Free Strands of Bronze and Gold by Jane Nickerson

and looked me up and down. “You quite the rider, Miss. The master be glad of that. He likes a quick gallop hisself.”
    We stood upon the fringe of the woods. “I’m going in there,” I said, pointing into the trees.
    “Better not, Miss. There be low-hanging branches and roots to trip up your mount. We wouldn’t want a pretty lady like you to take a tumble, now would we? Not to mention the steel traps the master has set out for poachers. But there’s a right fine view up on top of that hill. It goes on for miles.”
    For a moment I considered ignoring Garvey and plunging into the forest anyway—he had that effect on me—but the fact that his words actually made sense stopped me. I would never purposely do anything that might hurt Lily.
    We rode to the glorious outlook he had indicated. The fog had burned itself away, so now I could make out the church steeples of Chicataw above the distant treetops. I recognized my favoritechurch from when I had driven through town. It had been of yellow brick, with a sunny, peaceful, daisy-dotted churchyard, where, it had seemed to me, only the contented might sleep.
    For some reason I was glad to know where the town lay.
    Garvey returned to the stables and I returned to the house an hour before time to dress for dinner.
    A voice said from behind me, “Did you enjoy your ride, Miss Sophia?”
    I jumped. Ling certainly moved silently. “You startled me!” I cried, twirling around. “Yes, sir, it was a pretty day and a pretty place and a pretty horse.”
    He bowed and withdrew.
    I stood still, watching him melt into the shadows. I wondered what he thought of me. Usually I could tell if people liked me or were indifferent or found me annoying, but I couldn’t read Ling’s face. I was anxious to know—his good opinion would be valuable.
    I shrugged and ran up the stairs, two steps at a time, swinging my hat by its ties.
    Before I reached my bedroom, I paused in front of a marble-topped credenza in the upstairs hall. On it stood a framed daguerreotype of M. Bernard that I looked at every time I passed by. He sat in a velvet armchair, his head slightly bowed and his eyes half closed, as if lost in thought. Probably it was the only stance he could maintain for the long time required to take the picture, but he appeared to be meditating deeply. I picked it up and carried it into my bedchamber, placing it beside my mother’s miniature. When I got up the nerve, I would ask my godfather if I might keep it there.

June 15, 1855
    Darling Junius and Anne and Harry
,
    Are you impressed to receive a letter from me on this thick, creamy paper? With the de Cressac crest on it, please note, just like the letters that used to arrive at our house. And you should see my bedroom and the pretty little desk I’m writing on. I’m hoping you will see them soon. When you come, you’ll find me blooming—and considerably better dressed
.
    You cannot imagine how I miss you all! Every other moment I think of something I want to say to you, but can’t. Yes, I arrived safely. I’ll describe the trip in a later letter. I didn’t write immediately because I wanted to be able to tell you more about Wyndriven Abbey and M. Bernard (which is what my godfather asks me to call him)
.
    I’m learning my way around the house/castle/walled city. I will venture out to the conservatory and back tomorrow and shall count myself lucky if I’m not lost, to be found wandering white-haired and witless many years hence. By the time of your first visit, I shall be able to give you The Tour myself. Junius and Harry, wait until you see the armory! Such long swords. Very pointy
.
    The household is fascinating. There is an army of African slaves, as I worried there might be, but there are also other kinds of foreign servants. The housekeeper, Mrs. Duckworth (whom, to myself, I usually call Ducky—since M. Bernard called her that once, and it fits), is British; Achal, M. Bernard’s valet, is Indian, and his main job appears