by Sally Orr
She shook her head. “I believe they are clean. The smoke is due to the shortness of the chimneys.”
“Excuse me?”
“The chimneys are too short.” She wiped a piece of soot off the ornate table. “To retain the classical elegance of the Palladian style, the chimneys end after they emerge from the roof. The builders considered tall chimneys undesirable, because they would mar the roofline.”
“Hell’s fire.” He stomped back to his chair.
Her lips pursed before she placed the shepherdess on the ornate table and picked up her needlework. “Where was I? Oh, yes, evidently cleanliness is the price to pay for classical simplicity. What are overworked servants or soiled linens to architectural grace? Grand houses come at a cost, you know.”
“I can fix that problem.”
“You’ll lose the elegance of the classical facade.”
“Damn the elegance.”
“That’s your third use of bad language, young man.”
“Forgive me.” As a duke’s daughter, his mother preferred grand and old-fashioned houses. One of his goals was to bring her fully into the nineteenth century by modernizing Blackwell, but he did not want to pressure her all at once with his planned changes. Every shilling the estate earned he set aside to fund either his share in the foundry or to bring Blackwell abreast of the times. Once these improvements had been implemented, he expected a higher income within the next couple of years. At the moment, he kept her happy using the irregular profits from the sales of his handbook to buy her furniture and gifts. He leaned forward to retrieve his teacup and decided to please her with a proven method to lighten her mood—rouse her feminine curiosity. “I was held up today by some pretty estate affairs.”
Her needle stilled, hovering over her work. “Can you tell me the nature of your pretty estate affairs?”
“Maybe you could help me out on that score. A truly restorative sight on a sunny day: a beautiful country maid, widow, curly blond hair, brown eyes, dark lashes, and ample…lashes. Has a remarkable talent for a female—fishing. She learned of my business interests from you, so she must be one of your boon companions.”
“Fishing! The countrywomen around here have the oddest hobbies, so fishing shouldn’t surprise me. But from your description, I think you refer to our neighbor, Mrs. Elinor Colton.”
“That’s Mrs. Colton?” He dropped his teacup on the chair, splashing his knee with the scalding brew. “The Mrs. Colton I need to sign our lease? From your earlier description, I expected a daft, gray-haired clergyman’s widow, not a young maid in a dimity gown.”
“She is a clergyman’s widow.”
“Clergymen’s widows don’t look that live—”
“Look that what?”
“Ah…look that alive.” Instantly his thoughts diverted to the memory of the pretty widow’s backside walking home. Her hips swayed an infinitesimal degree detected only by men, a universal siren’s call to all men with a pulse.
“That woman has no poise or dignity to speak of. Granted she is lively, but spirit does not compensate for a plump figure and a plain face. How she ever caught the eye of Reverend Colton, I will never understand. Don’t tell me you are…you know…interested in her.”
“No, I’m not interested in her.” He remembered her lips, and the dimple that played in the corner of her mouth whenever she smiled. He retrieved his teacup and sat forward in his chair. “I gave you a vow… I have changed my actions, but don’t expect altered manners and a different man. Besides, a gentleman should meet his new neighbors, and her lease will be crucial to our success. So tell me all about her.” Next he remembered what the widow wore, an unfortunate recollection. Recalling the memory of her gown led to the mental image of him removing the gown. Followed by those quick calculations men make without conscious effort, like the time needed to remove every skirt and stocking and stay. He eased back in his chair. You promised Mother to reform, no dalliances. He shifted on the chair’s cushions before resting his boot on his knee.
Lady Helen appeared animated now. “I have met Mrs. Colton on several occasions locally and have even been her whist partner once. I first met her at the house of Mr. Henry Browne, a relative and local attorney with whom she may have an understanding or is expecting an offer of marriage.” She frowned at the carpet’s faded roses under her feet. “Maybe I’m confused. Could it be Dr. Potts, our notable physician, with whom she has an understanding? He distinguished himself in the war, you know. Of course, those offers are probably all rumors, since I cannot imagine her receiving any on account of her frivolity. What gentleman would want a silly wife? I am pleased to hear you’re not interested in her. Now that you have taken up permanent residence at Blackwell, you are the catch of the county. There are several local ladies I wish you to become acquainted with. All of them young, not like Mrs. Colton. Why, she must be at least thirty.”
