The other boys took note of Daniel’s overture, however. On weekends, Daniel and Danny rode out together, but the other boys never went anywhere without George Haddonfield or one of the older grooms. Daniel had planned for this ride, though, and no grooms would be along.
“Where’s Freya?” Matthias asked when they arrived to the stable yard.
“Freya won’t be joining us. I’ll be up on Beelzebub, and you’ll be on Buttercup. The earl hasn’t had time to ride her much lately, and I told him my boys would be happy to help.”
Matthias smudged his thumb over the lens before his right eye. “Buttercup is the earl’s mare.”
Also the largest riding horse in the shire. Bellefonte thwarted custom and rode a mare, because she was also one of the sweetest, smoothest-gaited exponents of her species.
“And thus somebody has to keep her in work,” Daniel said, “for she must be strong to carry that much earl. Up you go.”
Finding the right combination of gear to fit the enormous horse and the small boy had taken the grooms half the morning, but when Daniel and his companion rode out of the stable yard, Matthias’s feet were in perfectly adjusted stirrups and his bottom in a saddle sized for a lad.
“Give me those glasses,” Daniel said. “If they should slip from your nose, Buttercup might accidentally step on them.”
“I’m always supposed to wear my glasses, sir.”
As close to defiance as Matthias came anymore. The other boys didn’t make fun of him, but neither did they respect him as they once might have.
“Have you another pair, Matthias?”
“No, sir. They are Papa’s spare pair. I mustn’t ever, ever break them.”
Well then. “Can you see the lane, Matthias?”
“Yes, sir.”
“Then we’ll leave the rest of the navigating to Buttercup, and I’ll have those spectacles.”
The boy passed the glasses over to Daniel. Had he been on his pony, he’d have stretched in his stirrups to pass the glasses up to his vicar.
“Buttercup is much bigger than Freya,” Matthias said. “I sit taller than you when I’m on her back.”
“That you do. Will you be sorry when the summer break comes, Matthias?”
An unhappy silence formed as the horses clip-clopped down parallel ruts on one of Belle Maison’s farm lanes. They’d soon come out amid the blooming orchard, where any normal boy would reach up, grab a branch, and shower himself and his horse with apple blossoms.
“I’m stupid, sir. Papa says so every week. He’ll probably make me come for lessons even during the summer.”
“Does he punish you for your marks, Matthias?”
The boy leaned forward at the last moment to duck under a low-hanging branch.
“He threatens to cane me, but mostly I go without my pudding and must copy sums. He says my hand is atrocious.”
Barely legible, in fact, though Matthias was bright in a scientific sense, well-spoken, and had an ear for languages and a fine singing voice. His problems came when pencil and paper were involved, or sitting for long periods.
“Matthias, how would you grade me as a teacher?”
The boy snatched a glance at Daniel, as a poorly trained mount might snatch a mouthful of leaves when under saddle.
“You don’t use the birch rod. Papa says you should. He says you should beat some brains into me.”
“When Freya is trying hard to figure out what you want, but she guesses wrong, would it help to beat her?”
“She’d buck me off. I wish I could buck my Papa off.”
“Do you think about running away?” Daniel had thought about it when Olivia had been alive. Though only weeks had passed since Olivia’s death, the entire marriage had the feel of a sad tale told long ago in a land far away. Every time Daniel brought the boys to Lady Kirsten for their weekly tea, that cold, dark land slipped farther over the horizon.
“I’m almost old enough for the Navy, sir.”
Not only had Matthias thought about running away, he had a plan as well. Mr. Webber would probably consign Matthias to the midshipman’s ranks, without any clue what the boy would endure or how much material he’d have to learn if he was ever to graduate from those ranks.
Daniel and his charge had ridden out of sight of the Belle Maison house and stable, the fragrant, greening countryside all around them. A precocious hedge of honeysuckle wore a few blooms to the right, and to the left broodmares and new foals grazed or napped on new grass.
Such a beautiful day, and such a miserable little boy.
“Do you ever consider, Matthias, that I may be failing you?”
