Matthew

by Grace Burrowes

  “Wonderful,” he replied, patting her knuckles. “I can hardly wait to learn what every part of you tastes like.”

  Theresa hadn’t any reply for him, didn’t know how to meet such frankness without turning the discussion naughty, and that she did not want when Priscilla might dart from behind any hedge.

  A few minutes later, Theresa was peering down at her host from Evan’s saddle, for Mr. Belmont remained standing at the horse’s side after boosting Theresa aboard. Was he about to announce another intention to kiss her? Surely not in front of Priscilla?

  “I’ve appropriated the use of your Christian name on at least two occasions,” Mr. Belmont said. “You might do me the same honor.”

  Honor? To assume familiar address?

  He petted the horse’s shoulder rather than meet Theresa’s gaze, and insight illuminated the moment, like the autumn sunshine turning the crown of Mr. Belmont’s head golden.

  He was asking Theresa to use his name, not telling her, not assuming such informality was his due. Behind the skill in his kisses lay a man who’d feel rejection keenly, but endure it with good grace.

  Theresa twitched her habit so the skirt lay more neatly over her boot and took up the reins.

  “Priscilla, put that kitten down. It’s time we were on our way. My thanks for a pleasant afternoon, Matthew.”

  * * *

  “Priscilla’s handwriting resembles yours,” Loris observed, draping herself over Thomas’s shoulder. “At her age, I was barely making legible letters.”

  Thomas set his niece’s letter aside—he had it nearly memorized—took off his spectacles, and drew his new wife into his lap. He’d left Loris sleeping in Sutcliffe Keep’s baronial bed in the next room and wandered to the sitting room, goaded by a need to think.

  “You are a bad influence on a man’s ability to concentrate, Baroness.” A fragrant, lithe, beautiful bad influence who was wearing nothing but one of her husband’s shirts despite supper being hours away.

  “This is our wedding journey,” Loris replied, settling in. “I’m dedicated to being a bad influence until we must return to Linden. Priscilla’s letter doesn’t make you smile, though she’s an excellent correspondent.”

  Priscilla’s existence didn’t make Thomas smile, for all the child was endlessly dear. Because Thomas and Theresa had been estranged, and he’d refused to open letters from his sister, he hadn’t even known about the girl until recently.

  “Her mother has a way with a pen too,” Thomas said. “Theresa wrote plays and tragedies by the hour when she was a girl.”

  A young girl. As she’d approached adolescence, Theresa had become high-strung and difficult. She’d switched to poetry and then satire, by the time Thomas had left for university.

  “Does Theresa have your gift for languages?” Loris asked, scooting around as bad influences were inclined to do.

  “I don’t know. Grandpapa provided governesses for her, but they had little more than parlor French and an abiding affection for Godfrey’s Cordial.”

  While Thomas had been able to learn French, German, Italian, Latin, Greek, Spanish, and—as Fairly’s man of business—smatterings of everything from Yiddish to Hindu to Arabic.

  As a young man, Thomas had accepted that boys and girls faced different lots in life. Grandpapa had said an educated female got into mischief. Theresa had been denied much of an education, and mischief had become her stock in trade.

  “Write back,” Loris said, kissing Thomas’s nose. “You’re Priscilla’s only uncle, and she will treasure your every word.”

  Thomas scooped up his wife and carried her to the bed. They occupied the master suite, an apartment that had known no occupant since Grandpapa’s death. The delicate gilt furnishings were decades out of date, the wallpaper faded to a pale blue, and the woodwork in need of polishing.

  Like Thomas’s anger, the entire suite had a faded quality.

  “I want to be furious,” Thomas said, climbing onto the bed beside his wife. “I came here hoping to find that my sister had idled away her years at Sutcliffe in undeserved luxury.”

  Loris sat up and pulled the nightshirt over her head, then straddled Thomas.

  “Theresa disappointed you bitterly all those years ago. Of course you’re angry.”

  Thomas drew Loris down to him, the very feel of her in his arms a comfort. He could think when he held her, he could admit to feelings as awkward as they were surprising.

