Free Mrs. Drew Plays Her Hand by Carla Kelly Page B

in the doorway, unwilling to intrude on the formation of a friendship, and content to admire this other daughter of the lovely Widow Drew.
    You must be the image of your father, he thought as he leaned against the door frame and regarded the young girl before him. Her hair was blond and free around her shoulders. She had pulled up a box to sit upon and her posture was impeccable. He could almost imagine her in a riding habit and seated sidesaddle upon a fine horse of her own. She was slim and elegant, with a profile almost regal.
    She turned then, and her blue eyes were nearly the color of the sky outside. "I like your horse," she said, then got down off the box, suddenly shy. She remained beside his horse, but Lord Winn had the feeling that had he not been standing in the door, she would have bolted.
    He stayed where he was, unwilling to see her disappear. "I like him, too. Are you Helen?"
    She nodded, her eyes on his face. He regarded her calm beauty, and found himself irrationally jealous of her dead father. Mr. Drew, you must have been a handsome man, he thought as he smiled at the vicar's elder daughter.
    "Thank you for watering my horse," he said, moving closer slowly, as he would approach a skittish colt. "I hope Tibbie has some corn in the stables behind the estate."
    "He does, because he puts his own horse there when he comes," she offered. "There are no horses now, my lord." Her voice was wistful, but he did not remark on it.
    She couldn't have been more than six or seven, but there was a maturity in her voice that saddened him, somehow. Perhaps I have seen too many children in Spain growing up faster than their years, he thought. I recognize that voice, no matter what the language. Helen, you hide your loss with dignity.
    He joined her beside his horse, rubbing the animal's nose as Helen stroked his shoulder with a sure hand, standing on tiptoe to reach him. He slowly moved the box closer to the horse, and to his delight, she allowed him to give her a hand up onto it.
    "What do you call him?" she asked as she ran her fingers through the horse's mane, straightening the tangles.
    “I haven't named him yet."
    Her blue eyes widened at such neglect, and for a moment, he saw her mother's expression in them, too.
    "Perhaps you can think of something," he offered hastily, unwilling to suffer her measuring regard. I am short of the mark, he thought with amusement. "I will entertain any and all suggestions."
    She nodded, her face serious. "I will ask Mama. She names everything." The briefest smile lit her face, then was gone. "She even named our pigs, which Papa said always made it rather hard to eat them."
    He smiled at her. "Did she name them Ham and Bacon?"
    Again, that brief smile. "No, my lord! One was Columbine and the other Cynthia."
    Lord Winn burst into laughter, transfixed by the idea of his former wife as a sow rooting in a vicar's barnyard. "Magnificent, my dear!" he said, when he could speak. "That is more amusing than you know. We shall apply to your mother for a name. And now—"
    "Lord Winn! Helen!"
    Helen sighed. "We are both late to breakfast, my lord."
    He nudged her shoulder gently. "Does this mean we are in the basket?"
    She regarded him candidly. "I think I would be, if you were not here, too, my lord."
    He helped her down from the box. "Strength in numbers, Helen, is an element in military strategy. Shall we?"
    Mrs. Drew waited for them at the back door, with Felicity beside her, looking impatient.
    "Lissy does not like to wait for her meals," Helen confided in a whisper that he had to bend down to hear. "She even likes oats."
    Lord Winn smiled, pleased to be taken into this quiet child's trust. He wondered what Tibbie Winslow would say if the first thing he inquired about at Moreland was where he could buy a pony. And some coal. And red yarn for Felicity.
    Helen skipped ahead, walking in the wider tracks he had made, her blond hair rippling and shining in the cold, clear air. "Mama, you must think of