“She was a lady who knew what she wanted and a woman in love. Emily wants to be my wife. I do worry that she’s not entirely realistic when it comes to matters of finance.”
Worse and worse. “She’ll expect a coach and four, frequent jaunts up to Town, accounts at all the fashionable shops, and the annual sojourn to Paris?” Grey kept the list short, though a spendthrift wife could beggar a man in mere weeks.
“Maybe the rural equivalent to that? She’s in charge of the house at Pepper Ridge, but that’s an established estate, and Osgood’s pockets are bottomless. Married life will be an adjustment for her.”
“For you too.”
Grey had never seen quite that smile on Valerian—pleased, bashful, determined, and something else. Tender?
“I’ve sent a request to Ash to get us a special license.”
“Was such haste necessary?” Hawthorne and Margaret had resorted to a special license, and while they’d had reasons for their precipitous courtship, Grey would rather the banns had been read.
“Yes, it was necessary. I’d like to be married here at the Hall, Grey. The chapel will do, awash in flowers, because in that regard at least, we Dornings are wealthy. When an aristocrat says that standards must be maintained, what they usually mean is that appearances must be maintained, and we do have the appearances. I want Osgood Pepper to see the family Emily is marrying into, the substance we have even if we’re only beginning to turn our legacy into a commercial venture of the kind Pepper will respect.”
When had Valerian asked Grey for anything? When had he asked anybody for anything? “Ninety percent of what transpires during a Mayfair Season is about appearances, you are quite correct about that. We can festoon the chapel with flowers and put on a magnificent wedding breakfast. It is high summer, after all, and the gardens are producing in abundance. You and Emily really ought to nip up to Town after that, let the staff at Dorning House spoil you a bit.”
Valerian shook his head. “I can’t afford a trip to Town for frivolities, Grey. I must acquaint myself with the workings of Abbotsford, and if I do go up to Town, it will be to find a publisher for my book.”
That damned book. “Does anybody make money publishing books?”
“I suppose the author of Waverley made a fair bit.”
“An etiquette manual is not a stirring tale of historical heroism. Could you write one of those stories of knights and Highlanders and such?” Not, of course, that Grey had read any of those novels, though he had picked up Beatitude’s copy of Waverley on occasion, merely to research what held her fancy so thoroughly night after night.
“One doesn’t simply take up the pen and order it to produce whatever the reading public madly desires that week, Grey.” Valerian rested an arm along the back of the bench, a gentleman entirely at his leisure—to appearances. “We need to talk about the settlements.”
Hence the need to have this discussion privately. “I am happy to negotiate with Pepper on your behalf, but there’s not much to discuss. You have Abbotsford. Our brother Willow can send you a fine puppy, Oak will paint you a wedding portrait, I will stock your larder and toss in that rattletrap gig you’ve been using, but as a family we truly haven’t much to contribute in the way of settlements.”
If Valerian had expected anything more encouraging, he was too well bred to show his disappointment.
“We have consequence. Osgood Pepper will understand that. We have a business enterprise that’s off to a fine start. I will happily add my share of the proceeds to Emily’s portion.”
“Then how will you build up your own investments, if all your cash goes to securing the future of a wife who will be wealthy in her own right?”
Valerian rose. “First, I must secure the wife, mustn’t I? Pepper’s approval matters to Emily, and Emily matters to me. Good day.”
A proper host would have seen his guest to the front door, but Grey stayed where he was. A brother with a grain of sense knew when a disappointed sibling needed to make a dignified exit. The Dornings were land-poor, at least at present, and no amount of fine manners or social polish could change that sad fact.
The longest day of Emily’s life commenced at breakfast, which she took in her room rather than deal with Tobias over ham and eggs. She was not in the mood to be interrogated for sacking Ogilvy, or for anything else, come to that.
“You are awake,” Briggs said, unnecessarily, for Emily was seated by the window in her private parlor, enjoying a pot of chocolate and some cheese tarts while she read the London papers.
