The baby sighed, the sweetest, most contented sound a father ever heard. “I beg your pardon?”
“Marie Cummings has not paid rent to Valerian once in five years.”
Grey took the second rocking chair, careful to maintain the rhythm he’d established in his perambulations. “How do you know that?”
“Marie’s sister in Hampshire is a neighbor to one of my cousins’ wife’s cousins. That sister has noted that Marie was the object of considerable charity from her landlord here in Dorset. I gather the first year would have been the last for Marie as a farmer, but for Valerian’s generosity.”
“That farm is one of the best tenancies in the shire.” The house was commodious, too, sturdy and handsome, fit for a large family. More of a modest manor than a mere farmhouse, and several parcels of the arable ground were sublet to other families. “Why the devil hasn’t Valerian collected any rent?”
“Because Marie was left with three young boys? Because her husband died suddenly and with a crop in the field? Because you set an example of gentlemanly decency for your brothers, and Valerian, of all of them, heeds that example most assiduously?”
“It’s my fault Valerian is pockets to let?”
Though to forgive five years’ rent, and never mention a word about the debt, surpassed any example Grey could have set. He was both proud of Valerian for that gesture and peeved at himself for not learning of the situation earlier.
“It’s partly your fault he’s such a lovely man. We must find him a wife.”
We must do no such thing. Valerian would be appalled at such meddling. “We must put this child to bed.”
Beatitude rose, yawned again, and stretched. “I love the long evenings that summer brings. I do not love the short nights.”
“I love you.” Grey stood to steal a hug, both mother and child in his embrace, both sleepy, both inexpressibly dear. “Valerian cannot support a wife, and he’d never marry a woman he could not support.”
Beatitude straightened and took the baby gently into her arms. “Have you read his book?”
“I started it once or twice when I chanced upon the manuscript in the library.” Not that he’d been snooping, of course. “A lot of witticisms dressed up as fashion advice, from what I could gather.” He accompanied Beatitude into the next room, where a nursery maid dozed in a chair beside the crib.
Beatitude laid the baby in the crib, touched the nursery maid’s shoulder, and took Grey’s hand. He stood marveling at his sleeping offspring, beset by the thought that Valerian would make an excellent father. Not something he could say with ease about all his brothers.
“Are we dressing for dinner?” he asked when he and Beatitude were in the corridor.
“I’d rather not. It’s just us, and only Wednesday. You are already fretting about your parlor session on Monday and will doubtless get back to reading law as soon as we’re done with supper.”
“There’s so much law to read.” Though a magistrate was not a lawyer. He was, instead, a man of property and good judgment, bringing as much common sense to his adjudications as legal expertise.
“So have Valerian appointed magistrate. He has the time and the temperament, while you dread the whole business.”
Grey considered that suggestion all the way to the bedroom he shared with his countess. “Valerian has common sense.” And Grey did dread the whole business, more each week.
“Valerian is liked and respected. He’s accustomed to sorting out noisy, feuding, obstreperous siblings, and he could use the income.”
“The income is nominal.” Expenses only, though some magistrates managed to turn expenses into a tidy sum. “Valerian would not cheat the ratepayers with fictitious sums.” A point very much in his favor.
“Of course not, but he could defray some of the costs of maintaining his bachelor household, nonetheless. Paper and ink, for example, are not cheap, but a magistrate must have them. Coal for heating a parlor one day a week. A portion of the upkeep for a horse, because a magistrate must familiarize himself with crime scenes and go forth to make arrests. He must occasionally confer with other magistrates in the district and host them at his house as well.”
Grey hadn’t charged for most of that, because it hadn’t occurred to him to do so. “You learned economies as a widow.” He held the door to their sitting room. “I like this idea. I like it a lot.” He loved this idea, in fact.
“I like you too,” Beatitude said, hugging him after he’d closed the door. “I heartily dislike how you get quieter and quieter as Monday draws near. You avoid chatting up the neighbors at services on Sunday because you fear they will bring up a pending case. You are not the best resource for the job, Grey. You took it on out of duty because you, too, are every inch a gentleman.”
He wrapped her in his arms and rested his chin on her crown, grateful beyond words for his marriage. Valerian deserved a chance to marry, to have children, to enjoy the comfort and pleasure of a wife’s companionship.
“I’ll ask him if he’s interested. Even if he took on the job for six months, that would leave me free to focus on demolishing the old wing of the Hall. Tabitha will be home soon, and I want to spend as much time with her as possible. I haven’t been socializing nearly enough for a man with a new baby to show off, and you are right: Valerian has the temperament for the post.”
Beatitude kissed his cheek and slipped away. “When will you ask him?”
“Tomorrow. Tomorrow morning.”
She turned her back and swept her hair off her nape. “If you’d undo my hooks, please?”
Grey loved this part of being married, the simple domesticity, the shared privacy. He tended to Beatitude’s dress, and when he would have stepped back, she remained with her back to him.
“My stays too, Grey. I’m inclined to have a short nap before we go down to supper.”
“A short nap is an excellent idea.” He kissed her nape and thanked the Deity once again for the wonders of married life. As it happened, Casriel and his countess did not go down to supper for a good hour, and when they did, they descended to the dining room quite in charity with the world—and with each other.
