by Allison Lane
“Certainly. This is yet one more negative to lay at the man’s door. Tibbins will not remain much longer.”
Encouraged by this reaction, she voiced yet another idea she had formulated that morning. “I could not help noticing the deplorable condition of the grounds. With planting due to start so soon, the tenants will be busy in the fields. What think you of hiring former soldiers to make a start on clearing? We had many of these poor men near Sheldridge Corners. They cannot find jobs, nor can most return to combat because of their injuries. But many are able to do moderately heavy work, especially where there are no time constraints as would exist in planting or harvesting.”
He bit off an equivocation and turned her suggestion over in his mind. Many veterans littered the streets of London, men in the tattered remains of uniforms, who lacked an arm or leg or worse, and were reduced to begging to stay alive. Like most of his peers, he had pointedly ignored them, but her appeal prompted him to consider their plight. How would he survive similar deformities? He could easily have acquired them. Second sons frequently turned to the army for their livelihood. Without Crawley, he might well be on the Peninsula.
“An excellent idea,” he agreed. “I will inquire about area men while in town tomorrow and see what labor may be found.”
“Thank you, Thomas. May I turn out the library while you are gone? Or would you prefer the drawing room? Both need much more than today’s cursory cleaning.”
“The library will be fine. Best to finish in there before I find myself neck-deep in paperwork.” He grinned.
“So I thought. And I will put together a preliminary list of essentials that we can discuss tonight.”
Thomas rose and helped her from her seat. “Until dinner then, Caroline. I must spend the afternoon trying to make sense of the estate records.” He raised her hand to his lips, sending shivers up her arm.
* * * *
That day set the pattern for the following week. They ate all meals together. The evenings passed in amity in the library. Thomas alternately perused estate records and devoured the agriculture and horse-breeding books he had purchased in Banbury. He discovered a hitherto unsuspected interest in estate management. But the more he learned, the angrier he became with his great-uncle for dissipating a prosperous property and at Tibbins for abusing what was left.
Caroline spent these evenings sitting quietly before the fire, mending linens and draperies. She was always willing to discuss estate problems, but rarely initiated a conversation, knowing that he was wrestling with a host of new concepts. Though she had spoken to the squire several times about estate management, she had not studied the subject herself, so she refrained from offering her own views. Ladies were not expected to be knowledgeable and she did not want to endanger their developing friendship by setting herself up as an expert. Instead she limited her input to common-sense statements and an occasional pertinent question that pointed his thinking in interesting new directions. She discovered that he possessed a lively mind and a keen sense of humor. These attributes and a week of hard work with no drinking went a long way toward earning her respect.
Days found Thomas riding over the estate and Caroline supervising a truly gargantuan cleaning effort. She had been forced to scale back her plans. There was simply too much to do. Roofers arrived to repair the leaks, but Thomas agreed to postpone other work on the east wing. She closed it off and concentrated on the rest, praying daily for continued dry weather. A dozen powerful men beat carpets from dawn to dusk, raising enormous dust clouds. An even larger army toiled indoors. Men stripped or reattached wallcoverings and shifted furniture. Women scoured, waxed, and polished. Lamps doubled their output of light with the advent of clean chimneys. Satinwood paneling in the hall and library glowed. Windows sparkled and furniture gleamed.
By week’s end the drawing room, dining room, and morning room were places of welcome despite fraying draperies, worn carpets, and appallingly bare walls. Most of the west wing and the central block was clean and aired, though she had made no attempt to decorate or even make habitable the bulk of the rooms. But in an attic she discovered a set of French furniture that had graced the drawing room some fifty years earlier, its condition better than the heavy, worn pieces preferred by Uncle Bertram. In like manner she moved a better carpet into the breakfast room, undamaged draperies to the dining room, and found several almost-matching pieces suitable for her own rooms.
