Valerian pressed a slow kiss to her temple. “Come with me. What I have to show you bears on the present topic.”
She lingered near, driving him halfway to Bedlam with the temptation to lock the doors and turn the conservatory into a private paradise in truth.
“Very well,” she said, smiling slightly. “Share with me the bucolic splendors of rural Dorsetshire.”
“Rural Dorset is not exactly foremost on my mind just now.”
She patted his cheek. “Nor on mine.”
Valerian stood for a moment, gathering his wits and admiring her retreating form—and her tactics—before following her out to the stables.
Chapter Eight
The pale southern shoulder of Britain had come into view an hour ago, a thin, hazy line at first, then more and more distinct as the ship neared its destination. The cliffs were bright and proud, ramparts that had stood unchanging against time and tide. Adam Pepper’s heart, by contrast, remained a morass of shifting and uncomfortable feelings.
He was bitter, of course, toward the homeland that had shown him only the pity of transportation over the brutality of the rope, though a convict’s life was brutal enough and pity stretched the bounds of credulity. Britain sought to hold the Antipodes away from France’s imperial ambitions. If that meant using the powerless to subjugate and populate an inhospitable wilderness, Britain regarded that as a fair bargain. English jails were perpetually full, and convict labor could be put to use in the heat and misery of far-off lands.
That many of those transported died of privation, disease, and despair was just another sort of pity.
Threading through the bitterness was determination, for Adam hadn’t endured four months of ocean gales, appalling rations, monstrous waves, and his equally monstrous self-doubt to be thwarted now.
He was enough at peace with himself to admit to sadness. His homecoming shouldn’t be like this, a furtive, dangerous violation of the law, when in another two years, he might well have earned his ticket of leave honestly.
“You do not have the look of a man gazing fondly on his homeland.” Mrs. Helen Thelwell took the place beside him at the rail, the breeze fluttering the ribbons of her straw hat. “You can find a ship sailing for Le Havre on the next tide.”
They had spent endless hours playing piquet, reading to each other, and debating politics, but Adam did not entirely trust Mrs. Thelwell. Like many who’d spent time in Terra Australis, she kept most of her past to herself. Perhaps her late husband’s business had failed, perhaps he’d been a convict. Perhaps there’d never been a husband, late or otherwise.
That was none of Adam’s business. “Are you a woman gazing fondly on her homeland?”
She untangled a skein of coppery hair from the brim of her bonnet. The breeze snatched it right back.
“I have been homesick since the day I lost sight of England, Mr. Carmichael. The southern climate is unkind to pale complexions, and I was not a good sailor on my outbound voyage.”
Some unspoken sorrow lay in that admission. “You apparently conquered your mal de mer for the homeward journey.”
Her smile was slight and feline. “I’ve conquered much. What are you setting out to conquer?”
Guilt perhaps? “My father is gravely ill. I hope to see him before he goes to his reward.” The truth, ironically.
“That explains why you look upon England with such ire. She threatens to take your family from you. We English value family.”
Some of the English did. “What of you? Is your family awaiting your arrival in Portsmouth?”
“No, they are not. My house is in Bournemouth. I will find lodging in Portsmouth for tonight, then make my way down the coast tomorrow.”
Bournemouth was more than halfway to Adam’s destination. “Have you an escort for that journey?”
“I am a widow. I need no escort for a day’s penance on a stagecoach.”
Adam had done well for himself in New South Wales, which wasn’t unusual for a man with education, skills, and ambition. He had the means to get himself wherever he pleased to go. If anybody was looking for Adam Pepper, a convict who’d broken his parole to return to England, they would not expect him to be traveling with a woman.
“I have business in Devonshire,” he said, though spouting falsehoods still sat ill with him. “I will hire a coach to take me west, and I am more than happy to share that vehicle with you.”
