“I’m not wealthy, Margaret.” That had to be said as well. “I have some savings. I have a livelihood. I can support you and the girls modestly without taking a penny from your estate. Casriel might deed me one of the farms that’s losing money, but I can’t promise that. The steward’s house at Dorning Hall has eight bedrooms and comes with some acreage for a garden if you want to rent out Summerton.”
This discussion was a far cry from romantic dreams, but Thorne treasured the fact that he and Margaret could speak frankly. She owned property. She understood the demands of caring for land. She grasped the economics of a rural lifestyle.
And she smelled like some exotic Spanish orchard, of juicy oranges and warm spices. Thorne permitted himself to take a whiff of her hair and wrap an arm around her waist.
She rested her head on his shoulder as if they, too, were good friends. “I am not wealthy either, but I have longed to wander Dorning Hall’s fields of herbs and botanicals. I recall seeing your father hiking about, a specimen sack over his shoulder. He and Hannah Weller had rousing arguments, but he also listened to her when she disagreed with him. He got on particularly well with Hannah’s grandson Lucas, and Lucas adored the earl.”
Thorne hadn’t known that. He’d known only that Papa disappeared into the countryside for whole days, and sometimes went on walking expeditions elsewhere in Britain. He’d sent seeds and plants all over the world and received them from foreign parts as well.
“So you’d like access to Dorning Hall’s plant stores and conservatory written into the settlements?”
“I don’t know. I need time to think about this, Hawthorne. I must consider the girls first and foremost. I must not be swayed by selfish inclinations.”
A reference to Bancroft lay in what Margaret wasn’t saying, but so too, did reason for encouragement. Her selfish inclinations apparently swayed in Thorne’s direction.
A faint sound of trotting hooves drew Thorne’s eye to the drive. Jeremy Hartley was departing the premises, though he’d far exceeded the fifteen minutes considered polite.
“Your visitor has taken himself off,” Thorne said. “Shall I leave Papa’s notebooks with you?”
“Please. I will take good care of them, I promise, and thank you for the loan of the children’s books too.”
He’d meant them as a gift. “What do you miss most about your marriage to Charles?”
Margaret sat up. “Oh, everything. He was there, a bulwark against all tribulations, and I tried to be that for him as well. I could not haggle with the tenants or decide to whom to rent Summerfield House for the shooting season, but I could keep him comfortable. I could remind him to rest and take his illness seriously. He even listened to me half the time.”
I can do that—listen to you at least half the time. “My parents were not particularly well suited,” Thorne said, “but when Mama died, my father said he missed even her nagging. He could tell from the sound of her footsteps whether she was angry, happy, busy, or content, and he missed that too.”
“Marriage is an odd undertaking. When it works, it’s wonderful.”
Had it ever not worked between Charles and Margaret? “I can pledge my utmost commitment to making our union successful, Margaret. I’m not afraid of hard work.”
She scooted off the log and collected the various books and notebooks. “If I know anything about you, it’s that you are industrious. Give me a week.”
Seven days to decide his fate. Thorne cast around for a lure that might tempt her to say yes, in addition to his kisses and his modest income. Every bachelor had an abundance of kisses to share, though the Dorning Hall botanicals were also apparently attractive to her.
“I’ll call on you next week,” Thorne said, rising and dusting off his backside. “Until then, perhaps you might give some thought to how an herbal manufactory should be designed.”
She brushed at her skirts. “I beg your pardon?”
“If Dorning Hall is to enter the business of selling botanical extractions commercially, we’ll need a facility to produce those products, won’t we? The herbal at the Hall itself sits beneath the family wing, which Casriel has taken a notion to tear down. We have stone and some timber salvaged from demolition of the dower house, and we can use that to build whatever it is that one builds when producing fragrances and whatnot.”
“Whatnot.” Margaret bent and plucked a single bluebell. “You think to take the London markets by storm with whatnot distilled by whatever-it-is means, using recipes that you haven’t yet devised.”