“Good morning, Briggs. Won’t you join me?” Emily gestured with the pot, though she’d been saving the second cup to enjoy along with the Society pages. She set aside the paper, planning to ring for another cup and saucer.
Except, her tray already held a second cup and saucer. Who had given that order and why?
“Perhaps half a cup,” Briggs said, taking the opposite seat. “I trust you slept well?”
Emily had slept miserably. She’d alternated between girlish glee to be the woman engaged to Valerian Dorning and dread of the row Papa would doubtless stir up, to say nothing of the awkward discussion she must have with Valerian regarding Adam.
And now Briggs was apparently intent on an awkward discussion of her own.
“You sacked that Ogilvy creature,” Briggs said, helping herself to the last two tarts. “Might I inquire as to your reasons, Emily?”
Emily passed over a full cup of chocolate. “Ogilvy was stealing from Papa, and as long as that was tolerated, nobody else could take on the job. I intend to spend my morning calling on the vicar, who will be well acquainted with the local tradesmen.”
“You’ll call before noon? I suppose I should change into my carriage dress then.”
Emily did not want Briggs’s company, and she did want privacy with the vicar. She needed to discuss with him the situation with her apprentices, among other topics.
“I’ll walk to the village, Briggs. You needn’t accompany me.”
Briggs gently set her cup on her saucer. “Emily, I understand that you are no longer seventeen. You have learned, to your sorrow, the result of yielding to a young girl’s impulses, but your standing and wealth mean you must comport yourself at all times with a view toward your reputation. I will accompany you to the vicarage, and we will take the carriage.”
How would Valerian handle this confrontation? For that’s what this was.
He would be polite, logical, and firm—utterly firm. “I appreciate your concern, Briggs, but ladies in the country are held to a different version of proper standards than ladies in Town. If I affect Town ways here in Dorset—hitching up a coach and four for a jaunt of less than two miles, for example—I will be seen as arrogant and pretentious. We will ride to the village, and you can visit the apothecary and the lending library while I call upon the vicar.”
Emily bit into a tart, though her appetite had fled. Briggs was facing unemployment, did she but know it. Emily would ensure that Briggs had a generous competence on which to retire, but for Briggs, dismissal on any terms would be a blow.
“You are still corresponding with your brother,” Briggs said, as if sending a few letters was tantamount to spending the rent money on gin. “You sacked a crew your father himself chose to handle renovations here, then yesterday you rode out with that Dorning fellow, an impecunious younger son who can only be fortune-hunting, and you didn’t even take a groom. I’m tempted to ask Osgood to confine you to your room until you rediscover your common sense, Emily Pepper. Instead, I must plead with you to be more moderate in your behavior, or not even a bumpkin will marry you, regardless of your fortune.”
“That answers one question,” Emily said, dusting her hands over her plate and rising. “You’ve been spying on my correspondence, which I ought to have expected, but more to the point, you’ve shared what you learned with Tobias, regardless of what taradiddles he spins about happening upon my letters at the coaching inn. Might I inquire as to your reasons, Briggs?”<
br />
A silence followed, during which Briggs bowed her head. That display of martyrdom made Emily’s blood boil. She took another leaf from Valerian’s book and kept her tone civil.
“Briggs, Tobias will tuck away for his own benefit the fact that you knew I was writing to Adam, and that you chose not to tell Papa. When it suits Tobias, he will tell Papa. In fact, he has already threatened to do that, and Tobias will ensure that your secrecy reflects poorly on you. You can assume that if Tobias knows, Caleb is likely privy to the confidence you violated, and what Tobias will keep under his hat, Caleb could well blurt out in a fit of pique. Well done, Briggs. You’ve stepped neatly into Tobias’s trap, and the only way I can rescue you is to tell Papa myself that I maintain a correspondence with the brother who was transported for a crime he did not commit.”
Emily expected resentment, defiance, another attempted scold, or at the very least, a silent retreat from Briggs. She got the silence, but also an expression of pure, bewildered misery.
“We don’t belong here,” Briggs said. “We don’t belong among these squires and yokels, trying to maintain the business through the post, trying to fit in where nobody wants us.”
