A Lady of True Distinction

by Grace Burrowes

  “Now that is odd, for I’m not an apothecary either. To the best of my knowledge, none of my other brothers can claim an apothecary’s skill, nor a perfumer’s, nor an alchemist’s. But should we stumble across, by an advantageous marriage perhaps, somebody who does have that arcane knowledge, somebody who is willing to part with it without compensation—for we haven’t any to offer—then we have no venue from which to sell our tisanes and sachets, do we? We have no distillery or herbal sizable enough to produce goods in quantity. We have no wagons to transport our wares to London, save those vehicles needed for use on our farms.

  “What we do have,” Valerian went on, making another circuit across the parlor, “is an older brother who thinks snapping his fingers will result in a viable commercial venture, though the same older brother thought demolishing an entire dower house and a family wing while we also manage thousands of acres of arable land was the work of a few weeks.”

  “Months, Valerian. I had hoped the demolition could be finished over the course of the summer.”

  Grey poured himself a cup of tea, which Valerian dearly wanted to dump in his brother’s lap.

  “So we accomplished a near miracle, getting the dower house razed and the salvage sold without a single field of crops languishing. When we can’t produce another miracle and get this botanical business up and running overnight, your response is to offer the best land we have for sale to the biggest buffoon in the shire. Are you mad?”

  Grey added a dash of sugar to his tea, stirred gently, tapped the spoon twice against the cup, and took a sip. “Tell me about the advantageous marriage.”

  “Thorne has always harbored a tendresse for Margaret Summerfield.”

  Grey set down his cup and saucer. “Thorne? Our Hawthorne and Margaret Summerfield?” He appeared to consider the notion. “She’s something of a free spirit, or she was before she married Charles. She put me in mind of Papa, always out among the hedges and stream banks, collecting mushrooms or mandrakes. She has nieces underfoot now. I don’t see her as presenting Thorne many advantages.” He smiled at his boots. “Beyond the obvious, of course.”

  Well, well, well. Grey Dorning was a paragon of manners, a walking testament to etiquette and gentlemanly deportment, but he was now a married gentleman, a creature able to admit of carnal joy.

  About damned time.

  “Margaret Summerfield has dwelled at Summerton with her nieces since Charles died,” Valerian said. “She consented to the use of the stream to create our water meadow, and your hay yield went up twenty percent as a result. Your spring lambs weigh on average ten percent more, in part because we have early grass to put them on. You lose fewer ewes to lambing because our flocks are in better weight for having had superior fodder over the winter. You sell that water meadow, and Thorne might well disown you.”

  “I see.”

  Grey hadn’t seen. He loved Dorning Hall with his whole heart, but he’d been drifting into the status of an absentee landlord, while Thorne had become his factor in Dorset. Grey had been more than overdue for a respite, and Thorne had thrived on the responsibility. Mostly.

  “There’s more,” Valerian said.

  “Yes, there is.” Grey took up his cup and saucer for another leisurely sip of his tea. “Bancroft Summerfield is interested in acquiring the land. We ran into each other at Hatchards, where he found me browsing political treatises. He claims he can make the sale worth my while.”

  Chapter Eleven

  The tea abruptly turned sour in Valerian’s belly. “Is Bancroft’s coin of greater value than Thorne’s happiness?”

  “Of course not.” Grey’s answer was swift and certain. “But Dorning Hall has thousands of acres to its name. We can make another water meadow.”

  “No, Grey, we cannot. We have a plethora of winter burns at Dorning Hall, but only two year-round water sources, and a water meadow requires a steady, moderate flow across low-lying land during the coldest months. Think about our terrain, and you’ll see that Thorne’s use of the stream was ingenious, and also the only possible option.”

  Moreover, between the last of the demolition and salvage efforts on the dower house, the ongoing labor needed to keep the estate running productively, and this new botanical venture, Dorning Hall had no resources to devote to creating any more water features.

  How could Grey not see that? “We need Margaret Summerfield,” Valerian said, rather than haranguing the earl about his own land. “Selling the land to Bancroft would cost us her goodwill, and perhaps Thorne’s loyalty.”