  “Theresa worked like a dog turning a spit to keep this decrepit pile of stones from going to ruin,” he said. “She kept nothing for herself, or for… the girl. Every penny was either ploughed back into the estate or set aside in the estate accounts. I can only assume the solicitors then kept the twins from frittering away every groat.”

  How had Theresa, a selfish, impulsive, inebriate on the road to certain destruction, learned to manage thousands of acres, a dozen tenant farms, and an entire castle staff? Grandpapa had died shortly after sending Thomas away, and Thomas had never made inquiries regarding the state of his cousins’ holdings. Theresa had apparently been keeping the estate functional, despite the neglect of Thomas’s predecessors.

  “You have an aptitude for business,” Loris said. “That’s why Viscount Fairly relied on you. Your mercantile instincts are impeccable. Perhaps Theresa has a similar gift.”

  Thomas did not want to even glance at some of the tasks he’d undertaken for Fairly, not now, not here, not ever.

  “His lordship sends felicitations, by the way,” Thomas said, drawing a quilt over Loris’s shoulders. “Her ladyship is in good health and invites us to visit in Town or at their estate in Kent whenever we please.”

  Loris left off nibbling his earlobe. “Thomas, you are the bravest man I know, and running off to see friends you recently entertained at our wedding is not worthy of you. You’ve invited Theresa to Linden, and now all that remains is to become reacquainted with her. Priscilla adores you, and Theresa isn’t the licentious bawd you feared she’d become. She’s your only living family besides Priscilla. Give this some time, and all will be well.”

  Thomas had put nearly ten years of time between himself and his older sister, and still, he was unable to trust that all would ever be well.

  “Theresa was licentious enough, else I’d not have a bastard niece.”

  Loris climbed off of him and ranged herself beside him on the bed. “Priscilla is a delight, and many a good family has representatives from distaff branches. What is this about, my love?”

  Thomas did not know how to answer her. He’d already come to value Loris’s ability to sort through problems, so he blundered on.

  “The staff here is ancient, and they do not speak of Theresa with respect. They sniff with censure about her parenting of Priscilla, her lack of attendance at services, her assumption of the authority that was Grandpapa’s.”

  Whom they referred to as “the baron” in Thomas’s hearing. Not “the late baron,” or “your grandpapa, the baron,” but the baron. As if Thomas were still an untitled adolescent without expectations to speak of, rather than immensely wealthy, well-traveled, and the present titleholder.

  “We skipped services this week,” Loris said. “You said the vicar was an awful old Presbyterian who ranted for hours when you were a boy.”

  Because no parish with any sense would welcome the Rev. Hesikiah Saunders, he’d apparently rant on in the village of Pendlegast for another twenty years.

  “The staff don’t bestir themselves to go to services,” Thomas said. “Theresa made the coach available to them, and still they don’t go.” Theresa had probably paid any fines resulting from their hypocrisy too.

  Despite enjoying the privileges of a man on his honeymoon, Thomas had not slept well the previous night. Being at Sutcliffe Keep brought back memories and raised questions that had no simple answers.

  “I had almost arranged the past in such a way that I could excuse my sister’s wild behavior,” Thomas said. “She had no mother, no guidance. My cous
ins were a wicked pair, and Grandpapa paid Theresa no mind, ever. She was bored, she wanted attention… I can concoct all manner of excuses for her now, and yet, I cannot comprehend what she’s become.”

  “A mother?” Loris asked, smacking a pillow. “If you turn up Puritan on me now, Thomas, I can promise you a very lonely honeymoon. No woman gets herself pregnant.”

  “I am aware of the mechanics of procreation, madam.”

  Loris hit him with a pillow, then curled up, her head on his shoulder. “You excel at the mechanics of procreation. Married life will surely leave me exhausted by Yuletide.”

  At the very least, Loris would sport a different shape by Yuletide. Thomas knew the look of a breeding woman, even in the early days of gestation.

  “Theresa endured ten years of hard work here in virtual isolation,” Thomas said, “but for lazy servants and judgmental neighbors. She could have gone elsewhere, presented herself somewhere up north as a war widow, sent Priscilla to a vicarage in the Midlands. Neither I, nor my cousins before me took any interest in Sutcliffe. The funds here were more than sufficient to allow Theresa to leave and let the castle fall into the sea.”

