Matthew

by Grace Burrowes

  “Why don’t you leave Belmont House? We set down roots, and there we are, whether the place we planted ourselves ten years ago is where we wish to be planted today or not.”

  In other words, Miss Jennings had wanted to leave the ancestral pile by the sea, just as Matthew had often wanted to turn his back on Belmont House.

  “I do leave,” Matthew said. “I go up to Town when my schedule allows. I visit my brother. I went to Oxford to fetch Christopher home between terms last year.”

  Matthew had felt like a truant first former on every one of those excursions, vaguely anxious about livestock and servants who likely hadn’t spared him a thought.

  Miss Jennings held her glass up to the firelight, as if she might read portents in the flames’ reflections.

  “This trip to Linden is the first I’ve left Sutcliffe since Priscilla was born.”

  Eight years in a place meant for spears and boiling oil? “You were rusticating with a vengeance.”

  She set the drink down, again without taking a taste. “It’s only rusticating, Mr. Belmont, if one has another option. I was simply living my life.”

  Miss Jennings did not bumble. She advanced through a conversation with the confidence of a French cavalry unit charging an English infantry square. Fearsome, unstoppable, all business at a steady, ground-eating trot that boded ill for Albion, and could break into an all-out gallop at any moment.

  So Matthew met her charge with a volley of curiosity. “Would your brother have assisted you to find a more hospitable domicile if you asked him to?”

  “My brother is a good man,” Miss Jennings replied, addressing the fire in the hearth more than her guest. “Thomas is also as stubborn as a lame mule, and when he left Sutcliffe after university, he was not in charity with me. We had enjoyed a lively correspondence, but after that, my letters were returned unopened until he came here to Linden.”

  Baron Sutcliffe was stubborn, stubborn in the way of a man whose determination had saved his soul. Alas, the trait was apparently common to both siblings.

  “To what do you attribute your brother’s change of heart?”

  “The title, to some extent. Thomas has ever been responsible and as head of the family, he was responsible for me. Then too, his best friend—Viscount Fairly—married, and happily so. But it wasn’t only that....”

  Harmless old squires heard many confessions, most of them not remotely criminal. Matthew wanted to hear this one, for Miss Jennings carried mystery about with her like a favorite shawl. He took a dilatory sip of a dangerously pleasant brew rather than interrupt her.

  “Thomas didn’t know about Priscilla. She has helped tip the balance.”

  Matthew and his hostess had passed from small talk to philosophy to confidences. Watching Miss Jennings rock quietly in her chair, her brandy untouched, her outdated gown flattering a figure Matthew could not quite ignore, he had the sense these exchanges were the least of the shadows Theresa Jennings carried in her heart.

  Generally, Matthew kept the confidences imposed on him as a matter of responsibility—as a neighbor, as an exemplar of the king’s peace, as a gentleman.

  Hetty Longacre’s youngest bore a strong resemblance not to the blue-eyed Mr. Longacre, but to Tobias Shirley, right down to the Shirley brown eyes. Even Matthew’s sons had remarked the likeness, which had given him many a bad moment.

  The upright Frampton Jones, brewer of the finest ales in Sussex, went to London for mercury treatments.

  The list of woes and secrets Matthew was privy to was endless, and like the horse hair that accumulated on his wardrobe by the end of some days, he ignored the lot. With Theresa Jennings, ignoring the shadows in her eyes would be unkind in the first place, and impossible in the second.

  A woman who had the courage to reveal her heartaches on her own initiative, rather than as a matter of official investigation or neighborly inquisition, would not expect endless sunshine and small talk from those around her.

  “I should not be telling you this, Mr. Belmont, and you likely hear enough useless chatter without my adding to your store.”

  Of useless chatter, Matthew had a king’s ransom. His shelves were nearly bare of honest conversation, though.

  “You should be telling someone, madam. How did Priscilla tip the balance between you and your brother?”

  Matthew already had an inkling, because the children had tipped the balance between him and Matilda, for a time anyway.

