The beef was tough, the potatoes undercooked. Cook had probably been tippling again, or feuding with Mrs. Chipchase. Everywhere, Giles was surrounded by women in want of guidance.
“We could pay a call together,” Giles suggested, though Loris Tanner did not approve of Mama, which was an irony indeed. Mama was a lady, while Loris was…
Loris was the woman Giles would marry. He understood restless women, understood that they’d do outlandish things to get noticed. He understood, most of all, that they needed and even appreciated a firm hand managing them, and Loris had no papa, no brother, no cousin, no husband, to look after her properly.
Miss Tanner needed a husband, badly, for Sutcliffe would likely dislodge her from her informal position as self-appointed steward. Giles could advance his suit without having to apply that firm hand in any obvious way, and Miss Tanner would be grateful for his offer.
Giles had been considering this plan for the past two years—since Micah Tanner’s disappearance—though the look in Mama’s eyes suggested the time had come to hurry things along a bit.
“You can call on Sutcliffe informally,” Mama said, draining half her wine glass at a go. “Invite him to dinner, talk horses with him. Then you introduce us in the churchyard, and the baron can call upon me.”
In the churchyard, where every woman for ten miles around would see Mama staking her claim. Giles knew the pattern, and the ladies in the neighborhood did too.
“An excellent plan,” Giles said, for Mama did not like Loris either—Mama never liked anybody for very long—and would doubtless argue for Sutcliffe to find a more suitable steward once she’d got her hooks into the baron.
Ironic, that Mama’s interest in Sutcliffe might be the very impetus for Giles’s funds to finally come under his own control.
* * *
“Was market really so boring as all that, my lord?”
Miss Tanner posed her question from Evan’s broad back, where she looked as much at ease riding aside as she did astride. Her habit was years out of fashion, but fetching nonetheless, and exquisitely well-fitted in all the right places.
“Market,” Thomas replied, “was a thrilling exhibition of all that is right and dear about rural England.”
“Fresh vegetables are all that is right with England?”
Had Thomas’s observation tempted her to smile? She’d smiled at some neighbor, a tall, blond, fellow, near a stall selling sweets.
“You would be surprised, Miss Tanner, what a want of fresh vegetables can do to a man, if it goes on long enough.”
She turned her face to the sun, letting her straw hat slip down her back, something no well-bred lady would dare do for fear of freckles.
“You have suffered this hardship, my lord?”
Did nothing deter this woman? “Occasionally. Not like the sailors in the royal navy, of course.”
“One wonders why anyone would join that organization.”
“Hence the press gangs,” Thomas pointed out. “But tell me, Miss Tanner, why did you disappear when the Pettigrews introduced themselves?”
“I’ve told you, I do not respect Mrs. Pettigrew’s horsemanship.”
Miss Tanner was incapable of sexual innuendo, which left only the literal sense of her words.
“Out with the rest of it, Miss Tanner, or I’ll gossip in the churchyard until I’ve learned what I seek to know.”
She fiddled with her reins, twitched her skirts, and adjusted her grip on her whip.
“My father courted Mrs. Pettigrew, or something like it. He strove mightily to impress her, to spend time with her, and to please her.”
A litany of mortal sins, based on Miss Tanner’s tone. “Did Mrs. Pettigrew look with favor on his suit?” Thomas asked as they left the hubbub of the village behind them. “Your father was a gentleman, albeit a lowly one.”
“She teased him,” Miss Tanner said, as if flirtation between consenting adults were a felony offense. “Claudia Pettigrew is a viscount’s daughter, though she had no brothers, so the title went to a cousin. I don’t move in elevated circles, but I am sure she toyed with a lowly steward.”
“Toyed with him? How is a grown man toyed with by a mere widow?”
“That mere widow,” Miss Tanner bit out, “fancies herself something of a… Well, she doesn’t always behave as a lady ought.”
The lane was deserted, and Thomas was intrigued. “You mean she’s a slut? She sleeps around, is free with her favors?”