She was amused. “I not only think it, Casriel and my brothers expect it.”
She kissed his cheek and passed him the flower. “Until next week, Mr. Dorning.”
And off she went down the woodland path, leaving Thorne with a single fragrant little flower and a whole bouquet of hope.
“When I awoke this morning, I did not foresee a proposal of marriage from Mr. Dorning,” Margaret said. “And yet, I had the sense that Hawthorne has considered the matter carefully and is making a sincere and well-intended offer.”
Hannah Weller adjusted the towel she’d wrapped around the blue porcelain teapot. “I saw you dancing with him at last week’s assembly, my dear. He was considering something, all right, and so were you.”
At eighty-three years of age, Hannah said precisely what she thought. Margaret had always relied on the older woman’s honesty, painful though that had sometimes been.
“Bancroft is off to Town,” Margaret said. “Hunting an heiress, no doubt. Mr. Hartley did not attend the assembly, and I thought I was free to enjoy myself a little. Mr. Dorning walked me up the drive at the end of the evening.”
Hannah’s cottage sat at the edge of the Summerton acres just outside the village. The smell of the place was marvelous. Every species of herb and flower ever collected in Dorsetshire contributed to the scent, as did myriad spices and exotic fragrances.
“He walked you up the drive,” Hannah said, lifting the lid of the teapot. “Then he bowed politely and wished you good night?”
“We shared a kiss, then he waited at the foot of the steps until I was safely inside the house.”
“Lady Jacaranda put the manners on her brothers, a thankless task, no doubt. What did you think would happen when you allowed a bachelor of sound mind and even sounder body to kiss you?”
“That he’d go home and go to bed, then get up the next morning and attend services. I don’t know, Hannah. I am so absorbed with raising the girls, minding my tenants, and avoiding Bancroft’s notice that I didn’t think Mr. Dorning’s overtures meant anything.”
Hadn’t allowed herself to think that.
Hannah poured two cups of tea—mugs, not delicate china. “You pined for Hawthorne Dorning once upon a time.”
The scent of chamomile and lemon wafted up from Margaret’s cup. Hannah always knew what to serve, and this combination was both soothing and bracing.
“Every girl in the shire chose a Dorning to pine for,” Margaret said. “I liked Hawthorne because he was quiet without being bashful. He’s a doer, not a talker, and he never once teased me about being a Long Meg. This could use just a touch of cinnamon.”
“I agree, or possibly ginger.”
“Ginger is too sharp, unless you use a very high-quality ginger. What should I do, Hannah? Bancroft will be against the marriage and could try to use it to take the girls from me. I cannot lose those children, not to Bancroft Summerfield.”
Hannah wrapped ancient hands around her mug. “If there were no children, would you marry Hawthorne?”
“Yes.”
“In ten years, the girls will be of marriageable age, twelve at most. Then you will be, what? Not yet forty years old. Consider that another forty years of life might remain to you after the girls find husbands. If you pass up Hawthorne Dorning’s offer now, you will have traded ten years with the girls for fifty years with him. Is that what you want?”
“I am all they have, Hannah. What I want doesn’t matter.”
“That’s part of it.” Margaret took a nibble of a sweet, pale biscuit. “You used lard instead of butter.”
“Lard gives a lighter texture.”
The spices absent from the tea were present in the biscuit—cinnamon with a hint of ginger—and yet, for Margaret, the combination didn’t work. Lard did not taste the same as butter, for all it did result in a lighter texture.
“I promised Bancroft I would never dabble in medicinal herbs again.”
“You did not dabble. You learned everything I know, read everything you could find, and experimented with every plant you could dig up. The old earl said you were a genius.”
The old earl was gone and had apparently never mentioned Margaret’s abilities to his sons. “His lordship also said Lucas should study medicine in Edinburgh.”
“Drink your tea, Margaret. It’s best consumed hot.”
Margaret rose, leaving the tea at the table. “I would have to tell Hawthorne about Charles, Hannah. Bancroft won’t remain silent, and I owe a man planning to marry me that much honesty.”
