Worse, Jack would catch Jeremy studying him, as if some sort of brotherly pronouncement ought to be forthcoming because Jack was the elder by nine years. Those nine years, a few Continents, and an ocean or two meant Jack had nothing of substance to discuss with a sibling he barely knew.
“You are punctual,” Jack said, as Miss Hennessey came down the back steps. She’d donned the worn boots and the black cloak, though her scarf was a sturdy brown wool article. Her gloves had been mended, but had no apparent holes.
“A half day is a half day,” Miss Hennessey said. “If I’m not back shortly after luncheon, your mother will have grounds to rebuke me.”
“Can’t have that,” Jack said, tossing a scarf around his neck. “Come along, the sleigh should be ready.”
“We’re taking the sleigh?”
All Jack could see of Miss Hennessey’s face was her eyes peeking over her scarf. She had beautiful eyes, luminous blue, intelligent, and expressive.
Right now those eyes were wary, which was a rebuke in itself.
“We’re taking the sleigh,” Jack said. “Now, if you please, before Mama appears with yet another lecture on familial duty and the joys of married life.” He opened the back door, and led Miss Hennessey into a painfully brilliant winter morning. A slow drip from the eaves was counterpointed by a bitter wind, and the path to the drive was already dusted over with drifted snow. For an instant, homesickness swamped him—for the heat, color, and noise of India—which was ridiculous.
India had never been home. His worst memories were of India, and he had no desire to return.
A groom led the team up from the carriage house, the boy muffled in wool cap, scarf, gloves, and coat.
“I’ll drive,” Jack said. “Get you back to the stables, and we should be home by mid-afternoon.”
The boy tugged his cap and scampered off with a salute. Miss Hennessey sprang into the sleigh with little help from Jack, and they were soon trotting down the drive.
“Why not marry Miss DeWitt?” Miss Hennessey asked.
A question Jack had put to himself more than once. “You are Mama’s minion now?”
Jack had kissed Miss Hennessey, well and truly kissed her as a man kisses a woman he desires. That she’d bring up his marital prospects was lowering in the extreme.
Had his kiss been that unremarkable?
“You are heir to a title, according to your family bible,” Miss Hennessey said, tucking the lap robe around Jack’s knees. “That means you bear the burden of ensuring the succession. Your brother is unmarried, and clearly, your mother is concerned for you.”
Because Jack held the reins, he could not see to the lap robe. Miss Hennessey had the knack of making all snug and cozy, and she was no longer missish about proximity to Jack’s person. The bricks at their feet were toasty, while the wind whipping at Jack’s nose and cheeks was bitter.
“My mother is… she means well.” Of that, Jack had had no doubt. “My father all but abandoned her to go adventuring in the king’s name. Not well done of him.”
“Men do that,” Miss Hennessey said. “They hare off, spouting some noble excuse for their selfishness, and come home when the frolic pales.”
Her tone was not bitter so much as bleak—past the point where she could be disappointed.
“Has somebody abandoned you, Miss Hennessey?”
“Not recently. May we stop at the Weasel? I’d like to purchase a small keg of ale for my aunt.”
Not recently. What the hell did that mean?
Jack was happy to go to the Weasel, in part because he’d take any excuse to remain in the fresh air, away from his family, but also because the local publican was the best source of gossip. No magistrate worth his salt ignored local gossip when a coal-snatching thief was on the loose.
“We can certainly stop by the Weasel. When you were at Candlewick, did Belmont put a conveyance at your disposal for these weekly visits?”
“I had the use of the dog cart, or a horse if I preferred. The grooms do not relish riding sidesaddle to keep the ladies’ mounts in exercise.”
Miss Hennessey scooted about, tucking the lap robe around herself. Jack would soon lose all feeling in his face, but he was very aware of sitting hip to hip under the blanket with the lady.
“How is it a housemaid knows how to ride and drive, Miss Hennessey?”
The scooting stopped. “Neither activity is complicated when the horse is well trained. The Candlewick stables have only well-trained stock. Have you purchased your mother’s Christmas token yet?”
