Greta shrank back against the wall as if she were in truth a distressed wild creature. “I can’t.”
“You cannot spend the rest of your life atop the furniture, my girl.” He swept a graceful bow. “Mr. Hawthorne Dorning, at your service. I occupy myself clearing ditches, laying hedges, stacking hay, riding the fields, and am otherwise engaged in manual labor. That must be our secret, for as an earl’s son, I’m supposed to be a gentleman. The result, though, is that I am quite strong enough to get you safely down.”
The effect of this odd speech—the longest Margaret had ever heard from Hawthorne Dorning—was to catch Greta’s attention.
“Hawthorne is a funny name. I’m Greta.”
“What you are is stuck, young lady.” The situation seemed to amuse Mr. Dorning.
“You could have broken your neck,” Adriana said, just as Margaret thought the same words. Adriana took Margaret’s hand. “I told you not to climb that high.”
“Ah, but you did give your sister a boost,” Mr. Dorning said. “Perhaps you will assist her to clean up the mess, once we get her down from her aerie.”
Margaret’s heart was thumping, her mouth had gone dry, and she was on the verge of summoning footmen—though what could they do?—when Mr. Dorning held up his arms again.
“Down you go, Miss Greta. Now. I promise not to drop you.”
He knew how to blend a casual assumption of obedience with a comforting hint of amusement. Plucking children from dangerous heights was just another chore to be tended to, along with the ditches, hedges, and tenant calls. He did not, however, know the lengths Greta went to avoid contact with strangers.
The girl sat up, so her stockinged feet dangled down the front of the cabinet and her head nearly touched the molding. Mr. Dorning put his hands on her waist—gracious, he was tall—and then he hefted Greta to his hip, stepping free of the shattered vase.
“The next order of business,” he said, tapping Greta’s nose with one gentle finger, “is an apology to your aunt. You gave her a fright.”
Greta stared at the floor. She darted a glance at Adriana. She gazed up at the top of the breakfront. She remained snuggled against her rescuer, when Margaret had been certain Greta would scramble free at the first opportunity.
“I should not have climbed on the furniture… again.” She rested her head against Mr. Dorning’s shoulder. “I am sorry.”
What am I to do with you? Margaret had asked that question any number of times. She wasn’t about to ask it while Mr. Dorning toed through shattered porcelain.
“Both of you wait for me in the schoolroom,” she said as Mr. Dorning set Greta on her feet well clear of the wreckage. “We’ll discuss this later.”
The girls were running for the door before she could remind them to bid a civil farewell to their guest.
“Were you ever that lively?” Mr. Dorning asked as small feet pelted up the corridor.
“I had no sister to inspire me to great feats of foolishness. I apologize for their lack of manners, Mr. Dorning.”
He used the side of his boot to scrape the porcelain into a pile. “Don’t be ridiculous. They are barely of age for the schoolroom. It took years to put the manners on me and my brothers, and in the case of our youngest, the project is not yet complete. Greta must be quite nimble to have climbed to the top of the doorjamb.”
“She’s a terror. I get on better with Adriana.” Anybody would get on well with Adriana, while Greta… Greta was a dear, lovable, exasperating challenge.
“That might change. I thought my father the dullest man in the realm until he took me with him to hike the fells in the Whinlatter region. I was about twelve and a perfect age to be outdoors for weeks at a time. My height meant the guides treated me as if I were older. I had a grand adventure and have been wandering around out of doors ever since.”
The memory inspired him to smile, which was no help at all for Margaret’s tattered composure. Hawthorne was the largest of the seven Dorning brothers, though they were all sizable specimens. Margaret occasionally came across Mr. Oak Dorning out sketching, and Mr. Valerian Dorning was a hopeless flirt.
More than Margaret avoided most of her neighbors, she avoided Hawthorne, and he’d apparently been happy to avoid her as well. And yet, his smile was startlingly sweet and a little wistful.
He would be an excellent father.
Ridiculous thought. “I regret that our drama of the day involved you,” Margaret said, taking a path toward the door. “Thank you, though, for plucking Greta to safety. The footmen would likely have fetched a ladder, scratched the wallpaper, and taken all day to do it.”
