“In miniature,” Jamie chortled.
“The stable master is that grand a fellow?” Theresa interjected. Beckman was every bit as tall as the squire and as muscular as regular stable work could make a man. Beckman’s hair was a lighter blond, his eyes a lighter blue. He was, in short, a less weathered, less honed version of the squire.
Beckman’s smile held a touch of pride. “My older brother is that grand in many respects.”
“Pride goeth,” the squire muttered, though he smiled. “You’ll keep me informed?”
Jamie winked. “Bet on it.”
Mr. Belmont pulled gloves from his pocket. “Then my contribution here is complete. A word with you, Miss Jennings?”
He offered his arm, a quaint gesture under the circumstances. Thomas offered Theresa his arm, and she tolerated it because he was her brother. Brothers could be old-fashioned where sisters were concerned—even sisters who had fallen so very far from grace.
Maybe, especially those sisters.
“You are preoccupied,” the squire observed as he walked with her across the drive to a bench under a spreading oak.
“Thinking of my brother.”
“Baron Sutcliffe is a capital fellow, and he has found a lovely bride, one well worth his notice.”
Mr. Belmont could not know how talk of happy nuptials still had the power to wound Theresa. The dart of pain came as a small surprise to her too.
“You know Miss—her ladyship, Mr. Belmont?”
“I’ve known Loris for almost ten years. Shall we sit?”
“Of course.” Theresa had forgotten the strictures of ladies and gentlemen in company with each other. She hadn’t considered herself a lady for years, nor had she enjoyed the company of a true gentleman since well before that.
Mr. Belmont was a gentleman, even if he did air his veterinary vocabulary with astonishing capability.
Theresa’s escort seemed in no hurry to resume the conversation, and she was content to sit beside him. Matthew Belmont was at ease in proximity to her, and simply being close to him was soothing.
That shouldn’t be—he was an adult male—but there it was.
“I proposed to Loris at one point,” Mr. Belmont said, smoothing out the wrinkled fingers of his riding gloves against his thigh. “She turned me down, for which I suppose I should be grateful.”
A breeze stirred the remaining oak leaves, a dry, sad sound. “Grateful to be rejected, Mr. Belmont?”
“I wasn’t asking for the right reasons, and my proposal flattered neither of us.”
A failed proposal could not possibly be what Mr. Belmont had wanted to discuss, and any woman with sense would have changed the subject.
Theresa had not visited with a neighbor for years, though, much less a male neighbor. “What are the right reasons?”
“There are many right reasons.” Mr. Belmont sat back, stretched an arm over the back of the bench, and crossed long legs at the ankle.
The topic was not unnerving him. Maybe nothing unnerved him.
“What’s most important,” he went on, “is to be honest about what one’s reasons are. I married out of familial obligation, duty, and, for want of a better term, youthful eagerness—my late wife was very pretty. She married me out of social necessity and gratitude. We understood one other’s reasons, and the union functioned adequately as a result.”
What did this have to do with an ailing mare? And yet, Theresa was curious, for Mr. Belmont’s adequate union sounded… lonely.
“Were you happy?”
“We grew to be content,” he replied, as if reciting a catechism. “We were happy raising our children.”
“Content. A consummation devoutly to be wished.”
Mr. Belmont brightened, like a hound who hears a rustling in a nearby thicket. “You enjoy Shakespeare, Miss Jennings? My oldest went on a Shakespeare spree two summers ago. He nigh drove his brothers to swear eternal illiteracy.”
Safer ground, this—much safer. “I like to read, Shakespeare among others. And you?”
“Living in the country, one acquires an aptitude for either reading or drinking. I have the Bard’s complete works in my library, if you’re due for an infusion.”
He’d regret that offer, though Theresa wouldn’t presume on his books in any case.
“You give me leave to raid your library, while I invite you to join me in a figurative raid on the larder. Penny would insist I offer you a meal for your trouble.” As would Thomas, oddly enough.
