Bryan mounted his brown gelding. “Which trail, Portia?”
“Let’s take the one to the Christmas tree plantation.” I sat Quinton before me and held him secure with my arm around his little body. “Mother is quite enthusiastic about it, and I’m interested in seeing how they’re progressing.” A couple of years before she’d decided we should grow our own Christmas trees, and she intended one eventually for Rockefeller Center if it grew large enough.
“Are you really going to tell Nigel what Father had done to Marlowe?”
“No. I’ll simply inform him that Father dealt with the matter.”
“And he’ll let it go at that?”
“Why shouldn’t he? It’s not as if I were lying to him.”
“I really am sorry—”
“Enough, Bryan. That was fifteen years ago.”
“Yes, and you were only fifteen. I should have—”