Her most surprising discovery was a lovely pianoforte in the drawing room. With the manor’s history of neglect, she had expected nothing beyond a derelict harpsichord. But though it was badly out of tune, it seemed in excellent condition. In her only personal extravagance since her marriage, she spent an entire afternoon tuning it and repairing several stuck keys. Music was both her greatest love and her most striking accomplishment.
After a week of nonstop labor, she celebrated with an afternoon of playing. She had her own music, of course, but had discovered a cabinet holding other pieces, many of them new to her. Lost in a Haydn concerto, she did not notice Thomas’s amazement as he halted in the doorway. Nor did she see the pain that marred his face before he fled the room. Thus she did not worry when his evening’s study lengthened so that she fell asleep long before he stumbled up to bed.
On his part, Thomas had been shocked when he’d returned early to the manor. The last thing he had expected was finding that his wife was an accomplished musician. Not that he disliked music. To the contrary. Alicia was an exquisite pianist, and he had spent several memorable evenings listening to her entertain guests. This was yet another thing he had banished to a mental attic when he lost her. He could never enjoy music again.
His first thought upon hearing the concerto was that an angel had dropped in to pay its respects, immediately followed by the painful memory of Alicia’s golden head bent over a keyboard. Worse was the realization that the musician was his wife, his ears proclaiming her more accomplished than anyone he had ever heard.
He fled.
How could he entertain such an idea? Alicia was the most exquisite musician in the world, better than the most talented professional. She could charm the birds from the trees or induce the stars to dance in the heavens. Caroline could not be that talented. It was merely shock that she played at all. Anger burst through him. She should have mentioned this. Her secrecy was hardly in keeping with her agreement to be honest. Instead, she had sprung her skills as a surprise, forcing him to make the comparison he had sworn to avoid.
Confusion reigned.
He was still young, and though he had enjoyed countless women in his five-and-twenty years, he understood little of the fair sex beyond the purely physical and still considered life in absolute terms. From the beginning he had known Alicia was perfect, an angel surpassing all others – her beauty unmatched, her wit enchanting, her talents divine. His acceptance of a leg-shackle was possible only when he decided to admire her from afar while he gouged out life with an imperfect wife. But perfection was impossible for a mere mortal. To find others with abilities that even approached hers reduced Alicia to human terms and revealed his own foolishness. Thus came his anger at Caroline for shaking Alicia’s pedestal. He had reconciled his loss and accepted his fate, but his wife was unwilling to live a life of relative contentment. She chose to challenge his love head-on.
The illogic of this idea never occurred to him. How could she challenge someone whose existence remained unknown to her, for he had also been less than honest, neglecting to mention the love of his life. But he could no longer keep them separate. Neither could he allow his wife to surpass his love. That would call into question the legitimacy of his continued adoration and turn his agonizing debauch into a childish tantrum, affronting his honor.
He remained in the library, morosely drinking and pondering his life. Again, he relived the agony of the past year, now worsened by a new awareness of just how permanent marriage was. And how far from utopian. Unwilling to question his own actions, unable to accept an imperfect Alicia,
he could only blame Caroline.
His initially favorable impression had now swung in the other direction. She was too secretive. And far too retiring. Her refusal to introduce herself to their fellow passengers had resulted in their forced marriage. Her reticence concerning her accomplishments was causing untold agony. Though he had established a policy of open honesty, she clung to her secrets. What devil had forced him to wed someone bent on making him miserable?
And why had he been so anxious to accept her partnership? He had rushed his fences unpardonably in trying to befriend her before she had proved herself worthy. He knew little about her. How could he assume that she deserved his friendship? Now he was faced with the unpleasant chore of pushing her to a suitable distance. Too bad he was tied to Crawley... Of course, he could always manage some business trips. Setting up a breeding stable would require travel to buy stock. Needing time to sort out his ideas, he might as well start immediately.
By the time he determined the proper course, it was well past midnight and the brandy decanter was empty. He briefly considered sleeping somewhere else, but there literally was not another comfortable bed in the house. Sighing, he slipped beneath the sheets, resigned to one more night with the wife he now resented.
