Matthew

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Matthew Page 27

by Grace Burrowes


  And—the third verity he knew for certain—love.

  Love for his family and for his intended filled every corner of Matthew’s heart, along with determination that next Christmas, the Belmont family would be here together again, with no secrets and no shadows to haunt them.

  Christopher rose and made free with Matthew’s hairbrush again. “When I was small, I wanted to know who my father was. I never asked Mama, though, because I was afraid she might tell me. What if she’d fallen in love with old Mr. Dale? Or the late Squire Pettigrew?”

  “She fell in love with somebody,” Matthew said, though he could understand Christopher’s ambivalence. Would knowing be preferable to ignorance? Would Matilda’s choice make better sense of the past, or throw it into greater confusion?

  “People do fall in love,” Christopher said, setting the brush on the vanity and passing Matthew the handkerchief Rem had used. One corner was wrinkled, which mattered not at all.

  “I have fallen in love,” Matthew said, “in case that escaped the notice of my ever vigilant offspring.”

  Christopher extended a hand and drew Matthew to his feet. “We like her, Papa. Even Richard likes her. He says Priscilla will be good for us, and Richard lately doesn’t like anything but his books.”

  “So you truly don’t care to know to whom your mother gave her heart?”

  “Mama gave her heart,” Christopher said, inspecting himself in Matthew’s cheval mirror. “Maybe one can’t help giving that sometimes, but did Mama have to give her body too? When she’d married you, had the protection of your name, a child to love in the person of my humble self, and all the wealth and comfort of the Belmont family fortune, did she have to repeatedly give more than her heart to this fellow?”

  Christopher fiddled with a cuff-link, having borrowed the sapphire set. “What sort of man,” he went on, “accepts a woman’s advances—or continues to make advances—when his attentions have already left that woman’s honor dangling over the Pit?”

  What truth could a devoted father offer in the face of such an unresolvable heartache?

  “She loved you awfully, Christopher. Loved the three of you, and maybe that’s all that need be said. I have a question for you, though, which you are of course free not to answer.”

  “Don’t be an idiot, Papa. Ask me anything.”

  “Did you and Rem ever argue about your birthright where Richard might have overheard you?”

  Christopher left off fiddling with his cuff. “Ballocks. You think—”

  “I damned near know he overheard you, or read your diary, or eavesdropped on a conversation. The evening of the final hunt meet last year, I noticed that my darling baby boy had abruptly become disagreeable company. I attributed it to adolescent humors, the impending remove to Oxford, fatigue, or the thought of leaving home.”

  “Rem and I had a bloody great row in the stable that morning,” Christopher said. “Papa, I’m sorry.”

  “You needn’t be. I should have known what bothered Richard, should have paid as much attention to my sons as I do to my foxes and hounds.”

  “I hear a coach,” Christopher said, peering out the window. “The Linden crowd is here, which means your presence is required in the library, and I’m for a stop at the punch bowl.”

  Matthew would not stop by the punchbowl, but he would find a moment to have a quiet word with his youngest son, no matter what else filled the day’s agenda.

  Chapter Twenty

  The wounded pride of a young boy fueled Thomas’s reaction to the gathering in Belmont’s library: He resented, utterly, that Belmont had come up with this solution. A quiet, private wedding was so… so, Matthew Belmont, and so right, and so gentlemanly, Thomas wanted to hit the man who’d soon be his brother by marriage.

  “How did you get Theresa to agree to this?” he asked Matthew.

  Axel Belmont was at the punch bowl, carefully ladling holiday mayhem into flasks, while Nicholas, Beckman, and the vicar supervised. The children were up in the reading loft, arguing as children did on special occasions.

  “I proposed, and being a woman of great good sense, she accepted,” Belmont said.

  This acceptance had come after Theresa and Matthew had spent an hour unchaperoned following the Sunday meal.

  “You compromised her,” Thomas said, not at all sure he wouldn’t be on the receiving end of violence for that observation. More violence—his chin was still a trifle sore from Belmont’s last pugilistic display.

  Belmont’s gaze was on the door, but he spared Thomas an amused—pitying?—glance.