Jack steered the horses in the direction of the village, which took them past the Candlewick drive. At Miss Hennessey’s so-helpful suggestion, the family would exchange Christmas tokens on Twelfth Night, a few days hence.
“I was under the impression, madam, that companions were to be cheerful at all times, and there you go, reminding me of yet another shortcoming on my endless list of shortcomings. I know not what to give Mama. She abhors all things Indian and is determined to give me the sort of wife I’m disinclined to choose for myself. Perhaps I’ll find her a husband.”
“My aunts could advise you,” Miss Hennessey said. “They have assessed the attributes of every mature single male in the shire, and some of the immature ones as well.”
“Did they find all the fellows lacking?”
Miss Hennessey’s gaze was fixed on the Candlewick manor house a quarter of a mile away. Did she miss her home? Would she have preferred to visit there instead of with her crotchety aunts?
Jack, oddly, looked forward to seeing her with her relations.
“The gentlemen were not interested in older women who lacked means,” she said. “I’m warned frequently that I’m likely to end up in the same situation—older and without means. My aunts have a plan for when that time comes.”
“Female relations tend to be full of plans.” Jack did not like to think of Miss Hennessey impoverished and alone. Over the past few days, he’d found himself thinking of her in his bed, though, which was… a problem.
Ladies who found their way to a man’s bed quite reasonably expected a place in his life, in Jack’s experience, and in that direction lay misery for all concerned.
“The aunties have made their wills,” Miss Hennessey explained. “Each leaves her property to me, with a life estate to her sister. When the last auntie dies, I inherit from them both. I’ll have either a small dowry as a result or the equivalent of a widow’s mite to see me through my dotage. I have no earthly idea how to manage a small holding, but some inheritance is better than none.”
In the time needed to drive from Teak House to the village, clouds had moved in, turning the day gray and bleak. The Wet Weasel was still sporting seasonal swags of pine roping on the front posts, wreaths on each window, and a bright red bow on the door, but the oppressive weather rendered those gestures futile rather than welcoming.
“Your dotage is decades away,” Jack said, while his own felt imminent. “It must be nice to know that your family has your best interests at heart and a plan for safeguarding your future.” A plan with which Miss Hennessey was in agreement.
He pulled up the team before the tavern, and a boy came out to lead the horses around to the coaching yard.
“Keep them moving,” Jack said, tossing the child a coin. “We won’t be long.” He climbed down and came around to assist Miss Hennessey from her perch, though the lady was looking anywhere but at him. “Have I offended, Miss Hennessey?”
She hopped down and remained standing before him, the wind whipping loose strands of her hair against her jaw.
“You do not offend, but neither do you understand. My aunts have almost nothing, and to inherit from them, I must lose the only people I can call family. A bitter trade, is it not?”
She walked around him and up the steps into the Weasel, leaving Jack feeling cold, vaguely ashamed, and yet, puzzled too. He’d asked her how she’d learned to ride and drive, and been prepared to hear that the first Mrs. Belmont had shown h
er, or a doting uncle had given her a pony in her girlhood.
Instead, Miss Hennessey had prevaricated. Riding and driving were skills, neither one acquired quickly or easily. Horses were prohibitively expensive for most households, and the meanest conveyance was an extravagance for many.
Who was Madeline Hennessey, and when—and why—had she given up on the traditional notion that holy matrimony would see her future secured?
* * *
Nothing would do but Aunt Theo had to put on the kettle and offer Sir Jack weak tea and stale bread with butter before allowing him to escape back out into the elements. He’d graciously tolerated Aunt’s hospitality, then he’d excused himself to “see to the horses.” Madeline heard an ax rhythmically applied to wood, suggesting he was splitting logs Theodosia had been too weak to manage on her own.
Cold weather made the splitting go easier, but Theodosia’s lungs did not tolerate cold well.
Aunt was parsimonious with her coal and had even bragged in Sir Jack’s hearing about knowing how to stretch a delivery from McArdle far longer than her neighbors could.
A bad moment, that.
