The foul language was so woebegone, Daniel smiled. “Perhaps it has escaped your notice, my lord, but you are an earl.”
The pencil came to a halt and Bellefonte got up to pace, a great golden bear in a cage of wealth and responsibility.
“Every waking moment and in half my nightmares, I’m reminded I’m an earl. I have tenants, farms, woods, mills, and interests on the Continent courtesy of my brothers Beckman and Ethan. George has me involved in a scheme to develop hybrid sheep, and Adolphus pesters me by post regularly to invest in some invention or other. Now I’m supposed to take a lot of anxious, unhappy women waltzing, and for what?”
Valid question. Lady Kirsten had probably flung it at his lordship’s head more than once.
“The Season is social, my lord. Fairly has reminded me that, through marriage, he’s related to an earl, a marquess, and, I believe, a viscount. Marshal their support for your sisters.”
“I know those gentlemen, and they have no daughters or sisters of marriageable age.”
Parish politics apparently had applicability in the great world as well.
“They have no dependent females of marriage age yet,” Daniel said, picking up the discarded pencil. “They will eventually, and you will be the general who knows the terrain better than any of them.”
The point of the pencil needed repair, so Daniel fished a penknife out of his waistcoat pocket and got to work.
“You’re canny, Banks,” Bellefonte said, cracking a window. The scent of mud, manure, and spring came wafting in. “This is not what I expect in a vicar.”
“You probably didn’t expect me to bring my son to Haddondale either, but Danny will join the boys I’m instructing.” Daniel found another pencil on the worktable and sharpened its point as well.
Danny was the son of his heart and always would be.
“A few small boys won’t be too much trouble,” his lordship said, propping his shoulders against the wall. “Not like a gaggle of sisters. Kirsten has decided to be obstinate as usual, but I told her I’d have none of that. If I must endure silk knee breeches, then she can put up with one more Season for her sister’s sake.”
Daniel had sharpened every pencil in sight, and he’d announced his intention to bring Danny to Haddondale, but the conversation wasn’t over.
“Lady Kirsten hates London, my lord.”
“Antipathy is my sister’s greatest gift. She’ll go to London if I have to haul her over my shoulder.”
Antipathy was Lady Kirsten’s most trusted means of concealing an aching heart.
His lordship folded his glasses and tucked them in a pocket, and that should have been Daniel’s cue to withdraw.
“Every man who ever stood up with Lady Kirsten, then offered his addresses to another woman is in London,” Daniel said.
Bellefonte shoved away from the wall without using his hands. “They dare not say a word.” The satin across his lordship’s shoulder blades had picked up the stable dust on the wall, and Daniel’s observation had struck some prideful nerve—or possibly a protective one.
“The gentlemen don’t have to say anything to be a bitter reproach and a sorrow to your sister. The ladies who came out with her and have since married will do most of the talking. A kind brother would allow Lady Kirsten to remain in the country.”
“Point of clarification, your holiness. I’m not a kind brother, I’m an earl. If Kirsten remains at Belle Maison, there will be talk.”
Daniel did not believe in bargaining with God, nor in tempting fate. He believed in kindness and honesty. Surely, with a half-dozen boys underfoot, he’d be too busy to notice Lady Kirsten, should she remain in Haddondale.
Moreover, what mattered was not Daniel’s sleepless nights, but that Lady Kirsten was in need of a champion, for Bellefonte was bungling that job.
“Your lordship is fretting over his own come-out as the new Earl of Bellefonte, and while that anxiety is understandable, the earldom should not come before your family’s well-being.”
A silence spread, though overhead, grooms were tromping around in the haymow, and a fat, white dove fluttered along to perch on the windowsill.
“Banks,” his lordship said softly, “you’ve overstepped.”
About time somebody overstepped with Bellefonte. He was a good fellow but hadn’t yet found his way in a new situation.
