Read The Rocking Horse: A Regency Novella for Free Online Page B

The wood spun around. Beside him stood a squat man with large square hands. Dust obscured the glasses on his red nose, so he looked over them in order to observe the marques' progress.
    "Easy, my lord. Not too much pressure. . . . Let it slide easily. . . . Yes, that's it, my lord. Very good!"
    A gust of wind came in through the open door, swirling sawdust into the air. Tarkington's eyes flickered upward. "Kindly close the door, Miss Maybrey. I am creating enough of this confounded dust without your stirring up more."
    Jocelyn blushed bright red but hurried to do as he requested. Then she came farther into the workshop to see what the marques was doing, her eyes darting about, taking in the unpainted carved horse lacking a tail, mane, rockers, and handle. It leaned against a wall, out of the way, a small rug tossed over its back, to protect it, Jocelyn presumed. Two rockers, shaped and sanded, were also propped against the wall. A pile of multicolored horse hair—likely culled from the tails and manes of estate horses—lay on a nearby table. Hanging from a peg on the wall was a small leather bridle and two small stirrups with leather straps attached.
    To her amazement Jocelyn realized the truth. The marques was making a rocking horse for his daughter—and doing the work himself, not overseeing it. Somehow, though she'd been told he was doing the work, the idea of his total involvement had never penetrated her understanding. She'd never known any nobleman to labor in this manner.
    She stood agog. She was delighted!
    It appeared that Tarkington now worked on the handle destined to be inserted in the horse's head.
    "So what brings Miss Maybrey to a carpenter's workshop? Are you slumming, Miss Maybrey, or did you have some purpose?"
    His caustic tone distressed Jocelyn for a moment. She'd not thought that to be his normal manner. Perhaps he just did not care to be caught at his manual labor? Or had she disturbed his concentration?
    "My lord, the countess wishes you to know that Mrs. Bayne is joining us for dinner."
    "Bound to happen."
    "At five o'clock."
    "Five!" The device faltered in its rhythm. "But it wants but four now!"
    "Careful, my lord!" implored the carpenter.
    The marques released the treadle, stopped the lathe from turning, and stepped back. "No. I cannot do more." He scowled at the wood, though Jocelyn knew his scowl was more for the information she gave.
    "It is my fault."
    Tarkington looked up. "How do you deduce that?"
    Jocelyn colored again. "It is because of Mr. Bayne's interest. I presume I'm to be examined like a horse at a fair: good teeth, sound of limb, no sway back or jarring paces."
    The marques laughed loudly, which brought out the light Jocelyn had come to look for in his eyes. "For someone who does not ride much herself, you have an understanding of the nature of horses."
    She shrugged. "I'm a good listener."
    He studied her a moment. "Yes," he said slowly, "I believe you would be. . . . But, Miss Maybrey," he continued in a brisk fashion, "I shall never be able to finish this rocking horse before Christmas if I am continually interrupted!"
    Jocelyn cocked her head. "Why not? From what I've seen, you have enough craftsmen. Together could they not make the toy in a day?"
    Tarkington turned away, the set of his shoulders speaking eloquently of his disappointment in her response. Jocelyn clasped her hands together, not clearly understanding what she said that again had him turning from her in a cold manner.
    "Why can I not make my family, my peers, understand? What have we as a society become? A clamor of vain fribbles that must have everything done for us? Can we not enjoy laboring for others? Or is this some damned sin against society?" he railed.
    "I beg your pardon, my lord?" Too late Jocelyn heard the shrill self-righteousness in her own voice.
    Tarkington's face became still and coldly empty of expression. She might as well have just received a direct cut at the most fashionable social event of