somehow in the movement of her hips. A healthier-looking female
backside did not exist. And those breasts, now that he noticed, bobbled as she
kept pace – probably average-sized breasts, though on her long, thin rib cage
they looked … almost voluptuous. A skinny woman with a swinging backside and
breasts as round as peaches.
After a few minutes he said, "You're keeping up just fine,
hurt ankle or not." Nice hair, too, he thought, though some of her curls were
down. Her hat was askew – he decided not to tell her, because he liked it that
way.
"Yes, I am," the woman on his arm said cheerfully.
"Though my family would be full of cautions if they knew." She looked
down, watching her feet as she added, "My tonic went down with my
drawstring in the coach."
"Your tonic?"
"My medicine. It stimulates my circulation, the doctor
says." She laughed again, though a thread of worry ran through her
laughter before she rallied her good humor. "I suppose I must circulate on
my own now, hmm?"
Sam stared at her a minute, wondering how much to believe. He
asked, "So you live with your family, but you're a lady's maid?"
"Um – yes." She blinked at him, hesitated, then lied; it
was so obvious. "My parents are in service, too. At the same house."
He smiled, nicely he hoped. "The cook and gardener," he
proposed. Might as well make it easy on her.
Her eyes fixed on his, a troubled look, but then she nodded, a
single abrupt agreement. Either she didn't like lying or didn't like help with
it; she wasn't enjoying herself.
"So the cook and gardener give you a hard time about your
health?" he asked.
She made another quick nod.
"Really? Your family really worries?" Should he, he
wondered? How ill was she? And with what?
She nodded again, this time almost sadly. Resignation.
Sam felt his own smile falter. "You're worrying me."
Her light brown eyes widened as she looked up, turning them fully
on him. "Oh, no! There's no point. I'm sorry. I shouldn't have said."
She cleared her throat and looked straight ahead then, standing away from him a
little, marching off steps. Then he did worry, because, he could see, she was
trying to manufacture confidence in her next words: "I'll be fine,"
she said. As if by convincing him she could believe it herself. She was scared
to death.
"So what's wrong with you exactly?"
She shrugged. "I don't know. Nothing so far as anyone can
tell. My parents just think I shouldn't strain myself."
"What's wrong with your parents then?"
She laughed, taken aback – and delighted – with the notion, then
said, "Oh, they just fret. When I was little, I was sickly. To this day,
half the time, food doesn't agree with me. The air makes me sneeze. I'm careful
not to take too much exercise; the doctor says it's bad for me, and he's probably
right – I don't have the stamina for it. My family is, oh, rather watchful over
my health." She laughed. "While I try not to be. I think they make
more fuss than is good, but it's hard to fight them." She bowed her head.
"One of the reasons I came to Devon was to get
away from that. To feel … free, self-reliant for a few days. Though I have to
say—" She frowned, laughed, her giddy mixed feelings again as she rotated
her head to take in their austere surroundings. "This is a tad more
self-reliant than I had intended." She laughed again, this time at
herself. Very charmingly, he thought.
It was about then – they had been walking perhaps ten minutes –
when the two damned horses ahead of them lifted their heads, looked right at
them, then swung around and trotted off, one of them disappearing behind the
stand of rocks completely. The lone horse stopped at a new position, again as
far away as they had already come, and stared back at the two people following
him, as if an envoy sent to tell them, We horses want no part of the
creatures who brought us to these circumstances.
Sam and Mrs. Brown slowed. They approached more leisurely, less
obviously. But five minutes later, the one
backside did not exist. And those breasts, now that he noticed, bobbled as she
kept pace – probably average-sized breasts, though on her long, thin rib cage
they looked … almost voluptuous. A skinny woman with a swinging backside and
breasts as round as peaches.
After a few minutes he said, "You're keeping up just fine,
hurt ankle or not." Nice hair, too, he thought, though some of her curls were
down. Her hat was askew – he decided not to tell her, because he liked it that
way.
"Yes, I am," the woman on his arm said cheerfully.
"Though my family would be full of cautions if they knew." She looked
down, watching her feet as she added, "My tonic went down with my
drawstring in the coach."
"Your tonic?"
"My medicine. It stimulates my circulation, the doctor
says." She laughed again, though a thread of worry ran through her
laughter before she rallied her good humor. "I suppose I must circulate on
my own now, hmm?"
Sam stared at her a minute, wondering how much to believe. He
asked, "So you live with your family, but you're a lady's maid?"
"Um – yes." She blinked at him, hesitated, then lied; it
was so obvious. "My parents are in service, too. At the same house."
He smiled, nicely he hoped. "The cook and gardener," he
proposed. Might as well make it easy on her.
Her eyes fixed on his, a troubled look, but then she nodded, a
single abrupt agreement. Either she didn't like lying or didn't like help with
it; she wasn't enjoying herself.
"So the cook and gardener give you a hard time about your
health?" he asked.
She made another quick nod.
"Really? Your family really worries?" Should he, he
wondered? How ill was she? And with what?
She nodded again, this time almost sadly. Resignation.
Sam felt his own smile falter. "You're worrying me."
Her light brown eyes widened as she looked up, turning them fully
on him. "Oh, no! There's no point. I'm sorry. I shouldn't have said."
She cleared her throat and looked straight ahead then, standing away from him a
little, marching off steps. Then he did worry, because, he could see, she was
trying to manufacture confidence in her next words: "I'll be fine,"
she said. As if by convincing him she could believe it herself. She was scared
to death.
"So what's wrong with you exactly?"
She shrugged. "I don't know. Nothing so far as anyone can
tell. My parents just think I shouldn't strain myself."
"What's wrong with your parents then?"
She laughed, taken aback – and delighted – with the notion, then
said, "Oh, they just fret. When I was little, I was sickly. To this day,
half the time, food doesn't agree with me. The air makes me sneeze. I'm careful
not to take too much exercise; the doctor says it's bad for me, and he's probably
right – I don't have the stamina for it. My family is, oh, rather watchful over
my health." She laughed. "While I try not to be. I think they make
more fuss than is good, but it's hard to fight them." She bowed her head.
"One of the reasons I came to Devon was to get
away from that. To feel … free, self-reliant for a few days. Though I have to
say—" She frowned, laughed, her giddy mixed feelings again as she rotated
her head to take in their austere surroundings. "This is a tad more
self-reliant than I had intended." She laughed again, this time at
herself. Very charmingly, he thought.
It was about then – they had been walking perhaps ten minutes –
when the two damned horses ahead of them lifted their heads, looked right at
them, then swung around and trotted off, one of them disappearing behind the
stand of rocks completely. The lone horse stopped at a new position, again as
far away as they had already come, and stared back at the two people following
him, as if an envoy sent to tell them, We horses want no part of the
creatures who brought us to these circumstances.
Sam and Mrs. Brown slowed. They approached more leisurely, less
obviously. But five minutes later, the one
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