To hell with angels, she wanted to be known for her competence. She didn’t mind a challenge, in fact, she thrived on them. Why was it that all men wanted to see was what they could see? Didn’t anyone want to look deeper?
Attend to your hair. Check your posture. Back straight. Head still. Don’t laugh too loud. Don’t smile too big.
And though it was never explicitly said,never, ever be better than your husband.With that mandate, Margaret interpreted it to mean she had to find a very competent husband.
Margaret watched Henry pull out the saddle for Wildfire, her sorrel.
“Looks like a good day to ride. Not too cold, not too hot.” Henry idly chatted.
“Yes, we are having fine weather.”
“Perfect weather for riding. Seems like everyone is in need of the exercise today.”
“Oh?”
“Ya, both of your houseguests came here this morning. First Mr Fairfax and then the duke. He was just here. Too bad you missed His Grace just a few minutes ago. Not sure he knew where he was riding to this morning. Seemed as though he might have got himself lost with how long his ride was.”
“Oh? He was just here then. I hope he enjoyed his ride.” Margaret attempted nonchalance. Not her strong suit, “What was he planning to do after his ride?”
“Oh this and that.” She couldn’t be sure, but she thought Henry was toying with her.
“Any specific category of ‘this’ or ‘that’ mentioned?”
He winked. “Now that you mention categories, he did say that he was going to do some shooting practice. Not sure if he remembers how to shoot a gun.” He chuckled to himself. “Hope he doesn’t blow his foot off, he’s got enough on his mind.” He scratched his head, and mumbled, “Or maybe not enough.”
Forgetting decorum, she lightly whacked her thigh with the palm of her hand, “Forget the saddle, Henry. I’m going shooting.”
What better way to face the man than with pistols present? Guns blazing and all.
JONATHAN STOOD SILENTLY EYEING the target twenty paces in front of him. There was not a sound. Even the birds were quiet. There was no movement in the trees or the clouds. It was fitting that the sky was a dismal gray blanket and the air was stale.
He eyed the pistol in his hand and ran his thumb over the polished wooden handle and brass plating. How did he know it was a double barrel flintlock? Why did it feel natural in his hands?Must be the army, he told himself.
He had decided to take Lyle’s advice, so for the morning he went for a ride and was now channeling his energy into shooting practice, the first of his working memory. Yet, it didn’t feel like the first.
He remembered Glaston fondly, or mostly. Of course, there were headaches, pain, dizziness, and slow progress in the beginning. It was all enough to deter him from putting any efforts into investigating himself. And then he had started to build a bit of a life with Dr. Walker, and it didn’t feel pressing to search.
“You still a crack shot?” The question came with a breeze, dispersing his clouded thoughts. Clad in a crimson riding habit, with blonde wisps prancing against her neck, Jonathan held his breath. Light. Energy. Movement. It all emanated from her without effort. Yet, he could somehow inexplicably feel that she was holding something back. Despite that, she brought with her the full force of life and energy, stirring every cell in his body. To do what, he didn’t want to know. But she was Aphrodite and Athena rolled into one.
“I’m not sure.” His gaze stole back down to the pistol in hand. “I don’t actually remember ever shooting one of these.”
Margaret took a step back, hands up. Jonathan laughed softly, “Although I don’t think you have any cause for concern, I can make no promises.” He stood tall, and then tilted his head, “Are you still… a crack shot? Or whatever you were?”
Margaret grinned. If before she emanated light, energy, and movement, now she released the stars. He felt like he knew that glittering smile, that somewhere in the recesses of his mind, he had seen it before. But of course he had. They had all been friends, so he’s been told. He had probably seen it a million times. It meant nothing.
“I’m just hopeful each shot can hit the target at all,” she said.
Knowing nothing about the woman in front of him, he could still read that she was playing coy. He wasn’t sure what game she was playing or why, but he knew the game. “Of that, I doubt.”
Her eyes questioned him.
“I doubt you’re particularlyhopefulof anything. I’m sure you simplyknow. And I’m also sure you’ll hit dead center.”
She began a steady pace toward him. He froze. Even though he had already predicted that she couldn’t walk away from a challenge. The closer she got to him, the more his body buzzed with her energy, and when her fingers grazed his as she took the pistol from his hand, he felt lightning shoot up his arm.
What was it about this woman? Was she the reason he had found himself remembering the name Chatsworth?
BANG! He didn’t have time to ponder any further.