* * * *
“Alicia!”
Caroline awoke with a start, not sure what had disturbed her slumbers.
“Alicia, my love!”
Tremors shook her from head to toe. Thomas was dreaming, agitation and passion vibrating through his voice.
“Alicia! How can I live without you?” A sob wracked the plaintive cry.
She slipped from bed, unable to breathe through the sudden pain. Her first reaction was to dismiss the episode as a meaningless dream, but his aching desire was hard to ignore. Who was Alicia? She padded softly to the window and noted that it was just past dawn.
“Alicia-a-a–”
She drew in a shaky breath. Tears trickled down his cheeks. She had felt increasingly comfortable, her hope of developing a solid partnership seeming a reality. She had not anticipated anything beyond mild affection, knowing that a man of his ilk was unlikely to care deeply for someone lacking both beauty and background. Not a day passed without her stern self-reminder that she was merely the lesser of two evils. She had never expected love, but neither had she expected to find he already loved another. He had certainly been less than forthright when urging marriage, claiming his dissolute behavior was the worst she would discover about him. An attached heart was far worse.
She paced across to the fireplace, but no coals remained to warm her. Why had he not married Alicia when he found he needed a wife? Had she died?
Dear Lord, I hope so.
Grief would eventually pass and they could continue to build their partnership. In the meantime, she could not remain here listening to this continued mourning for his love. Nor could she awaken him. Admitting that she had overheard his impassioned cries was impossible.
She slipped into the dressing room, quickly donned a warm gown and cloak, then headed for the garden. Perhaps an invigorating walk would clear her brain and lift the gloom that had enveloped her at the first sound of his voice.
Half an hour later she had achieved a measure of peace, and common sense again ruled. She had not expected love. Nor was there anything of which she could complain in their relationship. If his heart still grieved, he was not allowing it to interfere with their marriage. Did he know he talked in his sleep? Was that why he had insisted that she complete her own suite as soon as possible?
She dropped onto a bench to consider this idea as the rising sun cleared the eastern hills, bathing the garden with golden light. Her rooms were nearly ready. With a little extra effort she could move in by nightfall. Then he could cease worrying about accidentally exposing his heart.
“Yer wits are addled!” a male voice exclaimed from the other side of a hedge.
“You ain’t been here long enough to see the way the master and mistress work together,” rejoined a second man. Caroline recognized him as Willy, the estate’s groom.
“Bah!” responded the first in disgust. “I been driving the guv since ‘e first come up from Oxford. ‘E’s allus known ‘ow to cozen the ladies. But the only one ‘e ever cared for was Miss Alicia. Lived in ‘er pocket for months, ‘e did. I’ll never forget the night she pledged ‘er love to ‘im for all eternity. Floatin’, ‘e were. In a reg’lar trance. Coulda carried the coach ‘ome on ‘is back an’ not noticed.”
“And how would a coachman know the master’s thoughts?” scoffed Willy.
“Oh, ‘e’s a dab ‘and for the ‘orses,” the second man bragged proudly. “Ain’t never put on airs, neither. Allus ‘elpin’ in the stables. Talks to me like a friend, ‘e does.”
She had by now recognized him as Jacobs, Thomas’s coachman and trainer who had arrived with the remainder of his stable the previous afternoon.
Jacobs seemed anxious to parade his superior knowledge before the country groom. “Rode up top that night,” he related. “I reckon ‘e needed someone to talk to. Excitement fair bubbled out. Described ‘er as the most beautiful angel in the world. An’ the wittiest. An’ the most talented. ‘E ‘spected to pay ‘is addresses the next day. ‘Ardly surprisin’. All Mayfair’d been lookin’ for an announcement for weeks.”
“So how did he wind up with Mrs. Mannering? Not that she ain’t a fine woman. Did the lady turn him down after all?”