  “We had plighted our troth, Sutcliffe, and one looks damned silly maundering on about gentlemanly honor under certain circumstances. You’re married. I needn’t draw you a sketch, and yet gentlemanly honor matters exceedingly. A private ceremony will allow Theresa the protection of my name, while deterring disrespect from opportunistic curates or other fools. Then too, the lady will become my wife, which result seems to please her endlessly.”

  Axel Belmont was an expert on roses, and thus Matthew’s lapel bore an elegant bloom, despite the season. He looked every inch the bridegroom, and yet his gaze was riveted on the door.

  “You’re nervous,” Thomas said, somewhat comforted. “You’re worried about these attempts on your life, but you’re more nervous of your ability to make Theresa happy. You want to please her endlessly.”

  Good. Theresa deserved a man who took her happiness seriously.

  “You’re jealous,” Belmont countered, mildly. “You’ve finally had the good sense to reconcile with your sister, and I’m snatching her away. We’ll be right down the lane, Sutcliffe, and our children will be friends as well as cousins. You will be sick of seeing me, ere long, and I of seeing you.”

  The enormity of that gift, of having family on the next property over, seeing them every Sunday, celebrating the seasons and years together, had Thomas taking a sip of his drink.

  “What the hell is in this punch? It’s wickedly delicious.”

  “Axel won’t say, but hard cider plays a discreet and dangerous role. I will take the best care of her, you know. Her and Priscilla. I was denied the right to dote on my first wife, and by God, I intend to make up for lost time.”

  Thomas declined to point out that prior to any doting, Belmont would have to find a certain would-be murderer. The plan was that none outside the immediate family would know of this marriage for the present, Theresa would retire to the safety of Sutcliffe Keep, and Matthew Belmont would solve the crime posthaste.

  A fine plan, for Thomas hadn’t come up with anything else that would keep Theresa safe. His contribution had been to send Beckman pelting up to London to procure the special license.

  “I discussed the settlements with Theresa,” Thomas said, taking another sip of very tasty punch. “She fought me, until I pointed that they mostly benefit Priscilla.”

  “They benefit your conscience. Priscilla, as the oldest daughter of my house, will be handsomely dowered.”

  Already, Belmont spoke of the girl with a father’s smug protectiveness, which a doting uncle was honor-bound to trifle with.

  “Loris would like you and Theresa to be godparents to our first-born. You’d best get this other business tidied up, Belmont. I’d hate to disappoint my baroness with the news of your untimely death.”

  Belmont’s smile probably had a lot to do with why Theresa had agreed to marry him: Shy, proud, pleased, handsome… and already, plotting how he’d corrupt Thomas’s children in the manner of godfathers from time immemorial.

  Loris came through the library door, Belmont stood straighter, and Thomas downed the rest of his courage—his punch.

  “Don’t muck this up,” Thomas said, as Theresa followed Loris into the library. “Don’t make her a widow before she’s had a chance to enjoy being a wife.”

  Belmont clearly didn’t hear him. His smile had become radiant, the children up in the reading loft were clapping, and Theresa was a woman transfigured. She did not look young, o
r innocent, or blushing, or any of those other wedding-day platitudes.

  She looked happy, and determined. Very, very determined.

  “Children, come down,” Axel Belmont called. “We have a wedding to supervise.”

  The vicar leafed through his prayer book, Loris stood with Theresa, and Axel Belmont took the place beside his brother.

  Thomas was assailed by an anxiety, a sense that his role as brother was about to end. Priscilla edged in front of him, a notebook and pencil clutched in her hand.

  “Reese,” Thomas called.

  Everybody turned to look at him, though his sister only smiled.

  “That was my pen name—Reese Belmont,” she said, “so nobody would know I was a girl. Thomas gave it to me, and I’ve always preferred it to Theresa.”

  Priscilla wrinkled her nose. “What’s wrong with being a girl?”

  “Nothing,” Richard Belmont said, “provided you’re a quiet girl, who never gets dirty or spooks ponies.”

