A young woman, wearing tweeds that rendered her nearly invisible against the forest backdrop, walked toward them from the side of the house, her strides growing longer as she approached the tea table. She took the final few steps at a run, launching into Duke’s arms, her long auburn hair masking her features as she buried herself in his shoulder.
Thelma stood, but Averill gripped the back of Duke’s jacket a moment longer before turning to Thelma.
Though not conventionally pretty, Averill Furness looked strong, her face lean and freckled from the day’s hunting, ice-blue eyes beneath sharp, arching eyebrows. A shotgun on a thick leather strap rested between her shoulder blades; she unhitched it and handed it to a waiting footman.
“It’s not loaded. Thelma, is it?” she said coolly.
Thelma shrank from Averill’s steady gaze. It would have been helpful, she thought, if Averill had left the shotgun with the gillie.
“I’m pleased to meet you. Duke—Lord Furness—has told me so much about you,” said Thelma.
“Likewise,” said Averill. She glanced at Duke, then made a renewed effort at smiling. “Welcome to Scotland. No luck on the stag I’m afraid, Father,” she said, settling into the chair Thelma had vacated. She reached for a scone. “Disappeared across the burn about ten miles out.”
“You’ll find him tomorrow,” said Thelma as Duke pulled out his own chair for her. “A big creature like that can’t be too difficult to find.”
Averill didn’t look up. “He’s got ten thousand acres to hide in,” she said, splitting the scone in half, “but perhaps he’ll wear a little flag on his antlers.”
“Steady on,” said Duke, chuckling. He rested a hand on Thelma’s arm. “Stalking can take days,” he said. “Sometimes weeks, even if you’re an old hand at it like Averill. We’ll go after it tomorrow, what do you say? Three heads are better than one. Four, if Thelma feels like giving it a go.”
“Oh, I don’t think so,” said Thelma. “I prefer eating animals to hunting them. You go—I’ll be perfectly fine walking the loch.”
“Not on your own, surely?” said Duke. “Averill can stay with you. Dickie and I—”
“Oh, don’t be silly,” said Thelma, as Averill looked up in alarm at the suggestion of staying behind. “Besides, I’m sure you have lots to talk about.”
Averill let out a breath. “It’s my stag,” she muttered.
“Well—only if you’re sure,” said Duke.
Thelma looked at Averill, who was demolishing the scone with single-minded purpose. “I’m sure,” she said.
* * *
Over dinner, Thelma was able to get a better measure of Duke’s relationship with his children. He treated them as friends, skimming over the formalities Thelma expected from an upper-class family: he teased them constantly, quizzing Dickie about his most recent school term, interrogating Averill about the condition of their family estates, which she’d been overseeing during Duke’s frequent absences to Paris.
“Have you given any further thought to a new horse for Burrough Court?” asked Averill as plates of venison pie swimming in gravy were delivered to the table.
Duke nodded, lifting the pie’s crust with his fork. “I have. We’ll have two new horses—I trust you to make the selections yourself.”
“Two?” Averill took a sip of wine, her eyes flickering to Thelma. “Should I take it that you’re looking for a gentler mount?”
“That was my thought, yes,” he replied. “Thelma, do you ride?”
“I’ve only tried once,” she said. “It was a disaster, I’m afraid.”
“Really?” said Dickie. “Good gracious, you must tell us all about it.”
Thelma set down her cutlery. “It was during my—well, my misguided career as a film actress,” she said.
“The pictures!” said Dickie. “Did you live in Hollywood? Do you know Mary Pickford?”
“As a matter of fact, I do,” said Thelma. “I lived in Hollywood...oh, over a year ago now. But this was before California. I was in New York, and Sammy Goldwyn introduced me to a friend of his who was directing a small film.”
“Which one?” asked Averill, picking at a piece of fluff on her sleeve.
“It’s called A Society Scandal. Gloria Swanson plays the lead,” said Thelma, and Averill looked up. “I thought it would be a good start to my acting career, so I said I would do it. Only, my character had to ride a horse.”
She leaned back in her chair, recalling those first few moments on set. “I had never even touched a horse, let alone ride one, but that seemed like such a small detail so I told the director I could ride sidesaddle. We were filming in Central Park, and when I got there, I was shown to this enormous beast. I got into the saddle and managed to—to sort of nudge it under the ribs.” She gestured, recalling the horse’s stubborn refusal to budge. “Finally, it started to move, but as we went under the bridge a group of children in roller skates clattered overhead. It spooked, of course, and bolted.”
Averill smirked. “You had no idea what to do, did you?”
“Not a clue. All I could do was hold on to the reins and pray that it didn’t throw me off. The production assistants were running after us, waving their arms and shouting. I only hoped the horse wouldn’t trample some poor bystander.”
“What did you do?” asked Duke.
“What could I do? I waited for it to slow. I was afraid it was going to take me halfway to New Jersey,” said Thelma. “So there—my one and only adventure on a horse. But as I see it, I’ve only got room for improvement.”
Dickie laughed, and reached for the decanter.
“The horse likely hadn’t been properly exercised,” said Averill. “That’s often the case with new riders. The horse is skittish as it is, and if it’s not given enough time to work out its nerves...” She shrugged and shared a glance with Duke. “I’ll give you a few lessons. See if we can’t get you jumping hedgerows.”
* * *
“Shall we tell them tonight, do you think?” Duke asked as he pulled the oars of a gray-hulled rowboat and sent the little vessel gliding across the loch. They had been at Affric Lodge nearly a month now and had settled into a domestic routine more stable than Thelma, living between cities and hotels, had experienced in years. She felt she might just fit into the fabric of Duke’s family: under Averill’s guidance, she had become a proficient rider, able to bring Dickie’s slender roan up to a gentle canter; with Dickie, she learned how to fly-fish, standing in the river behind the house in a pair of Duke’s old waders, attempting to make the small bundle of feathers at the end of her line fall delicately on top of the water.