  “A child…” Miss Jennings looked away, out the mullioned windows to where nightfall wasn’t yet relieved by a rising moon. “A child reminds one of one’s own youth, and in Priscilla, Thomas was able to see parts of me that as a younger, angrier man, he could not acknowledge. I am his elder, but that doesn’t mean I was always an adult.”

  Except in some sense, she had been an adult since birth. Matthew recognized the breed, for he saw it in the mirror and in his brother Axel. Christopher had an element of the same quality.

  “Thomas loved his sister, when she wasn’t an adult,” Matthew said, “when she was a little girl with a big imagination and no friends. Isn’t it wondrous how children allow us to love?”

  Miss Jennings rose and stood with her back to him. “Unfair, Mr. Belmont.” The rocker went on moving, slowing gradually.

  “My apologies.” Matthew rose as well, and not because manners required it, and not entirely because he wanted to stand behind Miss Jennings breathing lemon verbena and studying the intricate braiding she’d woven in her hair.

  “Forgive my presumption, madam, and allow me to point out, whatever the cause, you and your brother are reconciled, and into the bargain, Priscilla now has her Uncle Thomas, who I am sure will make up for the time lost as best he can.”

  Miss Jennings nodded, but still didn’t turn, and Matthew resisted the urge to take her by the shoulders and make her face him, so that he might see her extraordinary blue eyes and the emotions they held. His gaze fell again on the nape of her neck, graceful, tender, and abruptly, quite… kissable.

  If he wanted his face slapped.

  “More brandy?” he asked, stepping over to the decanter, though the ploy was absurd. Miss Jennings hadn’t touched her drink.

  She turned, her expression composed, her eyes painfully bright. “No thank you, though you must help yourself to as much as you like.”

  “You were generous,”—he held up his unfinished drink—“and I am trying to demonstrate restraint by savoring such fine libation.”

  A soft tap on the door heralded Harry’s reappearance.

  “Dinner, Miss Jennings, and Miss Alice and Miss Priscilla are on their way down.”

  “Priscilla’s governess usually joins us for the evening meal, unless Priscilla has been boisterous and Alice wants a break,” Miss Jennings said. “Ours was a very humble household.”

  Household? At least Matthew’s prison had been commodious.

  He offered his arm. “With three ladies to grace the table, I will be the most envied of men.”

  “Reserve judgment on that. Your companions will be a child, a confirmed bluestocking, and me.”

  Not a one of whom would be trying to inveigle Matthew into taking liberties or offering marriage.

  “And your companion will be Squire Belmont, or as my boys christened me, Squire Bottomless. We shall make a delightful company, and your cook will be in alt.”

  Chapter Three

  Despite Mr. Belmont’s regalia and the unsettling conversation, dinner with Squire Bottomless would be informal, with both Alice and Priscilla on hand to ensure nothing untoward was said.

  Nothing more untoward. Theresa had nearly come undone at what Mr. Belmont had deduced about her upbringing at Sutcliffe.

  A little girl with a big imagination and no friends. What a recipe for misery that had become. As she allowed Mr. Belmont seat her, then watched him display the same courtesy to Alice and even Priscilla, Theresa reminded herself that her guest was dangerous.

  He was attractive, with height, blond h
air, blue, blue eyes, and a sense of contained, competent energy—a fine specimen, like a well-bred horse or a fit hound. If anything about him was bottomless, though, it was his calm spirit.

  Matthew Belmont viewed life with a tolerance as startling as it was alluring. Others might take that broad-mindedness for granted, but Theresa wanted to probe its edges and origins.

  Thank the kindly powers, Alice and Priscilla would prevent such folly.

  Mr. Belmont turned to the child as the last course was served, and the topic of the Belmont pony herd had been discussed at length.

  “What have you found most interesting here at Linden, Miss Priscilla?”

  Priscilla’s brow puckered, which made her look more like her uncle. “Linden Hall is easy. If you want to go from your bedroom to the kitchen, you needn’t travel up two flights and down one, then cross the bailey to get there. Linden likes the light, it doesn’t huddle up in its stones like it’s always happier in the dark. Uncle Thomas has a stable, not just a few stalls under the gatehouse, and Aunt Loris has flowers and flowers and flowers.”