“That is hardly polite, but you have the right of it. She made her plays for Greymoor, but I doubt he found her worthy of his attentions on more than a handful of occasions. I suspect she admitted my father to her bed when it suited her.”
What father would allow even an adult daughter to entertain those suspicions? And yet, where Loris Tanner was concerned, allowing was likely not a consideration.
“Your father was a grown man, and without a woman’s companionship.”
“Therefore,” she concluded, “he must needs drop his breeches on somebody’s bedroom floor, for not to do so would cause his reason to flee, and his man-parts to shrivel up?”
Man-parts. An addition to Thomas’s polyglot vocabulary. “What grudge do you bear against those who enjoy themselves as adults will?”
Who enjoyed themselves as Thomas had not in far too long?
“Mrs. Pettigrew accused my father of rape, and while Squire Belmont, as magistrate, took his time apprehending the suspect, my father departed.”
Thomas mentally struck the good widow off the list of neighbors whose acquaintance he would encourage.
“My dear, I’m sorry.” For in driving off the father, Mrs. Pettigrew had left the daughter without a chaperone or protector. Thomas hoped his apology stretched far enough to cover his needling, too, though this tale was one he needed to hear from his steward.
“With Papa’s drinking,” Miss Tanner went on, “and his memory problems, his word against the word of the widow would have meant nothing. She might have seen him hanged for her entertainment, my lord, a high price to pay for trying to love her.”
This conversation had started out focused on vegetables, and now, somehow, Miss Tanner had brought it ’round to love, as women invariably did.
“Your father paid a high price for being a fool and a drunkard, you mean. Or merely a drunkard.”
Miss Tanner swiped the back of her right glove against her cheek. Like any woman riding to the left, she carried her side-saddle whip in her right hand. The tip of the whip tickled Thomas’s chin as the lady scrubbed at her cheeks.
“Could no one contradict Mrs. Pettigrew’s accusations?” Thomas asked. Had no one pointed out to Tanner that he was choosing drink over his own daughter’s welfare?
“The matter never reached an investigation,” Miss Tanner said, lowering her whip. “I think Mr. Belmont wanted Papa to have time to flee. Matthew is a decent sort, and a neighbor to both Papa and Mrs. Pettigrew. Papa took only a few clothes, funds, and personal effects.”
What else could a man take with him? “Such as?”
“A Bible, a miniature of Mama and me, some letters.” Miss Tanner used her left hand to wipe at her cheeks this time. “His favorite flask.”
Bastard. To take the flask but leave the daughter. Thomas knew the fury and confusion Loris must have endured, for time and again, his sister Theresa had made comparable choices. Choosing the figurative flask over her own good name, and her younger brother’s respect.
“What do you know of your mother?” Thomas inquired, because in all the hours he’d spent with Miss Tanner, this topic had never come up.
“I know what the woman in that painting looked like. She had my dark hair and my eyes, but other than that, I know nothing.”
Another reason to be glad Tanner was gone, for what sort of man gives a daughter nothing of her own mother?
“Not even her name?”
“When he referred to her at all, Papa would say only that my mama was lovely, and he’d loved her dearly.
I assume from the past tense she is deceased.”
Thomas nudged his horse through the turn to the Linden drive. “You don’t know what has become of either of your parents, then. Do you have any memories of your mother?”
Miss Tanner was an orphan in truth, albeit an adult orphan. Thomas had that in common with her, though he would rather have shared a preference for Mozart or syllabub.
“No clear memories,” she said, turning her horse as well. “I have vague impressions. An old lullaby I think she used to sing to me, a perfume scented with honeysuckle.”
“Why do you think that?” Thomas shouldn’t have asked, though he could not have said why. He ought to have asked how the draft mare was doing, or if Miss Tanner thought the clouds hanging over the Downs promised rain.
“When the honeysuckle blooms,” she said, “I miss my mama terribly and am easily moved to tears.” She kicked her horse into a canter, and Thomas let her get a few lengths ahead of him before urging Rupert to the faster gait.
* * *
“You could have waited for me inside,” the baron said, ambling along the gallery flanking Linden’s western façade.
