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Corran rose the moment the sun's warmth touched his face. Slowly, he traveled across the floor of his room to the window, which he slowly unfastened and opened. Glorious day, he breathed. He had become restless and impatient with the previous raining mornings and cloudy afternoons, though he would have no scruples in drenching himself for the sake of a morning ride and an escape from the stuffy indoors. His father, on the other hand, would have been less than happy with a wet, sullied, careless son and for Sir Edward, Corran Lennox would patiently last a year's duration of dull, indoor afternoons.
The promising weather thrilled Corran's mood and an abnormal burst of energy-- for so early in the day-- quickened his waking progress. It barely took him more than a minute or two to dress, breakfast and saddle his mount before he was off. Luckily, his ride was similarly spirited and easily animated; it was the reason they made such a genial pair. Sir Edward, who knew well his second son's habits, often took the opportunity to remark on Corran Lennox's superior horsemanship with the purpose of disguising one of his son's many eccentricities. It wasn't so far from the truth, in any case.
The day was glorious; a breeze unaccompanied by high winds, warm without excessive heat, dewy and sultry without soggy saturation hanging heavy in the air. The sun squeezed between the trees and flitted past the summer leaves, crossing Corran's path through stages of light and shadow. After a time of strenuous racing, Corran began to feel guilty and let his horse slow to a walk; besides, his back and legs felt unnaturally stiff. He let his tense muscles relax and leisurely took in the refreshed landscape and heavenly day.
The trees parted after a moment and the leaf-strewn forest path became a well-trodden hay-wagon roadway. The sun did not favor the woods over the fields; they were green and golden patched and Corran grinned for the happy aspect. Morning rides always succeeded in effecting a more agreeable mood. This beautiful day, he happened farther from the manor than usual; his ride circled the purlieu of town. Traveling back towards Lennox fields, Corran passed a young woman, seemingly absorbed in a book. An armful of similar items rested in the crook of her arm; he wondered how she managed to carry, walk and read all at once. Curiously, and for some unknown reason, he was struck by the girl's appearance; her dress was uninteresting enough, drab and plain. But her face and figure exuded something unnaturally graceful and salient. He turned in his seat to watch her pass. Later, he laughed at himself; his frame of mind was entirely too careless and externally absorbed.
Upon arriving home (to his father's home) he was assailed by his sister Pearl, who demanded to know why her new governess insisted she spend an hour painting.
"A whole hour!" the golden-haired girl cried, raising her eyes to heaven in exasperation.
Corran laughed and pulled a fistful of curls. "If anything, it will teach you patience-- a lesson you sorely lack. But what could be so odious about painting?"
She glowered until he finally released the fistful and at his last words, stared at him in astonishment. "Have you ever sat for such a long time and tried to make colored water into a picture?" she replied, crossing her arms.
"No," he admitted, grinning down at her.
"The argument rests," she replied. "Go and tell her it's a useless endeavor. She might as well teach me to sew and I could forever have bloody fingertips."
He did not usually entertain his sister's objections, but this morning they humored him. "Why don't you take your demands to your mother?" he said, still grinning.
Here her triumphant smugness melted into a sulky scowl. "She won't listen. And of course Father won't argue against Mother's decision. Oh, it isn't fair!"
Corran tousled her hair. "Then, I'm afraid, it's useless to come to me with your grievances." He handed the lead to the impatient stable boy and headed through the courtyard.
Upon reaching the base of the staircase, a servant approached with a letter. As he sat once more by his room's only window, he opened and read it. He grinned at its contents: another of Mr. Brooks' country soirées--he had taken to disguising the invitations with commonplace paper notes and otherwise little adornment. Brooks knew as well as Corran that Sir Edward could hardly find it in his heart to forgive his son of such base associations, much less similar societal gatherings. It was the one thing Corran had a hard go at forgiving Sir Edward for; pride ruined the opportunity his father might have in befriending sincere, genuine, generous people. Anyway, Corran never had such a thrilling time milling and conversing with rich strangers. He happily anticipated the event.