, though, an’ I don’ trust his eyes. They’re...shifty.

“From the cut of his vest, he’s bin eatin’ a bit too well these days, too.” Kicker emphatically pulled the horse away from the trough and scowled as she led him into the barn.

“Did you say somepin’, Kicker?” Old Thomas asked as he passed her by. She shook her head and began to unsaddle the tired animal.

“I see the lad is down from the city.” Old Thomas grinned and jerked his thumb up at the mansion. “That means the fillies will be tumblin’ all over themselves to catch ’is eye. Wisht he’d just pick one of ’em and settle down so we don’ have to go through this foolishness ever’ time the princeling comes back to the school. Whene’er his royal highness visits, they’re all atwitter up there, busy settin’ their caps to snare him.”

Along with the downstairs staff, Kicker had hung avidly on Cook’s tales of the younger Mr. Grindleshire’s legendary dalliances each time he visited. It had meant nothing more to her than a moment’s entertainment...until now.

Kicker curried the horse with vigorous strokes and let her mind stray to the unthinkable. Will she fall under his spell, questionable though it be? Surely not. Miss Bristow’s far too smart to be taken in. Tis not like she’s some callow girl to fall for a han’some face and good manners...is she? Kicker stopped with a horrified look on her face. What if she does fall for him? Will she marry an’ leave for the city?

Kicker had no experience with affairs of the heart, and her fears plagued her long after she bade Old Thomas goodnight. He headed for his cottage and his wife, and she took a seat on the top rail of the paddock fence.