“Need I remind you I’m almost thirty?”
“No, you can’t be. That would make me…wise. You must do as I ask and marry soon. I want many adorable grandchildren.”
“Stop, please. I just wanted to know who Mrs. Colton was.” He rose and stood with his back to the fire, discreetly watching her mood. Since his alluring fisherwoman was Mrs. Colton, he’d have to quickly apologize for his forward behavior at the lake if he wanted her to sign his lease. The foundry’s success and mother’s future happiness depended upon the widow’s goodwill.
Lady Helen’s eyes narrowed. “If you continue to frown in that manner, those wrinkles on your forehead will become permanent. Then no sensible woman would want to be seen in your company, much less accept your addresses. You must wed soon. Please, I want you to find a wife and have children.” She paused to consider something for a moment. “I am too young to be called ‘grandmother,’ therefore, the moppets shall address me as ‘aunt.’ Of course, we will tell the children the truth once they have reached the age of discretion.”
“I never reached the age of discretion.”
She clicked her tongue. “At the rate you are going, you’ll spend your life alone. Men need affectionate female company and children hanging on their boots. You are dear to me, Ross, and I would love to see you settled.”
“Humph.” When mothers demanded grandchildren, a gentleman’s only recourse was to change the subject. “Do you believe this Mrs. Colton has reasons to refuse our lease and the extra profits it will generate?”
A knowing glare indicated she was not fooled by his diversion. “She has no reason to sign it. Her late husband’s fortune came from his father, a wealthy ship owner, and she had a significant dowry too. So she can afford her taxes and life’s luxuries. You should see her lovely mourning brooch…diamonds all around.”
“You deserve a diamond mourning brooch. Shall I purchase one?”
“Don’t be foolish. Diamonds would only remind me of John’s bright…”
“But I owe—”
“Don’t…” She struggled to complete the sentence, failed, and remained silent.
He wanted to kick himself. Two years earlier, his younger brother, John, had met with an accident. John’s extended suffering unsettled his mother to such an extent, she took shears to her hair. Ross feared she would fade into madness if she remained in London. So last year, upon the advice of her physician, he sent her to live in the country with a promise of John’s eventual recovery. Six months ago John died. Now all Ross desired out of life was to see his mother’s spontaneous smile. A shadow of her old smile had greeted him upon his arrival, but he longed for the brilliant one. He glanced toward the fire but discreetly kept his attention upon her, trying to discover if time and distance away from John’s suffering had cured her eccentricities.
“I know other mothers whose sons…” She dropped her needlework and tugged on the lock of hair escaping her cap. “A mother should stay with her ill son, not flee to the countryside like a coward, shouldn’t
she?”
His jaw tightened. She spoke of painful feelings, a subject he refused to openly discuss. “Please, let’s not speak of it.”
“Yes. I cannot bear it. Not a word, not a whisper. Too much…”
Ross could not bear it either. His exaggerated reputation as a rake, most likely created by boredom in London’s clubs, coupled with a reckless moment where his behavior reinforced that reputation, had led to his brother’s death. No amount of nursing on her part could have saved John. Now both he and his mother were living a fallacy—both pretending they would recover—both hearts broken. For all his supposed expertise with females, in reality he knew very little. Perhaps her desired furniture or grandchildren would preserve her sanity. For him, the promise of iron and steam engines to build England’s future was the only thought keeping him sane. He rose from his chair and stood behind her. He hugged her, then let his cheek rest upon the top of her head. “We’ll never mention this again. Period.”
A taut silence ruled, and the room filled with an unspoken pain that hung in the air.
