by Gabriel
“Now, now.” Aaron jostled her affectionately. “People will be saying you’re your mother’s daughter.”
“And your wife. At least for the present.”
***
“So there you are.” George rose, his hand extended toward Gabriel as he welcomed him into the cozy manor house that served as the steward’s quarters. “In the flesh, just as your note said.”
His handshake was solid, welcoming, and in two years, George had barely changed. He was aging well, typical of the Wendover men. He wasn’t quite as tall as Gabriel or Aaron, but he was quietly handsome, with brown eyes instead of green, and a patient humor with the things that set younger men to cursing and stomping around.
“It’s good to be home, George.” Gabriel mouthed the platitude as they took their seats in the library, though it was the truth, too. “How fare you?”
George lapsed into the predictable soothing patter of a man stewarding a huge agricultural enterprise. The estate held dozens of tenant farms, spread over tens of thousands of acres, and after twenty years in his position, George knew every acre of the property. Gabriel let his cousin roll on, about this pond silting up, that field needing to fallow, and the other tenant having yet another strapping daughter.
“You might try barley straw in the pond,” Gabriel suggested, “if the problem is scum as well as silt.”
George’s eyebrows rose. “Barley straw, you say? Is that something you picked up in Spain?”
“I did.” Gabriel lied easily, though this was one of Beck Haddonfield’s tricks. As much as Beck had traveled, he might have picked up the notion in Spain. Or the Americas, or the Antipodes.
“Were you so long ill, then, that you couldn’t come back to us for two years?”
“It’s a long story, George, best told over a long winter night with a decent bottle or two at hand. Why are you emptying one of the hay mows?”
“Mold.” George spat the word, as only a farmer facing winter would. “Damned rain or some such. Hay goes bad, but this was a damned pretty crop. We’re fortunate not much was damaged.”
“Is the roof leaking?”
“Mayhap. We’ve had some bad storms this fall, and rain can get in under the eaves when the wind blows just right. I tried to suggest to his lordship, your brother, we might be caulking the eaves, but he says the hay needs to breathe. Has a lot of answers, that one.”
“You educated me when I thought I had all the answers.”
“That I did.” George produced an unlit pipe from his pocket. “Or tried to. So who has the title now, Gabriel? And which title?”
What did that matter when hay was getting wet? “One of us is Hesketh, the other is a courtesy lord. I care not which is which, but the solicitors, judges, and the College of Arms will likely have an opinion. In either case, the land needs tending, and you’re the man to do it.”
“You might want to see if your brother agrees. He’s full of notions and has us marching off in this direction, only to charge off another day in that direction.”
“Which sounds just like him.” Gabriel watched as George went through a familiar ritual of cleaning, filling, and lighting his pipe. “I trust you to interpret his orders accordingly, but until we sort out the legalities, you will continue to honor his directives.”
“While the hay molds,” George muttered. “I’ll do as you say. Harvest is in, and the sheep are getting fat and woolly. The stock is in good shape for winter, and most of the cottages are in good repair. There shouldn’t be all that much to do, in truth, not until spring.”
“When there’s too much to do. Will you join us for dinner some night this week?”
“Of course.” George winked. “You need all the reinforcements you can get, and I’ve got your back.”
“I’m grateful for that.” Gabriel rose and offered his hand. “All the time I was gone, George, I worried a little less because I knew you were here, and you’d prevent the worst disasters and clean up after the ones that couldn’t be avoided.”
“A steward’s job in a nutshell.” George grinned, then became more sober. “You’re going to have to let the world know what you were about, though, Gabriel, gone for two years without so much as a letter.”
“Had I been able to communicate, I would have, and likely with you. My man of business in Town knew what was afoot at all times, but things grew complicated.”
George shot a look in the direction of the manor house. “With you lot, they usually do. Me, I tend the sheep, and life is not complicated at all. You work, and then you work some more, and then you work yet still more, with eating and sleeping tucked in somewhere between sheep, goats, cows, horses, crops, and cottages.”
