With a smile, she held out her hand. Gervase shook it, then went with her down the steps to the forecourt, where her horse, a tall, powerful chestnut few other women could hope to control, waited, alert and ready to run.
Lifting her hat, she settled it on her head, then reached for the front of her saddle. Gervase held the horse’s bridle, watching without a blink as Madeline planted her boot in the stirrup and swung up to the horse’s broad back.
She always rode astride, wearing trousers beneath her skirts for the purpose. Given the miles she covered every day watching over her brother’s interests, not even the most censorious dowager considered the fact worth mentioning.
Madeline lifted her reins. With a smile and a brisk salute, she backed the chestnut, then wheeled and trotted neatly out of the walled forecourt.
Gervase watched her go, idly aware that her peers in the district were the other male landowners; in their councils, she was never treated as a female—as someone of different status from the men. While no one would actually treat her as a man—thump her on the back or offer her brandy—she occupied a unique position.
Because, in many ways, she was unique.
Thinking of his sisters, Gervase considered that a little of Madeline’s uniqueness could, with benefit, rub off on them. Turning back to the castle, he remounted the front steps. And turned his mind back to his temper…only to discover that it was no longer straining at the leash.
He no longer had anything to suppress. He felt calm, in control once more, confident and able to deal with whatever might come his way.
His conversation with Madeline—sane, sensible and rational—had regrounded him. Why couldn’t his sisters be more like her?
Or was that one of those things he should be wary of wishing for?
He was still pondering that point when he reached the drawing room. Opening the door, he walked in.
Belinda, Annabel and Jane turned from the window overlooking the forecourt, through which they’d obviously been observing him and Madeline. Sybil, swiveled on the chaise, had been watching her daughters, no doubt listening to their report.
Before he could frown at them, all four looked at him, their expressions identical, eager and expectant.
He stared at them. “What?”
As one, they stared back.
“We thought perhaps you might invite her in,” Belinda said.
“Madeline? Why?”
The look they bent on him s
uggested they were wondering where he’d left his wits.
When he didn’t spontaneously find them, Belinda deigned to help. “Madeline. Isn’t she a suitable lady?”
He stared at them, and couldn’t think of an answer. Not any answer he wanted to give. Oaths, he suspected, wouldn’t shock them.
He let his face harden, let his most impenetrable mask settle into place. “I have to go and unjam the mill. I’ll speak with you later.”
Without another word, he swung around and stalked out.
That evening, Gervase entered his library-cum-study and headed directly for the tantalus. As he poured himself a brandy, the latter events of the day scrolled through his mind.
Reaching the mill, he’d discovered the frustrated miller about to commence the laborious task of dismantling the grinding mechanism to see why “the damned thing won’t budge.” Asking him to wait, Gervase had gone outside to where the huge waterwheel sat unmoving in the narrow stream. His sisters knew nothing about gears and axles; there was no evidence they’d even entered the mill. Whatever they’d done to cripple the mechanism had been simple and ingenious—and something three schoolgirls, two of decent height and strength, could physically achieve.
The stream had been bubbling and gurgling along, covering the lower third of the wheel. After squinting into the rippling water, Gervase had called the miller and his sons to lend a hand; they’d managed to turn the wheel—enough to expose the gaps where three paddle blades ought to have been, and the anchor, doubtless purloined from the castle boathouse, that had held the wheel so that the jostling of the stream hadn’t shifted it. With the three blades missing, the water rushed freely through the gap, providing no force to turn the big wheel.
John Miller had stared at the gaps, at the anchor, and had sworn.
They’d found the blades, which for ease of replacement simply slotted into grooves in the wheel’s inner sides, tucked out of sight among some bushes. A matter of minutes had seen the anchor removed and the blades replaced—and the millstone grinding once more.
His sisters’ latest misdeed righted, he’d returned to the castle and had closeted himself in the library until dinnertime.
He’d contributed little to the dinner table conversation; the few exchanges had been of a general nature, of local affairs and local people. No one, however, had mentioned Madeline Gascoigne.