Loving Rose: The Redemption of Malcolm Sinclair (Casebook of Barnaby Adair) by Stephanie Laurens Page A
Authors: Stephanie Laurens
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day.
While the children finished eating, then helped her clear and clean, she replayed her conversation with Glendower.
There was, she acknowledged, a chance that he would realize their truth, or at least see through some part of their disguise. He was certainly observant and, she judged, intelligent enough. Piercingly intelligent; she could see that in his eyes, and it was more than enough to make her wary.
She and the children could leave before he had a chance to learn too much, but, against that, she and the children were settled and comfortable there, and, despite all, her instincts continued to tell her that she had no reason to fear him—no reason to suppose that, even if he knew all, he would wish them any harm.
And he had voluntarily lived in a monastery for the last five years; presumably he had a healthy notion of right and wrong, of good and evil.
With the dishes dried and stored, she turned to the children and smiled at their bright faces. For them, still, each day was an adventure. “Come along, then.” She reached out to stroke their shiny heads. “Let’s get you started with your lessons.”
Until she had some reason to decide otherwise, they would go on as they had been, but, regardless of her instincts, she would remain on guard.
T wo hours later, armed with his requested lists, Thomas made his halting way to the stables. The neat brick structure at the end of the drive appeared in good order; he suspected that ensuring that order was one of Homer’s chores.
Pulling open the wooden door, Thomas limped inside and paused in the central aisle to take stock. His gray was placidly, but expectantly, eyeing him from the stall closest to the door. The next stall housed a smaller horse, little more than a pony, no doubt used for drawing the light trap that sat at the rear of the stable. The third stall was currently empty, its winter occupant no doubt the cow he’d seen cropping grass in the small field beyond the manor’s back garden. The side of the stable opposite the stalls was piled high with bales of straw and hay, and several bags of grain.
Noting the tack area just inside the door, Thomas crossed to where his saddle sat atop a wooden horse. Collecting the saddle in one arm, he lifted bridle and reins from a peg, then went to saddle the gray.
He was just settling the saddle across the gray’s broad back when a clatter of rushing footsteps approached, then Homer came racing through the door. He skidded to a halt facing Thomas and the gray.
The gray snorted. Thomas grinned.
Eyes wide, Homer blurted, “Ma sent me to help you.” Straightening, he blinked. “But you’ve managed it all yourself.”
“Indeed.” Balancing against the horse’s side, Thomas expertly cinched the girth. “As you can see, I’m perfectly capable of performing such tasks.” He glanced at Homer; the boy appeared faintly crestfallen. “But please thank your mother for the kind thought, and thank you for rushing out here to help.”
Homer brightened. “Oh, I was happy to.” Approaching the gray’s head, he patted the long nose. “It meant I could come outside for a spell.”
Thomas inwardly frowned. Settling the reins, he asked, “How old are you?” He’d been careful not to ask too many questions, even the obvious ones, last night, not in front of the still suspicious and watchful Mrs. Sheridan.
“Nine,” Homer readily volunteered. “Pippin’s only six.”
Thomas hesitated, then asked, “Why is it you’re not attending school? If I remember correctly, there’s a village school not far away, just this side of Breage.”
Unperturbed, Homer nodded. “Ma schools us. She gets books when we go into Helston or Exeter.” He shrugged. “It’s been all right, I suppose, but . . .” He grimaced. “I’m sure I could learn more—things like geography, and more Latin, and history, too. Even arithmetic. I’m as good as Ma at that already. And I would love to learn astronomy—about the planets and
While the children finished eating, then helped her clear and clean, she replayed her conversation with Glendower.
There was, she acknowledged, a chance that he would realize their truth, or at least see through some part of their disguise. He was certainly observant and, she judged, intelligent enough. Piercingly intelligent; she could see that in his eyes, and it was more than enough to make her wary.
She and the children could leave before he had a chance to learn too much, but, against that, she and the children were settled and comfortable there, and, despite all, her instincts continued to tell her that she had no reason to fear him—no reason to suppose that, even if he knew all, he would wish them any harm.
And he had voluntarily lived in a monastery for the last five years; presumably he had a healthy notion of right and wrong, of good and evil.
With the dishes dried and stored, she turned to the children and smiled at their bright faces. For them, still, each day was an adventure. “Come along, then.” She reached out to stroke their shiny heads. “Let’s get you started with your lessons.”
Until she had some reason to decide otherwise, they would go on as they had been, but, regardless of her instincts, she would remain on guard.
T wo hours later, armed with his requested lists, Thomas made his halting way to the stables. The neat brick structure at the end of the drive appeared in good order; he suspected that ensuring that order was one of Homer’s chores.
Pulling open the wooden door, Thomas limped inside and paused in the central aisle to take stock. His gray was placidly, but expectantly, eyeing him from the stall closest to the door. The next stall housed a smaller horse, little more than a pony, no doubt used for drawing the light trap that sat at the rear of the stable. The third stall was currently empty, its winter occupant no doubt the cow he’d seen cropping grass in the small field beyond the manor’s back garden. The side of the stable opposite the stalls was piled high with bales of straw and hay, and several bags of grain.
Noting the tack area just inside the door, Thomas crossed to where his saddle sat atop a wooden horse. Collecting the saddle in one arm, he lifted bridle and reins from a peg, then went to saddle the gray.
He was just settling the saddle across the gray’s broad back when a clatter of rushing footsteps approached, then Homer came racing through the door. He skidded to a halt facing Thomas and the gray.
The gray snorted. Thomas grinned.
Eyes wide, Homer blurted, “Ma sent me to help you.” Straightening, he blinked. “But you’ve managed it all yourself.”
“Indeed.” Balancing against the horse’s side, Thomas expertly cinched the girth. “As you can see, I’m perfectly capable of performing such tasks.” He glanced at Homer; the boy appeared faintly crestfallen. “But please thank your mother for the kind thought, and thank you for rushing out here to help.”
Homer brightened. “Oh, I was happy to.” Approaching the gray’s head, he patted the long nose. “It meant I could come outside for a spell.”
Thomas inwardly frowned. Settling the reins, he asked, “How old are you?” He’d been careful not to ask too many questions, even the obvious ones, last night, not in front of the still suspicious and watchful Mrs. Sheridan.
“Nine,” Homer readily volunteered. “Pippin’s only six.”
Thomas hesitated, then asked, “Why is it you’re not attending school? If I remember correctly, there’s a village school not far away, just this side of Breage.”
Unperturbed, Homer nodded. “Ma schools us. She gets books when we go into Helston or Exeter.” He shrugged. “It’s been all right, I suppose, but . . .” He grimaced. “I’m sure I could learn more—things like geography, and more Latin, and history, too. Even arithmetic. I’m as good as Ma at that already. And I would love to learn astronomy—about the planets and
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