Mr. Belmont rose and drew Theresa to her feet, then placed her hand on his arm.
“I’m utterly harmless, Miss Jennings, in all settings save one. Put me before a hearty meal, and my focus narrows as if I were Wellington advancing across the Peninsula. No larder is safe when I’m in the neighborhood.”
He gave her the same smile he’d offered her in the barn. Charming, friendly, and as deceptive as Priscilla when reporting last night’s bedtime.
Theresa walked with him through the Sutcliffe gardens, which were fading as gardens did when autumn had supplanted summer. The chrysanthemums were putting on a good show, and heartsease was enjoying the cooler weather, but winter was edging closer, and the flowers knew it.
Mr. Belmont made small talk, and yet, Theresa was not fooled.
Any man who could diagnose something as obscure as a mare’s persnickety preferences regarding her water bucket, any man who inspired even the mute beasts to watch him walk away, any man who called Theresa Jennings sweet and made her wish it was so, was not a harmless man.
* * *
Breakfast passed pleasantly, much to Theresa’s surprise. The squire had the gift of conversation, and he was acquainted with every soul for twenty miles in any direction, as well as their dogs, horses, ailments, and legal complaints.
And yet, as he recounted anecdotes or judicial contretemps, he never named names, or sermonized about his neighbors’ foibles. If anything, he viewed life from a tolerant perspective Theresa hadn’t encountered for too long.
“When you are both neighbor and magistrate,” he said, “people will tell you of any and every mishap, spat, or peculiar circumstance, most of which has no bearing on anything, save a need to talk.”
Despite his ability to converse amiably, he also paid assiduous homage to the offerings on the sideboard.
“How did you become magistrate?” Such a fate typically befell an older fellow.
“My late neighbor, Squire Pettigrew, was prepared to bear the dubious honor for at least another twenty years, but he was the victim of food poisoning, and I was the next likely choice because my father had held the post prior to Pettigrew’s tenure. The job has been interesting, if occasionally inconvenient.”
For Matthew Belmont “occasionally inconvenient” was doubtless the equivalent of protracted cursing from another man.
“To sit in judgment of one’s neighbors,” Theresa replied, “without becoming arrogant would be a challenge.” For Thomas, that challenge would have been considerable, at least the Thomas whom Theresa had known ten years ago.
“Arrogant?” Mr. Belmont peered at his plate, from which every morsel of eggs, toast, ham, bacon, and stewed apples had been consumed. “Holding parlor sessions is often a humbling business, because one can so easily be in error.”
“But who is to know that? People usually come to their own conclusions, and the truth has little to do with it.” Theresa kept the bitterness from her words, barely, but the squire wasn’t deceived.
She liked him a little less for his perceptivity, and respected him more.
“You have been tried, judged, and executed in the court of public opinion, I’d guess. Not a pleasant experience.” Mr. Belmont shared his evidentiary conclusion gently.
Worse yet, his blue eyes were kind.
Theresa pushed her eggs about on her plate. “You however, have likely never endured such an experience.” Nobody should have to endure public censure, however silent or subtle it might be.
Mr. Belmont moved
the teapot closer to her wrist—the good porcelain, suggesting the kitchen was on its best behavior.
“There, madam, you would be wrong, and I notice you do not gainsay my conclusion. Do you intend to eat those eggs?”
He’d put away a prodigious amount of food, but for all his leanness, he was a good-sized fellow.
“You’re welcome to them, if that’s what you’re asking.”
He reached for her plate. “I realize I am risking quite the bad impression, but my cook has run off to Brighton—she’s always running off somewhere now that my sons reside in Oxfordshire. Your cook, on the other hand, has a fine hand with the omelet, and an empty stomach has no pride.”
Theresa sat, nonplussed and charmed, as her guest scraped her untouched food onto his plate.
“I haven’t seen a man demolish a meal like this since Thomas lived at Sutcliffe,” she said. “He grew so quickly and was always active. Food disappeared whenever he was around, just plain disappeared.”