“Sir Jack would do nicely as a husband,” Theodosia said, wrapping the bread in a towel and returning it to the bread box. She carefully swept the crumbs onto a plate, saving them for her precious biddies. If not for her puppies and laying hens, Theodosia would have very little income indeed.
“You’re considering marriage to Sir Jack?” Madeline had been considering Sir Jack too, though she knew better than to dream of marriage where he was concerned.
“Don’t be a goose. He’d do for you. He’s not an idiot.”
Not an idiot was high praise for a man, coming from Theodosia. She’d married an idiot, because her parents had selected one for her. Those parents had been long gone when she’d learned the idiot had squandered most of her dowry. He’d died without male heirs though, so Theo owned her small property free and clear.
“Sir Jack is a gentleman,” Madeline said, dumping her plain tea back into the pot. “When Mr. Tavis maundered on for ten minutes about the darts tournament and the winter assembly, Sir Jack was all polite attention.”
Outside, the ax blows fell in a slow, regular rhythm. Aunt would have no need to hoard her coal if Sir Jack came by regularly.
“Tavis is not half so enthusiastic about darts or dancing as he is about the money they bring him,” Aunt retorted. “If there were anywhere else to procure ale, I wouldn’t let you buy from him.”
Mr. Tavis was one of those older, single men of means who hadn’t the sense to take a wife.
“I’ve brought you biscuits,” Madeline said, rather than let Aunt start on the tavern owner’s faults. “These would go to waste at Teak House, and my clothes soon won’t fit, I’ve eaten so many myself.”
She withdrew a wrapped parcel that held a dozen biscuits as well as a few pieces of shortbread and two plain tea cakes.
“Does Sir Jack’s cook know you have these?” Aunt asked, not touching a single one.
Cook had put them on the tray or plate from which Madeline had taken them, so Madeline could answer honestly.
“Of course. She sent them up to me with a morning tray or an afternoon tea tray. Sir Jack isn’t a pinchpenny, and his staff eat well. I’m sure he’d like knowing you were enjoying a small treat from his kitchen.”
Aunt’s hand hovered over the lot, as if the sweets might dodge off as soon as she chose one. “Sir Jack looks at you.”
Madeline looked at him too, at his mouth, at his gloved hands on the reins, at his shoulders filling out the many-caped greatcoat. In her dreams, she did more than look.
“Sir Jack is the observant type. A fine quality in a magistrate. Take the shortbread. You know you adore it.”
“It’s best enjoyed with hot tea. I’ll save it.” Aunt turned away to cough delicately into a tattered scrap of a handkerchief.
She would feed the lot to her damned chickens on the theory that happy chickens laid more eggs, and more eggs meant more money.
“Take one now,” Madeline said. “Please.”
Theodosia had been a beauty in her day. Hattie frequently said as much, with a sibling’s peculiar talent for wounding with a compliment. Theo was still a handsome woman, but her blue eyes were sad, her manner timid. Timidity on a tall, handsome woman of mature years was heartbreaking.
The ax had fallen silent, meaning Madeline was out of time.
“I’ll save the sweets,” Theo said, smiling brightly. “You’ll bring some to Hattie too, won’t you?”
“Of course. Is there anything else you need?” Madeline asked, though she knew the answer. Neither Theodosia nor Hattie ever admitted to needing anything, and yet, the cottage was frigid and stank of dog, the slices of bread had been pathetically thin, and Theodosia’s gloves were more darning than weaving.
“I’m fine, dear. You must not keep Sir Jack waiting.”
Sir Jack would have driven home by way of Yorkshire to prolong the outing, the poor man. “Then I’m on my way, and I’ll see you in two weeks.”
Aunt knew better than to walk to services in this weather.
“My love goes with you, Madeline… and about Sir Jack.”
Madeline looped her scarf around her neck, though she wanted to wrap it over her aunt’s mouth.
“Whatever you’re going to say, Aunt Theo, don’t—”
“Money is important, but it isn’t everything or even the most important thing,” Theo said, which was about the last admonition Madeline would have predicted. “Jack Fanning isn’t frivolous, and his people speak well of him. He’s… good, if somewhat out of the common way. He wouldn’t steal your dowry and drink the rents.”