* * *
The rest of Valerian’s evening was spent over ale and sandwiches at the posting inn, and though he was friendly to everybody, he shared smiles and glances with Emily more often than he should have. The gathering broke up, and then it was time to take the lady home.
The drive to the village had been one of contrasts: the tremendous pleasure of sitting beside Emily, the even greater wonder of kissing her and being kissed by her. But despair had come along for that journey, too, because an honorable man without means was a man doomed to bachelorhood. He would grow old making up the numbers at house parties, dancing with the wallflowers, and wishing some venerable auntie would leave him even a small competence.
With money in his pocket and the prospect of a property of his own where he could dwell, some of his despair ebbed.
“Who was she?” Emily asked as Valerian guided Clovis away from the livery. “Not that it’s any of my business.”
“Mrs. Marie Cummings, soon to be the second Mrs. Stephan Carter. She was widowed a few years ago, and she and her sons continued to work a Dorning tenancy.” Valerian dodged the whole truth because he wanted time to consider the improvement in his fortunes. Marie and Stephan seemed well suited, but engaged couples quarreled, and bank drafts could be stolen.
Still, the rent on the Cummings farm had been fairly high, owing to the size and quality of the holding. Five times “fairly high” was a sum that could be invested, and Valerian’s brother-in-law Worth Kettering was brilliant at managing investments.
“I ought never to admit this aloud,” Emily said, “but sometimes I envy widows. They have the benefit of marriage settlements and the freedom society grants few other women of standing.”
“Provided they are discreet.”
Emily arranged her skirts, the movement conveying impatience. “Not that kind of freedo
m. I realize many married women are granted a certain latitude once they’ve filled their husband’s nursery. I meant freedom to own a business, to manage their own finances, to run a business.” She fell silent. “Perhaps I ought not to have partaken of the ale.”
She’d had a mere lady’s pint, and that after two hours of exertion.
“Perhaps you ought to speak your mind more often, Emily Pepper. Finish your thought.”
“I know polite society would consider my view of marriage old-fashioned. Why marry a man and then cast him aside for another? Why marry a woman, for that matter, and treat her like a morning hunter? Sufficient for the start of the ride, but once she tires, toss her aside for any number of afternoon mounts. Now I’m using equestrian analogies to describe marriage. Shall we discuss the weather?”
“I like that you have the courage to discuss more substantial topics than the weather. Did you enjoy yourself this evening?”
Another twitch at her skirts. “More than I have at any London entertainment. Your neighbors aren’t afraid to laugh. They know each other, they haven’t simply been introduced at a boring old ball. Papa has this kind of camaraderie with his business cronies, while I…”
Kissing Emily Pepper was glorious, but conversing with her, with the true, honest Emily, was in some way equally precious.
“While you?”
“The last time I had true friends was at finishing school. Several of us were partners in adventure. We visited back and forth over school holidays and came to each other’s aid when difficulties arose. What little French I have is thanks to my schoolmates, not to the tutors Briggs later inflicted on me.”
This topic—how women developed friendships—had never occurred to Valerian. He had been sent to public school and university, where the inevitable youthful associations had arisen, but he also had a platoon of brothers, a horde of neighbors, and the welcome any well-born bachelor enjoyed at Mayfair entertainments.
Emily Pepper had neither siblings, nor neighbors of longstanding, nor a titled family’s connections.
“Are you still friends with the young ladies you knew at school?”
“Likely not. The last of our little group married two years ago in Edinburgh. Papa was too concerned with showing me off around Town for me to attend. Then he grew too ill for me to go visiting.”
The bank draft in Valerian’s pocket was no great fortune, but to a man who dealt in pence and shillings, rather than pounds and ponies, it was enough to shift his perspective, however slightly. Perhaps Emily needed a shift in perspective as well.
“What are you concerned with, Emily? What would you like to be concerned with?”
She was quiet for a while, as the village fell behind them and the western sky turned from orange to mauve. A nightingale caroled in a nearby hedgerow, and a half-moon crested the horizon. The moment was purely beautiful, romantic in a way that had little to do with kissing.
What would Emily Pepper think of a man who’d spent months working on a manuscript for an etiquette book? What would she think of Marie Cummings’s decision to take up farming?
“I used to be much more in my father’s confidence,” Emily said. “I was his amanuensis—Briggs insisted my penmanship be faultless—and then I became his confidante about all matters mercantile. Things changed, and now Tobias and Caleb are his constant companions. They are hard workers, they know the mercer’s craft, and they are devoted to Papa, but sometimes, I suspect their devotion is to Papa’s coin, rather than his best interests.”
“You would be good at running a business.”
She glanced over at him, her brows knit. “Do you flatter me, Mr. Dorning?”
“You don’t need to be flattered. You are sensible, honest, familiar with the cloth trade, and determined to honor your father’s successful legacy. You are also in the habit of protecting him, particularly given his recent poor health. He should be grateful that you bother to question the motives of his business associates. When nobody else looks after us, family should be trusted to do so.”
“Does your family look after you?”
