by Nichole Van
“It was my pleasure,” Jane murmured. “I know how you adore the smoothness of floss silk.”
“I’ve been telling my Daniel that you are the best of mistresses.”
After dealing with Lord Hadley over the past couple days, visiting the estate’s tenants was a gentle balm.
“Has the steward sent a man out to check on your roof yet?” Jane asked. She knew that the roof had leaked terribly with the last rainstorm.
Mrs. Jones lit up, her eyes brightening. “Oh, yes, his lordship came himself, he did. Clambered up on the roof and sussed out the problem in no time.”
“His lordship?” Was Mrs. Jones truthfully referring to that man? “You mean Lord Hadley?”
“Of course. He was such a gentleman, too.” Mrs. Jones blushed like a debutante.
“He was a gentleman?” Jane repeated, head tilting bird-like.
“A perfect gentleman,” Mrs. Jones effused. “Polite and kind, asking after my John and saying he would send a man to help mend the south fence. And that’s after he fixed up the roof. We’re so fortunate to have Lord Hadley here now.”
Jane managed a wan smile, before bidding a polite goodbye and making her way home.
She was sure anyone viewing her walking across the south lawn would assume she was placid and calm.
They would be utterly wrong. Inside, she shook an enraged fist at the sky. These were her people. Villagers and tenants that she had known her entire life.
And then ridiculous Lord Hadley arrived and turned his Highland charm on them with his ‘ochs’ and ‘ayes’ and swinging kilt, earning their loyalty with a few well-placed smiles and boyish charm.
Bloody man with his stupidly handsome face and looming body and complete disregard for the proper order of things.
Was Mrs. Jones simply blind to Hadley’s ghastly behavior?
Another thought occurred, this one perhaps more puzzling—
Or . . . did Hadley behave more properly with tenants and exaggerate his Scottishness for Jane’s benefit alone?
She was still muttering over the situation a day later. Lord Hadley was everywhere, intent on destroying her peace of mind. Worse, Hadley’s presence had turned her mother’s mood particularly waspish.
“If only you could marry, Jane,” her mother had said just that morning, “perhaps we could all escape Hadley’s grasp. But even in that, you have been such a disappointment to myself and Montacute.”
Jane had nearly bitten her tongue in an effort not to reply. The half-moons on her palm had come dangerously close to breaking the skin.
Finally, Jane retreated to the library and her mineral collection before she did something ill-advised. Like scream in frustration or beat a pillow or, heaven forbid, roll her eyes in her mother’s presence.
Hopefully spending the day with her collection of minerals would bring some emotional equilibrium.
A recent essay by a noted German mineralogist had proposed a fascinating idea regarding stone color. She had spent the last several weeks working to reorganize her own collection according to the theory, but there was yet work to be done.
Along with that, she wished to choose a few stones to show the Brady children. The younger ones had been begging to see some of her ‘pretty rocks,’ and she didn’t wish to disappoint them.
The library was her favorite place in Hadley Park. Spacious and filled with light, the room sported book shelves on two walls, stretching from the floor nearly to the ceiling. Deep-seated, leather armchairs sat at regular intervals near the bookcases and a sliding ladder provided access to the upper shelves. The other two walls featured a bank of three tall windows on one side and a cavernous fireplace flanked by wingback chairs and a plump sofa on the other. A large desk stood in front of the windows and her mineral cabinets provided a neat dividing line between the fireplace seating and the bookcases.
Jane dragged a stool across the floor to sit before one of the cabinets, determined to lose herself in the soothing work of re-examining and re-categorizing her minerals. She leafed through Hutton’s Theory of the Earth, trying to focus as she referenced things.
But, of course, her riotous thoughts were having none of it.
How had her life gone sideways so quickly? It wasn’t simply Hadley himself.
Montacute continued sending his letters, each one setting her heart to pounding. Would this be the letter that removed her from Peter?
But, no, Montacute’s latest letter had expounded on his disappointment in her spinster state.
