Echoes of Pemberley by Cynthia Ingram Hensley

me mam grew tired of watching my old man and me lock horns.”
    “Lock horns?” Catie questioned warily.
    He smiled again. “Aye, but don’t look so concerned. That old story has been lived and relived ever since time began.”
    “I don’t understand.”
    “Fathers and sons,” Sean clarified. “One never lives up to the other’s expectations. Fathers are never the men their sons idolized as lads. Not surprising. Most boys think of their old man as Superman or something.”
    “And the sons?”
    “The sons,” he repeated with a rueful chuckle. “Now here’s where it gets complicated. You see, Catie, fathers put all their hopes and dreams into their sons — everything they weren’t able to be.”
    “Why shouldn’t they?”
    Glancing from the windscreen over to her, Sean gave another shrug. “Not all sons want to fulfill their old man’s dreams. Sometimes sons have dreams of their own.”
    “So which was it? Did you discover your dad wasn’t Superman or . . . ” Catie leaned eagerly towards him. “ Or , do you have a dream of your own?”
    “I needed the quid,” he replied flatly.
    Dissatisfied, Catie slumped back in her seat. “Then what was all that rubbish about locking horns?”
    “The rubbish is complicated. I’ve just finished my first year at Queen’s in Belfast, and university tuition is expensive. Plus . . . ” he hesitated.
    “Plus what?” she insisted. Interest once again sparked.
    “Well, I don’t know what Mrs. Darcy has told you, but at one time my youngest brother Joseph was a lot like George. Only he stopped speaking all together around the age of six. Still, me da was determined he would learn to ride a horse and gave me the responsibility of teaching him. So I did.” He turned to her and cocked a single eyebrow. “You can communicate with horses without hitting and yelling, you know.”
    “I know,” she replied irritably and colored. Sean had just lectured her on Friday for giving Chloe’s rump several swats and yelling at the animal for not obeying her command. “The very reason you aren’t allowed a crop!” he had criticized sternly. “They are never to be used as an instrument for punishment.” Sean even went so far as to apologize to the beast for her mistress’s “wretched manners,” as he called them.
    “Well,” he continued, “it wasn’t long before he was riding with confidence, and then — ”
    “Let me guess; he started talking again.”
    “Aye, a miracle according to me mam, but I think it was the riding that brought Joseph back to us.”
    “So you’re saying riding a horse cured your brother’s muteness?” she stated with unmistakable cynicism.
    “The horse has assisted man throughout history, Catie. So why not?”
    “Do you think George will start speaking? On his own, I mean?”
    “I don’t know, but I have already seen some improvement in his independence from Geoffrey. And as long as he is enjoying himself, how can it hurt?”
    “True.” With that at least, she had to agree.
    Tired from the day, their conversation fell into a light, friendly chatter the rest of the way home. When finally Sean pulled to a stop in front of the house, Catie thanked him and got out of the car. To her surprise, he turned off the engine and joined her at the bottom of the steps.
    “Would . . . you . . . like to come inside the house?” she questioned hesitantly.
    “Yes. When you return a young lady home it is proper to address the family.”
    Catie laughed.
    “What’s funny?” he asked.
    “That’s rather old-fashioned. Don’t you think?”
    “I was taught better than to leave a girl on the doorstep, miss.” His expression was a serious one, and Catie wished she hadn’t teased him.
    “Sorry.” She gestured to the steps. “Please.”
    Once in the hall, Sean was somewhat overwhelmed by Pemberley’s interior. Though he had been in the kitchen almost daily and twice in Mr. Darcy’s study, he hadn’t yet seen the grander parts of the home. Due