The details onshore were becoming discernible, ship’s masts, buildings, the controlled confusion of busy wharves. Seagulls patrolled from the sky, their cries becoming a constant chorus. The men aloft were reefing sails, and the captain stood on the forecastle, his spyglass for once not in evidence.
An odd ache started up in Adam’s throat.
“I will accept that generous offer,” Mrs. Thelwell said. “And assuming my house hasn’t burned to the ground, you will accept my hospitality in Bournemouth.”
He ought not. Anybody abetting a man who returned to England before his sentence was finished could be in a heap of trouble. Emily had pointed that out in several letters.
But refusing Mrs. Thelwell’s generosity would be ungentlemanly, and then too, Adam liked her. She was good company, she knew something of where he’d been and what he’d faced there. For a man whose homeland would cheerfully hang him for setting foot on his native soil, Mrs. Thelwell’s gracious gesture was hard to resist.
“You refer to it as your house,” Adam said, “not your home. I gather you weren’t raised there.”
“You gather incorrectly. I was born at Toftrees and spent the first fifteen years of my life on that estate. A cousin inherited the place, but as fate would have it, the property belongs to me now. Sometimes, justice does prevail.”
On that enigmatic observation, she pushed away from the rail and left Adam alone as the shore—and the commission of a hanging felony—came ever closer.
* * *
Valerian Dorning was paying a call, on his own initiative and at an earlier hour than most social visits occurred. Emily savored the sense of being of interest to a man who interested her in return. She liked Valerian Dorning, she was attracted to him, but he’d mentioned the word esteem, and in doing so he’d put his finger on the ingredient that made this outing important.
She esteemed him.
She respected that Caleb and Tobias worked hard. She had a proper regard for her father’s mercantile genius, and she’d had a sister’s devotion to Adam—still did—despite sibling squabbles and the difference in their ages.
She esteemed Valerian Dorning. He brooked no disrespect toward her, but somehow emboldened her to fight her own battles. When he was on hand, she won those battles, or at least fought them to a draw.
He was kind, not in the clucking, condescending way that a charitable committee member was kind, but rather, with the quiet pragmatism that tended to unspoken needs. Young people lacked a place to socialize, he provided that. Apprentices hired to do an inventory needed to know their wages, Valerian handled the discussion for them.
Emily had needed to preserve her dignity when confronting her father earlier, and Valerian had given her a credible excuse to quit the field. Perhaps Valerian was simply a gentleman, exhibiting the kindness and honor that so many only feigned when convenient.
In any case, she esteemed him, and she hadn’t been able to esteem any of the fortune-hunting heirs and preening viscounts in London.
“Where are we going?” she asked as they turned their horses from a farm lane down a bridle path that ran between two hedgerows. Summer had reached her full glory, and the branches overhead nearly met, making the path shady and private.
“I’d like to show you some of the countryside between Pepper Ridge and Dorning Hall. By the lanes, the two estates are more than ten miles distant. You can halve that if you know the shortcuts.”
“Is there a reason I should know the shortcuts?”
“One should always know the shortcuts, Miss Pepper, though when to take them can be a more
complicated question. May I discuss a matter of some personal interest with you?”
Better and better. “Of course.”
“I am a younger son, a notably impecunious exponent of the breed.”
“You’ve said as much before.” And this time, Emily did not argue the point. Valerian Dorning had called upon her for reasons, and he would explain them in his own good time. Emily could think of only one conversation a bachelor and a young lady were permitted to have in private, and she wanted to have that discussion with Valerian.
“Through the generosity of an aunt,” he said, “I have claim to a modest acreage, which thus makes me, technically, a landowner.”
Very encouraging. “Do go on.”
“Men who own property are eligible for certain posts.”
The post of husband? “They can vote.” Provided the land was worth forty shillings. “They can hunt game.” Provided the land was worth at least a hundred pounds, which said something about the relative value of an Englishman’s vote versus the worth of a roasted partridge.
“Just so, and land ownership is also a requisite for the post of magistrate.”