Mr. Dorning ambled along at her side. “You will make the children clean up the mess, or at least try to?”
“I should, shouldn’t I?”
“To put right what we have put wrong is a relief, which leads me to ask: Have I put matters between us wrong, Mrs. Summerfield?”
I have underestimated him. Many people had a fine sense of smell, but they ignored it. Their noses busily collected all manner of information—the milk was going off, the stain on the carpet was brandy that had probably spilled the previous evening, the iron had been too hot when applied to a man’s starched cravat—but those perceptions were ignored.
Mr. Dorning did not ignore his perceptions, apparently.
“I prefer to keep to myself,” Margaret said. “I am aware of no source of ill will that should affect our neighborly civilities.” She sounded like a dratted lawyer, implying a truth opposite the plain meaning of her words.
He paused with her by the front door and collected his spurs from the sideboard.
“Might I call on you again? Perhaps you cannot share recipes with me, or allow me to hire away your herbalist or housekeeper, but even an occasional consultation regarding scent-making could be helpful.”
“Surely the late countess had her own recipes, Mr. Dorning.”
He sat on the chair intended for the porter, crossed an ankle over a knee, and strapped on a spur. His movements were easy, a man comfortable in his own body. Charles had never had this sort of relaxed grace, though he had been accounted an excellent dancer before his illness progressed.
“The housekeeper might have a few recipes of my late mother’s somewhere,” he said, affixing the second spur. “That is a good thought. My sisters might even know where those recipes are. I’ll ask them.”
He rose, and if he meant to say more, Margaret could not afford to give him the chance. She passed him his hat and crop and opened the front door.
“I’ll wish you—why on earth is he paying a call now?” Bancroft Summerfield’s coach and four was tooling up the drive, leaving a plume of dust in the spring air.
“I don’t recognize the equipage,” Mr. Dorning said. “The offside leader is flirting with lameness, though.”
Margaret wanted to slam and lock the door, but it was too late for that. “I never did offer you tea, Mr. Dorning. Might you stay for a cup?”
The coach in the drive rocked to a halt. Two footmen hopped down from the boot, the first scampering forward to hold the leaders’ bridles, the second setting the steps before the coach door.
“Say you’ll stay, please. I was most rude to neglect to offer you refreshment.”
Mr. Dorning set his hat and crop back on the sideboard. “You have something I want, Mrs. Summerfield.”
She could not give up her recipes, but neither could she face her brother-in-law alone. “Name it.”
“I’d like your waltz at the spring assembly.”
Margaret was too relieved to be dumbstruck. “You have it, provided you can look harmless and friendly for the next half hour.”
A man as robust as Mr. Dorning should not have been capable of simpering, but Mr. Dorning managed it convincingly.
“Mrs. Summerfield, I am harmless and friendly.”
Hah. “Bancroft Summerfield is neither. My apologies in advance.”
Chapter Two
In Hawthorne’s experience, Mr
. Bancroft Summerfield was one of those neighbors whose purpose was to annoy the entire shire and thus provide a topic upon which all agreed, even those who could not agree on anything else. Hawthorne avoided him, though in some circumstances—church services, company dinners—that strategy was impossible.
“He’s always in a hurry,” Mrs. Summerfield murmured as Bancroft bustled forth from his coach.
“Important men have many demands on their time,” Thorne murmured.
Mrs. Summerfield sent him the same look his siblings wore when he sat with the dowagers at the assemblies. Are you daft? The elderly always had the best gossip and the naughtiest jokes. Why not sit with them?
“Bancroft, welcome,” Mrs. Summerfield said, curtseying when her brother-in-law’s brisk progress brought him to the front door. “I believe you know Mr. Hawthorne Dorning. He arrived not five minutes before your coach turned up the drive.”
She declined to extend her hand to her caller, which was curious between family members, and she’d told a deliberate falsehood. From Margaret Summerfield, that was downright odd.