Thomas had had no pride then. He’d been all appetite—for food, for knowledge, for books, languages, and life.
“I share the same ability,” Mr. Belmont said between bites, “to make food disappear. While my sons’ handling of a plate of food defies description. Gustatory legerdemain is the closest I can come. Food vanishes. Fortunately, your cook is aware of my tendencies and provides portions in abundance when I’m on the property.”
“So when were you pilloried by the local gossips?” Theresa asked.
He frowned at the eggs on his fork. “Any man serving as magistrate comes in for a deal of criticism. He charges those whom public opinion would forgive, he does not charge someone who is unpopular. Evidence matters naught when the yeomen gather around their pints, and in some cases, I am not free to disclose the entire basis upon which I make my decisions.”
The eggs, which had to be cold by now, met their fate, while Theresa remained quiet in hopes Mr. Belmont would continue his recitation.
“It’s a d— deuced thankless job,” he went on, “and that’s before we consider what the judges at the assizes have to say about one’s work, or the vicar judging from his pulpit each Sunday while he exhorts the rest of us to judge not. Then too, Mr. Burton Louis fancies himself the local equivalent of Dr. Johnson because he manages to print a broadsheet of purest blather each—”
Mr. Belmont put his fork down. “I am whining. Forgive me.”
The charming smile was nowhere in sight, and yet, Theresa liked this version of Squire Belmont—a little testy, running low on neighborly good cheer, not too proud to eat cold eggs.
What a shame they’d never have a chance to further their acquaintance. She ignored her heart’s plea for just a few more minutes of friendly, adult company with Mr. Belmont, and instead let the truth loose between them.
“You may assume, Mr. Belmont, that the mother of an articulate eight-year-old has overlooked whining far more protracted than your little lapse.”
Mr. Belmont stilled, as if he’d heard a sword drawn from its scabbard in the next room. His eyes were the predictable blue of the Englishman descended from Saxon ancestors, and Theresa braced herself to see his gaze grow chilly, or worse—speculating.
The corners of those eyes crinkled, and his expression became, if anything, commiserating.
“You’ll miss that whining someday, I assure you. You’ll miss the mud on your carpets, the slamming of doors above stairs, the inability of the child to recall where—in the space of two minutes—gloves, boots, books, or common sense has got off to. Would you like more tea, Miss Jennings? I’m after the last of the toast and want to wash it down properly.”
What Theresa wanted, was to ask if Mr. Belmont had heard her. Miss Theresa Jennings had an eight-year-old daughter. A man who prided himself on his animal husbandry needn’t any clearer clue to his hostess’s unsavory past.
Mr. Belmont’s hand was on the teapot, his expression hinting at both humor and regret. The service was decorated with a shepherd boy and a goose girl casting coy glances among twining flowers and gilt vines.
Mr. Belmont’s index finger bore a scar, a slash of white across an otherwise elegant, if unfashionably tan hand.
The sight of that scar—small, old, unremarkable, but suggestive of a story—provoked a peculiar insight: Theresa and the magistrate had in common the joys and frustrations of parenting.
The same reality that had ruined Theresa’s good name once and for all, gave her common ground with the king’s man. The sense of connection was so unexpected and rare, she might have turned up sentimental over it, if she hadn’t sworn off that useless proclivity years ago.
“You really do take your nutrition seriously,” she said, or maybe Mr. Belmont really did know how to change the subject. “If you’re still hungry, we have apple tart on the sideboard. Shall we enjoy it on the terrace with a fresh pot of tea? The southern side of the house is protected from the breezes and lovely at this time of the morning.”
“A wonderful suggestion.” Mr. Belmont rose and assisted Theresa to her feet, another quaint, disconcerting display. “Will I ever meet this whining prodigy who calls you mother?”
He missed his children badly. Thomas had said something about them visiting cousins or going up to university.
Theresa pondered the conversational options all the way to the terrace, where she decided on the only course she’d ever been able to tolerate where Priscilla was concerned: honesty.