At least that much honesty.
“Bancroft is an idiot, and he’s an idiot who will bide in London until the shopkeepers refuse to grant him any more credit. You have time to marry Mr. Dorning, and if it becomes necessary to explain a few particulars about your first marriage, then you can choose the time and place for that after the vows have been spoken.”
“A marriage should be built on trust. Charles trusted me, and I trusted him.”
Hannah dipped a biscuit into her tea. “And then dear Charles turned about and gave Bancroft the keys to your nursery.”
That had been an unwelcome posthumous surprise, but as the solicitors had pointed out, Charles had died young, and the girls’ parents had died young. If Margaret should expire, better for Adriana and Greta to be wards of an uncle than left to the mercies of court-appointed guardians—assuming the courts didn’t appoint Bancroft in the first place.
Margaret wandered the room, pausing before a sketch of Lucas Weller. The likeness was good, catching Lucas’s merry and gentle nature. Margaret had seen the drawing many times, but now, Lucas’s kindly expression gave her the sense he was commiserating with her.
Another death at much too young an age. “He was so dear. I’ve never asked you who drew this.”
“Oak Dorning. I believe he drew it from memory. He brought it by in that frame about a month after Lucas died.”
The frame was rustic wood, which suited Lucas’s open features and tousled dark hair.
“Hannah, I am tempted to marry Hawthorne Dorning.” Lucas would not have begrudged her that happiness, nor would Charles. “I face a constant battle with Bancroft, whose brilliant management is running Summerfield House into the ground. He sent Hartley to sniff about my hedges and inspect my fields, and that was not an exercise in familial concern.”
“Hartley is competent.” A substantial compliment from Hannah, who regarded stewardship of the land as a biblical vocation.
“Hartley cannot raise a crop of pound notes, which is what Bancroft needs. He’s in London trying to woo an heiress, or I’d have no reprieve from his meddling.”
Hannah dipped the second half of her biscuit into her tea. “Hawthorne Dorning is an earl’s son, an outstanding farmer, and a gentleman. How can Bancroft argue that the girls are worse off with Hawthorne for a step-uncle than they are in your sole care?”
That question sliced to the root of the dilemma cleanly: Bancroft would posture and pontificate, but marriage to Hawthorne could strengthen Margaret’s hold on the girls rather than diminish it.
“I feel as if I’m overlooking some obvious impediment,” Margaret said, touching her fingers to Lucas’s cheek. “My life has been a series of stumbles that have nearly sent me to my knees. If not for Charles…”
But Charles had come along, the marriage had been happy, and the girls were in Margaret’s custody.
“You don’t need my permission to marry a worthy man, Margaret, but you do have my blessing. The Dornings are fine fellows, and Hawthorne is not hard on the eyes either.”
And he enjoyed copulation. Even recalling that admission and the frank humor with which he’d made it caused Margaret to blush.
“I will give this matter more thought,” she said, resuming her place at the table. “The bluebells are starting to bloom. Have you noticed?”
“I thought to check on them tomorrow, if the day holds fair. Will you take the girls to see them?”
“Lately, we are in the woods almost daily. Since Charles’s death, I have not allowed myself to wander the hedges or to collect any but the most mundane specimens. I experiment with scents, but I don’t lose myself in foraging as you and I used to. To be out of doors at this time of year, away from the house for some part of every day, is good for me. I’d lost sight of that.”
“Perhaps Mr. Dorning has what you seek.”
What do you want, Margaret? He’d put that exact question to her and, in so doing, had helped her form at least part of her answer: She wanted a man who valued her happiness and who allowed her to be a part of his happiness as well. She wanted a partner, a friend, and a lover whom she could esteem for all the rest of her days.
And yet, she hesitated. “He’ll call upon me in a few days. He’ll expect an answer.”
“That doesn’t mean you have to give him one. Bancroft has barely arrived in London. You have time, Margaret. For once, you have the luxury of time.”