Your lack of a husband grows burdensome, sister. When the old earl was yet living, I knew you were assured a place in society. But with his passing, your own future has become less secure. I have allowed you to remain in the country, buoying up your mother and Peter in their mourning. However, the worst of that is now passed, and your future again weighs heavy on my pocketbook.
I am frustrated with your inability to attract and captivate a proper gentleman. The dealings with Lord Eastman two years past trouble me even now, as they show evidence of your base, wayward nature. You must fully remove that shameful stain from your personality. Your behavior must always be that of a lady. Otherwise, the difficult task of finding you a suitable husband becomes a nearly-impossible one.
Remain at the ready as I may summon you to London should I discover a possible suitor.
Jane flushed, the lingering burn of humiliation searing her cheeks.
How critical would Montacute be of her behavior over the past week with Hadley’s arrival? Over and over, her wild inner-self had tugged and lunged at the chains that bound it, desperate to challenge Hadley’s own coarse manners on more equal terms.
Become a lady . . . no one will want you otherwise.
Jane snorted softly, letting the sting of that long-ago rebuke sink deep. Despite the harsh words, the grain of truth remained:
No gentleman would ever love a woman who tumbled into streams and swore like a sailor. Jane needed to imprison her baser instincts if she wished to have a husband and family of her own. And the older she grew, the more she ached for those things.
If only Lord Hadley didn’t make it so difficult to control her temper . . .
As for her other brother . . .
Peter continued to rant and fume over Hadley’s ultimatum. He was a gentleman, not a hired hand seeking employment, and how dare Hadley demand this of him!
Peter had taken to doing what men excelled at when there was unpleasantness about—making himself scarce. He studiously avoided Hadley, and by extension, the rest of the household and Jane, herself.
It was that last bit, ironically, that stung the most. Peter spent inordinate amounts of time in the billiards room and then took himself off to the Lion Arms in Alsbourne ’til late in the evening, always returning foxed and muttering.
Therefore, Jane was surprised when Peter stumbled into the library, interrupting her mineral cataloging. He grunted, before hooking a wingback chair with his toe, turning it to face Jane, and sitting down. He was clearly somewhat hungover from the evening before, if his tousled hair and the green cast of his skin were any indication.
“Drinking again, Peter?” Jane saw no reason to begin with polite pleasantries.
Peter moaned, settling further, resting his head on the back of the chair, closing his eyes.
“Sorting rocks again, Jane?” he countered, head unmoving.
She hated it when he called her minerals ‘rocks.’ Which, of course, meant that Peter only ever referred to them as rocks.
“Must you spend so much time at the Lion Arms?” she asked.
Peter grunted again, still not moving his head.
She knew Peter was adrift and lost, but she could no longer bite her tongue. Words tumbled free. “I wish you were here more often. I feel as if I’ve been left to deal with Hadley alone.”
Didn’t Peter see that his was not the only future at stake here? Did he not see that his refusal to assist Hadley endangered her own options? Why was he being so recalcitrant on this poi
nt?
Peter did not immediately respond to her criticism, which in and of itself, was telling.
He appeared so young in that moment, Jane realized. At one-and-twenty, he was barely three years her junior, but sometimes she felt a lifetime older. Or maybe, it was simply that she took her duties as a lady more seriously.
“I know you think that by avoiding the situation, Hadley will simply disappear. But he is here to stay, Peter,” she said into the silence. “Avoidance is a poor strategy.”
As much as she disliked some of Hadley’s methods, Jane had come to believe that her brother should take up Hadley’s offer. Helping run the estate would give Peter some much needed direction. Why couldn’t Peter see this, too?
Finally, her brother sighed.
“I can’t make this better, Jane,” he whispered, pinching the bridge of his nose.
Jane scrunched her nose. “Make this better? Your hangover?”
He snorted. “No.” He cracked an eyelid, peering at her. “This mess with Hadley.”
Oh.