Once her breathing calmed, he strode over to the console table, poured himself a brandy, and returned to his chair. He peered at the amber liquid dancing from the reflected light, took a long gulp, and savored the brandy’s trail of fire down his throat. Meanwhile, the stillness lingered, except for the ticking of the mantel clock or a random hiss from the coals in the fireplace.
His mother’s expression, which had been light for most of the evening, remained blank.
He needed to say something to divert her thoughts from dwelling upon her grief. He planned to tell her his good news at the end of the week, but he’d rouse her from low spirits by telling her tonight. He expected her reaction to be a happy one, so he watched for her smile. “I have news for you. I’ve started negotiations with Charles Allardyce, the major contributor of the funds for our foundry. Next month he will visit Blackwell with several of his daughters. You know the family.” He inhaled deeply. “It is not settled yet, but I plan to wed his daughter, Lucy, if we suit.”
“Marriage?” Her face lit up with the famous family smile. “Grandchildren!” She clapped her hands. “I can hardly wait—boys—I so hope they are boys. I’m not quite sure how to spoil girls. Do you know how to spoil—don’t answer. Why didn’t you write me about your betrothal earlier?” She picked up her needlework then immediately put it back down.
He grinned, his victory complete with her smile. “I wanted to witness your surprise. But I’m not betrothed yet. Don’t make plans for the wedding breakfast anytime soon.” He hooked his forefinger under his tight collar and tugged it loose.
“Do you love Lucy?” Her insistent tone indicated every detail of the courtship was important to her, and she expected answers.
“Allardyce has given our investment group funds for the initial construction. Better yet, his share of the profits will only amount to five percent per year. He conceded these favorable terms upon my agreement to wed Lucy. With ten daughters, six still at home, his goals are not solely profit.”
Her smile faded. “Ross,” she whispered, “what about love?”
With his hands clutched behind his back, he started to pace before her. “Don’t ask for the impossible. I will fall in love the minute your shepherdess here herds cows instead of sheep. Besides, with this marriage I will finally meet Father’s demands. He was disappointed I didn’t marry at twenty.”
“Yes. Your father pushed you to wed for money, but now with your success, I want you to marry for love.”
“Humph.” Love—the ultimate female word. Many of his friends had found love, yet that seemingly violent emotion had never claimed him. The general consensus was that no love could be as powerful as the one you felt in your twenties. Now almost in his thirties, he was too old, too cynical, or perhaps his heart didn’t work like other men’s. He had every intention of respecting his wife and being fond of her and any children they might produce. But that feeling that drove men to behave like asses and ruin good capes by laying them in mud puddles for My Lady, he had no desire to find.
“After…” He paused. He needed to choose his words carefully to avoid another silence. “I gave you a solemn vow to change my behavior, and I have. I will try to act like the perfect gentleman you want me to be, but it is too much to expect romantic…attachment.”
“Ross,” she said with a slight shake of her head. “If you are not happy, I will—”
“The only way I can move forward is to put one boot in front of the other and do what’s right. Since this marriage is desirable by all parties involved, it’s settled. Anyhow, how could I be bereft of affectionate female company when I have my handsome mother near?”
“Oh, Ross.” She gave him a small, sweet smile. “While I enjoy being first in your affections, it’s a crime to waste a fine gentleman like you hidden away up here in Cheshire with only his mother to flatter. I wish you happy with Lucy Allardyce, and I hope you’ll marry soon. She is the prettiest of the sisters, so you must wed immediately. Before a younger buck—who doesn’t need her father’s funds—presses his suit.”
“Thank you, Mother. I’ll present my offer of an ancient buck before a younger buck can even ask her to dance.”
“You don’t know she will accept your addresses. We must not depend upon her father’s friendship, and make sure of your engagement. I suggest you turn on that famous charm you seem unable to tame.”
He chuckled warmly. “Yes, dear, if you wish it. Indeed, I look forward to marriage. It goes without saying that I will do everything in my power to make Miss Allardyce happy. So to insure the future success of our family, I’ll give her an irresistible broadside of charm.”
