No Conventional Miss. Eleanor Webster

Amaryllis Gibson sat on the wooden swing that hung from the lowest limb of the chestnut tree. She scuffed her feet. This was her favourite spot on the estate. She liked the view of their solid red-brick house. She enjoyed the ramshackle shapes of the dairy, wash house and stable. She even appreciated the smell, a sweet mix of soap, grass and horses.

      But today, none of this helped. She poked the toe of her shabby black-buttoned boot into the earth.

      She’d woken with one of her feelings.

      Rilla hated her feelings. No, hatred would be a far preferable emotion. She feared them. They made goosebumps prickle her arms and her shoulders tense. She wanted to run or gallop, as though with enough speed she could escape from her own mind.

      Pushing the swing higher, she breathed deeply. Her petticoats billowed as she stretched too-long legs, gaining height and speed. Loose strands of hair tickled her face and the fields blurred.

      Briefly, her stomach lurched as she hung at the highest point, only to fly down in tumultuous descent. Momentum, it was called. Momentum fascinated her.

      Many improper things fascinated Rilla: Roman aqueducts, force, gravity, Sir Isaac Newton’s theories and her mechanised butter churn. Unfortunately, no one appreciated such items, and her water-powered churn had only succeeded in flooding the dairy.

      Rilla frowned. Of course, in London she’d have little time for her inventions. Proper ladies did not develop churns.

      Or flood dairies.

      Or have feelings.

      Sliding to a stop, Rilla jumped from the swing. Even thinking about London bothered her. She had no desire for the city with its meaningless social niceties and the constant pressure to find a husband, which was, of course, the one thing she must not do.

      How she’d always loved this tree. She liked its thick, sheltering canopy of green and the feeling of her own strength and invulnerability as she pulled herself, branch by branch, through its foliage. It was even the site of her first pulley. She could see it now, the wooden wheel and rope partially entangled within the twigs and leaves.

      Could she? Just once more? After all, the rope should be removed for safety’s sake. With a thrill of forbidden pleasure, she looked about the still garden and drive.

      Nothing and no one.

      Stepping forward, she touched the trunk. The bark was rough under her fingertips. She inhaled. The air smelled wonderful, of wood, and earth, and mushrooms.

      Scooping up the loose cloth of her skirt, she tucked it into the sash around her waist and grabbed the lowest branch. With strong, quick movements, she reached the pulley and, leaning forward, untangled the rope and tossed it to the ground below.

      Done. She exhaled, allowing herself a moment to relax in this world of green light and dappled sun. A late-spring breeze touched her cheeks and the leaves rustled.

      She would have stayed longer if she hadn’t heard the rhythmic clip-clop of a horse’s hooves. She stiffened. They seldom had guests, unless they were of the card-playing variety, but Father had given that up two months since.

      Bending, she squinted through the leaves.

      A gentleman approached along their rutted drive. He stopped his horse under her tree and dismounted with elegant, long-limbed grace. He was tall and lean with hair so dark it looked black.

      Then it came.

      The sensation was of loss and pain so intense her world spun. Branches and leaves joggled in a blur of green.

      Rilla gulped for air.

      The world turned dark, as though night had descended.

      Dimly she saw a lake, ink black and spattered with raindrops. She was cold. So cold her fingers numbed and her grip loosened. She reached out, snatching a twig. She missed and, with a cry, fell through the sharp, splintering branches to the ground below.

      She landed with a jarring jolt and gasped in shock and pain.

      ‘What—? Miss, are you all right?’ The voice came as from a distance.

      She opened her eyes. Daylight reappeared.

      A man bent over her, a man different than any she had met before. The straight dark brows, unyielding jaw and mouth gave her the confused impression of harsh strength. Briefly, his stark silhouette seemed mythical—Hades searching for Persephone.

      ‘Are you hurt?’ he asked again. ‘Let me move the horse away.’

      The prosaic words shattered the illusion.

      ‘I’m fine, I think.’ She sat up.

      He crouched beside her, putting out his hand. ‘Can you stand? Let me help.’

      His grasp was strong, his fingers long and firm. Her stomach tightened and she felt a pulse of something akin to fear, yet not. Their gazes met and she felt a narrowing of focus that made the horse, the tree and the solid brick outline of their house inconsequential.

      She jerked back, scrambling to stand. ‘Who are you? Why are you here?’

      ‘Lord Wyburn. I came to visit Sir George Gibson.’ He stepped back, watching her closely. ‘You are Miss Gibson?’

      Of course, Lady Wyburn had mentioned an overprotective stepson. But Rilla hadn’t imagined...

      ‘Sorry, I thought—’ She paused, inhaled, making a conscious effort to collect herself. ‘It’s a pleasure to meet you, Lord Wyburn.’

      ‘And you.’

      Her stomach tightened again, likely a natural reaction. The last thing she needed was for Father to get riled up or on his high horse. He’d hated the idea of accepting charity and she still worried he might gamble in some last-ditch effort to secure funds.

      ‘Miss Gibson, are you still dazed from your fall?’

      ‘No, not at all.’ Rilla jerked her attention back to her visitor. ‘I will get Thomas for your horse.’

      ‘Your father is in?’

      ‘Um—yes,’ she said and whistled for Thomas.

      The lad responded promptly, his eyes irritatingly wide at the sight of Wyburn and his mount. Bending, she picked up the remnants of her pulley and handed this also to the lad.

      With the horse under Thomas’s care, Rilla smoothed her dress, which she belatedly realised was still partially tucked up, and nodded towards the house.

      ‘This way, my lord.’

      * * *

      Paul walked alongside Miss Gibson, covertly assessing her as they neared the residence. Her fall from the tree had dishevelled her gown and dirtied her face, yet she exhibited no embarrassment.

      Indeed, had he been feeling charitable instead of irritated by his errand, he might have found her calm assurance impressive. She walked briskly, with confident strides. Everything about her tall physique spoke of energy and practicality of purpose which was good, he supposed. He had no tolerance for female moods. But he did not favour hoydens either.

      The house proved a pleasant building of Tudor origin with brick walls half-hidden in wisteria and punctuated by mullioned windows. But the family’s poverty could not be missed. He saw it in the overgrown shrubbery, the peeling strips of paint dangling from window frames and the haphazard appearance of loosened slates.

      The girl pushed open the door and Paul blinked as he stepped into the dimness of the hall after the brightness outside. No servant greeted them, nor did the girl seem to expect one. Instead, she took his hat and then removed her bonnet.

      He watched, briefly fascinated as her red hair escaped in a wild cascade of colour. Paul didn’t know if it was beautiful or ugly and, strangely, it didn’t matter. It had such life, such vibrancy.

      The goat girl all grown up.