Free Minor Indiscretions by Bárbara Metzger Page B

exercised in too long a time, down muddy roadways and up mired country lanes. He got lost twice and almost unseated once, to the detriment of his temper. At last he spotted a gravel drive, as per his directions, flanked by two stone columns with acorns carved in them. Original, he thought sarcastically, prepared to find nothing pleasing about this place. He was not disappointed.
    The drive was rutted and weed choked under a canopy of ancient oaks. Last year's leaves formed a slippery roadbed of muck in places, and this year's leaves dripped water off Coe's beaver hat and down his collar. He hated it.
    Caesar, meanwhile, hated sudden noises and small, darting creatures. So when the pig jumped out from the underbrush, and the grubby child darted after it inches from the huge stallion's nose, Lord Coe suddenly found himself seated in that same leaf-mold sludge. Corey held his breath and checked his ribs, while high-pitched voices chattered out of sight like monkeys in trees, for all the words he could distinguish. Only Lord Coe's dignity was injured, which the back of his fawn trousers would advertise nicely, thank you. Well, he wasn't turning back. He remounted and kept Caesar on a much tighter rein, swearing the benighted horse was laughing at him.
    The drive ended, at last, at a large stone house set in an untended clearing. The windows were grimy, the steps hadn't been swept, and no one came to hold his horse.
    "Hallo, the house!" he called, notifying the butler to send one of his minions. No one came. Corey could not very well leave Caesar standing untended, not with misplaced children and livestock popping up anywhere. "Hell and damnation."
    "I say, sir, would you like me to hold your horse?"
    Corey saw two boys dash toward the house. The speaker, a dark-haired, ruddy-faced lad with his knees muddied and his shirt untucked, was already fearlessly rubbing Caesar's nose. "He's a prime goer, I'll bet," the boy said, adding on another hurried breath, "I'm Harry, that's Pip." The other, sandy-haired lad, ducked his head and stood behind his companion.
    Dismounting, Corey reluctantly handed the reins into Harry's eager, but grimy, hands. "You're not the groom here, are you?" he asked. No gentleman would let such a ragamuffin near his cattle.
    "Oh no, sir," Harry replied, never taking his eyes off the stallion, "I'm one of the ba—"
    Pip kicked him and came forward, eyes still on the ground. "We're b-boys from D-Dower House, sir." He nodded in the direction of a side path, inadvertently showing the splotched side of his face. Corey inhaled deeply, but his expression did not change from a grim, disapproving glower.
    Just then the child with the pig came tearing around the building and down a path, pigtails flying, petticoats dragging in the mud, tongue running on wheels.
    "What is she, a red Indian, or something?" Corey asked Harry, who seemed to have Caesar under perfect control, despite the screeching whirlwind.
    It was Pip—what kind of name was Pip?—who answered: "She… she's Czechoslovakian, sir." He turned his back on Corey.
    That didn't sound like Czech to Coe, from his days of fighting with the allies, but before he could pursue the thought, Harry shouted out: "Hey you, you better get home and out of those dirty clothes before Miss Mel catches you. She'll take a stick to you, else."
    Corey could not believe the manners of these boys. " 'Hey you' ?"
    Harry wasn't fazed. "Don't know her name," was all he said, bending to find some fresh grass for Caesar. In fact, Harry didn't even seem to notice he was addressing a gentleman, much less a peer of the realm. For the first time in his life, Lord Coe's horse was getting more respect than he was!
    The ramshackle place was even worse than Corey had expected. The children were unmannered, untaught, unwashed—and beaten, if Harry could be believed. The viscount marched determinedly up the path to the house, to be nearly bowled over by the same knee-high dust devil. He looked