Another glance, more considering. “By not beating me?”
“By not educating you. In some ways, you’re the brightest of my boys. You think things through, you listen carefully. For sheer logic and problem-solving ability, you’re a force to be reckoned with. You go down to defeat when you must sit still and wield a pencil.”
The boy batted aside another low-hanging branch at the last moment. “Sometimes, the other boys seem stupid to me, but then they get higher marks. Even Thomas.”
How that must gall, for Thomas to be bigger, stronger, and the one getting higher marks.
“You get good marks for recitation.” Not spectacular marks—Danny had the advantage over all of them because he’d been at Daniel’s side for years—but Matthias had good recall of what he’d heard.
“My exams are bad. Do you think the earl would let me trot his mare?”
“Let’s try it, but only to the orchard.” A hundred yards of smooth bridle path, but twelve hundred opportunities to fall, much like life. “You recall to kick your feet free of the stirrups if you’re going overboard?”
“Yes, sir.”
“Then ladies first, Master Webber.”
Finally, a ghost of a hint of a beginning of a smile. Matthias didn’t drive his heels into the mare’s sides, as many boys would have. He gave a scoot with his seat and a nudge with his calves, and Buttercup lifted into a smooth, relaxed trot.
Daniel held Beelzebub back, though his gelding had an instinct for little boys and let the mare toddle ahead half a length. By the time they reached the orchard, Matthias was beaming.
“Good girl, Buttercup,” he said, whacking the mare on the shoulder, as Mr. Haddonfield insisted a rider must do when a horse had performed well. “Good job, old girl! May we trot back to the stable too, sir?”
“You must always walk the last mile,” Daniel said, another of Mr. Haddonfield’s equestrian commandments. “We can trot a little more, once the horses have recovered their wind.”
Beelzebub would make his owner pay for that bouncer, but Daniel had spotted a rider cantering through the orchard with her groom. The moment called for more than a tip of the hat—had Daniel been wearing a hat.
“Lady Kirsten’s coming,” Matthias said, sitting quite tall indeed. “You’ll tell her I have permission to be on Buttercup?”
“Matthias, on your most rotten day, don’t flatter yourself that you’re a horse thief. Come along. Left boot passes to left boot.”
Except Lady Kirsten drew rein amid the white blossoms, her smile adding another lovely note to a beautiful afternoon.
“Gentlemen, good day. Matthias, poor Freya will be heartbroken to have lost your custom, but you do look very fine on his lordship’s mare.”
“I’m exercising Buttercup for the earl,” Matthias said. “We trotted.”
“I’m sure Bellefonte will be most grateful,” Lady Kirsten replied. “Mr. Banks, Beelzebub, good day. Did you trot as well?”
“We could barely keep up,” Daniel said, because now, now he could flirt with Lady Kirsten. The past weeks had been a revelation, one joy followed by another. He could flirt with her, dream of her, sit too close to her as they planned menus, and wallow in the inane sense of well
-being that came with growing attraction.
Normal joys for a normal—unmarried—man.
“Vicar says I can trot back to the stable too,” Matthias said. “Most of the way, at least.”
“A slow trot,” Daniel cautioned. “You never want to rush with a new mount, Matthias, and you’ll have to ride Freya home before supper.”
The boy’s expression clouded at the mention of home.
“You can tell your family you rode Buttercup,” Lady Kirsten said. “I have never been allowed to ride her, and I don’t think my brother George has either.”
“Truly? Mr. Haddonfield has never ridden this mare?”
Lady Kirsten leaned closer to the boy. “I have a suggestion. You take my groom and head back to the stable by way of the home farm. There’s plenty of room to trot in that direction.”
Matthias whipped around in the saddle. “Sir, may I? May I please?”
Buttercup was nearly going to sleep, while for the first time since beginning his studies, the boy on her back was wreathed in hope.
“You may,” Daniel said, “but mind you let the horse rest from time to time and tell her when she’s being good.” Because rewarding good behavior was ever so much more effective than punishing the occasional lapse.