Four
A shaft of dawn’s rays illuminated the dusty blue cupboard in the corner of Elinor’s bedroom. During the night, sleep eluded her, because her home’s fate remained in doubt. She lifted her sore finger up into the shaft of sunlight. Sure enough, it appeared bright red and throbbed like the devil. Within hours after returning home yesterday, the fishhook puncture gained the hue of burning coals and felt equally hot. She resolved to find the appropriate poultice before her immediate journey to Blackwell. At the first minute society considered a polite hour to call, she planned to directly ask Lady Helen about her son’s plans for a foundry.
Once downstairs in William’s book-lined study, she pulled several medical books from the tall shelves and spread them over the polished mahogany desk. Since the wound was not serious enough to call Dr. Potts, common sense suggested she should follow Mr. Thornbury’s advice and teach herself the best method to cure an infected wound.
Her housekeeper, Mrs. Richards, entered the study and handed her a note from Henry.
After a quick perusal, Elinor discovered Mr. Thornbury had not been at home when Henry called at Blackwell yesterday. Her handsome neighbor spent the morning charming her by the lake, so she wasn’t surprised. Henry promised to pay a call again within the week and make inquiries about the foundry.
She moved aside the Trafalgar memorial inkwell—replete with weeping lion—and pulled the largest medical book forward. After deciding to start with “cuts,” she began to read the entry when Berdy came into the room.
He must have been experimenting with cravat knots, because he silently struck a dramatic pose on the Axminster carpet’s center medallion of roses. Thus staged, he lifted his chin for her approval, but his smile faded without her immediate praise.
“Please, love. A young man in your situation cannot support himself as a London dandy. If you married, how would you provide for your family?”
He waved a hand in the air. “Not now. I’ve plenty of time to choose a profession. I thought you’d be excited to see m’ new knot.” He turned to give her a side view. “I call it The Circumbendibus.”
“Why do they name cravat knots? It’s not as though they are pets.”
“Elli. This
is important. When we go to London for the Season and I’m seen wearing The Circumbendibus, I’m convinced this knot will be even more popular than the The Bungup. Then all of London will acknowledge me as a gentleman of elegance and style.”
Glancing at the wide-eyed expression beaming from his smiling face, she cherished that eager look. It first appeared when Berdy was nine, seconds before he ran toward a dangerous horse, his arms open wide, repeating the words “horsey hug.” The first of many panicked moments she experienced in the role of his mother. Now, almost nine years later, she worried she would never fulfill her late sister’s last wish to guide him from adolescence into a mature, responsible man. “With that enormous bow, can you look down?” She doubted he could move anything above the cravat.
He huffed and attempted to lower his chin. He couldn’t place it on his chest—the giant neckcloth blocked his forward movement—so he tilted his head to the side. “Of course, I can look down. You are…are you pressing flowers?”
“No…books are used for reading.” She closed the lexicon and gave him her full attention.
“Very amusing. You know at school I’m considered a great scholar.”
She examined his figure from his head to his Hessians. Today he did not dress like a scholar. He wore ivory pantaloons below an apple-green waistcoat. His curly blond locks were brushed forward in a disheveled appearance called à la Titus. “Scholarship is more than knowing which tailor produces the best waistcoats, and which draper sells the finest silk. Scholarship means reading books, too.”
“I read books that are…thick.” He picked up the biggest, turned it around, and read the spine aloud. “Quincy’s Lexicon Physico-Medicum Improved: or a Dictionary of the Terms Employed in Medicine, and in such Departments of Chemistry, Natural Philosophy, Literature, and the Arts, as are connected therewith.” He paused to take a deep breath. “That title is so long, I must have learnt something already.”
She grinned. “William admired Quincy’s Lexicon and said the book is a dazzling piece of scholarship. It was written in the last century and still contains important information, but William loved to laugh at the silly entries that somehow escaped revision. Of course, medical knowledge is much more advanced nowadays.” She got up from the desk and sat on the large-cushioned chair by the arched Gothic windows. Relieved the subject of conversation changed from frivolous cravats to books, she picked up her needlework.