“Consider the Ten Commandments, my lord. Nothing in the list precludes a young lady who’s tired to her soul of social inanity from absenting herself from more of same. Lady Kirsten is of age, she’s stared down the gossips and rakes for several years running. In all likelihood, her presence in Town would cause more talk than would ceding the field to her younger sisters.”
His lordship had good old Saxon coloring—wheat-blond hair, blue eyes, and fair skin. That skin was turning an interesting shade of pink north of his neck.
“What damned rakes?”
He was a kind brother, also a very worried brother.
Daniel folded up his penknife and tucked it away. “The rakes who think a woman who remains unmarried might be interested in the connubial joys without the burdens.”
Bellefonte settled back on his stool with a weary sigh. “My countess has hinted that Kirsten should not be forced to accompany us.”
“Many women who made their bows with Lady Kirsten will be married and filling their nurseries, more each year.” More marriages, more babies, more knowing, condescending smiles aimed at Lady Kirsten.
Bellefonte turned a keen appraisal on Daniel, while Daniel traced a finger along the patterns drawn on the oak but could make no sense of them.
“I will not have my sister made an object of pity or scorn,” Bellefonte said.
Kirsten would prefer the scorn, but at least his lordship had turned up reasonable.
“She will appreciate your understanding, my lord.”
Bellefonte snatched one of the sharpened pencils. “What understanding? I will simply capitulate to my countess’s importuning, as I am ever known to do. Which is the one about thou shalt not kill?”
“Number six, my lord.” As any English schoolboy or earl well knew. “I’ll wish you good day.” Daniel rose, grateful to have the announcement of Danny’s arrival behind him.
“Banks?”
“Sir?”
“I love my sisters.”
“I know this, my lord, and you know this, but it doesn’t hurt to ensure they know it from time to time as well.”
“I hate being an earl.”
Daniel risked a squeeze to a meaty shoulder. “But you love being their brother, and they love you. Not the earl, you.”
Daniel left as the pencil went zipping down another length of heavy, durable oak.
* * *
When Mr. Banks’s scholars were grandpapas dandling grandsons on their bony knees, they would still hear the long-ago tones of their vicar amo-amas-amat-ing in their memories.
And, Kirsten knew, they would gently quiz their grandsons as Mr. Banks had quizzed them.
Mr. Banks’s voice was that lovely, that sonorous. Even over the tea tray in Mr. Blumenthal’s family parlor—the walls in the formal parlor were being rehung with pink silk—Mr. Banks was lovely to hear.
“Then what time shall I expect the boys on Monday?” he asked, passing his second cup back to his hostess.
“We thought we’d send them over Sunday evening. Let you get an early start on Monday,” the squire replied as another biscuit disappeared down his maw.
The boys had sat like perfect angels, one on either side of their papa, for five entire minutes. They’d spoken not a word beyond “Pleased to meet you, sir,” “Yes, sir,” and “Yes, ma’am.”
Kirsten had smelled a plot.
“Sunday evening?” Mr. Banks repeated.
Kirsten saw the puzzle pieces snapping together in his mind, though
his expression remained genial. Beside her, Susannah’s teacup hit its saucer with a definite plink.
“Of course, Sunday evening,” the squire said, taking hold of his own lapels. “They’re old enough to live in, you’re not two miles along the lane, and from what I hear, you’re rattling around in Bellefonte’s dower house, so you’ve plenty of space. Nothing like the patter of little feet to keep a man company, right?”
“Won’t you miss those little feet right here?” Kirsten asked, for having the twins live in would not do. Mr. Banks needed peace and quiet, not armed insurrection under his very roof.
Mrs. Blumenthal aimed a look at her husband such as Wellington had likely aimed at his infantry when the French were in good form.
Steady on, or it’s a court martial for you.
“Sacrifices must be made,” the squire said, reaching for the last biscuit. “My boys shall have the best start, and if that means Mrs. Blumenthal and I suffer without them for the sake of their scholarship, then without them we shall do.”
Mrs. Blumenthal’s smile in anticipation of this hardship was a touch gleeful.