“Alfrydd,” Lady Kirsten said. “No wild riding, please, though Master Webber has been cooped up in a schoolroom all week. The earl sets great store by that mare. No galloping, no cantering, no hopping stiles or splashing through racing rivers. I forbid it, no matter how badly you’re tempted.”
Alfrydd had the grace to look downcast. “We’re not to hop even a wee log, milady?”
“Only a small one if the footing is safe.”
Alfrydd winked as his cob ambled past her ladyship’s mare. “One wee log, then. No stiles, no mad gallops. We’ll stick to the paths, milady. I give you my word.”
Thus assured of only manageable challenges, Matthias trotted off happily with a smiling Alfrydd.
“The greatest steeplechase the shire has ever known is about to take place,” Daniel said, “and we will miss it.”
Though simply beholding Lady Kirsten had Daniel’s heart leaping stiles and ditches at a great rate.
“You’re worried about Matthias,” Lady Kirsten observed. “Shall we walk for a bit, Daniel? It’s a pretty day, and I haven’t had the pleasure of your company much lately.”
She’d been busy, seeing to the household as her family prepared for, then undertook, their transition to London. Then she’d removed to George Haddonfield’s residence, and her presence at the dower house had become unpredictable and always focused on a task—dropping off menus, taking tea with the boys, changing the curtains in the schoolroom as the weather moderated.
“I would enjoy a walk,” Daniel said, “and I’m sure Beelzebub would love a chance to crop some grass.”
Daniel assisted Kirsten from her horse, tied up reins, ran up stirrups, and loosened girths, then gestured in the direction of the stone wall encircling the orchard.
“How are you, my lady?”
Daniel thought Kirsten was pausing to deal with the complicated skirts of her riding habit and was thus unprepared when she instead planted her hands on his shoulders and kissed him.
Kissed him tenderly at first, a slow greeting of mouth upon mouth, a renewal of addresses that was both a homecoming and a delightful shock.
Daniel drew her into his arms, no hesitation or second thoughts, not an instant of confusion in either his body or his heart. Holding Kirsten was a mundane liberty between single adults—also a miracle.
“I’ve been wanting to do that for the longest time,” she said, subsiding against him.
Daniel was tall, “a hulking brute” in the parlance of his late wife, but Kirsten Haddonfield fit him well. He could admit that now, among many other things. Daniel rested his cheek against Kirsten’s hair and silently gave thanks for a perfect moment long overdue.
“What I’ve been wanting to do requires several hours of privacy, my lady.” He’d made her laugh, though his own words surprised him. “That was ungentlemanly. I apologize.”
She smacked his chest. “That was honest. We can be honest now, Daniel, can’t we?”
The answer beamed through him like sunlight in springtime, like water laughing down the brook to the sea, and honeysuckle offering its fragrance to the bees.
“Yes, we can be honest now.” Amid the white blossoms bobbing on the gentle breeze, Daniel honestly kissed Kirsten as if his happiness depended upon her answering passion.
Bless her, she kissed him back with no less fervor, until Daniel had to stop lest he find a handy tree to hoist her against.
“You want me,” she said, grazing a hand over his falls. “I would expire of frustration if you didn’t.”
“I will expire of frustration because I do. I’ve missed you.” How lovely, to offer that simple, sincere sentiment. No guilt, no vicarly restraint owed a wife who’d long since betrayed her vows.
Why hadn’t Daniel been able to fully admit that betrayal while Olivia had lived?
“I’ve been giving you time to sort yourself out. Daniel, it’s been little more than a month.”
He kissed Kirsten’s ear, despite the uproar in his breeches. A happy uproar, an assurance that years of celibacy could be overcome in a moment with the right woman.
“The past few weeks have been an eternity,” Daniel said. “The boys miss you too.” Poor little devils. Thursday’s tea and biscuits couldn’t come around soon enough for them—for them either. “Kiss me some more.”
Daniel had years of kissing to make up for, years of cuddling and petting, stroking and sighing. The apples would be ripe and falling from the tree before he’d addressed the least of the deficits caused by his marriage.