  Loris kissed Thomas and remained poised on her side. She brushed his hair back from his brow in a soothing caress, while her gray eyes held only compassion.

  “You are ashamed,” she said, and though Thomas himself hadn’t been able to label his emotions, when Loris said those words, he could not deny their truth.

  “I’m something. I’ve been furious with Theresa for a decade or more, and she’s spent most of that time protecting my birthright. Maybe she did it for Priscilla’s sake, maybe she did it out of guilt, but the benefit of her efforts goes to me.”

  “She wrote to you,” Loris said. “She didn’t give up on you, which suggests your stubbornness is a family trait as well.”

  Stubbornness or determination? Theresa had written over and over, probably relying on the family solicitors to search out Thomas’s direction. He hadn’t been hiding from her, precisely.

  “I don’t even know Theresa anymore,” Thomas said. “I don’t want to like her, but I must respect what she’s done here. The estate would have fallen to ruins without her efforts, and after a millennium in the care of our family, for Sutcliffe Keep to falter would have been… regrettable.”

  Would have been a disgrace, as Theresa had become a disgrace in earliest adulthood.

  Dozens of families relied on Sutcliffe for sustenance, and times had been hard. Thomas had visited enough tenants in recent days to know Theresa had not only held Sutcliffe together, she’d made a good job of it, despite Thomas’s prolonged silence.

  Despite an aging, disdainful staff, despite two previous owners whose passings none had mourned.

  “Close your eyes,” Loris said. “When you go back to Linden, I’ll be with you. Take an interest in Priscilla, and her mother will appreciate you for it. That’s a place to start.”

  Thomas drew his wife into his arms, but left desire for another time. A question plagued him: He respected what his sister had done with the estate, if not with her life, and yet, he was also still that furious young man whose only sibling had sided against him all those years ago.

  Theresa had agreed with Grandpapa’s plan to send Thomas away from Sutcliffe after university, away from all he’d ever known and loved. She’d told Thomas to stop clinging to her skirts and go make something of himself.

  The words had hurt, the betrayal had hurt worse yet, and leaving Sutcliffe had nigh torn Thomas’s heart from his chest.

  So why should it matter now that, just perhaps, Thomas ought to have defied his sister and his grandfather both, and stayed by her side at Sutcliffe?

  Chapter Seven

  Priscilla’s first lesson on Tut consisted of an extended game of follow-the-squire in a closed arena. Matthew stood immediately before the pony, then backed up ten paces, and explained to Priscilla how to make the little beast close the distance.

  To Matthew’s relief, she was instinctively respectful of her mount and grasped the essentials quickly. Within the hour, she was turning Tut, stopping him, and even backing him a few steps.

  Beckman and Theresa watched from the rail, eventually joined by Jamie and Nicholas, the Linden stable master.

  “Is that man a giant?” Priscilla whispered when she’d successfully steered Tut over that most daunting of initial obstacles, a pole on the ground.

  “The fellow standing next to your mother is called Wee Nick,” Matthew said. “He’s your uncle’s stable master, though I suspect he’ll soon leave his post. Nick was visiting friends in Surrey after spending time in London. He’s a nice man and particularly fond of children.”

  What fellow with seven younger siblings wouldn’t love children?

  Priscilla sent Nick another dubious look. “Will he be nice to Tut?”

  Matthew’s sons operated under a handicap, having been raised in recent years without a mother. He’d seen the same puzzled uncertainty on their faces, when they discussed the challenges of standing up at an assembly for the first time, or walking a young lady to services.

  Women, on some level, did not make sense to his sons, because their mama hadn’t been on hand to help unravel the mystery, and Matthew’s limited understanding had been a poor substitute.

  Perhaps men didn’t make sense to Priscilla.

  “Nick will spoil Tut rotten,” Matthew said. “I’m surprised you haven’t heard how Nick risked his life to save Penny and Treasure this summer. Beckman is very proud of his brother.”

  Priscilla fiddled the reins, which she held in her bare hands. “That man is Beckman’s brother?”