“Worse. Turned out she was already pledged to Viscount Darnley – old goat must be past sixty, though still randy as the devil by all accounts. The guv took it ‘ard. Fell into a black melancholy from that day to this.”
Caroline was shaking so hard she could scarcely stand, but she had to flee before she was discovered.
The pieces fit all too well, she acknowledged, almost running toward the lake. Thomas had admitted wasting the past year in debauchery. Now she knew why. He had been trying to forget Alicia. And obviously failing. But whatever had or had not happened, her own future was perceptibly bleaker. Though she daily reminded herself that he would never love her, a stubborn hope had lingered that time would prove differently.
That hope was now shattered. Nor did the future seem at all comfortable, for the aging Darnley would undoubtedly die before many more years had passed. What would happen when the beautiful and most cherished Alicia was free? Dear Lord, help me cope with this! Can I really ignore his actions if he turns to her? And how am I to react?
Two more hours of vigorous exercise failed to restore any trace of peace, but shock and fatigue finally numbed her thoughts. She returned to the house in a trance.
Thomas was already at breakfast, dressed, as always, for riding. Neither offered their usual morning greetings. Neither noticed the omission.
“I am going to Graystone Manor to purchase some horses,” he announced baldly some minutes later, pushing his barely touched plate away in disgust.
She kept her expression neutral. “I wish you a pleasant journey, then. And luck in your endeavor.”
“Thank you.” He strode quickly from the room.
She remained at the table for some minutes, shredding a piece of toast and repeatedly rearranging ham bits on her plate. This sudden departure was perfectly logical, given his morning dream. And most welcome. He needed time to get his emotions back under control. So did she. A period of calm would allow her to adjust her ideas and come to grips with this new scenario before having to face him either in a discussion, or worse, in bed.
Thank you, Lord.
Chapter 5
Thomas left immediately, driving the carriage himself. Handling the ribbons kept thought at bay. Jacobs accompanied him, for he would perform much of the actual training, making his input important to the success of the breeding enterprise.
Thomas deliberately avoided thinking of his marriage as he drove along the lanes and highroads. With morning had come the realization that he was too close to the problem. Events had swept him along without pause, but w
hatever imbroglios he had fallen into, the undisputable permanence of his union remained. And honor demanded that he accept and adapt. He must set aside his love for Alicia and carry out his duty to Caroline. The best course was to concentrate on horses for a time. Perhaps a different perspective would emerge in a week or two that would suggest a workable solution.
Turning his mind to business, he determinedly talked horses, concentrating on his plans for Crawley’s future. He drank sparingly at the inn and fell instantly asleep. The previous night had been far from restful. Anger, pain, and resentment over lacking control of his life had kept him awake for most of the few hours he spent in bed, and Alicia had invaded his dreams when he slept. But this night afforded sound refreshment, and he awoke in better spirits.
It was late afternoon when he turned through the gates of Graystone Manor, unwillingly comparing the immaculate grounds with the desolation that was Crawley, overwhelmed yet again by the magnitude of his dilemma. Atlas shouldered a lighter burden. How many years of uphill battles did he face? Was success possible with his limited resources? He shook the question away. He must succeed. No other outcome was tenable.
The Earl of Graylock was renowned both for the excellence of his own horses and for the quality of those he offered for sale. It was his remarkable success that had first piqued Thomas’s interest in raising hunters himself. Besides purchasing stock, he hoped for advice about his own fledgling business, for Graylock was not only a top breeder. Ethical in a field that attracted the greedy and sleazy in droves, rich enough that he continued his endeavors out of love – though his stables returned a handsome profit – Graylock welcomed newcomers and unhesitatingly assisted their efforts. He had already been instrumental in directing Thomas’s interest to hunters rather than racers.
“You are honorable, Mannering,” he had expounded over a bottle of wine at White’s two years before. “Stay away from racehorses. Too many copers in that line. You cannot make a living and remain honest.”