“Daniel, if I weren’t wearing breeches under my habit, you would find yourself thoroughly debauched right here and now.”
Somehow, they had found their way to a stout tree. Daniel reached above his head and shook the nearest branch, showering blossoms around them.
“I have a better idea,” Daniel said as a soft, white petal came to rest on her ladyship’s crown. “Let’s get married, and then it won’t be debauchery.”
He’d proposed once on bended knee, an awkward, dutiful recitation he winced to recall. With Lady Kirsten beaming up at him, Daniel forgave his twenty-year-old self for that blunder. Duty had been the substance of his entire upbringing, a virtue exalted over compassion, honesty, and joy.
Duty was no sort of bedfellow at all. He knew that now.
The woman he loved brushed blossoms from his hair. “Lest we waste time arguing, I suggest a compromise, Daniel: Let’s be married, assuredly, but let’s anticipate our vows. Let’s anticipate them early and often, starting right now.”
Thirteen
“Stop that.” Olivia accompanied her command with a stout shove to Bertrand’s shoulder.
He left off nuzzling her ear, rolled to his back, and stared at the ceiling. The nearest corner of the room sported a few cobwebs swaying on gossamer currents from the cracked window.
“For a dead woman, you’ve become mighty contrary, Livvie dearest.”
She snatched a handkerchief from the bedside table and scrubbed at her belly. “Don’t call me that.” She pitched the handkerchief onto Bertrand’s chest. “Tend to yourself. At least Daniel was tidy and limited his base behaviors to after dark.”
Bertrand was supposed to get out of the bed now, grateful to have been allowed to come on Olivia’s belly after a few minutes of more intimate congress. The housemaid allowed him that much and was a good deal more cheerful about it.
He tossed aside the soiled handkerchief and got off the bed, fetching his own clean square of linen from his coat pocket.
“Olivia, it’s only been a few weeks since I wrote to Banks of your supposed death. I
warned you your scheme might take years.”
“You don’t know Daniel,” she said, drawing the sheets up and subsiding onto the pillows. “He’s handsome, has fine manners, and is a vicar. Vicars need wives, and Daniel never quite mastered his animal spirits, not that I allowed any of his nonsense once he thrust that child on me.”
Bertrand climbed back onto the bed, mostly to annoy his ladylove. “Even if Banks remarries posthaste, what says his wealthy relation will give him the money you demand?”
“The children,” Olivia retorted, flopping over to her side. “That wretched boy Danny, for starters, and whatever children the viscount and his lady will produce to ensure the succession of Fairly’s title. Bigamy is still a hanging felony, Bertrand. Nobody needs a relation found guilty of bigamy, least of all a family already familiar with scandal.”
Bertrand watched the cobwebs flutter and absently stroked his flaccid member. Olivia had great faith in this plan of hers: wait until Banks was on the verge of remarrying, then extort an enormous sum from him in exchange for Olivia’s willingness to remain “dead.” Everyone could move on with their lives, free of scandal and old entanglements.
Banks would be a fool to trust Olivia’s word. She’d remain silent until her new dresses no longer pleased her, if that long, then she’d have her hand out again, or into the poor vicar’s pocket.
Though the poor vicar had acquired wealthy relations—most unwise of him.
“Should I be concerned that I’m sharing a bed with a woman who will exploit children?” Bertrand asked, caressing Olivia’s increasingly well-rounded fundament.
Olivia swatted his hand hard enough to sting. “My father didn’t hesitate to exploit me, did he? I was his drudge for years, trying to make do on farthings with hardly a decent dress to show for it. He gambled away what little Mama left me, and of course, nobody will offer for a village girl who has no dowry. Lord Fairly is rumored to be obscenely wealthy, and Daniel owes me for raising a boy conceived in sin.”
She settled into her rant—when Olivia raised topics like sin and her purloined dowry, she had the oratorical stamina of a Methodist preacher—while Bertrand murmured, “Yes, pet,” and “Of course, my love,” at regular intervals.
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