The comment was decidedly odd, a lament, and perhaps—maybe?—a sidewise apology for having bungled. Badly.
“We will ride into the village,” Emily said. “I need the practice in the saddle, and you will enjoy a visit to the lending library. I will meet you in the stables in an hour.”
Briggs finished her chocolate, rose, and curtseyed. The gesture struck Emily as an unsuccessful attempt at irony. Briggs wasn’t elderly—far from it—but this discussion had toppled her from a pedestal of authority years in the making.
“You owe me an apology, Briggs,” Emily said, just as Briggs put a hand on the door latch. “You intruded on my privacy and failed to keep my confidences. If you cannot admit to remorse for that betrayal, you will nonetheless pay restitution.”
Briggs turned, hands behind her back. “Miss?”
This show of meekness was temporary, but Emily would take advantage of it while she had the chance. Briggs had miscalculated, probably complaining to a sympathetic Tobias about Emily’s letters, never realizing Tobias would use the complaint against the informer herself.
“I want to know every detail of my mother’s marriage settlements. You and she were friends of a sort. I expect she shared the arrangements with you.”
Briggs drew her white shawl more closely around her shoulders, a shawl Emily had knit for her as a Yuletide gift. “I’d have to consult my diaries, but I’m sure I have most of the terms written down somewhere.”
“I want every detail. Every last groat and footnote. Mama herself told me to never sign a document without reading it, and Papa has said the same thing many times. She knew what her portion would be, and I want to know those terms.”
A spark of condemnation flared in Briggs’s eyes. “Does this have to do with that Dorning fellow?”
“Maybe I’m preparing to decamp for the Antipodes, Briggs. Did you ever consider that? Perhaps that’s why I sent Adam those letters. Papa is regaining his health, and I’m fed up to the teeth with polite society, family intrigues, and a companion who cannot be trusted. Meet me in the stables in an hour, or I will go to the village without you.”
Emily crossed her arms and waited until Briggs withdrew, then resumed her seat by the window. She’d spoken the absolute, plain truth for once. She was utterly fed up with Papa, Caleb, Tobias, Briggs, scheming contractors, lazy housekeepers, and a household where she had to sneak about even to send a letter to her only brother.
All of which suggested that she’d best explain to Valerian exactly what Adam’s situation was, the sooner the better.
The shipwright Emily had insisted Osgood consult pointed out a half-dozen problems with Tobias and Caleb’s clever plan, each one worse than the last.
“You may be excused,” Osgood said when the litany of mistakes was complete, “and I’m sure the kitchen will be happy to offer you sustenance before you return to Bournemouth.”
Mr. Popplegruber directed one last, troubled glance at the plans unrolled on the reading table. “And my fee, Mr. Pepper?”
Tobias fetched a blank bank draft from the open safe built into the sideboard. Caleb uncapped the ink. Osgood had forgotten the exact sum owed, or perhaps nobody had told it to him. Under the guise of moving the standish closer to Osgood’s elbow, Tobias murmured the figure.
Osgood added a very generous two pounds and passed over the completed draft. “Your honesty is much appreciated, Popplegruber, and your discretion would be as well.”
“Of course, sir.” He clicked his heels like some damned Hessian officer and withdrew.
“He’s exaggerating,” Caleb said, propping a hip on the windowsill. “The weather between here and Lyon is seldom all that bad, and a ship plying the Mediterranean trade can simply put into port if the wind kicks up.”
Tobias, predictably, had a rejoinder ready. “Even I know the Bay of Biscay is a sailor’s nightmare, and who says we’ll be trading exclusively with Lyon? In five years’ time, the Americans might be making good, cheap silk.”
“Or,” Osgood said, “silk might go out of fashion.” The infernal Austrian army, or perhaps the French, or possibly the Italians themselves, had cut down Tuscan mulberry groves for blasted firewood. Silk was dear to begin with, and the havoc of the war years had made it only dearer.