  Grey wrinkled his lordly beak. “Thorne is in love, then?”

  “Do you recall when his mare was in foal to Greymore’s stud?”

  “A wife is not a broodmare, Valerian.”

  “That arcane fact has drifted within even my feeble cognizance, your lordship. Thorne went without sleep for weeks, fed the damned colt by hand, rigged a sling for the mother when she didn’t show any willingness to stand. Slept in the barn for more weeks and never once complained or shirked other duties. You thwart his will at your peril, and I can assure you, I am not a viable candidate to take his place as your land steward, head farmer, layer of hedges, hay stacker, foaling expert, fence mender, ditch digger, engineer, head shearer, project foreman, and ambassador to the neighbors and tenants.”

  A fraught silence ensued, but Grey was a shrewd man. Valerian prayed marriage hadn’t changed even that.

  “I have been gone a fair amount in the past year, I know.”

  “You were a very involved landowner, and your absence has been felt.” While you expect your brothers to take up the slack, start a new venture, and keep a barely profitable estate running smoothly.

  Valerian could not say that, because he was fed, clothed, housed, and horsed for his labors, which amounted to being a house steward for an empty dwelling. So far, he’d done precious damned little to earn his keep, but he could at least champion Thorne’s concerns.

  “I made no commitment to Bancroft,” Grey said. “I can put him off for a while, but the growing season is under way, Valerian. When will Papa’s herbs and flowers be put to some use?”

  “I honestly don’t know. Thorne’s closer acquaintance with Margaret Summerfield was inspired by the fact that she’s a genius with scents.”

  “Nobody in the vicinity of Dorning Hall is a genius at anything,” Grey said, popping a tea cake into his mouth. “All of England regards Dorset as the back of the great bucolic beyond, which it surely is, and may the Creator in His wisdom keep it ever thus.”

  “And yet, you became one of the foremost men of manners in the realm, and you hail from Dorset, or you used to. Then too, Lady Casriel seems to think you more than passingly competent at being her husband.”

  Grey touched his left breast. “Touché. I fear I sent the wrong brother to read law.”

  He had, but Ash had needed to go somewhere and do something, and the family lacked the means for two brothers to spend years reading for the bar.

  “You will not sell that water meadow to Bancroft Summerfield?”

  “Not without consulting you and Thorne first, though I honestly might have to sell it. Bancroft has been sniffing about the skirts of Miss Emily Pepper, the Season’s current darling. Her settlements are rumored to rival the national treasury, and Beatitude claims she’s a lovely young woman.”

  “Why would such a lovely young woman marry a country squire?”

  “Her father deals in cloth and seeks entrée into the landed gentry. He realizes Emily would be miserable among titled society and is willing to climb the ladder generation by generation, or that’s what Beatitude says. I have the great luxury of not troubling my handsome head with heiresses and incomparables anymore. You cannot imagine my relief.”

  Valerian could see that relief in the casual pose Grey adopted, in his enjoyment of a simple tea tray, heedless of getting crumbs on the carpet. Even his cravat was a plain knot, a half-inch center, and the informality looked good on him.

  “Oak is thin
king of taking a post in Hampshire,” Valerian said. “He was to write you about it.”

  “Correspondence is the bane of a literate man’s existence. Will he be drawing master to somebody’s talented progeny?”

  If Oak had written, Grey hadn’t read the letter yet. “He’ll restore old paintings for a reclusive widow, assuming they can come to terms. I’ll mention it to Beatitude, in the event she knows something of the widow. She has relatives in Hampshire, doesn’t she?”

  “The marquess. They correspond. I need this botanical venture to start producing revenue, Valerian. If you’ve delivered the scolding you were sent here to deliver, you are free to return to Dorset and start brewing up jasmine tea perfumes.”

  Ye gods, I will kill him after all. “Haven’t you been listening? A jasmine tea perfume could take years to develop, for all I know. Thorne says scents change over time, they can lose fragrance while sitting on the shelf, or their odor can deteriorate once applied. We have no manufactory because we’ve been too busy removing the eyesore of a dower ruin from the foot of the drive. We have no commercial establishment here in London because where we open a business depends in part on what we sell and who we sell it to. We are trying, Grey, but you offer nothing in the way of support and everything in the way of judgment, ignorance, and indifference.”

