“I don’t like her,” Matthias said, his tone forlorn. “I wait all this time for a pony, and she’s a very pretty pony, but I don’t like her.”
At least the child wasn’t wed to his pretty, long-awaited pony.
“Horses are like people, Matthias,” Daniel said with a patience he did not feel. “They’re happiest if they know who’s in charge and can respect whoever that is. She’s the only mare, she’s the smallest, and she’s unsure of herself and of you.”
Matthias pushed dusty glasses up his nose. “She doesn’t respect me, sir. It’s the same at home, you know. The mares are the boss of everybody.”
A swish of skirts saved Daniel from replying to that lament.
“Nobody has to be the boss of anybody, Matthias, if everybody is friends,” Lady Kirsten said. “Tonight, when you’ve done your lessons, come out here and explain to Freya that you want to be her friend, but nobody likes a rotten pony. The other ponies will be jealous of the attention you give her.”
“If you say so, milady.”
He trudged off, while Daniel’s palm shifted from burning to burning, throbbing, and stinging all at once.
“Come along, Mr. Banks,” Lady Kirsten said, taking him by his right hand and leading him into the garden. “I was cursing on your behalf before George was off the bench. Unless I miss my guess, you’ll have a proper scar for this day’s work.”
“The wound is uncomfortable,” Daniel admitted, wrapping a handkerchief around his now-bloody palm. He’d certainly have a scar, and he’d have a stolen memory too. Holding hands with Lady Kirsten was ill-advised and stupid, and should have been awkward, but her touch was also the sweetest balm.
Alas, in all likelihood, Daniel would never hold hands with her again.
* * *
For the width of one flowerless garden, past the bench, through the knot garden, around the pergola, along thorny hedges far from blooming, Kirsten held hands with her friend.
With the man she’d never call “beloved,” though he was. The mare had deserved more than a scolding, and Kirsten deserved more than to simply hold hands with Mr. Banks.
Ah, well.
She relinquished her grip when they reached the back terrace.
“We’re for the library,” she said. “My sister Nita is very knowledgeable about medicinals and preferred not to tend wounds anywhere near the kitchen. We can use the herbal if you’d rather.”
The herbal was a small, tidy room in the understory. Nobody would disturb them there.
“The library will do, but I can tend to myself if you’ll show me to the supplies.”
“You’ll not make a proper job of it, or have a grasp of Nita’s labels,” Kirsten said, opening the French doors that led directly to the library. “Let’s use the desk.”
Mr. Banks took a seat at one of the chairs facing the desk. The linen he’d wrapped around his hand had become bloody, and the wound had to hurt.
“I know better,” he growled, glowering at his abused palm. “One always wears gloves when working with horses for just this purpose. Any horse can spook, bolt, rear, and otherwise put the handler at risk for injury to the hands. Stupid of me to forget a basic rule.”
Kirsten fetched the box Nita kept for household doctoring, along with some bandages made from old sheets.
“How often can you use yourself as a bad example, Mr. Banks? Surely the novelty alone has some appeal?”
“But gloves are a basic part of a horseman’s attire, like boots to keep his toes safe and prevent chafing of the calves or tearing by brambles. Like a riding stock tied about the neck, to use as a bandage if a mishap occurs far from home. Like a hat he can use to water the beast if—”
Kirsten set the box on the desk. “Well then, let us agree that like Matthias’s mare, you are without any redeeming features, a disgrace to your species, a thoroughgoing miscreant who should never be allowed to set foot in the stable.”
Daniel fell silent, likely to continue his self-castigations where Kirsten could not hear them.
She took the chair beside his, spread several thicknesses of linen in her lap, and appropriated his injured hand, which was a right bloody mess.
“Keep your hand low,” Kirsten said, “and let it bleed freely. Nita found that if a wound had bled for a time, infection was less likely.”
Daniel submitted to this direction, though Kirsten could feel all manner of fresh remonstrations boiling through him. They’d entered the library from the terrace and thus the almighty, infernal Door of Propriety was closed.
While the blasted Sofa of Indecent Memories lay directly in Kirsten’s line of sight.
“How badly does it hurt?” she asked.
“I’ve suffered worse. The pointlessness of the injury is more painful than the wound itself.”
Daniel’s words were a metaphor for some other aspect of his life. Had he intended to refer to his marriage? His hand bled sluggishly now, and yet Kirsten did not want to move on to the part where she bound it up and sent him on his way.
“This will sting,” she said, uncorking a brown bottle Nita swore was another weapon against the horrors of infection.
A man could lose his hand to a wound like this if he were careless. Lose his life if he were careless and stubborn both. Kirsten dabbed blood away and applied Nita’s distillation directly to the injury. Daniel drew in his breath swiftly.
“Do you never curse, Mr. Banks?”
“I try not to curse out loud, though I came very close in front of the boys.”
Drat you to perdition. More than his words, the force behind them had riveted the attention of six ponies and six boys. George had doubtless been impressed with Daniel’s restraint.
While for Kirsten, only his pain had registered.
“Nita says a double application is best,” Kirsten said. “Though it won’t sting so the second time.”
“For my stupidity, for the poor example I set, I deserve to suffer.”
