Bless Us With Content

by Tinnean

  “Seriously, sir. I’ll roger you while you do your husbandly duty.”

  “Sir! That’s… that’s….” My shaft had grown hard, and I couldn’t help but be taken with the notion. “The height of depravity!”

  “It is, isn’t it?” Geo had seemed as aroused as I, and he’d tumbled me back on the bed.

  But of course what lady would agree to such an arrangement?

  “I’m sorry I asked, sir,” Jem murmured. “I didn’t mean to make you sad.”

  “Not sad, Jem. Now, what’s so pressing that I must be at the stable?”

  “This, Sir Ash.” Mr. Ruston grinned around his pipe. He led a small, gold-touched bay stallion from the stable. A blanket with Fayerweather’s green and black colors covered the stallion.

  “Oh!” I approached the animal carefully, my palm extended so he would learn my scent. His breath was a white plume in the cold afternoon air. “Oh!” I ran my hand over the sloping shoulder and deeply muscled chest. “Is he here to cover one of the mares? Why wasn’t I told? Whose is he?”

  “Yes,” a pleasant baritone informed me. “It was to be a surprise; and he’s yours.”

  “Geo! What are you doing here?”

  He smiled. “I wanted to be here when you saw him. I know he doesn’t appear very impressive, but then neither did the Godolphin Arabian.”

  “You mean—”

  “Yes. He’s descended from the Arabian on both sides.” He came to stand beside me and ran a hand over the stallion’s dish face. “Happy birthday, Ash.”

  “You’re giving him to me?”

  “I am. What do you think of him?”

  “Ah, Geo. He’s perfect!” I couldn’t kiss him, but I caught his hand in a firm grip, and in a voice no one else could hear, murmured, “Just as you are!”

  There was a tap on the door to my study, and I set aside the letter I’d received from Aunt Cecily with some relief. She was hinting broadly that it was time I seek a bride and set up my nursery. It seemed Arabella was increasing, and William was over the moon about the impending birth.

  “Come.”

  David opened the door. “Beg pardon, sir. Johnson wishes to speak with you. He says it’s important, else I wouldn’t have interrupted you.”

  “Thank you, David.” I waited until he left before addressing the clearly upset man. “Is aught amiss, Johnson?”

  “No, sir. That is to say…. It’s been going about the estate that young Burt is your uncle’s by-blow, and that simply isn’t true. Mrs. Johnson and I… we felt it was time you saw these.” Hesitantly, he handed me a pair of documents.

  I stared at the papers in my hand. The first was the marriage lines of Osburt Laytham and Angelica, Contessa de’ Visconti e Sforza in the English consulate of Milan, 24 June, 1826 and witnessed by dignitaries whose names I couldn’t pronounce, much less recognize.

  The second was the record of the birth of Osburt Archibald Laytham in 1831.

  “How did you come by these?”

  “Mr. Osburt left them with us when he and the Missus went on their last adventure. After Maggie and I got word that the ship they were sailing on had gone down, we gathered up all we could and came home. The Contessa’s brother… he wasn’t happy when she married Mr. Osburt, and Maggie and I knew young Burt wouldn’t fare well in his care.”

  “All these years, my uncle lived in Milan?”

  “Oh, no, sir! For some time, he was in Upper Canada. He made his fortune there in furs and timber.”

  “Why did he never return to Fayerweather?”

  “He fully intended to, sir. He wanted to show his father that he wasn’t the wastrel everyone thought, but by that time, the old baronet was dead, and truth to tell, there was no love lost between your uncles, Sir Ash.”

  “No, I imagine not.”

  “So off we went to the Continent—”

  “You were with him all this time?”

  “Yes, sir. Mr. Osburt and I, we were friends back from when we were lads.” He was somewhat defiant in that statement, but I simply nodded.

  “I’m glad he had someone.” And whether my uncle and his man had the sort of friendship Jem and I had had was none of my affair.

  “Thank you, sir. As I was saying, we wound up in Milan. When he saw the Contessa—well, it wasn’t long after that they were married. And me and her woman as well.”

  “You said my uncle and his wife were lost in a sailing accident?”

  He nodded. “That was in May of ’33, sir. The Lady of the Lake struck an iceberg in the North Atlantic, and Mr. Osburt and the Contessa were among those who were lost.”

  “And yet you didn’t arrive at Fayerweather until more than a year later.”

  “No, sir. And if Sir Eustace hadn’t stuck his spoon in the wall when he did, we wouldn’t have come then. Begging your pardon for speaking above my station, but I remembered him from when I was a lad, you see, and I couldn’t take the chance he wouldn’t recognize young Burt for his nephew. There’s a trust fund, you see.”

  I shivered. I did see. If Sir Eustace had ever learned of that, the boy’s life would have been worthless.

  “Mr. Osburt left enough for Maggie and me to keep us and young Burt comfortable until he reached his majority, but he’s a Laytham, sir, and….”

  “And he had every right to know his birthright.”

  “Yes, sir.” His relief was obvious.

  “I’ll need to verify all this, you understand?”

  “Yes, sir, I do. But Maggie and I have no doubt you’ll do right by young Burt.”