“Five days is a long time to go without seeing your own children,” Kirsten said. “Are you sure the boys will manage?”
“Five days—?” Mrs. Blumenthal’s question hung suspended over the tea tray, much like the Sevres pot she held poised above the sugar bowl.
“I must have Saturday at least to prepare for the service,” Mr. Banks said, “and soon enough you will send your boys to public school, and then they’ll be gone for months and much farther than a couple of miles down the lane. I couldn’t ask you to leave them with me over the week’s end as well as during the week.”
“Of course you couldn’t,” Susannah murmured. “Mrs. Blumenthal’s heart would break if she had to go all week without hugging her own little dears.”
The teapot nearly crashed to the tray. “But certainly—”
“You must think of yourself,” Kirsten said, taking the teapot from their hostess and setting it safely beside the empty biscuit plate. “The house will be like a tomb without their laughter and noise, the servants will go into a decline, and their sisters will bicker terribly without the boys to pick on. When my brothers went to public school, my mother grieved for months.”
So had her papa. Kirsten had forgotten that.
“If the boys are to travel back and forth, they’ll need to bring their ponies,” Mr. Banks mused. “A fellow wants exercise after a day with Cicero and Horace.”
Mrs. Blumenthal sat forward. “Ponies? But ponies cost—”
“Ponies!” the squire thundered. “Of course they’ll need ponies. Haven’t I been telling you that very thing, Mrs. Blumenthal? But no, you’d begrudge the lads even a puppy, and now Mr. Banks says they need ponies, ponies they shall have.”
Kirsten heard a scraping sound from the corridor, then the rhythmic thud of small, booted feet.
“Have you had time to prepare their wardrobes?” Kirsten asked. “Boys going off to study need so much! New shirts, new boots, a proper jacket and coat—mornings are still quite chilly, aren’t they?”
“A London season is a simpler undertaking than sending a boy away to school,” Susannah added. “Your girls must have been sewing for weeks.”
“A child certainly cannot ride in ill-fitting boots,” Mr. Banks observed as if quoting Scripture. “He’d be neither safe nor comfortable, and an infected blister can be the very devil to heal.”
“But there’s not time—” Mrs. Blumenthal began.
“I’ll take the boys up to Town tomorrow,” the squire interjected. “London cobblers have extras, and God knows there’s a tailor’s shop on every corner of Bond Street. Do the lads good to spend time with their old papa before they embark on their studies.”
“You can end your day at Tatt’s, choosing ponies for them!” Kirsten added.
Mr. Banks found it necessary to consult his watch. At length.
“You have much to plan,” Susannah said, rising. “I don’t envy you, Mrs. Blumenthal, but I so admire the sacrifices you’re willing to make for the sake of your children.”
“Commendable, indeed,” Mr. Banks murmured, getting to his feet. “Now all that remains is to decide which week of the month you’ll send the boys their baskets of sweets.”
Susannah fell prey to a fit of coughing. Kirsten couldn’t seem to sort out the fingers of her gloves.
“A basket of sweets?” Mrs. Blumenthal repeated, rising unsteadily. “One for each boy?”
“Of course,” the squire said, finishing his tea and rising. “Fine old public school tradition, the baskets from home. Gives a lad something to look forward to. We’ll send Fred’s first week of the month, and Frank’s the third week of the month. Won’t we, Mrs. Blumenthal?”
“I’ll have Cook see to it, Mr. Blumenthal.”
The squire accompanied them to their carriage, Kirsten’s arm linked with Susannah’s, though she didn’t dare meet her sister’s eye. Mr. Banks handed them in, then walked off a few paces with the squire.
“Wait until we’re at the foot of the lane,” Kirsten murmured.
“Then we must compose ourselves before we reach the Webbers,” Susannah said. “The strain on my nerves will be considerable.”
Danny would be delighted to have other boys for company, and Kirsten suspected Mr. Banks was looking forward to the challenge too.
The vicar climbed into the coach a moment later and settled in on the backward-facing seat.