Why must he always be scolding her? “It is cooler out here,” Loris countered, “or less hot.”
“This weather worries you?” he asked, winging his arm.
Loris accepted Sutcliffe’s escort—she chose her battles with him—and he led her not back into the house, but around to the rear terrace. Lunch awaited them, but this time, no shaded table sat laden with intricate place settings of crystal, china, and silver.
“A picnic. Well done, sir.” What a relief, to approve of something Sutcliffe had done.
“We’ve about exhausted the intricacies of the dining table.”
In the past few days, they’d exhausted Loris’s patience and her store of small talk, too. She was now equipped to preside at formal and informal meals, serve tea, and exchange pleasantries in the churchyard.
None of which was easy, though Sutcliffe had equipped her with a set of simple, orderly rules that helped a great deal.
“Now, if I could only acquire some polite conversation and skill on the dance floor,” Loris said, taking a moment to enjoy the scent of the lavender border. Maybe her mama had also been fond of lavender, for the scent soothed wonderfully.
“Rome wasn’t built in a day.”
“Such original flattery, my lord. The next assembly is only three weeks away, and I’ve yet to learn the first step. What have you to say about that?”
“I’ve given it some thought,” he said, guiding her to the blanket spread in the shade of the oak. “Traditionally, the lady sorts out the hamper, Miss Tanner, while the gentleman takes his ease philosophizing at the clouds.”
“The important work must always be entrusted to the gentleman.” Loris folded down onto her knees near the hamper set on one corner of the blanket. The baron, true to his word, reclined several feet away, legs crossed, and arms folded behind his head.
“You behold,” he said, “a gentleman hard at his labors.”
Loris peered into the hamper, though his lordship recumbent made a handsome picture. If he attended services this Sunday, he’d cause many a head to turn in the churchyard.
“I behold cold chicken,” Loris said, “slices of cheese, ripe peaches, and buttered bread, along with a flagon of wine and some lemonade.”
“Wine for me, if you please,” the baron murmured, eyes closed.
Hard at work, indeed. Considerate of him, though, to include a picnic on Loris’s curriculum.
“Is my company so dull that I’ve put you to sleep?” Loris asked as she withdrew linen serviettes, plates, and mugs. These midday meals at the manor were fortifying, on several levels. The food was good, the company interesting, and the strain on Loris’s own larder was eased by the baron’s fare.
Then too, Loris was not accustomed to a pause in the middle of the day, a time to rest, talk, and regroup. If the baron declared her manners sufficiently polished, she’d miss these meals.
Miss—perfidious admission—spending time with Sutcliffe. They were within sight of the manor; gardeners and groundsmen were right around the corner of the house, and yet, Loris enjoyed a sense of privacy with Sutcliffe too.
“Your company is lovely,” the baron murmured without opening his eyes, “but I’ve yet to get the knack of sleeping on these hot nights. I’ve weighty matters to consider.”
Loris fixed him a plate and poured wine into one of the glasses. Now, when she’d rather while away an hour discussing clouds or nothing in particular, his lordship would stick to business.
“What think you of putting the stable into Nick Haddonfield’s hands?” his lordship asked.
Loris gently laid the plate on his chest. He opened his eyes, his expression bemused.
“Nicholas is indeed a weighty matter,” she said. “Best not to consider him on an empty stomach.”
“Is Nicholas of any special significance to you?” Sutcliffe asked, lifting the plate and rising to a sitting position on abdominal strength alone. He crossed his legs and balanced the plate on one thigh, as a boy might have.
He was no boy, though he understood boys better than Loris ever would.
“Nick is a friend,” Loris said, arranging her own plate, “to the extent he will permit friendship. He is quiet, though, and likes his privacy.”
“Would he make an adequate stable master?”
Far more than adequate. “The horses love him. He is capable, he works hard, and he won’t go bearing tales in the village behind your back.”
“But?”
“I doubt he’ll want the attention such a position would bring him.” Loris took a sip of ambrosially cold lemonade. Sutcliffe had laid in a store of ice, of all the extravagances, and she heartily approved. “Nick gets along well enough with others, but I doubt he seeks a promotion.”