“That’s different.”
She nudged him with her elbow. “Because you are a man?”
“You are teasing me.”
“And you, sir, are changing the subject.”
“Trying to.” He turned Clovis up the lane that led to Pepper Ridge, though why must the manor house be such a short distance from the village? “I’ve sent my manuscript to my brothers Sycamore and Ash. They are developing a broad circle of London acquaintances, and I am hopeful they can find me a publisher to print the book.”
Valerian didn’t talk about his book with anybody unless he was directly asked.
“You’ve written a book?”
“You make it sound like some great accomplishment. Every schoolboy can put pen to paper.”
“You make it sound like a trivial undertaking. Part of the reason I haven’t kept up with my school friends is that writing a letter is such a laborious process. One must be tidy and witty and informative, but not dull or presuming. My handwriting must be that of a perfect lady. You have written an entire book.”
“Which nobody is interested in publishing thus far. You should correspond with your friends, Emily. Even a note recounting your remove to Dorsetshire, your father’s improved health, your renewed attempts on the dance floor. Tell them how you go on, and they will write back, if they’re your friends.”
Valerian drew Clovis to a halt at the bottom of the manor house steps and climbed from the gig. He assisted Emily to alight, and when he would have stepped back to bow his farewell to her, she kept hold of his hand.
“I will write to my friends, and I will keep an eye on Papa’s business dealings, as best I can. I caught him redesigning the hold of a merchantman without consulting a shipwright, and Caleb and Tobias were abetting that folly.”
Valerian was developing a dim view of Caleb and Tobias, but perhaps that was jealousy at work. They were guests at Pepper Ridge, sharing meals with Emily and sharing an interest with her in a trade about which Valerian knew next to nothing.
Emily drew him up the steps. “What is your book about?”
The fading light was a blessing, for Valerian was blushing. “Manners, etiquette, polite conventions. How to go on in a social sense.” Perhaps he needed to add a chapter on when and how to go about kissing a young lady—or why to refrain from kissing her.
“Social conventions are a brilliant topic for a book. Not everybody can afford fancy finishing schools, and the people teaching at those schools aren’t the people pouring tea in Mayfair. I’ve made many errors because my deportment instructor hadn’t been to London since German George’s day.”
Nobody had ever, ever called Valerian’s “little project” brilliant, but then, his family were the only people to learn of it, and they were all to the manor born.
“I hope some publisher regards my scribbling as similarly inspired. I also hope you will join me again for next Wednesday’s dancing practice.” The two hopes were equally compelling, though Valerian was still a younger son without prospects.
He did have a potential home of his own, though, and he did have a few pounds to his name.
“I would not miss next week’s practice for all the silk in China, Mr. Dorning. If I am very diligent, and my partners patient, I might eventually master the quadrille.”
The overhang of the entranceway cast Emily’s smile in deep shadow, and yet, in Valerian’s heart, a light glowed. They leaned toward each other at the same time, lips brushing softly.
Foolishness, that. “Good night, Emily. I’ll see you next Wednesday.”
“Good night, Valerian. I want to read your book.”
Valerian wanted to stand in the shadows and kiss Emily until dawn, but Clovis chose then to stomp a hoof and swish his tail.
“I’m flattered, though I have only the one spare copy of the manuscript. You must promise to take very good care of it if I lend it to you.”
; She squeezed his hand. “I would guard it with my last breath. Until next week.”
Valerian waited until she’d ducked through the front door, and then he waited another few moments simply because the night had taken an unexpected and wonderful turn. Emily thought his book was brilliant, she’d called him Valerian, and he was to see her again next week.
His attraction to her was no longer cause for despair; indeed, it had become the spark lighting a small, cautious flame of hope.
* * *
Emily removed her bonnet and tarried before the mirror in the foyer, examining her reflection. She was delaying the ordeal of chasing Briggs from her private sitting room, for Briggs was doubtless perched like a cat at a mousehole, waiting with scolds couched as pointed questions and long-suffering sighs.
“A companion is not a governess,” Emily muttered, slipping off her gloves. “And Valerian Dorning is not a fortune hunter.” She took off her cloak and hung it on a peg, glad for once that the staff was less than punctilious about their duties.
“So you’ve endured another evening of the stomping, sweating Dorset locals?” Tobias asked. “While I admire your generosity of spirit, I hope your toes are none the worse for your outing.”
He’d come down the stairs too quietly for Emily to have noticed his descent.
“My toes often came to grief in London, if you must know. The purpose of the dance lessons is to ensure everybody who wants to can acquit themselves well at the assemblies, myself included.”
Tobias seemed amused, though he wasn’t smiling. “And the friendly pint at the posting inn afterward? Does that also aid one’s skills on the dance floor?”
Emily might have tried to end the conversation with some pleasant remark about being neighborly. She might have politely pleaded fatigue. She might have agreed with Tobias, because that would be the easier course.
And where had all that agreeable, sweet, biddable behavior landed her? She was consigned to Briggs’s company, cut out of any business discussions, and assigned pointless renovation projects about which nobody cared.
A Woman of True Honor: True Gentlemen Book Eight Page 7