“It’s not a bad life, though, is it, George?”
“For some it’s not. For others, well… Let’s just say I’m not sure you or your brother would find being a steward entirely agreeable.”
Gabriel took his leave on that note, but wondered what George would think did he know that for two years, Gabriel had been the one to tend the sheep, the cows, the crops, and so forth.
And he’d never been happier.
***
Gabriel’s reunion with his former fiancée had been an awkward, uncomfortable moment when they’d gathered in the family parlor before the evening meal. She’d curtsied, he’d bowed, and then he’d taken a step toward her, only to see her cringe and back closer to Aaron. Gabriel had followed through nonetheless, and offered her a careful, fraternal hug, even as he wondered how this tall, slender girl—no, woman—was managing the burden of being the Hesketh marchioness.
And she was a woman, a pretty, though very young woman upon whom Gabriel had made duty calls between terms at school. He’d ridden out with her in pleasant weather on holidays—properly chaperoned, of course—and danced her first waltz with her. She’d been a quiet, inevitable presence in the back of his mind, and as she’d reached adulthood, her calm blue eyes had asked if he were going to set a date.
He hadn’t, being far too enamored with the pleasures of being an heir, then gradually, as his father had aged, with the burdens thereof. And through all this, when they might have become friends, they’d remained strangers—awkward, proper strangers.
How had he let that happen?
“Welcome home.” Marjorie’s smile seemed genuine, if shy, and Gabriel tried a smile in response.
“It’s more wonderful to be home than you can imagine, my lady. I must compliment you on the house, for I’ve never seen it looking better.”
“Are your rooms comfortable?”
The polite question of a conscientious hostess caused her to blush, and Gabriel saw endless evenings like this, conversation stilted, more unsaid than said.
And that was his fault too.
“They are exactly as I’d wish,” he replied, and the response caused Aaron’s eyebrows to twitch with what looked like consternation. “My surrounds have been humble the past two years, and I’ve developed a taste for simpler living. The day starts more easily when one doesn’t have to await a valet to dress, a maid to dine, and a groom to fetch one’s horse.”
“And you’ll enlighten us about those two years?” Aaron posed the question, taking his wife’s arm—protectively?—as he did.
Marjorie spoke up. “My lord, can I not enjoy your brother’s company for a single meal before you men must talk of serious things? I noted his lordship is riding a splendid fellow of mature years with a story emblazoned on his quarters.”
Aaron slid his arm around Marjorie’s waist, his expression bemused. “The girl is horse mad. One of her many fine qualities.”
Another blush, but softer, and directed at Aaron by his own wife. Gabriel was reassured by the exchange, because surely a woman didn’t blush at a husband she resented?
“Soldier was at the knacker’s when I found him,” Gabriel said, “stoically awaiting his fate with a great gash on his backside from one too many skirmishes with the French or the local bandits or heaven knows whom. He was all I co
uld afford, but he has excellent conformation, and all the sense and bottom of a seasoned campaigner, provided I make allowances for his injury.”
“He looks like he’d be a keen jumper,” Marjorie said, and the topic of horses and the current population in the Hesketh stables served to get them through dinner. Marjorie excused herself thereafter, leaving the gentlemen to their drinks.
“Shall we remove to the library, so the kitchen can clean up?” Aaron suggested.
“We shall.” Gabriel rose and moved across the hall with his brother. “And so these old bones can rest by a roaring fire, because the night is getting damned chilly.”
“Your back bothers you when it’s cold?” The question was posed casually, because even a brother trod lightly in certain areas, and Aaron was careful to be busy poking up the fire as he spoke.
“My back bothers me constantly,” Gabriel admitted. “I’m like my horse. I manage well enough, but if I overdo, I pay dearly. And sometimes, when I don’t overdo, I pay just as dearly.”
“Laudanum?”
“Not on a bet.”
“This might help.” Aaron passed him a glass of brandy. “These past two years, you were close by?”
“For most of it.”