Her brother sat further upright, eyes bloodshot and weary. “Hadley is so much worse than I expected. And my expectations were never high—”
“Peter—”
“Let me say my piece, Jane. I’m sorry I haven’t been a particularly good brother to you, as of late.”
Jane’s heart melted into a puddle at his words.
Peter does see! she wanted to shout.
He continued, “This whole business with Hadley has me flummoxed. Do I accept his offer and spend my days dealing with angry tenants? Do I fight against him until he gives me a more generous allowance?”
She paused. “What do you want to do?”
“Truthfully?” He met her gaze, his blue eyes open and guileless.
“Yes.”
“I want this to all go away.” He waved a hand and sat back with a huff. “Maybe we could convince Hadley to give me a settlement. If you and I pool our resources—”
“Me?”
“Yes, of course, you. If I had a settlement from Hadley and you had your allowance from Montacute, we could likely cobble together enough to let a house somewhere, escape from Hadley’s presence—”
“Peter, you know that is simply not possible. Besides Hadley isn’t so bad—”
“You cannot mean that, Jane.” Peter snorted.
Very well, maybe she didn’t mean it, but she wasn’t going to back down.
Peter continued, “Hadley is an absolute menace. I cannot abide him. I would leave here tomorrow if I could manage it—”
“Hadley is at least attending to the estate, Peter.” That much Jane could admit to. “But he doesn’t have the funds to settle on us. More to the point, Montacute would never agree to such a scheme.”
“Why not? Cheaper than paying your dowry.”
Jane knew Peter didn’t mean his words to sting, but they did nonetheless. Even Peter dismissed her if she were a commodity that needed sorting.
“Nonsense. My marriage is Montacute’s favorite topic,” she countered. “I’m endlessly scolded about it, remember?”
“Balderdash,” Peter said. “I doubt it will happen.”
“Pardon?”
“I’ve been thinking about it lately. I don’t believe Montacute has any intention of letting you marry. He is content to keep the interest from your dowry for himself. He makes noise about marriage, but he isn’t truly engaged in finding you a husband. Why do you think no man is ever perfect enough for him?”
“You are incredibly wrong, Peter. I had a letter from him just this morning on the topic.” Jane barely suppressed an ill-bred snort. “Many gentlemen have been acceptable to Montacute. It’s my own poor manners that have been problematic—”
“You? Are you referring to that dashed business with Lord Eastman?”
Jane flinched at his words. Naturally, Peter knew every last detail of how the situation with Lord Eastman had played out. She bit her lip, helpless to stop a fiery blush of shame.
Peter noted it, a frown denting his brows. “Eastman’s actions were not about you, Jane.”
She laughed in surprise. “Are you dotty, Peter? I am obviously at fault. Do you not remember the freckle incident, as well? Lord Birchall overhearing me call him ‘bloody repulsive’? The problem lies within me. Eastman’s actions were entirely in response to my own unruly behavior—”
“Says who?”
Jane spluttered. “Uh . . . Eastman, of course.”
“Did he tell you to your face?”
“Well, no—”
“Of course, not. Montacute informed you.”
Silence.
“What is your point, Peter?” she asked after a moment.
“Just this—Montacute has every reason to lie to you. I know that Eastman was hard pressed for funds at the time—”
“He wanted my dowry?”
“Naturally Eastman wanted your dowry.”
Jane winced.
Peter continued on, “You are a lovely woman, Jane, with sparkling depths and a quick mind. But men are, by and large, simple creatures. We want money, power, and a warm body in our beds. Marriage to you provides all three.” His blunt words reignited her blush, but her brother carried on, oblivious as usual. “Eastman would have been a fool not to pursue you. You giving an overly-loud laugh—if it had occurred as you say—would not have sent him packing, I can assure you. You are too great a prize to be given up so readily.”
“But?” Jane prompted, as surely there was a point to reliving her humiliation.