Oh, she meant well. The aunties always meant well. “He also won’t marry me. His own dear
mama has brought him nothing less than a bride to cheer him past winter’s gloom. Don’t feed all the biscuits to your hens.”
Aunt looked chagrined, but when Madeline bent closer to kiss her cheek, Theodosia grabbed the ends of Madeline’s scarf.
“So he won’t marry you. He’s a bachelor for now, and a lonely one. Show him some attention, and see where it leads. Many a woman has been happy and well-cared-for outside of marriage.”
Aunt was not among them. “You are being scandalous, Theodosia Hickman. Shame on you, and enjoy the biscuits.”
Madeline escaped into the bitter weather and found Sir Jack and the sleigh waiting for her on the lane. She climbed in beside him and scrambled under the lap robe before he could tie up the reins and assist her.
“Are we to wait here until spring?” Madeline asked.
“You are as bad as I am,” he said, clucking to the horses. “She’s half your extant family, and you charged out of there as if a press gang were after you. Did she upset you?”
Lately, everything upset Madeline, including the concern in Sir Jack’s eyes, and Aunt’s cough.
“I’ve been saving the biscuits off my tea tray for her, and she’ll just feed them to her biddies.” And worse, Madeline could look forward to the same future, if she was lucky.
“There is no stubbornness like the stubbornness rooted in aspirations toward self-sufficiency. Among the Hindu, a beggar’s blessing is a coveted treasure.”
What had that to do with anything, and why must it be so blasted cold? “My aunts are not beggars.” Not yet.
“The beggar’s blessing is coveted, because a blessing is all he has to give, the equivalent of a rich man’s entire fortune. Your aunt can be generous with her chickens. Mr. Tavis can boast of his darts tournament, though it’s simply one noisy if profitable night out of the year. We’re all beggars, viewed in a certain light, and we all have our fortunes to bestow.”
Some might say Sir Jack’s musing was the result of having spent too much time in the tropical sun, but Madeline found comfort in his words. Theodosia was not eccentric for pampering her chickens, she was… human.
“Thank you,” Madeline said. “For splitting
the wood too.”
“Exertion is a way to stay warm.”
He said nothing more, but when he’d turned the sleigh onto the road that would take them back to Teak House, he shifted the reins to one hand, and wrapped his other arm around Madeline’s shoulders.
She bundled into his warmth, grateful for his generosity, but wishing he’d ask the horses for a slower pace.
* * *
“Jack is just like your father,” Mama said.
Even to Jeremy’s professionally charitable ears, this was not a compliment. “In what sense, Mama?”
“Jack uses duty to do as he dashed well pleases,” Mama retorted. “Pass the salt. Lucy Anne, don’t you care for the soup?”
The soup was a peppery version of chicken stew, the recipe suited to one who enjoyed Indian cuisine. Jeremy had finished his out of politeness, but Lucy Anne—Miss DeWitt, rather—was mostly staring at hers.
“I’m afraid my digestion isn’t up to the robust spices,” she said, pushing the bowl an inch away. “It’s quite delicious, though, quite… interesting, really.”
“It’s not to my taste either,” Jeremy said. “Give me good English cooking, and don’t spare the salt.”
Mama set down her soup spoon. “Where can Jack be? And in this weather, as if I don’t have enough to worry about.”
Jeremy was ordained in part because he enjoyed the study of Scripture. A snippet of a parable would get stuck in his mind, and he’d wring from it every possible significance, going back to the Hebrew, Latin, or Aramaic to appease his curiosity. Unfortunately, he was prone to the same habit with remnants of conversation, such as his mother’s claim to have worries.
Jack had outwitted native assassins, army politics, matchmakers, and stupid generals. He would handle himself well enough on a winter day in his own backyard.
“Sir Jack is escorting Miss Hennessey,” Lucy Anne said. “I saw them take the sleigh out as I came down to breakfast. I’m told it’s half day for some of the staff, and assume that includes Miss Hennessey.”
Jack (The Jaded Gentlemen Book 4) Page 9