“You came by, didn’t you?” Aaron poured his own drink and studied the decanter upon which, Gabriel knew, he would see the Hesketh wheat sheaves etched—the heraldic symbol for hopes realized. “At times, I felt as if you were watching, but I’d turn around, and no Gabriel. Gabriel was dead. I was almost sure of it.”
Gabriel said nothing, because admitting he’d spied on his brother wasn’t going to help their situation.
“I know what you’re about, Gabriel.” Aaron set the decanter aside. “You’ve been trying to decide whether I attempted to have you killed. And you couldn’t come to a conclusion from a safe distance, so you’re bearding the lion, so to speak.”
Gabriel lowered himself into a well-padded chair—though the seat still wasn’t as comfortable as his chair in Polly Hunt’s kitchen. “If I ask the question directly, you’ll have to call me out.”
“Suppose I will.” Aaron took the other chair while Gabriel envied him his ease of movement. “You’re suffering more than a twinge in your back now, aren’t you?”
“Not really. It knocks me on my arse from time to time, but mostly it’s stiff without being painful. I meant it when I said the place is prospering. You’ve done well, Aaron.”
“I’m not sure if I should resent that comment or appreciate it, coming from you. I’ve made some changes, but it’s all right there in the estate log.”
“What’s the estate log?” Gabriel didn’t make the effort to rise. The day had been long, the ride down from Town grueling, and the estate book wasn’t going anywhere.
“I’ve found dear George doesn’t have perfect recall,” Aaron said. “He isn’t one for noting exactly which herd dropped the first lambs, or which farm the scours started on, and so forth, so I started keeping a log. It’s useful.”
“Useful?” The heat from the fire was the most useful thing Gabriel had encountered since finding Polonaise Hunt lurking in his portrait gallery.
Aaron’s portrait gallery.
“George was going to let three hundred acres fallow three years in a row,” Aaron said. “We damned near came to blows about it. He was sure it had been planted the year before. I showed him the harvest entries, but even then, he tried to tell me I’d forgotten to enter three hundred acres of yield, rather than admit he’d forgotten the land had sat idle. The tenant didn’t want to get into the middle of the argument, but eventually his was the deciding vote.”
“Stewarding is a much more difficult and interesting job than I’d thought. Exhausting, too.”
“Is that what you were doing? Serving as somebody’s land steward?”
“Yes.” When he wasn’t falling in love.
“I’ll bet that was an adjustment.”
The comment was neutral, not angry, not resentful, not even jeering, but Gabriel wasn’t sure what to say in response.
Aaron rose and set his glass on the mantel. “I know you’re still trying to make up your mind. Am I your brother or your enemy or both? You’ve been through an ordeal, and though I ought to treat you to some bare-knuckle oratory for thinking as you have about me, you’ve had your reasons. Still, your reappearance has cast a great deal into confusion, and for Marjorie’s sake more than my own, we need to know what you’re about.”
“What I’m about?”
“She was your fiancée, not mine. I married her for reasons you may discuss with her, but I’m wondering if the marriage is valid, given that it was effected under false pretenses.”
In all his wildest imaginings—and some of them had been wild indeed—Gabriel had not envisaged that Aaron’s marriage would become a bone of contention. “You’re accusing me of fraud, when I lay on my stomach for months—?”
Aaron held up a hand. “Part of the reason I find myself with your wife, so to speak, is because Lady Hartle started rallying her solicitors for a breach of promise suit. Her daughter was to be the Marchioness of Hesketh. Your arrival means some other lady will hold that title.”
“Unless I never marry.” He’d been almost resigned to such a fate, in fact.
“I won’t ask that of you, because it would put the burden of the succession on my humble shoulders, exactly where it is now. Moreover, it won’t spike Lady Hartle’s guns if you remain a bachelor. The simple fact that you’re alive takes the title from Marjorie and me.”
“Blessed Infant Jesus.”
