.
Jo had expected to be less comfortable riding around in ladies’ clothing. She had ridden side-saddle before, her legs locked around the twin pommels of the saddle while a truly regrettable volume of black linen skirt was tucked around her hips. The split skirt provided an admirable solution, however, preserving her modesty as well as giving her a full range of motion.
As they rode through the brisk spring air, Jo could feel her spirits lifting a little. When she had been planning this trek in the frantic nights before she finally fled, she had thought it would be a terrible ordeal, running from pillar to post as she made her way to London as quickly as possible. At first, she supposed that it had been like that, but then she ran into James.
As they rode, she watched him out of the corner of her eye. He had struck her as a fop when they first met, a man who could barely tell the difference between wither and croup. There were no men like him in Yorkshire, she had thought that first day, but now she realized there were few men like him in all the world, who would help her deliver a mare of a skewed foal in a field and then come up with a story to keep her uncle's men off them.
As they rode today, however, there was something oddly dark and serious about the way he carried himself. When she could stand his silence no more around noon, Jo called for a stop close to a ruined abbey a short distance off the road. Clarine had seen to it that they left with some food in their bags, but even the sight of bread and cheese didn't seem to cheer James.
“Are you eventually going to tell me what's on your mind, or do you simply plan to stare at your food as if it has mortally offended you?”
James smiled a little at her remark, but to her surprise, he laid his food aside for the moment and turned to face her.
“Why do you think your uncle put up a picture of you as a boy rather than a girl? The men who were looking for you all knew that you were really a woman. Why wouldn't the wanted poster mention that?”
Jo blinked at James. “Why, because he doesn't want the family name dragged through the mud. I know they do things different in London, James, but in Yorkshire, it isn't quite the thing for the niece of the current marquess to run off with the finest horse in the stable and then make her way to London in the company of a man of varied reputation.”
Something about what she said made a dark look cross James face before it was gone, and he was looking at her seriously.
“Do you really think that's all it is, Jo?”
“What do you mean?”
“I agree that your uncle probably does not want to risk your reputation but think of what you are doing. If he doesn't get you back and soon, your reputation and by extension his, will be in shreds. And you may not like the idea of it very much, but he is most likely frantic to get Tempest back as well. Even if he has no interest in horseflesh, he cannot have missed the fact that you stole the finest horse from his stable.”
Jo reared back in offended anger. “Why do you keep saying that I stole Tempest? She is mine by right!”
James set a calming hand on her arm. If he had been nearly anyone else, it would have simply enraged her, but James’ touch was calming instead. She glared at him, but she didn't shout or storm off, both things she would have been inclined to do before she set off on this mad trip.
“I know she is yours. Anyone with good sense could see it in the way she responds to you and in the way you care for her. But... Jo, have you thought that your uncle might not be playing by the rules?”
“What are you talking about?”
“I have a few guesses and most of them are likely wrong, but there is something wrong with the fact that he did not put an accurate picture of you on that wanted poster.”
Jo looked at James uncertainly. “What are you getting at? I don't understand.”
“It is in his best interest to find you as soon as he can, however he can. That makes sense. His reputation is on the line, as is yours. So perhaps he could present you as a maid who had run away, or something else. No need to reveal your true name and rank, after all. So why doesn't he?”
“I think you are giving my uncle too much credit.” Jo tried to smile, but it was hard. “I don't think it's something that we need to worry about, after all, not right now.”
Instead of dropping it as she had hoped he would, James gave her an irritated look. “I'm saying that your uncle might have some sinister motives in mind.”
Jo laughed. “You're only saying that because you have never met Uncle Francis. The man certainly has many stubborn bones and many bones that pay more attention to his ledgers than to his heart or mind, but he hasn't got a sinister bone in his body.”
I'm not sure he's smart enough to have one, she thought privately to herself, but James didn't necessarily need to know it.
“People get strange when inheritances are in the mix. I'm wondering if your uncle wants you found quickly for some darker reason.”
“Do you really think that my uncle would... what? Have me murdered? That's like something out of a Gothic.”
“And your optimism might get you killed if you are not careful. I know it seems that things never happen up here in Yorkshire—”
“That's not how I feel about Yorkshire at all, for the record.”
