“Georgette isn’t tired, she simply likes you,” Will said. “Samson will lean if he’s especially happy, but that doesn’t happen often. Samson, sit.”
The command was accompanied by a movement of Will’s hand, from about an inch in front of Samson’s nose to the spot between his ears.
Down he sat.
“Good lad.”
Susannah had to look away when Will tugged on Samson’s ears. Fortunately, when working with a dog, Willow Dorning was oblivious to all else, much like Susannah when in the grip of good literature. She’d learned the commands for sit, stay, down, and come, all of which Georgette dealt with amiably.
“Shall we try some fetch the stick?” Will asked.
Willow Dorning had a well-thought-out progression of exercises for his dogs, and a highly structured approach to their education. The sons of lords were not tutored with any more care, and the orderliness of the undertaking reassured Susannah that all was in hand.
More than the logical sequence of the commands, she liked Will’s patience, liked the endless effort he took to make sense of everything from the dog’s perspective.
“Fetch the stick will suit,” Susannah said, for she enjoyed these outings with Will. “Though I know Georgette to be accomplished at it.”
From the standpoint of Susannah’s indoctrination into dog appreciation, fetch was a big step. The big steps were vaguely worrisome, because at some point, Will would pronounce her a bona fide facsimile of a dog fancier, and then…
Then she’d thank him.
“Fetch the stick seems much like ‘fetch me a glass of punch,’” Susannah observed. “You toss out a compliment, allude to a task, and the fellow who wants more compliments goes off on his mission. When he comes back, glass of punch in hand, you pet him, verbally at least, and he’ll sit at your feet, wagging his tail for the rest of the evening.”
Though the gentlemen of Polite Society were not as well trained as Will Dorning’s dogs. The fellows also nipped from a lady’s drink on occasion, or got lost in the card room en route to the punch bowl.
“We can conclude our session now if you’ve had enough for today,” Will said. “Perhaps you’re missing the Bard?”
The dogs panted gently, the rhododendrons were nearly in bloom, the squirrels were jabbering and leaping overhead. Shakespeare would be waiting for Susannah, even when Will Dorning was once again immured in the Dorset countryside, teaching another young collie “Away to me” and “come by.”
Even when Susannah had read through all of dreary Milton and silly Sheridan.
“I’m happy to toss a few sticks,” Susannah said, “though I’m sure you have other places to be, Will Dorning.”
Quimbey and his pet had come along at the conclusion of Susannah’s sessions twice in the past week. Comus seemed to grow between one day and the next, while the duke’s affection for the dog came along more slowly.
Will ceased casually tugging on Samson’s ears and Susannah’s sanity. “There is no place I’d rather be, Lady Susannah, nobody I’d rather while away the morning with, and fetch is a reward for the dogs. They enjoy it, and so do I.”
The same breeze that snatched away errant kites tousled Will’s hair, and the same affection he frequently turned on his dogs laced his voice. Susannah pretended to survey the nearby hedgerow rather than try to fathom what she saw in Will’s lovely eyes.
“Shall we find the very best sticks in the entire park, Mr. Dorning?” She marched over to the bracken beneath the rhododendrons, Georgette at her side.
Willow Dorning even had requirements for a fetch stick. Sturdy, not too heavy, still a bit green, not long enough to cause difficulty for the dogs. Susannah nudged a toe through last year’s leaves beneath the ferns and bracken, pretending to look for a stick when she was instead trying to gather her wits.
Why must Will Dorning be poor and honorable? Why must he be devoted to his younger siblings at the expense of his own ambitions? Why must he be so handsome and dear and kind?
“This one will do,” Will said, plucking a stout length of wood from the undergrowth. Samson hopped about as Will passed Susannah the stick. A little hop from a dog of that size was enough to make a lady uneasy.
Will, however, took no notice of Samson. Ignoring misbehavior figured prominently in his training scheme. He never raised a hand to the dogs, never shouted, but he ignored mistakes and expressed disappointment on occasion, rather like a very patient governess. He praised good behavior often, even the simple good behavior of quietly waiting.
“Have you ever lost your temper with a dog?” Susannah asked, pushing aside more dead leaves and ferns with her boot.
Georgette snuffled among the leaves as well, and Samson could not seem to hold still.