Thorne endured the civilities and trundled back to the blue parlor, dutifully inquiring after Bancroft’s plans for planting—it was that time of year, after all—and how lambing had gone for him.
“How does one answer such a question?” Bancroft replied, taking a wing chair before his hostess had invited him to sit. “Lambs arrive. They either thrive or they don’t, and I cannot concern myself with the particulars. One has a steward to whom such an inquiry might be better directed. Are we having tea?”
Bancroft attempted an air of bluff good cheer, but that little speech was a dig at Thorne—an earl’s son as likely to mend stone walls as clear ditches.
“Tea would be appreciated,” Thorne said. “Spring mornings can be deceptively chilly. Is that a new coach, Summerfield?”
Mrs. Summerfield gave the bell-pull a tug.
“My coach is not new. I’ve had it since Yuletide. Honeywill’s workmanship, finest coachmakers in London. What brings you to dear Margaret’s doorstep on this fine day, Dorning?”
None of your bloody business. Thorne never lied, but he could choose among relevant truths. “Mrs. Summerfield and I occasionally have business, as neighbors do. Fences, water rights, herds and flocks, that sort of thing.”
“You may bring those concerns to my steward in future,” Bancroft said. “Margaret has quite enough on her hands managing the children. You must not expect her to play the part of a country squire in addition to her other responsibilities.”
Bancroft beamed at Mrs. Summerfield as if she should thank him for meddling.
“Nonsense, Bancroft,” she replied, twisting a gold ring around the fourth finger of her left hand. “A pleasant chat with a neighbor is no hardship. The acreage here is hardly extensive, and you live a good twelve miles away.”
“Nonetheless.” Bancroft held up a gloved hand. “Nonetheless, I take a sincere interest in this household, as dear Charles would have wanted me to do. If you’d rather not deal with Mr. Dorning, all you need do is send me a note, my dear.”
That offer was odd and blunt to the point of rudeness. The tea tray arrived, which inspired Bancroft to criticize the temperature of the tea (not hot enough), its strength (too strong), and the quality of the tea cakes (too small and on the dry side). Thorne was on the point of excusing himself when Bancroft paused in the middle of a diatribe on the dishonesty of coachmen to peer at Thorne’s boots.
“Are those spurs I see, Dorning? I know we’re in the country, but spurs are not worn indoors.”
“Abject apologies,” Thorne said. “An oversight. My sisters would be ashamed of me.”
“Well, get thee hence and remove them, sir, at once.”
Thorne would have cheerfully obliged, but Mrs. Summerfield was gripping her tea cup much too tightly. Bancroft wanted a moment alone with his sister-in-law, who apparently did not want to be alone with him.
“I’ll be careful of the upholstery,” Thorne said, “and I’m sure we’ll both soon be on our way.”
“Don’t let us keep you,” Bancroft replied. “If you’re to mind all of Lord Casriel’s tenancies and farms, I’m sure you have someplace else to be.”
Thorne took a leisurely sip of hot, aromatic tea. “We don’t start planting until next week. I’m happy to enjoy my neighbor’s company and these excellent tea cakes a little while longer.”
Bancroft’s smile faltered. “As it happens, I cannot afford to tarry here. I am preparing to leave for London, Margaret, and wanted to alert you to my plans. The Season calls, and I need a few adjustments made to my coach. The bumpkins here in Dorset cannot be entrusted with so fine a vehicle.”
Oh, for pity’s sake. “You’d best have your groom pick the stone from your offside leader’s right front hoof before you leave,” Thorne said, holding out his tea cup for a refill. “A stone bruise can easily abscess, particularly if a horse is made to travel any distance with the stone in his shoe.”
“Point noted, Dorning. Will you be going up to Town this spring?”
Not if you’ll be there. “Lord Casriel and his new countess are tending to the social chores on behalf of the family, and my brothers Sycamore and Ash yet bide in London. I will enjoy the glories of spring in Dorsetshire, thank the heavenly powers.”
“Perhaps I’ll call on the earl while I’m in Town,” Bancroft said, rising. “The demands on one’s time are without end in London. One must retire to the country in defense of one’s health, but first, one must attend to the obligations of one’s station. My dear, I will call upon you when I return, and you may write to me at the town house if you need anything.”