Oh, for pity’s sake. Kirsten dosed him again, allowing the concoction to pool in the bowl of his palm and thoroughly soak the wound. She tilted his hand, washing the wound with the tincture.
“The housekeeper should be doing this,” Daniel said. “You’re a lady, the daughter of an earl. Stable injuries are beneath—”
“Shut your mouth, Daniel.” Kirsten turned his hand over, spilling the last of the disinfectant onto the cloth spread over her lap. “My mother held to the custom of the lady of the manor tending to her own people, and Nita continued it. The housekeeper would be less knowledgeable than I, for I learned from my sister while the housekeeper did not.”
He’d find something else to rail against, because right now, Daniel Banks was not in charity with the world, himself, or his fellow creatures. From long experience, Kirsten knew how that felt.
She wrapped his hand in clean linen, snug but not too tight, as Nita had shown her. When she’d knotted off the bandage, she remained sitting beside him, his bound hand cradled in her own.
“What’s wrong, Daniel? You’re in a mood, and it’s about more than a cranky mare’s bad behavior.”
She’d taken to calling him Daniel when they were private, and he hadn’t objected. A small consolation against all the liberties they could never take with each other.
“We should not be alone here,” he said, a little desperately.
“For God’s sake, if you neglect a wound, particularly one suffered in the environs of a stable, you could lose your hand or your life. What is wrong with you, Daniel, that you’d lose a limb for the sake of propriety?”
His countenance shifted, from angry to rueful.
“You are so sensible, my lady, but the problem is not that I could lose my hand. The problem is that I have already lost my heart.”
Even as Kirsten clutched that admission close, a treasure to be examined later in privacy, she understood th
at a line had been crossed. Daniel wasn’t confessing his undying admiration; he was admitting to a Problem.
“I nearly wish you hadn’t said that,” Kirsten murmured, curling forward over his hand to rest her forehead on Daniel’s bony, male knee. His riding breeches were worn to velvet softness, and the chamois bore the scent of horse.
She hoarded up those impressions too, because they were personal to him.
Daniel’s uninjured hand landed on her hair, a caress any mother might bestow on a much-loved child.
“George counseled me to discretion in my sins,” he murmured. “Your brother said he knew a pair of besotted wretches when he saw them.”
I will kill my brother. “George is a tolerant sort and he means well. He as much as counseled me to discreet sinning too.”
Another gentle, slow sweep of Daniel’s hand to Kirsten’s hair. He would be tenderness itself in bed.
“My lady, we tempt fate with continued proximity, and yet I know you dread the prospect of another London Season.”
How gently he touched her as he closed more doors between them.
“Don’t ask that of me,” Kirsten said, though if Daniel needed her to leave, she’d go. Not to London, but she could inflict herself on one of her brothers. Ethan had two little boys and a tolerance for sour-natured sisters.
“I’ve told myself that friendship with you is not a consolation,” Daniel said, “but rather a miracle, and we are friends. Nonetheless, you are lovely and dear, and I would not bring further unhappiness to you for anything.”
Kirsten straightened, lest she start bawling against his knee. “Any more of your well-intended rejection, sir, and I’ll be climbing into your lap for consolation.”
She would not be sent back to her stall, like Matthias’s naughty mare, because she hadn’t done anything wrong and neither had Daniel. Then too, Daniel needed allies. In some manner, Kirsten needed him too, and his boys, and to never, ever be dragged into the purgatory that was London again.
“Is your wife faithful to her vows?” she asked.
“I have no idea, but a divorce based on scandal—based on anything—will cost me my living, bring gossip down on Danny, and leave me without a profession.”
For a man to reject the notion of divorce, he must first at least consider it, which in some dark moment, Daniel apparently had.
“Annulment?”
“Less of a scandal, but I’d still lose my vocation.”
“Have you grounds?”
Daniel studied their joined hands, his bound in white linen, Kirsten’s fingers curled loosely around his in deference to his injury.
“Annulments are for the bishops to sort out. If I leave the church, employment of any sort will be hard to come by, and I cannot cast Danny back onto the viscount’s charity. The boy’s been uprooted enough.”
Daniel had thought matters through, and so had Kirsten. She withdrew her hand, and Daniel retrieved his from her lap.
Kirsten had lost her heart as well, but her common sense remained intact. She wanted their friendship to remain intact too, for she’d never ask Daniel to choose between her and the child.
“Rather than have George and Elsie bide here,” she said, “I’ll visit them when my sisters go up to Town. I’ll be at Belle Maison frequently to ensure the household runs smoothly. I’ll not give up my Thursday tea with the boys, and I’ll continue to prepare menus for the dower house.”
Daniel rose. “My thanks, Lady Kirsten. I trust we’ll also still travel together to services or see you at the occasional cricket match?”
His kindness moved her nearly to violence. “Of course.”
Or they’d have passing moments in libraries with all doors open or at church functions while the entire shire looked on. What cheering encounters those would be.
Kirsten folded up the dirty linen and put the box back on its shelf.