His lordship bit a strip of chicken in half. “Lacks ambition, does he?”
Loris picked up a slice of cheese, their own cave-aged cheddar. “Nick lacks for nothing, but he’s content as things are.”
Contentment. No wonder Loris had had trouble identifying this aspect of Nick’s personality, because she’d had little experience with it herself.
“Can’t Haddonfield be content as a stable master?”
“You should ask him.” Or Sutcliffe should get back to studying clouds so Loris could study him.
“You don’t want to do the asking? Will you eat that cheese or wave it about to attract squirrels?”
Loris ate the other half of her cheese. “Lord Greymoor, being partial to horses, traditionally managed the stable directly. I can talk to Nick if you like.”
“I like,” the baron replied. “Your Nick would accept the post from you more easily than from me.”
“Why would you say such a thing?” Loris went for a slice of chicken this time, the scent of tarragon and lemon making her mouth water.
“Call it baronial intuition.” Sutcliffe plucked the chicken from Loris’s hand and took a bite. “There, you see? The food is for eating, not directing the choir.”
He passed the rest of the chicken back to her, and Loris tore off a bite, eyeing him warily. His sense of humor took getting used to, but at least he wasn’t lecturing her about forks.
“How’s that mare doing?” he asked, polishing off his own slice of chicken.
“Penny?” Loris replied between bites. “She’s restless. Nick and I were discussing the need to set up a foal watch for the next few nights.”
“Foal watch?” Sutcliffe used a silver knife to pit a peach. He popped a slice into his mouth and closed his eyes. “Good God, these are heavenly.”
Loris watched him consume his food, fascinated with the way his throat worked when he swallowed, the bunch and play of muscles in his jaw when he chewed, the lean strength in his fingers on the knife. He was, in a sense even a steward could appreciate, a prime specimen.
In a sense a woman could appreciate, Sutcliffe was
a decent man, too.
“What does foal watch consist of here at Linden, Miss Tanner?”
“We take turns keeping an eye on the mare throughout the night. She’s due to foal any time, and being a mare, she’ll likely choose the dead of night to give birth.”
“So you’ll stay up all night to witness one of nature’s routine processes?” he asked, taking another bite of peach.
“You’ve never seen a foal born, if that’s how you view it,” Loris retorted. “When things go right, it’s wondrous. When things go wrong, you haven’t much time at all to sort matters out and help the mare.”
“Are you worried for her?” Sutcliffe sliced the remainder of the peach into sections and arranged them on a plate. Everything he did was so casually competent, Loris was tempted to throw her chicken at him, but the food was simply too delicious to waste.
Then too, she was an adult, and Sutcliffe was her employer. There was that.
“I am worried about this mare,” Loris replied. “For all we know, Penny hasn’t had a foal before, and an older maiden mare can have difficulties. It’s also late in the year for the birthing, and if we hadn’t had so much rain this spring, the grass could be burning out by now.”
The grass was burning out, and that was worrisome, but at least they’d got the hay off.
“We’ve grass aplenty, for now,” the baron said, “and the stud was not as big as the mare, so the foal is likely to be of a manageable size for her. Have a bite of peach. They’re considered a delicacy.”
Loris took a sip of cold white wine. Discussing equine reproduction was less awkward when undertaken while sharing a blanket.
Fancy that.
“Penny will likely be fine,” she said, “but one worries. Horses can get the whole business done in twenty minutes, though everything can also go so horribly wrong.”
“What can go wrong?”
“Stillbirth, a leg back, arrested labor, red bag, trauma to the mare, infection, a broken pelvis, broken leg, hemorrhage…” Loris’s recitation was interrupted by the sensation of a cold, sweet peach slice held to her lips.
“Eat,” Sutcliffe prompted softly, leaning across the blanket, arm extended. “Don’t ruin it by fretting for the horse as you do, and please don’t scold me for my forward behavior either. Such talk puts a man’s digestion off.”
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