“So we make some adjustments,” Tobias said, moving the standish and capping the ink. “Our plans were only a first draft, after all, and Popplegruber wasn’t about to tell a trio of businessmen we’d done a fine job of designing a ship. Let us consider his suggestions and—”
“He’s back,” Caleb said, gaze on the drive beyond the window. “That damned dancing Dorning is back. Are social calls really conducted at such a beastly early hour in the countryside?”
Tobias and Caleb exchanged a look. They’d begun these silent conversations when Osgood had first fallen ill. He’d been too weak and angry to care that he was being nannied by a pair of jumped-up clerks. Their campaign hadn’t stopped there, though, witness Tobias’s casual self-promotion to businessman and his equally casual assumption of first-person plural pronouns.
We, our, us…
Our money sure as hell wasn’t paying their handsome salaries, for all the pair of them worked hard and knew the business well.
“If Dorning is here to call upon Emily,” Osgood said, “that is her affair. He knows the local gentry, which we do not, and she’ll make a good impression on them if Dorning handles the introductions. His brother is an earl, and that counts for something.”
Emily’s brother, by contrast, was a convicted felon. Osgood had left London before the rumors regarding Adam’s disgrace had reached flood stage, but old scandal still carried weight among high sticklers, no matter that the case had been heard two hundred miles from London and five years ago.
A rap on the door interrupted those unhappy recollections.
“Mr. Valerian Dorning to see you, Mr. Pepper.” The butler passed over a fussy little silver tray with a rather plain card on it.
“Tell him Mr. Pepper is out,” Caleb said, shoving away from the window. “We’ve better things to do than entertain rustics who don’t even know when a proper call is to be paid.”
“Turning away an earl’s son,” Tobias said, “regardless of the hour, is not the done thing, Caleb. Dorning is doubtless here to talk business. His family sells—what is it?—tisanes, patent remedies, sachets? They are genteelly dipping their toes in trade, suggesting they have a grain of sense between them. Show him in.”
The butler, an old fellow who’d conveyed more or less with the property, stood with his silly silver platter by the door. “Mr. Pepper?”
Respect for one’s employer was a fine quality in a retainer. “Tobias, Caleb, you will excuse me. I will meet with Mr. Dorning in the first guest parlor.”
A very different sort of look passed
between Caleb and Tobias, resentful and impatient rather than knowing and smug. If Adam were on hand…
But he wasn’t, and never would be again.
Osgood joined the butler in the corridor. “What is the local opinion of young Mr. Dorning?”
“The Dornings are held in highest regard, sir. The family has been at Dorning Hall for centuries, and they are enlightened stewards of the land.”
“So they don’t raise the rents when times are hard?”
“They do not. They pitch in when there’s work to be done, and they entertain their neighbors generously. Their botanical venture has yielded income for a good dozen of the ladies, but then, they always hire locally whenever possible.”
Meaning they didn’t hire a gang of rogues from Bournemouth. Osgood wasn’t sure whether to praise Emily for sacking Ogilvy or berate Tobias and Caleb for hiring the man in the first place.
Probably both. “And what of this particular Dorning?” Osgood asked. “Is he the family wastrel?”
“The Dornings haven’t a family wastrel, sir. Lord Casriel wouldn’t allow it, and neither would his countess.”
Not long ago, this hike down the Pepper Ridge corridors would have been too much for Osgood, and a hike while conducting a conversation would have been utterly beyond him. The foxglove medication mixed up by Mrs. Margaret Dorning had changed all of that. Saved his life, or at least added good years to it.
“Shall I bring a tea tray, sir?”
“Is that how these things are done in the country? Tea trays at dawn?”
“As far as I know, a tea tray is always considered good manners.” The butler paused to dab his handkerchief at an imaginary smudge on the face of a longcase clock.
Eleven o’clock already. Where had the day gone? Where had the decades gone? “Very well, then. Young men are bottomless pits when free food is on offer. Send along some comestibles with the tea. I like Mr. Valerian Dorning, you know.”
“Sir?”
“He as good as told me to go to hell, and he was polite about it. One values honesty in one’s old age. Honesty and health.”
A Woman of True Honor (True Gentlemen Book 8) Page 16
