The other interesting aspect of the visit was none of Thorne’s business, but had piqued his curiosity. Nobody liked Bancroft Summerfield, but he was merely a busybody, an officious pest, and every neighborhood had a few of those.
Mrs. Summerfield not only disliked Bancroft, she was afraid of him, though Thorne could not for the life of him think why that should be.
“Oak, my dear, you have outdone yourself,” Valerian said, leaning closer to peer at the canvas. “You’ve taken an old pile of rocks and turned it into a promise of moonlight trysts and fervent kisses.”
Oak poured turpentine into a glass jar and one by one deposited his brushes into the jar. “But will the ladies see it like that?”
“God help us, with this botanical venture we are dependent on the opinions of females, aren’t we?” This plan to turn Dorning Hall into a glorified emporium of herbal potions was Casriel’s. As the titleholder, he’d been loath to engage in trade per se, though not out of snobbery.
The Dorning offspring, raised by a passionate amateur botanist in bucolic Dorsetshire, simply had little business expertise outside the streams of commerce generated by a large rural estate. Casriel had come up with an enterprise that relied upon the family’s ample agricultural resources to take advantage of London’s enormous urban markets.
Or that was the theory.
“Casriel’s scheme depends on the very weather,” Oak retorted, swirling his brushes. “We are dependent on the roads, on the French taking years to get back on their feet, on my art, Ash’s charm, and your ability to keep us all organized.”
“And on Thorne’s hard work.” Of all the younger brothers, only Thorne had inherited the previous earl’s love for the land itself. “Is this image of the abbey ruins a bit gloomy?”
Oak left the brushes to soak and went about his studio gathering up the odd scrap of paper and paint-speckled cloth. “When trying to minimize costs, a nightscape that lends itself to monochrome prints makes sense.”
“But what I see as romantic, the ladies might see as eerie. I see a place to meet a lover, while the ladies might see a place for brigands to lurk.”
Oak corked his jug of turpentine. His studio, an eastern attic on the topmost floor of the cottage he and Valerian shared, was both airy and cluttered. An open window let in the brisk air, and a rubbish barrel was nearly overflowing by the door.
“I can always sell it,” he said, considering his painting. “Let’s ask Thorne what he thinks.”
“We don’t have to ask him,” Valerian said as the man himself came cantering up the drive. “Thorne, being Thorne, will oblige us with his unsolicited opinion.”
Oak snatched a rag from a table littered with jars of paint, boxes of pigment, more brushes, and lengths of wood and wiped his hands. “And Thorne will usually be right.”
Thorne had been right that building an herbal manufactory from the remains of the dower house would take months rather than weeks. He’d been right that London apothecaries weren’t interested in adding yet another bottle of lavender water to shelves already crowded with versions of the same product.
“Thorne is very good at telling us what won’t work, I agree,” Valerian said. “I wish to heaven we had some idea about what will work.”
Other canvases were displayed around the room, a few on easels, more on the walls. Oak had to paint the way Thorne had to ride their acres and Willow had to commune with his canines.
“Shall we go down to lunch?” Oak asked. “I forget to eat when I’m painting.”
“Forgetting to eat is unnatural,” Valerian said. “But then, you are exposed to paint fumes and other noisome smells far too regularly. Doubtless, your wits have become addled.”
“Your store of insults has become stale,” Oak said, tossing the rag at the barrel and missing. “You forgot the part about what few wits I was born with. Where has Thorne been?”
“Paying a social call.”
They took the stairs down through the house. Complaisance Cottage had eight bedrooms and wonderful views, being situated on a hill overlooking Dorning Hall. Thorne’s household—the steward’s cottage—occupied the other side of the hill. Both residences relied upon the Hall’s stables, kitchen gardens, and home farm, though the earl and countess would have the family seat itself to themselves.
If they ever bestirred themselves to come down from Town.
“Are we ready for planting?” Valerian asked.
“What do you think?” Oak replied.
