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at once; her arm trembled against Jennie’s. Jennie told herself she was moved only by the masculine beauty of both horse and man, because they were products of nature, like breaking surf or the full moon.
    â€œMiss Hawthorne.” Lady Clarke named her, but forbiddingly. There was an implicit warning to Jennie not to get ideas. Captain Gilchrist was clearly marked for something better than the Highams’ poor relation.
    â€œMiss Hawthorne!” A courtly inclination of the golden head.
    She inclined her own head, trying for a remote, but possibly amused, dignity. Aunt Higham said, “My dear niece Eugenia is—”
    Lady Clarke rode over her like a Roman legion. “And Miss Higham.”
    â€œMiss Higham!”
    Charlotte was as rose-red as her pelerine; her lips moved without sound; she kept blinking, her fingers dug into Jennie’s arm.
    â€œAnd how does your mother do?” his great’ aunt asked him. He answered something, controlling the impatient horse with negligent one-handed ease. Jennie recovered her pride and refused to stare, though she wanted to. She observed her aunt and guessed that she had hoped for something like this when she had invited Lady Clarke to join them. She was watching the captain with a religious attention, no doubt trying to decide whether her duty was to her niece or to the hope that Captain Gilchrist would still be eligible in about three years. That hope was also naked in Charlotte’s eyes, as wide with wistful hunger as if she were ten and coveting a marzipan soldier in a shopwindow.
    He would make a rather lovely one, Jennie thought with deliberate contempt, breathing slowly to calm herself. Of course he was handsome, but take away the great horse and the splendors of gold braid, jackboots, red sash, and plumed hat, and what would he be?
    â€œWhat-what is the horse’s name?” Charlotte suddenly blurted.
    â€œVictor,” he said with a smile.
    Charlotte sank back, embarrassed by her daring but proud of it.
    â€œDo you ride, Miss Higham?” he asked her.
    â€œNot yet,” she answered in mortification.
    â€œDo you , Miss Hawthorne?”
    â€œYes,” she answered crisply. “But not here. At home.”
    â€œAnd where is home?” He sat at ease and spoke to her as if there were no one else present.
    Before she could answer, her aunt said, “It’s in London now. Brunswick Square.”
    â€œAh, but I detect a touch of the north.”
    â€œShe’ll lose that soon enough,” said her aunt, as if promising.
    â€œThat would be a pity,” he said.
    â€œYou would not believe how sought-after my grandnephew is.” Lady Clarke honked in arrogant warning. It really sounds better from a goose , Jennie thought. “He has hardly a moment to himself. It is quite dreadful sometimes, how he is pursued.”
    â€œCome now, Auntie!” He grinned. “I don’t see myself as a victim.” He turned to Jennie. “Could you not ride here if you chose?”
    â€œShe may ride,” Aunt Higham said rapidly. “It is only that Mr. Higham does not keep saddle horses.”
    â€œI know a fine little mare she might go on, Victor’s sister. Victor would like her company through the park, wouldn’t you, my boy?” The horse tossed his head and snorted.
    Lady Clarke had a violent coughing spell. She became purple, and her eyes spilled water over her cheeks, making streaks through their vivid color. Aunt Higham was frightened. Charlotte stared in horror; the captain looking down like the sun at noon seemed merely interested and possibly amused. Finally the whooping gasps grew less, and Lady Clarke flapped a hand at Victor.
    â€œTake the great beast away,” she panted. “He brought it on . . . I can never be this close to a horse for long without having a choking fit . . . even as a child. Go away , Nigel, do! This instant, or you’ll have my death on your