“You’ll find a similar box in the dower house library,” she said, “and we’ll make sure you have one at the vicarage too. The contents of the small brown bottle with an R burned into the cork should be applied daily when you change the dressing. Ralph can assist, but make him wash his hands with lye soap first.”
“Has work started on the vicarage, then?” Daniel had the grace to sound merely curious rather than hopeful.
“Nicholas will see it begun before he leaves for London.” Which news was another courtesy of Lady Della Haddonfield’s domestic espionage service. “If you say that’s for the best, I will curse, Daniel.”
Or cry. Maybe both.
He rose, a fine figure of a man in his worn riding attire and gleaming virtue. Kirsten wanted him out of his riding attire, but she would not take his virtue from him.
“I ask one boon of you, Daniel.”
“Anything.”
“Establish whether you have grounds for an annulment. If you must negotiate the terms of an informal separation from your wife, that information could prove relevant. You give her an advantage to the extent you neglect to investigate the legal posture of your situation.”
“I’m nearly certain of the answer, but I’ve sent a letter to my bishop already, my lady.”
Not agreement, not quite. Kirsten had seen two marriage settlements negotiated and then renegotiated, and her papa had made sure she understood exactly what the parties had agreed to and why.
Bless Papa. “Daniel, would you be tempted to pursue an annulment if you had grounds?” And was that the greater problem?
He moved away from the desk, back toward the French doors. “I won’t pursue an annulment, not if doing so would in any way further impact Danny. I can’t, even if I had multiple grounds, the requisite fortune, access to ecclesiastical experts, and honorable work outside the church.”
A list. A daunting list. At the bottom of that list was the one item that turned I ought not into I cannot: Daniel must not lose his standing with the church.
Despair, an old, familiar enemy, clutched at Kirsten from within.
“When I’m assured the household is running smoothly here, perhaps I’ll pay a visit to Ethan and Alexandra over in Surrey. Beckman claims Three Springs is at its best in the summer, and I’ve a new nephew to spoil there too, but Ethan’s boys are endlessly charming.”
Daniel propped a shoulder against the jamb of the French door, the pose more defeated than casual.
“You are of age, my lady, as I’ve had occasion to remind the earl. You must do as you see fit.”
More lethal kindness. Daniel would not ask her to stay.
“Surrey, then.” Because Ethan would not question Kirsten’s decision to go into exile.
She was at the door, her handkerchief already in her hand, when Daniel imposed one last, awful kindness.
“Safe journey, my lady. I will miss you and keep you always, always in my prayers.”
Twelve
Daniel knew that pain came in various ages and intensities, like spirits. The pain of Olivia’s betrayal was old and enormous, like an aged yew, but like that tree, the branches had grown spindly, the leaves few, no matter how complex and far-reaching the roots.
Given enough time and determination, Daniel could chop that pain down to cordwood of regret and indifference.
He should have known better.
He should have seen more clearly.
He should have listened to his father.
He should have developed skills that allowed him employment outside the church, for a man of means had options a man of the collar did not.
Lady Kirsten’s footsteps faded, though the memory of her white handkerchief clutched in a fist of sorrow was Daniel’s to keep for all time.
A flag of surrender, like the white linen binding Daniel’s right hand. He’d failed to protect a good, dear woman from heartache, just as he’d failed to protect his sister from Olivia’s scheming.
; George Haddonfield came striding across the garden, his boots dusty, his riding jacket slung over his shoulder. He could not, of course, stop on the terrace to enjoy a spring day, but must instead come straight into the library, probably to dispense more advice on how to sin discreetly.
“How fares the wounded?” George was a veteran of the London ballrooms and, like the earl, a good brother. Daniel nearly hated him for that.
“The hand will heal. I trust the ponies are back in their stalls, munching hay?”
“What ponies do best,” George said, brushing past Daniel and continuing across the library. “Care for a drink?”
“Please.”
“Kirsten put you to rights?”
“Her ladyship is considering a visit to your brother Ethan’s estate in Surrey.”
George passed Daniel two fingers of fragrant brandy. Daniel downed them at one go and handed the glass back. The resulting fire burned a path to his vitals, the pain righteous and soothing.
George’s own glass held barely a splash, though he refilled Daniel’s glass generously.
“Shall I get you drunk, Banks?”
“Inebriation is tempting, of course,” Daniel said, taking the time to pass this serving under his nose. The bouquet held a hint of apples and roses underscored with wood smoke.
Dratted wood smoke. The first scent Daniel had associated with Lady Kirsten.
“You’ll resist the temptation,” George said, “tedious saint that you are, because in the morning, you’ll still wear that collar, Mrs. Banks will be kicking up her heels to the north, and Kirsten will pack for the first of many protracted journeys.”
All true. “You forgot that my head would feel as if I’d taken a splitting ax to it.”
George stoppered the decanter. “So you’re not a saint. You’ve occasionally overindulged.”
“I went to university, Mr. Haddonfield,” Daniel said, determined to get himself beyond purgatory’s formal parlor into the establishment’s very bowels. “For myself, unrequited affection is simply another cross to bear. Nobody in this life has everything he longs for. We pine, we rage, we move on. I cannot abide, however, that a woman who has done nothing to deserve more disappointment must now endure heartache on my account.”
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