  Vicar cleared his throat, but Thomas wasn’t quite finished. “Reese Jennings, you look lovely, and I’m proud to be your brother.”

  Axel Belmont cast a longing glance toward the punch bowl, though Theresa, if anything, became more beautiful. Her smile was benevolent, full of forgiveness and pride in her younger brother.

  “I’m proud to have you for my brother, Thomas Jennings.”

  Vicar looked up. “Now that we’ve established that deal of a family pride bears on the nuptials, shall we begin? Who gives this woman in marriage to this man?”

  “We do,” Priscilla said, over her uncle’s more conventional reply. “But we get to keep Mr. Belmont and his ponies, and we’re not really giving Mama away. We’re just letting her live happily ever after with Mr. Belmont.”

  Matthew took Theresa’s hand. “A fine introduction. Vicar, if you’d proceed?”

  The rest went quickly, with Loris tucking her hand into Thomas’s, then accepting his handkerchief as Matthew and Theresa spoke their vows, and kissed beneath a bough affixed beneath the reading loft.

  “Will you write us a story about this, Priscilla?” Thomas asked, when the shaking of hands, and kissing of the bride had concluded. The girl had already been warned repeatedly not to mention her mother’s marriage to any of the day’s guests. Vicar Herndon, fortunately, agreed with the need for extreme discretion.

  “I won’t write a story,” Priscilla said, sniffing at Thomas’s refilled drinking glass. “Stories are make believe, and this is better than a story, because Mama and Mr. Belmont are really, truly in love. I have brothers now, like Mama has you.”

  The child had a papa, too, and a good one. Loris passed Thomas back his handkerchief.

  “To have brothers is wonderful,” Thomas said. “Though I wouldn’t know about that first hand.”

  Priscilla tossed him a patient glance that made her look very much like her mother.

  “Yes, you would. Uncle Axel told me how it works. Mr. Belmont married Mama, so he’s your brother now, and you are his brother too. Maybe Aunt Loris can explain this to you.”

  “I’ll do that,” Loris said. “Priscilla, why don’t you come with us to inspect the buffet?”

  “No, thank you. I’d rather stay here with the books.”

  With her new brothers. Ah, well. “Be patient with Christopher, Remington, and Richard,” Thomas said. “Having a sister is a new privilege for them, but they soon won’t know how they managed without you.”

  Before Priscilla was halfway up to the reading loft, Loris kissed him, even though they weren’t anywhere near the kissing bough.

  * * *

  The day was unseasonably mild, a sunny reprise of late autumn, perfect for a country gathering. Theresa allowed the joy of the moment its due—her joy at Matthew’s greeting, and at the ceremony in the library was considerable—but worry would not be set entirely aside.

  “Stop fretting,” Matthew said, as Axel herded the children from the room.

  Matthew’s brother had promised slow, painful, death-by-memorization to any young man who brought shame to the family name that day, even as he’d scooped Priscilla onto his back and threatened to imprison her beneath a sheaf of ever-blooming mistletoe.

  “Axel let her have a taste from his flask, Matthew,” Theresa muttered as the library grew quiet. Theresa did not know what to make of her brother-in-law, but Priscilla had taken to Axel Belmont easily.

  “Today is a day for nipping from one’s flask, but I assure you, all Axel offered Priscilla was lemonade, perhaps fresh cider, nothing more. Would you like a celebratory tot?”

  “No, thank you. I’d like some of that ever-blooming mistletoe.”

  A murmur of voices drifted up the corridor, as Theresa stole one more embrace from her beloved.

  “Thank you,” she whispered. “I started the day among family, celebrating, being celebrated. I never thought to have that, Matthew.”

  His arms tightened in a hold that felt like home. “We belong to each other. I wish—”

  “I do too,” Theresa said, kissing him. “But we have today, and until the New Year at least, and you’ve promised me forever after. For now, I will focus on that much and on keeping you safe.”

  He’d promised her until death did them part, which thought was like somebody walking over Theresa’s figurative grave.

  “As long as I stay away from Axel’s devil’s brew,” Matthew said, “the king’s peace is secure for another day.”