“The truth is that people do not really change, and what happens in London can happen in the smallest town in England, if only on a smaller scale.”
“Spit it out, James, what are you thinking?”
He looked as if he were pausing to gather himself, and then he let out a deep breath. After he had done that twice, he looked at her again. It struck her all over again how very clear and lovely his gray eyes were. It made her breath catch for just a moment, but then he started to speak.
“I'm saying that your uncle might be being less honest with you than he should be. Do you know where the best place in the world to buy a horse is?”
“Tattersall's in London.”
“So why isn't your uncle selling your father's horses there? Why isn't he selling matched teams and making enough money to do as he likes? Even if your father's horses were not as fine as Tempest, they would still fetch a pretty penny.”
Something about his words made a rill of cold run down Jo's spine. It was as if he had taken those strange and faint ghosts that troubled her when she slept and breathed something on them that made her able to see them properly.
The picture he painted was a dark one, so dark that Jo shook her head to clear it out.
"You're being ridiculous."
"Am I? You're the one who is running away from home because your uncle is selling your father's legacy out from underneath you."
"You don't understand. My uncle is not... a well-considered man. He is not someone who is as kind as he should be or as well-considered. But he's not some mustache-twirling villain from a story."
"He doesn't have to twirl a mustache or dress all in black to do selfish things."
"He's my family."
Tempest's ears went back at her sharp exclamation, and the mare fidgeted a little, forcing Jo to take the time to bring her back under control. In truth, she was grateful for the distraction. She knew her face was warm and there was a sick feeling in her stomach. She couldn't stop to think about what it meant.
"He sent men after you, and he had wanted posters printed up. Does that sound like what a normal family member does?"
There was something barbed about the way James was speaking now, a kind of urgency Jo didn't understand, and right then, understanding was the last thing she wanted to think about.
Once she had gotten Tempest back under control and walking along the track, she lifted her eyes to glare at James.
"And what do your family members have to say about what you're doing in the country?"
James glared at her. "What are you talking about?"
If she were someone else, that lowering tone might have driven her off. However, she was hardly some fluttering London girl used to sweet words wherever she turned. Instead, Jo straightened in the saddle and met James' eyes squarely.
"I mean, you never told me why you were in the country when the season is still going on. What are you running from? Does your family know where you are or care that you are banging around the north country?"
For a moment, it was as if James had been struck by lightning. He stared at her, his mouth open, and for the first time since James had brought up her uncle, Jo felt the haze of defensiveness and anger break, letting her feel regret for making anyone look at her like that, let alone James, who had been so kind to her.
"James, I'm—"
"My parents are dead," James said, his voice clipped. "I was their only child, and they died years ago. What they might think about my escapades in London, and what they might think of what I'm doing now, I cannot say. Is that what you wanted to hear?"
Jo bit her lip, because there was a part of her that did want to hear about James’ life. She did want to hear about who he was when he wasn't traveling the Yorkshire back roads, when he was in London, and what he had been like when he was a boy. She wanted to know more about him than she had ever wanted to know about any human being.
"I didn't mean to hurt you."
The look he gave her was chilling, at once superior and indifferent. "The fact that you think you ever could is insult enough."
For a moment, Jo felt like exactly what she was, a Yorkshire girl who knew more about horses and mucking out stalls than she did about dresses or dances. Her hems were muddy, and they weren't even her hems; they were borrowed clothes from a fine lady, and her cheeks colored a dull brick red.
There was an ugly kind of satisfaction in James’ eyes and something else there she could not read. He nudged Gunner a little ahead of her on the road, and when Tempest would have hurried to keep up, she reined the mare back slightly, shaking her head.
"We probably shouldn't be speaking to one another right now. Not if we can't be civil."
She stared at the back of James’ broad back a few lengths in front of her on the road, and she wondered what in the world was going through his mind. She wondered if he knew how sorry she was.
As the morning turned toward afternoon, her mind returned to what he had said, what he had implied about her uncle. It felt like handling a piece of pastry that had just come out of the oven. She couldn't hold it still to look at it. It was just too uncomfortable.
He's my family. He may be cold and indifferent, but Uncle Francis is the only family I have left.