Thorne looked forward to planting, to the backbreaking labor of turning cold, damp earth for seeding, to the inevitable machinery malfunctions that he always managed to repair after liberal applications of profanity and ingenuity.
“Do you ever get tired of it?” Valerian asked as they filed into the dining room.
Oak went to the washstand in the corner. “It?”
“Planting, clearing the damned irrigation ditches. Spring assembly. Shearing, laying hedges, haying, weeding, midsummer assembly. Weeding, weeding, weeding. Planting the winter crops. Corn harvest. Autumn assembly. Penning the sheep. Moving the sheep. Orchard harvest. Clearing the damned ditches again. Yuletide. Winter assembly. Lambing. Sheep to pasture. Planting…”
“Life in a nutshell,” Thorne said from the doorway, and clearly, that life pleased him. “I made progress with Mrs. Summerfield.”
He swiped his fingers through the soap and scrubbed up a lather on his hands. Thorne had calluses on his calluses, while Oak’s hands were those of a skilled artist.
“When I am around Mrs. Summerfield,” Oak replied, “I have the sense that the male gender generally has disappointed her somehow. Pretty woman, though. Can’t deny she’s attractive.”
“You think a bowl of apples is pretty,” Thorne said.
“How did you make progress?” Valerian asked, taking his turn at the wash basin. “You went there to steal her herbalist to make us perfumes, and you’ve come back smelling like your horse.”
Thorne took a bowl and plate from the sideboard, served himself some lentil and potato soup, and sat to the left of the head of the table. Oak took the foot, leaving Valerian to sit across from Thorne. If Ash were on the property, he’d sit beside one of his brothers rather than take the place at the head of the table.
“I went there to begin a dialogue with her,” Thorne said, taking a ham and cheese sandwich from the tray in the center of the table. “Matters took an interesting turn when Bancroft Summerfield showed up.”
“Bane-croft,” Oak muttered, taking a sandwich for himself. “I don’t like him, and I can’t say exactly why.”
“He excels at the subtle insult,” Valerian said. “‘Such a pity you can’t rebuild the dower house, but materials have become so dear, haven’t they?’ That sort of thing.”
“Tell us about Mrs. Summerfield,” Oak said, tossing a bit of salt into his soup. “How exactly did you make progress? What is your objective where she’s concerned?”
Thorne dipped a corner of his sandwich in his soup. “I’m considering courting her.”
Valerian prided himself on his manners, but only a swift application of his table napkin to his mouth prevented him from spluttering ale all over his meal.
Chapter Three
“Who was the tall man?” Adriana asked.
“Mr. Hawthorne Dorning is our neighbor,” Margaret replied. “Fenny, you have time for a cup of tea with Mrs. Blevins.”
Miss Fenner, a young lady of enviable patience and good humor, popped a curtsey. “My thanks, ma’am.” She was out the door as if late for the upcoming assembly rather than going below stairs for a chat with the housekeeper over a quick cup of tea.
“Mr. Dorning was very strong,” Adriana announced. “He had dark hair. My papa had dark hair.”
Greta was at her desk, pencil poised over a piece of foolscap. When absorbed in a task, she had the ability to ignore everything, including Margaret’s lectures and threats.
Margaret had wood fires burned in the nursery, an extr
avagance, but she believed the children were healthier for it—and wood smelled ever so much nicer than coal. A slight mustiness in the air suggested the carpet needed a thorough beating, and a lingering scent of chamomile indicated Miss Fenner had recently washed her hair.
“How is your poem coming along?” Margaret asked.
“I finished it,” Adriana replied, skipping a circle around the hearth rug. “Do you want to hear it?”
“No.” That from Greta, who hadn’t even looked up.
“Why aren’t you ever nice?” Adriana retorted. “I said I boosted you onto the cabinet. I admitted it. I am being punished too. You should be nice.”
Greta aimed a look at Adriana that portended pigtails dipped in inkwells and a favorite doll going missing. Warfare in the nursery was serious business, though Miss Fenner assured Margaret such behavior was normal. Adriana was more articulate with verbal slings and arrows. Greta had the gift of greater strategy.