He kissed Mrs. Summerfield’s cheek, bowed to Thorne, and took himself off.
Thorne’s hostess sank back in her chair, saying nothing even after the front door had banged shut.
“Your Charles was such a decent fellow,” Thorne said. “Bancroft is every bit as handsome as Charles was, but it’s hard to believe he and Bancroft sprang from the same roots. Have a tea cake. They’re quite good.”
Mrs. Summerfield took a sip of her tea. “Not too dry?”
Thorne passed her a cake flavored with lemon and ginger. “Of course not, and the tea is neither too hot nor too strong, but Bancroft is a tribulation in breeches. Why didn’t he ask to see his nieces?”
“He doesn’t care about them, a consolation if ever there was one.” She dipped her cake into her tea and took a bite.
Bancroft’s call had apparently exhausted Mrs. Summerfield’s usual reserve. “You don’t care for him,” Thorne said.
“He is, as you say, not the best company. In some ways, he and Charles were chalk and cheese.”
Thorne would have bet money that she loathed her brother-in-law. “At least he’s off to London for the nonce. The entire parish will wish him Godspeed.”
A smile blossomed, first in Mrs. Summerfield’s eyes, then subtly over the rest of her features. The change was remarkable, turning a severe countenance mischievous. She wasn’t pretty in any typical sense, but when she smiled like that, she was…
Not quite alluring, but certainly interesting.
“I wish him Godspeed as well,” she said, “but he’s too much of a pinchpenny to spend the whole spring in London. He will, though, be gone for weeks, you’re right. What a lovely thought.”
She finished her tea cake. Thorne finished his tea. “Have you devised a suitable punishment for your ruffian nieces?”
“An illustrated essay on tigers for Greta, I think,” Mrs. Summerfield said. “For Adriana…”
“A poem,” Thorne suggested, “and it has to rhyme. In my youth, I regarded poetry as a purgatory devised especially for restless boys. Adriana looks like she enjoys verse.”
“You can tell that by looking at her?”
“She is watchful, and poets must be perceptive if they are to turn their talents to good effect.” He had another tea cake because the social call he’d been dreading had become
oddly enjoyable. “You will keep your promise?”
Mrs. Summerfield set down her cup and saucer. “My promise?”
“About the waltz. I like to dance, but so few women can accommodate my height. I feel as if most of them would have an easier time if they stood on my dancing slippers and let me galumph about.”
“Is that why you sit out so many sets among the dowagers?”
She’d noticed him hiding among the fans and turbans, had she? “In part. I also like the company of my elders.”
“And you get on well with children.”
This was apparently not well done of him. “I like children.”
“I will keep my promise, Mr. Dorning. I apologize again for Bancroft’s rudeness. It’s not personal.”
Well, yes, some of it had been—quite personal. Thorne rose rather than make that impolite observation.
“I’ll look forward to our waltz, and if I should see a pair of small figures trudging along the bridle path, their worldly goods bundled into their kerchiefs, I’ll know that poetry and literary punishments got the better of two intrepid little soldiers.”
Mrs. Summerfield accompanied him to the front door. Whereas previously Thorne had had the sense she’d wanted to make certain he was departing, now her company felt almost friendly.
“Thank you again, Mr. Dorning, for enduring Bancroft’s call with me. That was gallant of you.”
Thorne bowed over the lady’s hand. “I do know how to sabotage a coach, madam, as does my brother Sycamore. We could render Bancroft’s return to the country much more difficult than he anticipates.”
“Good to know.”
Thorne had been joking. The lady had been in earnest. He parted from her on the front steps of her house, where she waited as he swung into Gowain’s saddle and trotted off to Dorning Hall. Two questions followed him, much as Captain lolloped at Gowain’s heels.
First, why wouldn’t Mrs. Summerfield even discuss sharing her perfume recipes? Thorne was prepared to make the exchange lucrative for her, but she hadn’t let him get even far enough to mention remuneration.
A Lady of True Distinction Page 2