  “Have you helped her make scents?” Mr. Belmont inquired.

  He had excellent instincts with children. Alice acknowledged as much in the look she sent Theresa across the table.

  Priscilla beamed at their guest. “I do help, and Aunt made a scent for me. Here.” She stuck out her arm and waved her wrist under Mr. Belmont’s nose.

  He sniffed delicately at her wrist. “Lovely. Sunny, like daffodils, and you.”

  “That’s what I asked for,” Priscilla replied. “Uncle Thomas likes it when Aunt Loris smells like biscuits, but we haven’t found scents yet for Mama and Miss Alice.”

  “More complicated ladies need more complicated scents,” Mr. Belmont said—and with a straight face too. “Are you missing your Uncle Thomas?”

  Theresa sat back and watched as an adult male held a conversation with her daughter. The experience was appallingly novel. Thomas teased the child and indulged in linguistic antics Priscilla found delightful. Viscount Fairly had joked and tickled and similarly entertained Priscilla, but neither man had engaged the girl’s mind.

  “I miss Uncle lots,” Priscilla said. “I think that’s because I only just met him here at Linden. If he lived with us, I would probably miss him less. I want Mama to let us live here, but she keeps telling me not to pester her.”

  Mr. Belmont’s expression remained respectfully attentive. “Pestering is hardly ever a good tactic with one’s mama. Surely you must find fault with some aspects of Linden?”

  Alice stepped into the breach, for Priscilla could be an eloquent critic. “Perhaps you might consider your answer at your leisure, Priscilla?”

  “I’ll think about it,” Priscilla said. “May I come see your ponies, Mr. Belmont?”

  Mr. Belmont pretended to ponder the question. “That might come close to pestering, child.”

  “Was I pestering, Mama?”

  “More wheedling than pestering,” Theresa temporized. “You have done an excellent job with your studies since Uncle Thomas and Aunt Loris left for Sutcliffe Keep, and you’ve completed all your stories. If the squire is willing, we can schedule a visit.”

  To see the ponies, which spared Theresa admitting she’d like to call upon the squire himself.

  “Do you enjoy horses, Miss Portman?” Mr. Belmont inquired of Alice.

  “From a safe distance. Upwind, if it can be arranged.”

  “A town lady, then? One comfortable going all year without hearing the cows low or the roosters crow?”

  “You have me.” When she smiled, Alice was quite pretty. Theresa had known the woman for nearly five years and was astonished to note this. “Unfortunately for Miss Priscilla, I am very good at devising ways of entertaining and educating that do not call for excursions beyond the house.”

  “But Mama rescues me,” Priscilla interjected, “so I can go outside, and Miss Alice can have a break from me, because I am a handful.”

  Grandpapa had called Theresa so much worse than that.

  “And because you need to stretch your legs,” Theresa said, “as do I, from time to time. We would be pleased, Mr. Belmont, to come see your ponies. Now then, who would like some chocolate cake?”

  Theresa had gone to trouble with this cake, making it herself that very afternoon. Life at Sutcliffe had been isolated, with the nearest market town seven hilly miles distant. If Theresa had wanted confections and fancy dishes, she’d learned—partly out of sheer boredom—to make them herself, and this sweet was among her favorites. The cake itself was rich, moist chocolate, the filling raspberry, and the lot was served with whipped cream.

  The staff might have disapproved of her presuming on the kitchen, but they’d never declined a serving of cake.

  The squire’s eyebrows rose as dessert was brought to the table. “My compliments to the cook, again. Appearance alone suggests this will be as delicious as all the preceding courses.”

  They tucked into their cake, Mr. Belmont going silent, perhaps in the pursuit of alimentary bliss. When his portion had been consumed, he sat back. His smile was bashful, likely the reaction to the three pairs of female eyes watching him with amusement.

  “I enjoyed the entire meal, Miss Jennings, but the company and your cake have to win top honors for the evening.”

  Alice rose. “Some of the company must depart for their beds, and that includes you, Priscilla.”

  Priscilla scrambled out of her seat and scampered over to Theresa, dark braids bouncing.