“Marjorie asked me, when I told her you lived, who votes your seat when you’re legally dead. Who directs the solicitors? To whom do the Hesketh holdings belong? Whose portrait is Miss Hunt going to paint?”
“Your artist.” The artist who’d dodged dinner in a show of either pique or great good sense. “That one is easy. Send the lady packing, given the confusion you allude to.”
Aaron picked up his glass from where he’d set it on the mantel, and appeared to study the contents. “And thereby notify the entire polite world you kept your existence secret from your own brother for two years, that you made a joke of the Lords, or you’ve gone half lunatic on us, seeing plots where they don’t exist?”
“I take your point.” Gabriel felt weariness pressing down on him. Getting Polly the devil away from Hesketh had become his most immediate concern among many immediate concerns. “She can start with a portrait of Marjorie. That should be safe enough if we keep the footmen close at hand and insist on an indoor sitting. Your wife is very pretty, by the way.”
“Ah, but is she my wife?”
“Do you want her to be?”
“It matters naught what I want. The resolution of Marjorie’s status will lie with what she wants, and let me be clear on this, Brother. As far as I’m concerned, it matters not what you want, either, not one bit, not to me.”
“That’s as it should be.” Gabriel tossed back brandy that should have been sipped and set his empty glass aside. “But I’m loathe to suggest I could be marrying her.”
“Why?” Aaron regarded him steadily. “If she’s used goods, it’s not her fault.”
“Used… Aaron, don’t be vulgar. I’d hardly hold it against Marjorie that she did her duty by her lawful husband as she knew him to be, though it would be decidedly awkward. I get the impression she’s fond of you.”
Aaron’s fingers tightened on his glass. “She’s too decent to give any other impression, but we’re not close. That would hardly be fashionable.”
“Hang fashion. My hesitance stems not only from reluctance to displease the lady, but also from a desire not to see her dragged into whatever ill will has been directed to me.”
The last swallow of Aaron’s drink disappeared. “You are absolutely convinced somebody tried to kill you?”
“Repeatedly,” Gabriel said. “Even as I prepared to take ship from Spain, I was set upon on the docks, twice. Both times, my attackers
knew my back was weak. Were it not for the Spanish sailor’s inherent championing of the underdog, I’d be gone in truth.”
“And you were supposedly dead by then,” Aaron murmured. “A tragic victim of the convent fire.”
Gabriel stared at the crackling blaze his brother had obligingly built up for him. At this rate, the reading balcony immediately above would be a cozy place to hide, except stairs lay between it and Gabriel’s present location. “All of which means I am still a target.”
“Unless your detractor was content to have you out of Spain, but who in that country could wish you ill?”
“And who even knew I was there, except my family?”
“Complicated,” Aaron agreed. “The sooner you make your intentions known in terms of the legalities and practicalities, the sooner Marjorie can get on with her life, or her mother with a scandalous lawsuit.”
“There will be no lawsuit.”
“You’ll marry Marjorie then, if Lady Hartle insists?”
“I can’t promise that. Make sure Marjorie knows I can’t promise to wed her.”
“You make sure she knows,” Aaron said as he headed for the door. “It should be an interesting conversation, and I’m sure one of you will let me know how it goes.”
“Good night, then.” Gabriel was too tired to heed the requirement of manners and rise. “You won’t mind if I have a look at that estate book?”
Aaron waved a hand. “Do your worst, and please God, don’t neglect the ledgers. For my part, I really am glad you’re back, Gabriel. The less time I have to spend with the paperwork, the correspondence, and the damned bills, the better. You argue with George, and meet with Kettering, and dance the damned pretty at all the mandatory social events.”
“While you do what?”
“Admire my brother.” Aaron bowed, and came up smiling not quite innocently. “One other thing, Gabriel?”
“Hmm?”
“The girl, Melinda? She’s thriving.”
“I know.” Two words, but even keeping that much steady had been an effort. “Kettering told you?”
“Your will has that codicil, and he had to show it to me because I’m your executor, nominally, and then too, I think Kettering has a care for children.”