“I am not in the habit of socializing with neighbors, Mr. Belmont. My life at Sutcliffe Keep was nigh monastic, and I preferred it that way.”
Mr. Belmont plucked a sprig of lavender from the border edging the flagstones, despite the blooms being well past their best season.
“Sutcliffe Keep is along the sea, isn’t it?” he asked, twirling the lavender beneath his nose. “The seacoast has always struck me as lonely.”
Matthew Belmont was not a stupid man, and yet, Theresa needed to be very clear with him regarding her situation.
“The sea wasn’t what isolated us, Mr. Belmont.”
Her comment was an invitation for her guest to recall a pressing engagement, bow politely, and take away his full stomach, kind eyes, and feeble attempt at whining by the simple expedient of striding off through the gardens.
“You have me at a loss, Miss Jennings.” His gaze was steady, his expression giving away nothing—not dread of another prickly subject, not avaricious anticipation of juicy gossip. He spun the lavender idly between his fingers, not a hint of tension in even that small gesture.
He was not outstandingly handsome, but he was attractive. This realization evoked sorrow—Theresa had not found a man attractive in years—and justified a ruthless display of common sense.
“My daughter is a bastard,” Theresa said. “I would not want to cause you or her embarrassment should the facts of her birth be revealed to you in her hearing.”
Mr. Belmont stood at Theresa’s side, while a pair of sparrows flitted among the nearby oaks, and a frisky breeze fluttered leaves donning their autumn glory. He didn’t clear his throat, didn’t narrow his eyes, didn’t quirk an eyebrow in invitation as other supposed gentlemen had many times before him.
“For your daughter,” he said, tucking the lavender into his jacket pocket, “I am sorry. Some will treat her unfairly on the basis of her circumstances, and for you…”
“For me?” Theresa prompted, ready to snatch up her skirts and whirl back to the safety of the house.
“I am sorry as well. Your trust was quite obviously betrayed. Fortunately, I conclude you treasure your daughter and she, you, and that is what matters most. Somebody did mention apple tart, if I recall. Shall we?”
He offered Theresa his arm again.
Shall we?
Two unremarkable, cordial words that swept aside judgment—and worse—dispensed with the prurient interest that often followed disclosure of Priscilla’s bastardy. Shall we?
Theresa laid her hand on his arm. His bare fingers closed over
hers with a little pat, and he escorted her down the steps to the lower terrace.
Chapter Two
Mr. Belmont did the male version of prattling on as they walked, about tutors, about nannies, about how his two oldest sons had taken to their studies at university, about being unable to part with any of the ponies his sons had outgrown—ponies whose acquaintance Miss Priscilla might like to make.
His neighborly baritone filled a quiet morning, and filled an emptiness inside Theresa too. As a much younger woman, she’d had glimpses of what Matthew Belmont represented: decent society. He was kindness itself, civility, fair play, and all the classical virtues in a winsome package.
She should have met such a man ten years ago, though even ten years ago would have been too late, and even Matthew Belmont’s quiet gentlemanliness wouldn’t have affected the decisions she’d made then.
For Theresa, Mr. Belmont would have been—as he still was—too little and much, much too late.
They ate large servings of apple tart, and Mr. Belmont accepted a second helping without even a pretense of polite demurral.
A woman could enjoy feeding such a man, planning menus to delight him and to appease that prodigious appetite. She would look forward to sharing meals with him, and to simply being in his company.
“I’m off to finish my correspondence and balance ledgers that have been glaring at me for the past week,” Mr. Belmont said. “I enjoy the physical labor of harvest, but it generates a great deal of paperwork as well, and that, I confess, I find tedious.”
“I love the ledgers and balance sheets and figuring,” Theresa said, accepting his proffered arm with an ease that she would ponder when she had the solitude to do so. “At Sutcliffe, I did not trust the stewards and land agents to operate in Thomas’s best interests, so I supervised their every transaction.”
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