  “Good night, Mama.” She wrapped her arms around Theresa’s neck and squeezed. “Will you tuck me in and hear my prayers?”

  “Later, Priscilla.” Theresa kissed her daughter’s forehead. “You should be very proud of yourself. Your manners were lovely and your conversation gracious.”

  “Am I growing up?” Priscilla asked, nose in the air.

  All too quickly. “You are. You are becoming quite the young lady.”

  Alice extended a hand. “Come along Priscilla, before you say something outrageous and your mother will have to revise her opinion.”

  “Good night Mr. Belmont.” Priscilla trotted over to him and held out her arms.

  Mr. Belmont, who had risen when Alice had stood, scooped the child up as naturally as if it were part of his evening ritual.

  “Pleasant dreams, Princess.” He smiled through her fierce hug and bumped her cheek gently with his nose. “Don’t be in too big a hurry to grow up, and don’t forget that you promised me a story with a happy ending.”

  “You shall have it soon,” Priscilla said as he deposited her on her feet.

  “Genius cannot be hurried,” Mr. Belmont murmured, as the child led her governess from the room. “What an utter delight she is. Boys are such busy creatures and charming in their own way. A fellow can do things with his sons, show them how to go on, teach them all sorts of useful and arcane lore, but a little girl is such a lovable creature.”

  “That one is.” Mr. Belmont’s observation invited Theresa to look beyond Priscilla’s table manners, penmanship, and diction, to the miracle of the growing child herself. “I am no end of relieved that Thomas has acknowledged her as his niece. She is much like him, busy, studious, imaginative, and she can mimic anyone so closely you’d think she’d trod the boards.”

  Mr. Belmont resumed his seat and peered down the neck of a wine bottle still more than half full.

  “You persisted in mending the breach with Thomas because of Priscilla and her right to know and be loved by her family.”

  A hypothesis, for Matthew Belmont had that sort of mind. Curious, analytical, interested in others. Theresa had once been burdened with a lively curiosity too.

  “Some of my persistence was on Priscilla’s behalf. Shall I ring for tea, or would you perhaps like another brandy to finish your meal?”

  “What I would like is a turn in the garden with a congenial lady on my arm. The meal was by far the best I’ve had in months, but my digestion would ben
efit from some movement.”

  “Fresh air appeals.” As did avoiding any more discussion of Theresa’s differences with Thomas. She and her brother were talking, true, but difficult words still needed to be said—eventually. She rose, as Mr. Belmont drew her chair back for her.

  “I bet I can find you a sprig of lavender on the south terrace,” he said, “and we’ll be out of the evening breeze as well.”

  “Priscilla is right about the flowers here,” Theresa replied, grateful for the change in topic. “The place is just short of overrun with them, particularly the steward’s cottage.”

  “Loris likes her flowers and loves making scents,” Mr. Belmont said as they made their way through the library to the terrace beyond. “If Sutcliffe were so inclined, he could turn the flowers into a successful commercial venture.”

  “Have you mentioned that to him?” Theresa asked, stepping out onto the flagstone terrace and leaving Mr. Belmont’s side to test the dampness of the soil in the pot of pansies on the table.

  The pansies were thirsty, which Theresa would mention to Harry. She’d neglected to have the torches lit, though a full harvest moon was clearing the horizon to the east. Were she a different woman with a different past, she’d take a moment to consider the propriety of a moonlit stroll with an unmarried gentleman.

  She’d lost the right to that hesitation long ago. Instead, she’d considered the bother to the servants of having to light a garden full of torches for a short constitutional on a chilly evening.

  “I’ve mentioned my ideas regarding the flowers to Loris,” Mr. Belmont said. “The recipes and labor are largely hers. Tell me, Miss Jennings, have I given offense?”

  Theresa stood on her side of the terrace, feeling awkward, because she’d no handkerchief with which to wipe her hand clean. “I beg your pardon, Mr. Belmont?”

  “You disdain to take my arm,” he said, flourishing white linen in the darkness, “though I recall you allowing me the privilege of providing escort on previous occasions.”

  He was smiling, teasing her, the handkerchief dangling from his hand like a slack flag of truce.