  Valerian had raised his voice at a sibling for the first time in ages. He’d also earned Grey’s undivided attention.

  “Beatitude says I’m not to interfere. I’m to let my brothers sort out how to go on, because they are a capable and industrious lot who need only a chance to prove themselves.”

  “Then don’t interfere, for God’s sake. Don’t threaten to sell the best land out from under us, don’t impose ridiculous deadlines while you heap competing projects on the Hall’s staff. Don’t expect the impossible.”

  Grey rose and brushed at his cravat. “As you say, more is coming to bear on this situation than meets the eye. I haven’t said anything to anybody else, though I’m sure Ash and Cam suspect.”

  “Suspect what?”

  “Beatitude is expecting—not the impossible, but a child. My willingness to muddle along, an impecunious earl with more manners than money, is at an end. I understand your concerns, Valerian, but you must understand that I can be patient for only so long. The earldom needs funds, and I shall have them, one way or another.”

  Well, of course. Grey’s refusal to leave Beatitude’s side, his willingness to entertain the outlandish notion of selling acreage, his urgency about the botanical venture… Grey worried not for himself or his earldom, he worried for his family, as always.

  “Congratulations,” Valerian said, “but just as you cannot hurry Beatitude toward parturition, you must be patient with your siblings a while longer. Funds in the short term will be little consolation when your brothers can no longer trust you to manage the family resources sensibly.”

  A few years ago, that declaration might have been cause for fisticuffs, or at least a display of lordly temper from Grey. He merely nodded now, a show of understanding, but no sort of capitulation at all.

  Greta’s tantrums took a variety of forms. Over the winter, she’d developed a silent tantrum. She’d sit wedged into a corner, arms around her updrawn knees. Any attempt to pry her loose from her self-imposed ball of misery, and she’d screech like a demon until she was again left in peace.

  Her usual stock in trade, though, was to shriek, cry, cast herself down, and kick viciously at anybody who attempted to approach her. By the time Margaret reached her, she was already on the ground by the garden fountain, howling like a banshee, while Fenny attempted to reason with her.

  “It’s not my fault,” Adriana bellowed over Greta’s dramatics. “I didn’t do anything, and why does she always carry on like this?”

  Why must she carry on like this before Hawthorne Dorning, who’d easily kept pace with Margaret on the dash back to the house?

  “Miss Fenner, if you’d take Adriana inside, please?” Margaret asked, trying for a calm tone.

  “She broke it,” Adriana said, loudly enough to be heard over Greta’s crying. “She broke the music box, and now it won’t play ever again.”

  That observation provoked even greater effusions from Greta, who kicked at the air as if beset by six press gangs at once.

  “Greta, stop this nonsense immediately.” Margaret moved closer, her boot crunching on something small and solid. The key to the music box lay on the paving stones, as did other mechanical parts. “Miss Fenner, to the house, if you please.”

  Fenny took Adriana by the wrist and led her away, leaving Margaret with one very upset little girl and a suitor who was doubtless rethinking his proposal.

  “Greta, Adriana is gone,” Margaret said, crouching beside the child. “Please calm yourself.”

  That admonition was pointless. Greta could carry on for an hour at full volume and then abruptly go silent, get up, and find a corner to sulk in. Margaret usually waited until the sulk had become a nap, then carried Greta up to bed.

  Greta swiped at Margaret’s chin with a small fist.

  “No hitting.” Hawthorne picked Greta up and sat with her on the edge of the fountain.

  A battle ensued, with Greta flailing mightily, fists and feet flying, and Hawthorne easily containing her struggles.

  “I’m not letting you go until you are calmer,” he said, pleasantly enough considering a tornado in a dress occupied his lap. “You’ll do yourself an injury, and that we cannot allow.”

  “It’s broken,” Greta sobbed. “Broken forever. Adriana said.”