“I thought the baskets of sweets rather a nice touch,” he said. “The poor little mites will be away from home, and toiling away ceaselessly under my stern and wrathful eye, after all. Even my own father, a confirmed curmudgeon, sent me the occasional basket when I was at university.”
Susannah giggled, Mr. Banks smiled, and Kirsten’s insides rearranged themselves. This smile was not pious, sad, regretful, proper, or tender. This was the piratical grin of a rotten boy who’d had a bit of fun and was pleased with the results.
“You’ll need a stout birch rod with this lot,” Susannah said. “Perhaps a spare as well. Thomas Webber is big for his age, and prone to fisticuffs.”
“No birch rods,” Mr. Banks said, smile fading. “We have ponies and baskets of sweets, and those are ever so much more effective.”
“If all else fails, the earl will show them how to build a tree fort,” Kirsten said. “He’s prodigiously good at it, and George will help.”
“The squire would be along to inspect,” Susannah said. “That poor man. I hadn’t realized how trying his circumstances must be.”
“He loves those boys,” Mr. Banks said as the horses lifted into the trot. “But Mrs. Blumenthal is beside herself at the prospect of trying to launch the three oldest girls.”
All the pink silk in the world wouldn’t see that accomplished.
“They’re nice enough young ladies,” Susannah said, “but they’ve neither beauty nor great fortune to recommend them.”
“Their mother also doubtless frets that they’ll be overshadowed by the earl’s sisters living right down the lane,” Mr. Banks said, rolling up the window shade to admit a shaft of spring sunshine. “A pity that, when you ladies could well be allies to the local girls.”
Why hadn’t Kirsten realized that Mrs. Blumenthal’s sniffy airs were a mother’s desperation rather than a lack of neighborliness?
“Perhaps it’s time to resurrect the choir,” Kirsten said. “We haven’t had one for at least five years.”
“For the young people?” Mr. Banks asked. “Have we a choir director?”
When young people got to sharing hymnals of a pleasant spring evening, the presence of a choir director or even a song was of little moment.
“We’ll draft Elsie into that job,” Kirsten said. “She has a beautiful soprano voice, can play the organ better than passably,
and will need something besides George to take her mind off Digby’s absence.”
“A choir, then, and scholars underfoot,” Mr. Banks murmured. “Who could ask for more?”
* * *
Scholars needed to eat at least three times a day and more often was better. Their ponies ate incessantly. Scholars also used clean linen, soap, dishes—young scholars were very hard on dishes—and books. They went through coal and paper like a biblical plague and could perform wonders making bread and jam disappear.
Daniel was therefore determined that his household would run on a budget. Olivia had been quick to lift that burden from his shoulders in Little Weldon, and had hoarded funds for herself even as she had begrudged Daniel fodder for his horse.
He’d been happy to indulge any sign that she supported his vocation, more fool he. The funds she’d extorted from Letty had been recovered, for they’d been banked in Daniel’s name. The household funds she’d stolen from Daniel would be neither tallied nor restored to him.
Even Daniel’s father, who hadn’t cared for Olivia, or for matches made before a fellow had seen much of the world, could not have foreseen the misery Daniel’s marriage had become.
Daniel flicked the beads of an abacus with one hand and penciled figures onto foolscap with the other. Many, many figures, for this new start in Haddondale had abruptly become important.
“Excuse me, Mr. Banks.”
Lady Kirsten stood in the Belle Maison library doorway, a box in her hands. Daniel rose and relieved her of the box but did not close the door behind her.
“My lady, good afternoon.”
She was in her manor-house attire—no apron, no lopsided bun. The last of Daniel’s effects, the last of his father’s diaries included, had been moved to the dower house that morning when he’d gone calling on his scholars’ families.
Tonight, he’d sleep under the same roof as Lady Kirsten for the last time.
“Will I disturb you, Mr. Banks? I’m making a final sweep of the shelves for duplicates, especially of the children’s literature.”
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