“Montacute doesn’t want to part with your dowry. I’m guessing Eastman was not put off by your behavior at the menagerie. He might have even been charmed—”
“Charmed?!”
“—and he applied to Montacute, officially asking for your hand. Montacute, realizing that he would lose your dowry in earnest, sent Eastman packing. And then to cover up his base motives, Montacute concocted a story that it was your behavior that caused the rupture. The other incidences seemed similar. Montacute told you Lord Birchall overheard you calling him ‘bloody repulsive,’ but it could have just as easily been a servant who heard, not his lordship. Montacute decided your face was too freckled to remain in London.”
Jane bit her lip, struggling to mentally realign the events. The pieces simply refused to slot into place. Peter’s ideas went against everything Montacute had said over the years.
And yet . . .
She frowned. “Why haven’t you told me this before now?”
Peter shrugged. “I only sussed it out myself yesterday. You have to admit—it makes sense.”
That was the problem; it did make a sort of sense. Jane could imagine Montacute behaving like that. Her ducal half-brother was manipulative and cruel, seeing others as puppets to bend to his will.
But . . .
“I think you are wrong, Peter.” She shook her head. “I will marry at some point. I want a family of my own. Montacute knows this. If he truly wished to keep my money for himself, he would be better off encouraging me to make an unsuitable marriage, which would release him from having to bestow my dowry at all.”
“And how would Montacute accomplish that?”
“I don’t know. Hire a handsome dancing instructor? Or a dashing Italian artist—”
“Nurtured a few fantasies, have you?”
“Enough.” Jane rolled her eyes.
“You’re wrong, of course,” Peter said. “Montacute doesn’t do that because such a marriage would sully the family name. He wishes to avoid scandal. It’s better for him to keep you in this marital limbo—”
“Hah! You’re practically making my argument for me. Montacute wants me to marry well because he sees my marriage as a way to advance his own political ambitions. My inability to control my baser impulses is an impediment to this—”
“That’s what Montacute wants you to believe.”
Jane ground her teeth. Peter was wrong about Montacute; the duke was wealthy and didn’t need her dowr
y. He wanted something that money could not entirely purchase—political influence.
And Jane was merely another card he could play in his bid for power.
She and Peter could argue this all day.
“Enough of me. What of you?” Jane tossed the conversation back at him. “Are you going to accept Hadley’s offer?”
“To manage his earldom?” Peter groaned.
“You are his heir—”
“Until Hadley marries and has a son of his own,” he snorted.
Unbidden, an image flashed through Jane’s mind—a child version of Hadley racing down the main staircase of Hadley Park, tartan streaming behind him, a wooden sword in his hand. The lad laughed, streaking toward her, arms outstretched—
Too quickly, the vision morphed into memory. Peter running to her across the central courtyard of Rosehearth, leaping into her outstretched arms, tackling her to the ground, both of them tangled in her skirt, shrieking and laughing—
Jane swallowed, shaking the thoughts away. “That may happen, but regardless, you need to build a life for yourself. Despite your distaste of Hadley, he will only be here occasionally. You will not have to see him often—”
Peter squirmed at her words.
Did he truly dislike Hadley as much as he said? Or was it just one more excuse?
Jane shook the thought off, continuing, “A man can look after an estate and be a gentleman. The two facts are not mutually exclusive—”
“Enough, Jane.” Her brother shrugged, gaze moving off. “I’ll continue to think on it.”
“You know I only want your happiness, Peter.” Jane leaned forward and placed her hand over his. “I believe in you. I think you would be splendid watching over Hadley Park. And I would be here with you, to help when you need it.”
His red-rimmed eyes met hers.
“Thank you, sister,” he nodded. “I’ll give it more serious consideration. But I think I have officially hit my limit for maudlin conversation—”
“Whose conversation is maudlin?” Lady Hadley’s voice rang from the doorway.
Jane and Peter both looked toward their mother. The stern slash of Lady Hadley’s lips spoke tellingly of her mood.