“Uncle has dark hair,” Greta muttered, hunching closer to her paper.
“What was he doing here?” Adriana asked, skipping another circle. The nursery was large, a good twenty feet by twenty feet, but one skipping child made the room too small.
“Bancroft is your uncle. He calls because he is family.” Blast the luck.
Adriana came to a halt. “Mr. Dorning is handsome.”
He wasn’t, particularly. His build was that of a plowman—rangy and muscular. He moved like a man comfortable traversing the fields and woods, not like a mincing aristocrat. His eyes were his most arresting feature, shading violet when he was out of doors and a deep blue otherwise.
He was tall, strong, sensible, and dealt easily with fractious children. His eyebrows might grow fierce and his features craggy as he aged, but his rare smiles would still have the power to charm.
Not that Margaret had any use for charming men.
“He is strong,” Greta said, frowning at her paper. “He is not afraid of a broken vase.”
Margaret peered over Greta’s shoulder. “Is that why you did not jump down? Because of the broken porcelain?” If so, thank heavens, because a seven-foot leap could have resulted in injury. Bancroft would have used that pretext for any number of harangues.
“I was too high,” Greta said, shading in a stripe on a tiger stalking across her page. “I should have climbed back down, but I couldn’t.”
Margaret risked a pat to Greta’s shoulder. “I’m glad you didn’t try to jump or climb down. Mr. Dorning’s assistance was timely and easily rendered.”
Greta bore the pat, still focused on her tigers. Two beasts prowled among what was doubtless supposed to be a lush jungle. Their proportions were all wrong, with bearlike shoulders, enormous paws, and fangs that defied practical use, but what struck Margaret was their eyes.
These were furious tigers.
Adriana began hopping one-footed in a random pattern. “You should not have climbed onto the cabinet, but you would not listen to me.”
“I wanted to see from high up, like a grown-up. The big tiger is Grendel.”
“A fine name for such a grand fellow,” Margaret said. “And the other tiger?”
“Cyclops.”
“Does he have one eye?” Adriana panted.
Greta took up an eraser. “She does now.”
“Can a cyclops be a she, Aunt Margaret?”
“Of course. If women can be two-eyed or blind, they can certainly be one-eyed.”
Greta liked that answer. Her smile was slight and fleeting, but she was a logical child for all her fanciful imagination.
“Uncle stopped by to tell me some news,” Margaret said.
“Bad news?” Adriana asked, going still. “Is he moving here?”
He’d threatened that in the past and threatened to move Margaret and the girls from Summerton to the Summerfield family seat. A pointed reference to the precise wording of Charles’s will had stopped those threats, for now. Charles had been the girls’ guardian prior to his death, and his wishes regarding their welfare were still controlling.
“Your Uncle Bancroft will soon be off to London for a few weeks.”
“He will come back,” Greta said. “He always comes back.”
Margaret tried to present Bancroft in a positive light to the children. He was their uncle. If anything happened to her, God forbid, he would become their sole guardian. That too, was a function of Charles’s will.
“You can write to him,” Margaret said. “A lady maintains correspondence with her family.”
“I will write to Mr. Dorning,” Greta said. “I will thank him for helping me. I can draw him a tiger with pretty eyes.”
That pronouncement was more socially appropriate than any Greta had made to date, though of course a young lady ought not to correspond with men outside her family.
“I will write to him too!” Adriana said. “I will draw him a dog. He has a dog.”
“You need not write to him,” Margaret said. “I will see him at the assembly, and I can convey your gratitude.”
She hated stifling Greta’s overture, but writing to Mr. Dorning was not well advised.
“A note of thanks is always appreciated,” Greta said, doubtless parroting Margaret herself. She set aside her illustrated essay and took out another piece of paper. “A lady maintains her despondence.”
Oh, did she ever. “True, but Mr. Dorning is not related to you, so you are limited to enclosing a note of thanks inside my own letter to him.” Some people begrudged even a widow that much latitude. Thank heavens country manners were more permissive than the London variety.