Emily brought her mare to a halt. “Magistrate?”
“Justice of the peace,” Valerian said, drawing Clovis up beside the mare. “The king’s man. The fellow who settles the petty squabbles of the neighborhood and chastises the habitual drunkards.”
What had magistrates to do with anything? “You have habitual drunkards hereabouts?” The surrounds were pastoral, fields and meadows, sheep and broodmares with the occasional milch cow. A pretty fieldstone manor sat at the bottom of a low rise, an alley of lime trees stretching before it.
“Habitual drunkards,” Valerian said, “likely grace every corner of the realm.”
Emily nudged her mare forward. “I don’t suppose I ever gave the post of rural magistrate any thought. Does it pay?”
As soon as she asked the question, she knew she’d erred. Valerian rose in his stirrups and settled back into the saddle, then adjusted his reins.
“Not a salary. Some expenses can be reimbursed. The thing is, my brother is the current magistrate.”
Which…? Oh, the brother who owned all the land, of course. “Casriel, you mean?”
“Casriel, and he is not suited for the post. He’s too polite, too much the earl, and if he votes his seat, he’ll be in Town for months at a time. He would rather be the devoted husband and doting papa, the good neighbor, the meddling brother. I suspect that last position is calling to him particularly.”
“Brothers meddle?”
“So do sisters, at least in my experience. Casriel has asked me to take on the post of magistrate, and I am inclined to accept it. I wanted to discuss the matter with you first.”
Confusion and more than a little disappointment lifted into insight. Valerian Dorning apparently needed an ally, too, somebody to stand with him, rather than for him.
“What are the reasons to refuse the post?” she asked.
“I am in need of coin, and it doesn’t pay. I’ll have less time for my writing, for turning my hand to profitable ventures, to tending my acres, if I choose not to rent them all out.”
As the horses ambled along, the sun shone more strongly. “You intend to take up the plow, Valerian?”
“I have walked miles behind a plow, also ridden miles on a hay wagon, which penance I do not seek to repeat. I’ve wielded a scythe to clear our drainage ditches—my brother Hawthorne can wax poetic on the topic of drainage—and I’ve taken my turn in the foaling barn under a chilly seed moon. My father regarded the natural world highly and believed children benefited from physical work. By the time Casriel took over the estate, he simply needed the free labor, and we owed him at least that.”
“A seed moon?”
“The April full moon. Mares favor it for dropping foals.”
They emerged from the bridle path closer to the fieldstone manor, though Valerian kept the horses beneath the shade of the hedgerow. Without dismounting, he was able to open and close a gate, which was fortunate, because Emily wasn’t about to attempt to jump a stile.
“Thank you,” she said as his gelding fell in step beside her mare. “I was raised to value the appearance of idleness in women—we’re to sit about tatting lace and swilling chocolate—and the industry of a man who labors with his mind rather than his hands.”
“Show me a successful farmer,” Valerian said, “and I will show you somebody who labors with everything he or she has. It’s a challenging life, and running an empire without competent farmers is impossible. You haven’t answered my question about the magistrate’s post. Should I accept it?”
They rode closer to the stone manor, such that Emily could see roses trellised all the way to the overhanging roof of the front porch. A wide swing hung beneath another rose arbor in a side garden, and half a dozen fat geese strutted on the drive.
Pepper Ridge had no porch roses, though the specimens in the garden were impressive. Emily had hung a hammock, but why hadn’t she thought to put up a swing? And the geese were a lovely touch…
“I think you want to be useful to your brother,” Emily said. “You’ve admitted that. His lordship probably doesn’t ask for much from you, and refusing him would be difficult.”
Adam had asked her to look after Papa, when Emily had been so furious with her father she’d not wanted to speak to him, much less take care of him. That Adam had asked, though, meant she’d had to agree. A man facing transportation should not sail away knowing his father and his sister were no longer speaking.