Margaret turned the talk to the vast and far-flung Weller family and half an hour later took her leave. As she made her way home, Hawthorne Dorning’s question circled in her mind: What did she want?
She wanted him. The other factors—an ally, a companion, a partner, a friend—all mattered, but undeniably, Margaret also wanted him.
Chapter Nine
“Did you ever know Charles Summerfield to be ill or grievously injured?” Thorne asked.
Valerian passed him a letter from the stack he was sorting. “We all came off our ponies from time to time. That one’s from Grey. If he’s returning to Dorning Hall, you will please warn us.”
“I don’t mean a typical boyhood mishap.” Thorne peered at the letter, not particularly eager to open it. “I mean an illness or disability that followed him into adulthood.”
“He had scarlet fever,” Oak said, ambling along the library’s bookshelves. “I recall Mama sending over baskets of oranges, apple cider vinegar, lemons, and honey. We were not permitted to play at Summerton for most of one spring.”
“Brother Oak sees all,” Thorne murmured. “Give me that letter.” From the far side of the desk, Thorne recognized the familiar scrawling penmanship.
“I thought Charles had St. Vitus’s dance.” Valerian held the letter up to the window’s light and peered at the direction. “I rejoice to inform you that the infant Sycamore yet lives.”
“Maybe Charles had both,” Oak said, snatching Sycamore’s letter from Valerian and passing it to Thorne. “That can happen. First the scarlet fever, then you think it’s gone, and next thing you know, more fevers and aches. We haven’t had a letter from Jacaranda for a while.”
“She and Worth are visiting in the north,” Thorne said, tucking away Sycamore’s letter. Sycamore knew that no correspondence at Dorning Hall remained private for long, but he was nonetheless blunt to a fault. If property for opening an apothecary was not to be had, Thorne wanted to learn of that before Valerian did.
“Last I heard,” Valerian said, “the king’s mail reached even Cumbria. We also haven’t heard from Ash.”
Oak resumed wandering along shelves he’d had more than twenty years to peruse. “Cumbria is beautiful, I’m told. The light is different from what we have here, more like the Low Countries, but the terrain is dramatic. I’d like to see that.”
“While we,” Valerian said, “r
ather than fret that you’ve caught an ague tramping in the hinterlands, would like for you to remain safe and warm and happy among those who—this one’s for you.”
Oak ambled back to the desk and took the letter without looking at it. “What has Grey to tell us, Thorne?”
“When I read the letter, I’ll let you know. Sycamore is trying to find us a commercial property well situated to distribute our products. Perhaps he’s had some success. To the best of your recall, Charles Summerfield recovered from his fevers, didn’t he?”
Thorne hadn’t paid much attention to Summerfield. Charles had been a genial, well-liked young man, but for most of his youth, he’d attended a church closer to the Summerfield family seat. Besides, Thorne had been too busy either trying to get a glimpse of Margaret Mallory, or telling himself to stop longing for what could not be.
“You’d best ask Hannah Weller about Charles’s health,” Oak said. “She is the local historian of illness and injury, and she will regale you with tales of infirmity until the biscuits are gone and the tea is cold. I hope to be half as sharp when I’m her age.”
Valerian had set aside three epistles addressed to Grey. “What’s in your letter, Oak? You can tell us the nice way, or we’ll just beat it out of you.”
An empty threat. Oak was as fast as the wind with his fists or on foot, and if Oak’s privacy was forfeit, Thorne’s would be next.
Oak made a show of studying his epistle. “The letter is from Hampshire.”
Valerian steepled his fingers on the desk, like a patient headmaster. “The direction told me that.”
Valerian should have been a spy. The notion dropped into Thorne’s head all of a piece and made such perfect sense, he nearly blurted it out. Valerian had the self-possession, the easy manners in all company, the keen powers of observation, the ability to put puzzles together.
A pity there was no demand for spies in Dorset. None at all.
A Lady of True Distinction Page 10