  Beckman had four brothers that Matthew knew of, but in this too, Priscilla’s world had been limited by her mother’s circumstances.

  “I have a brother too,” Matthew said, taking the pony’s reins and leading him toward the gate. “And a brother-in-law, sister-in-law, and nephews, just as you have an uncle, and your mother has a brother. Let’s call it a day, shall we? You’ve done quite well, but Tut might be tired.”

  Tut was barely awake, and not as a result of overexertion.

  “You were a good boy, Tut. Thank you ever so much,” Priscilla said, thumping the pony on the shoulder. Dust rose along with the fragrance of equine.

  “Maybe Nick will show you how to give Tut a bath,” Matthew said, for which mischief he would likely pay. “Ponies love to be clean.”

  Tut nearly stepped on Matthew’s boot.

  “Mama! Did you see us?” Priscilla called. “We rode all around the arena and even went over the pole!”

  “I saw you,” Theresa said. “Not a foot wrong, and you even backed your pony. An excellent start, Priscilla. You should be very proud of yourself.”

  “You should,” Matthew said, passing the reins back to Priscilla as Nick opened the gate. “Not every child has the patience for riding, but you and Tut will get on famously.”

  Until the first time Tut dumped Priscilla. The course of true love between child and pony could come to an abrupt end.

  “King Tut is smitten,” Nick said, fastening the latch when Priscilla had steered her mount through the gate. “I know horses, and that pony has found his match.”

  “You’re Nick,” Priscilla said.

  “Nicholas Haddonfield, at your service,” he said, sweeping a bow. “That was good riding, Miss Priscilla. Shall I show you how to put Tut up?”

  Yes, please. If Nick took over instructing the child, Matthew might embark on another interesting discussion with her mother, who had figured prominently in his dreams the previous night.

  “I’ll help,” Beckman said. “Then we can show Priscilla the proper way to clean a bridle.”

  “And scrub a water bucket,” Nick added. “Very important skill, scrubbing water buckets. Fortunately, we have at least a dozen Miss Priscilla can practice on.”

  “Don’t forget that raking a barn aisle is also an art,” Beck replied, as Tut’s eyelids drooped over big brown
eyes. “Nobody learns to do that in a day.”

  “Too bad Miss Priscilla’s not strong enough to push a muck cart,” Nick lamented.

  “A real shame,” Beck said. “Takes years to develop muck-cart muscles, though.”

  Tut woke up enough to toddle along between the Haddonfields as they sauntered off in the direction of the stable, with Priscilla chattering about being quite strong for her size

  “She’ll be fine,” Matthew said, when Theresa’s gaze remained on the plodding pony and the blathering Haddonfields. “They won’t let her near a muck cart, and they’ll keep her safe.”

  “You know them that well?” she asked as Tut’s dusty little backside disappeared behind a hedge.

  “I do. Walk with me?” Matthew didn’t offer Theresa his arm, didn’t gesture in the direction of the trail that led from the arena, along the stream, and into the Linden home wood. Matthew well knew a parent’s struggle not to hover. His brother-in-law, Emmanuel Capshaw, loved nothing so much as to tease him about overprotectiveness.

  “I’d rather not go far,” Theresa said. “Priscilla might have need of me. Horses seldom mean to hurt us, but they’re enormous animals, and Priscilla’s not that familiar with them.”

  “Let’s admire your brother’s gardens, then,” Matthew suggested, though the gardens were far less private than the woods. “I have a lilac bush that has decided to offer a few blooms, probably because we had some warm nights immediately before the harvest.”

  “They get confused,” Theresa said, falling in step beside him. “I’m confused.”

  Matthew mentally braced himself to get tossed out of the saddle, though he and Theresa Jennings had barely left the figurative starting line.

  “I dreamed of you,” he said, idly tracking Nick’s sizeable boot prints on the path back to the stable. “Dreamed of you in my library, reading Byron, of all things. I don’t care for his sarcasm, but I suspect he’s at heart a bitterly bewildered man.”

  “Bewildered,” Theresa said, nodding. “Matthew, I have a daughter.”