“Then you must write him a note,” Adriana said, dashing to her desk. “And I can send my picture with your letter too.”
The last person—the very last, possible person—Margaret should be extending cordial overtures to was Hawthorne Dorning, and yet, they were to share a waltz. She could plead a sore ankle or a megrim, though the assembly was one of few social outings she allowed herself. If she missed the assembly, that would cause talk, and talk was to be avoided at all costs.
“Uncle is away to London.” Greta’s observation should have been apropos of nothing. With the uncanny intuition of the very young, she’d instead lit upon a salient fact.
“We will write to Uncle and to Mr. Dorning,” Margaret said.
“Mr. Dorning’s letter first.” Adriana helped herself to three pieces of paper.
“Aunt must use ink, and we have none,” Greta said.
“Aunt can write a practice letter. We always write practice letters.”
“Very well,” Margaret said. “I will write a practice letter, then we will clean up the mess in the green parlor. If your efforts are satisfactory, we can take a walk down to the cottage to inspect the daffodils.”
An air of peaceful industry settled over the nursery, though Margaret’s practice letter was a surprising challenge to draft. She could not tell Mr. Dorning to eschew future calls, though it would be better if he did. She could not tell him that he was the neighbor she most enjoyed spending time with, though that would also be true.
He had a quiet competence that solved problems without a fuss and took difficulties in stride. Charles had been such a man, though he’d lacked Hawthorne Dorning’s robust physical presence. Taken on his own, Charles had been a fine specimen of manhood, well mannered and attractive.
Next to Mr. Dorning, Charles’s memory was that of a riding horse compared to a draft animal. The one, when healthy, was serviceable and handsome, as domestic animals went. The other was powerful in its own right.
Domestic by choice, rather than breeding.
“You aren’t writing anything,” Greta said.
“I’m thinking.”
Mr. Dorning, Thank you for rescuing my dear Greta from certain peril…
Too dramatic.
Your call was most appreciated…
Too friendly.
Margaret sat on a hard chair, pencil in hand, for some moments, then jotted a few lines along with a qui
ck, My thanks—Mrs. Charles Summerfield.
Copying the note using the ink in Miss Fenner’s desk was the work of a moment, and then it was time to liberate the captives from the nursery.
Margaret left the house with the same sense of relief she always felt when she gained the out of doors, especially when her travels took her through the garden, past the glass house, and into the wilder reaches of her property.
The cottage beyond her garden might once have been a gamekeeper’s or steward’s home, but it sat empty now. Margaret used it as her herbal and her retreat from life’s challenges.
The day was a buffet of spring scents: Manure had been spread on somebody’s fields upwind, trees unfurled their leaves into an increasingly strong sun. No flowers bloomed in the garden yet, but the Holland bulbs were making a show, overlaying the smell of damp, turned earth or the occasional brush pile set to burn.
“Will Mr. Dorning call again?” Adriana asked, swinging Margaret’s hand as they left the garden proper.
“Not anytime soon,” Margaret said. “This time of year is very busy when a man’s responsibility is caring for the land.” She’d been daft to give him a waltz, truly.
Greta seized her by the other hand. “The first daffodil might have bloomed. The sun makes them do that, and it’s a sunny day.”
A beautiful day, and that Greta would take Margaret’s hand made it only more so. But then… Greta had not objected to being held by Mr. Dorning, not even a little.
“Perhaps the first daffodil has bloomed,” Margaret said. “We can take turns sniffing it, but we must leave it to thrive with its sisters.”
As Margaret must content herself with sparing Mr. Dorning a single unremarkable waltz.
Thorne was astonished to realize that Oak had been right. Oak was often right, though he seldom ventured opinions on contentious topics. The topic in question—Margaret Summerfield—stood across the assembly room, taking coats and caps from her neighbors as they filed in the door.
To each arrival, she handed out a smile, some teasing, some sweet, some kind. How had Thorne not noticed that Margaret Summerfield was attractive, and especially when she smiled?
A Lady of True Distinction Page 3