  “Of course. For the nonce, you’re to say nothing.”

  “No, sir.”

  He left, and I sat down to write a letter to Geo.

  I was leaning against the low wall outside my study, blowing a cloud, pondering a future that seemed about to yield me everything I could want, when the door burst open and Geo came storming in. He was hatless, his hair windblown, and a streak of mud was on his cheek.

  “Geo?” He was alone, so it was safe for me to exclaim, “Oh, my dear—” His limp was so pronounced I feared his leg would give out from under him.

  “What is the meaning of this, sir?”

  “I beg your pardon?”

  “This!” He waved a paper in my face, and I shied back, almost toppling over the wall.

  “It’s… it’s a letter.”

  “I’m aware of that!” He shook it open and began to read. “I know it’s some days till the week’s end, but would you do me the favor of driving down to Fayerweather at your earliest convenience? I’ve news of some import to relay to you!”

  “Well, yes, but truly I didn’t expect you to arrive the same day you received it.”

  He frowned at me. “Who is she?”

  “Who?”

  “The woman you’ll take as a bride.”

  “I’m not—”

  “Oh, come, sir! Why else would you have written this?”

  “I needed to ask you to examine some papers.”

  He grew very still. “Let me see if I have this correct. You sent for me to look at a paper.”

  “Two actually. They’re—”

  “I rode here, ventre à terre, simply to look at two papers?” There was quiet fury in his voice, which I couldn’t understand.

  And then his words sank in. “Ventre à terre? You—oh, Geo!” I tossed aside the cheroot and threw myself at him, taking care I didn’t overbalance him.

  He seized my upper arms. “No, sir! You are not to think kissing me will grant you forgiveness for giving me a start that deprived me of at least a dozen years of my life!”

  “Never say so! Ah, Geo, I’m sorry!” I managed to free my arms and wound them about his neck, almost giddy with pleasure. Say what he would, he’d admitted to Arabella’s fondest wish, and for me! “But what caused your upset?”

  “Father wrote me, telling me Lady Cecily is on the lookout for a bride for you. I’ve… er….” He looked somewhat chagrinned. “I’ve taken to watching for the post with so
me dread, expecting a letter that would inform me of your coming nuptials.”

  “My poor honey.” I smoothed back his hair.

  “You may well call me a honey. God knows I must look an aged wreck.”

  “Never!”

  He kissed me, then put me away from him. “Now then. What are these papers that are so important?”

  “They’re… if you can verify their contents—”

  “I?”

  “Yes. You’re familiar with all manner of people, having moved about both here and on the Continent. You’ll know just whom to question.”

  “I’m touched by your faith in me,” he murmured drily.

  “And so you should be.” I rested my head against his shoulder. “If these are genuine, they’ll prove young Burt is not Sir Eustace’s by-blow, but the legitimate son of my Uncle Osburt! I won’t need to marry!”

  “You won’t, will you?” His arms tightened about me. “I’ll set out on the morrow. And when I return… I think it would be wise for you to refurbish the master suite and take it over for yourself. I, of course, shall remain in the King’s Chamber.”

  I tipped my head back and smiled at him. “Did you know there’s a secret passage from the King’s Chamber to Sir Osburt’s?”

  “Indeed?”

  “Indeed. And that means there will be numerous visits between the two chambers.”

  “Yes.” He sighed and buried his face in my neck. “Do you… do you love me, Ashton?”

  “But of course!” I knew he couldn’t say the words, perhaps might never say the words, but I also knew he cared for me, and that would be enough.

  “It’s been a long road getting here, lamb, but I love you too.”

  I drew back and gaped at him stupidly. “You… you do?”

  “I do. Why do you find that so surprising?”

  I had no words to answer him, and he smiled tenderly and stroked my cheek.

  “This has been quite a day, hasn’t it?”

  “Indeed, yes.”

  “And I find I’m famished!” He cleared his throat, but there was mischief in his eyes. “Pray see about having Cook prepare something?”

  “Of course, Geo!” I pulled him to me and kissed him. “Oh, of course!”

  About the Author

  Tinnean has been writing since the third grade, where she was inspired to try her hand at epic poetry. Fortunately, that epic poem didn’t survive the passage of time; however, her love of writing not only survived but thrived, and in high school she became a member of the magazine staff, where she contributed a number of stories.

  It was with the advent of the family’s second computer—the first intimidated everyone—that her writing took off, enhanced in part by fanfiction, but mostly by the wonder that is copy and paste. While involved in fandom, she was nominated for both Rerun and Light My Fire Awards. Now she concentrates on her original characters.

  A New Yorker at heart, she resides in southwest Florida with her husband and two computers.

  Ernest Hemingway’s words reflect Tinnean’s devotion to her craft: “Once writing has become your major vice and greatest pleasure, only death can stop it.”

  She can be contacted at tinneantoo@gmail.com and can be found on LiveJournal: http://tinnean.livejournal.com/ and on Facebook. If you’d like to sample her earlier works, they can be found at http://www.angelfire.com/fl5/tinnssinns/Welcome1.html.