Valerian steered his horse up a path along the rise behind the manor house. “You are correct that I want to be of use to my brother. He’s carried many a burden alone, and the rest of our siblings are now scattered to the four winds.”
“The English winds,” Emily murmured. “You could reach any member of your family within a few days.”
Valerian glanced over at her, probably because she’d spoken a bit sharply. “True, but they don’t seem inclined to look in at the Hall.”
“Which leaves you wanting a reason to remain by Casriel’s side. Hawthorne is nearby, but he’s preoccupied with a new wife, a family, and drainage, I presume.”
“Also with growing the herbs and flowers for the family botanical business. You know something about that enterprise.”
Even before Papa had benefited so markedly from Margaret Dorning’s herbal remedies, Emily had prevailed upon Papa to help the Dornings find shop space in London. Papa was not their landlord, but he’d put in a good word with a competitor, and the Dornings had an emporium that was both affordable and fashionably located.
“Are you involved in the botanical business?” she asked.
“I am, tangentially. I set up the books, I audit them from time to time, I watch the inventories and match them against what’s selling, creating the production schedules necessary to meet demand. I developed a budget and monitor actual expenses and income as they compare to my projections. Nothing very taxing, but my brothers’ talents lie elsewhere, so I watch the ledgers and reports.”
Adam had those sorts of skills, more’s the pity. “But do you enjoy all that accounting?”
Valerian remained silent as the horses topped the rise. A carpet of gently rolling countryside spread out beneath them, hedges creating a patchwork of pastures, fields, meadows, and farmsteads. The view was lovely in a way Pepper Ridge’s prospect was not. Pepper Ridge was a grand manor, but it lacked such a delightful situation.
“I do not particularly enjoy accounting,” Valerian said. “One does it, just as one hangs up clothes upon retiring, or curries a horse before putting on his saddle. Adulthood is full of boring duties that must nonetheless be undertaken conscientiously.”
Was that Valerian’s opinion or a departed tutor’s lecture? “Is being a magistrate a boring duty that must be undertaken conscientiously?”
He drew his gelding to a halt and patted the beast on the shoulder. “To the contrary, t
he magistrate’s job is often fascinating. Rendering a legal judgment is only part of the challenge. One must do so in a way that solves the real problem.”
“Like Jenny Switzer’s situation?” The girl had been forthcoming about what had sent her seeking employment ten miles from her home.
“She told you about the charges?”
“She told me a neighbor of some standing had forced his attentions on her, and she slapped him just as his son came upon them. The neighbor alleged that Jenny assaulted him because he’d refused her advances, and the son was prepared to lie for his father.”
“That is more than Casriel was told. Jenny’s case wanted not simply a judgment—the wrong crime had been alleged, so the charges could be dismissed—but a solution. The real problem was that Jenny had made an enemy, and thus her removal from the environs became imperative for her own wellbeing.”
“Not exactly,” Emily said, thinking back to Ogilvy and his gang of thieves. “The real problem was that Squire Rutledge took liberties uninvited and was then such a coward that he couldn’t stand for his own son to know what a philandering weasel he is, much less apologize or take responsibility for the wrong he’d committed.”
“My sisters would agree with you. Rutledge tried to press his attentions on Daisy when she was about Jenny’s age.”
“Do you agree with my assessment of Jenny’s situation?”
Valerian studied the pretty little farmstead below. No people moved about the grounds, though down the hill from the house some horses grazed in a grassy paddock, a few goats interspersed with the equines.
“I agree with you that Rutledge is the wrongdoer, but I know not how to deal with him. I could knock out his front teeth, and he’d still accost unwilling girls. If I charge him with battery or assault, the females suffer by association and the juries are unlikely to do justice in any event. That is what makes being magistrate such an interesting undertaking. Legalities often stand in for more complex human conundrums, and a good magistrate can do much to address both.”
A Woman of True Honor: True Gentlemen Book Eight Page 12