  After a few more minutes of wailing and flailing, the struggles became mostly for show, reflexive attempts at freedom that had the agreeable effect of tiring Greta without risking her well-being.

  “You’re concerned for the music box?” Hawthorne asked.

  “B-broken. F-Forever.” No lament had ever been more heartrending, no sorrow greater. Margaret pulled out a handkerchief and passed it to Hawthorne.

  He managed to grab the handkerchief without losing his hold on Greta. “We’ll put it back together.”

  “But it’s broken.”

  “My arm was broken once,” Hawthorne said. “It mended. See?” He held out a long, strong arm. “The music box can be mended too.”

  He seemed to know that Greta did not respond well to petting and stroking. He held her securely, nothing more.

  “You broke your arm?” Greta sniffled.

  “Somebody else broke it. They stomped on it when I was lying defenseless on the cobbles. Hurt like the very devil. I would not like to see you hurt yourself, wee Greta.”

  “I hurt the music box. It’s—”

  “We will repair it, but first we must find every part that has come loose. Every spring and wire, every screw. If a part is missing, we will send to London for a replacement, or have the smith fashion a new one. You owe your aunt an apology.”

  Greta stared up at Margaret, her little tearstained face a study in puzzlement.

  “For trying to hit me,” Margaret said. “We don’t hit the people we love.”

  “I didn’t want to hit you. I wanted you to go away.”

  Hawthorne passed Greta the handkerchief. “If you want somebody to go away, tell them to go away or wave your hand at them. A closed fist will hurt whether you mean it to or not.”

  A sensible suggestion and utterly useless to Greta when a temper was upon her.

  She wiped at her cheeks, blew her nose, and passed Hawthorne the handkerchief. He set it aside as if soiled linen was of no moment.

  “Adriana hit me once at Yuletide.” Greta shuddered out a sigh. “By accident. She was a pirate. It hurt.”

  “And she apologized,” Margaret said. “Because she did not want you to be hurt, and she was sorry.”

  “But I didn’t hit you.” Greta wiggled off Hawthorne’s lap, being careful not to step on any loose music box parts. “You moved away. I want to mend the music box. Mr. Hawthorne Dorning said.” She prono
unced Hawthorne’s name as if it was one word, Mr.-Hawthorne-Dorning.

  He looked like he wanted to argue the ethical logic of apologizing for unintentional harm that had not come to fruition, which with Greta could entail the rest of the morning wasted.

  “Let’s find the parts then,” Margaret said. “Though I haven’t a clue what we’re looking for.”

  Hawthorne lowered himself to the paving stones, hunkering at Greta’s side. He picked up what looked like the main gear, a little metal spool with tiny teeth at irregular intervals.

  “We’ll need the key that winds the mechanism,” he said, “the wooden housing, and anything else that’s come loose.”

  “I have the key.” Greta snatched up the little metal knob and passed it to him. “What’s the mech-nism?”

  “If you two will excuse me,” Margaret said, “I’ll be back in a moment. I’d like to check on Adriana.” Margaret wanted to hear from Fenny exactly what had happened, because the girls were not reliable reporters. Then she needed privacy.

  “We’ll be fine,” Hawthorne said, not looking up. “The mechanism is what makes the music. Have you ever looked inside a pianoforte and noticed how the hammers strike the wires?”

  Margaret left him to his explanations, though they might result in the pianoforte in pieces on the parlor floor. She made it as far as the back hallway before she pulled out her spare handkerchief, sat on the settle, and let herself cry.

  Fenny found her there five minutes later, more or less composed, at least outwardly.

  “Adriana suggested we start a puzzle, because Greta likes them so.”

  “Thoughtful of her,” Margaret replied, folding up her handkerchief. “What happened?”

  Fenny took the other half of the settle. “They were squabbling over the music box, which I should have put an end to, I know. Greta didn’t seem too interested in the music, but she liked the sound of the insides spinning and turning, or maybe she liked the vibrations. Who knows with that child? Adriana grew impatient and tried to snatch the music box away, and the blasted thing fell on the stones. You heard the rest.”