  Mr. and Mrs. Dale arrived, followed by more neighbors, the rest of the vicar’s family, the Capshaws, and more jolly souls than the library could hold. The conservatory was pressed into service, and before noon, people were sitting on the terrace in groups, children were chasing each other about the corridors, and the occasional scrap broke out between dogs.

  “This is what you’ve been missing for years, isn’t it?” Thomas asked, passing Theresa a plate with a buttered scone on it and a dollop of jam on the side.

  She’d always liked her scones this way, jam on the side.

  “This is wealth, Thomas,” she said, biting off a corner. Linden’s kitchens had provided much for the buffet, and neighbors had brought contributions as well. “This is the difference between people showing up to rebuild your stable, and struggling alone for years, hoping next year’s harvest is better than this year’s. You should start a comparable celebration at Sutcliffe.”

  He wrinkled his nose, looking very much like an overgrown eight-year-old. “Loris said the same thing, only she says I must establish such traditions at both Linden and Sutcliffe. I’ll be fat as a market hog before my firstborn is sitting a pony.”

  Theresa held up her scone, Thomas took a bite, and all was right with the world… almost.

  “Whose turn is it to keep an eye on Matthew?” she asked. Today, Matthew would eat nothing that hadn’t come from Linden’s kitchens, and he would never be out of sight of a family member.

  “Mr. Axel Belmont has that privilege. I take over at one of the clock, when the professor serenades us with his fiddle. As far as that goes, the time has come to assemble in the conservatory.”

  An informal concert would ensue, opened by Axel Belmont’s violin, followed by a choral offering from the five cousins, and further entertainment from whatever neighbors were inspired to perform.

  Theresa was free to enjoy the music, because Agatha Capshaw and the vicar’s wife had taken on the job of monitoring the buffet.

  “Have you seen Priscilla?” Theresa asked. “She won’t want to miss the cousins singing.”

  “She might be down in the stable,” Thomas said. “Or up some tree, or reading in the library. My niece is a young lady of infinite parts.”

  Theresa had once been that busy. “I’ll start with the stable, and don’t you let Matthew out of your sight.”

  Thomas bowed, twirling his wrist. “Ever at your service, dearest sister.” He snitched another bite of her scone and sauntered off, while Theresa blinked madly at her plate.

  She was
his dearest sister, and he was her dearest brother. This visit had restored them to each other despite all the trouble and worry swirling about, and for that, Theresa was more grateful than words could convey.

  Theresa gathered her skirts—her composure eluded capture—and hoped the walk to the stable would give her time to regain her dignity. She hadn’t been this prone to sentiment since she’d been—

  Her hand went to her middle. “Gracious, everlasting powers.”

  She meandered through the dormant garden, wonder crowding out all else. Priscilla might have a sibling, Matthew would have more children to love, Thomas would be an uncle again…

  The stable was an oasis of quiet after the crowding and noise at the house. The contented sound of horses munching hay blended with the scents of equine and leather. The aisle was tidily raked, though small boot prints led from stall to stall.

  “Priscilla?”

  No answer. Matthew’s gray mare looked up, pausing with a mouthful of hay half-chewed.

  “Priscilla Jennings!”

  “I haven’t seen her,” Emmanuel Capshaw said as he emerged from the saddle room. “Though on a day like today, losing a child would be easy enough. The little dears tend to be underfoot until you need to gather them up, then they’re nowhere to be found. May I say, you look very fetching, Miss Jennings?”

  He’d said that several times on the day of the hunt meet. Then as now, he had a silver flask in his hand.

  “Thank you, Mr. Capshaw. I believe the concert will soon begin, and I’m sure the boys will want to see you among the audience.”

  A violin pierced the quiet of the early afternoon with a rapid ascending minor scale that put Theresa in mind of gypsy campfires.

  “The annual musicale,” Emmanuel said, pocketing his flask. “Don’t suppose you’d care to miss the entertainment with me?”

  His question was far from innocent, and beyond tiresome.

  “I’m looking for my daughter, sir, and I would dearly love for her to join me in the conservatory.”

 

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