Thomas could admit that much.
“She was dowered.” Belmont stated this fact as if building a case before a jury.
“What do you mean, was?”
“She claims whatever funds were set aside, they were gone before your grandfather died. Perhaps your cousins appropriated them.”
Well, of course. They’d been shameless, the pair of them. “Theresa should have applied to me, and I’d have held them accountable.” Except even as he spoke, Thomas felt a sense of the ground under his righteous feet eroding further.
Theresa could not have applied to him, because once he’d finished university and been cast out of Sutcliffe Keep, he’d stopped opening her letters.
“She likely had a dowry at one time simply as a function of her mother’s marital settlements and subsequent estate,” Belmont went on, as if Thomas hadn’t spoken. “From what Theresa says, she had no respect for these cousins of yours. Her best avenue forward would have been marriage to some proper fellow of good means, and she was well-born enough to pursue that avenue.”
Belmont was closing in on some conclusion Thomas would not like at all. “Matthew, she ruined herself before she even came out. She had no come out, in fact, because she’d become such a disgrace.”
Belmont halted the swing. “Do not tempt me to resume my pugilistic displays. A woman cannot ruin herself, particularly not a woman who has yet to reach her majority, who has no funds of her own, and no reasonable future outside of marriage. Under those circumstances, she must connive at her ruination with relentless determination.”
Thomas rose, and a chilly wind shook the few leaves clinging to the trees beyond the garden.
“So Theresa connived. She got the bit between her teeth, threw in with our cousins, and wrecked her chances at a decent match. She’s very bright, and stubborn.”
The squire remained on the swing. “Hmm.”
As a manager of a brothel, Thomas had been amused at men who lost their tempers. They shouted, they smashed handy breakables, they called each other out, all the while hoping somebody would stop them from blowing each other’s brains out.
Thomas wanted somebody to shove him down the porch stairs, to get him out of this calm, patient conversation with Belmont.
“Say it, Belmont. Whatever damned conclusion you’re coming to, just damned say it.”
Belmont rose and draped his lean length along the porch post. “Not a conclusion, but a question of motive, Sutcliffe. Theresa Jennings was, as you say, bright, dowered, from a titled family, and comely.”
“Quite comely, unfortunately.” She was still pretty, though her attractiveness was contained in plain clothing, severe hairstyles, and a mother’s constant vigilance regarding her child.
“So she had every reason to guard her virtue. A few more months of proper behavior and she would have been presented at court. She was less than a year from gaining the freedom of her own household. An intelligent, determined, attractive, decent, and pragmatic young woman threw away her chance for a happy future. Despite considerable thought devoted to this very puzzle, I cannot for the life of me fathom why.”
Belmont sauntered down the steps, offered Thomas a parting salute, and disappeared around the corner of the empty cottage.
* * *
“Tea won’t help,” Theresa said, willing Matthew to come up the garden path. “I should be packing. If you would write to me—write to Priscilla, I mean—I’d be grateful.”
The baroness looked so pretty, pouring out over a service that had to be antique Sevres. At least Theresa had got to meet her.
“So you kissed Matthew Belmont,” Loris said, sitting back with her teacup cradled in her hands. She was not a conventionally pretty woman, being dark rather than fair, and inclined to marching rather than mincing. “Many women would envy you, and I daresay Matthew has not been celibate in widowerhood.”
He had been lonely, a far worse affliction for a man of Matthew’s disposition than sexual deprivation.
“I kissed him in a public place, and I kissed him shamelessly.” The word was literally applicable—without shame, in the sunshine, for anybody to see. Theresa was proud of that much, at least.
Porcelain tinkled delicately, and Loris appeared at Theresa’s side bringing the soothing scent of lilacs with her.
“So Thomas and Matthew will pound each other to flinders, you’ll marry Matthew, and all will be a little awkward, but we’ll muddle through.”
Matthew would be dreadfully effective with his fists, but so would Thomas. “I hate it when men brawl. When Thomas was young, my cousins would bait him until he lost his temper, and then they’d laugh as they blacked his eyes and split his lip.”
“Two against one?”
“Thomas was younger by five years. One was enough, while the other taunted and derided. When Thomas learned to withstand their derision, they took up the sport of insulting me.”
That recollection unsettled Theresa’s insides yet further, for she had heard Matthew’s fist connecting with Thomas’s stubborn jaw.
“Thomas had it coming,” Loris said, looping her arm through Theresa’s. “He’s so wonderfully pigheaded, else I should not have married him. I hope we have a lot of boys, who will teach their papa a little of diplomacy and patience.”
Matthew was diplomatic and patient, and now Theresa would never get to meet his children. Emmanuel Capshaw would rejoice, as would half the spinsters in the shire.
“They won’t kill each other,” Theresa muttered. “I gather they are friends, and Thomas needs friends.”
“As does Matthew. If you won’t have a cup of tea, at least have a biscuit.”
“No, thank you.”
Where was Matthew? Thomas was younger, and he was furious, and if he hurt Matthew, Theresa would not answer for her reaction.
“You are more worried for Matthew than you are for yourself,” Loris said, easing away. “You needn’t be. Matthew can handle himself. We treat him as if he’s a house cat, all soft fur and elegant movement. He purrs, he never brings mud in the house, he’s comfortable and handsome. At the assemblies, he stands up with the wallflowers, he makes up the numbers at dinner parties, and nobody comes to grief in the hunt field if Matthew’s casting the hounds.”
Theresa had come to grief. She’d fallen in love, and for once, chosen a man whose regard mattered to her.
“Matthew is more than the male equivalent of a spinster,” Theresa said. “I would trust him with my life.”
More porcelain gently tinkled from the direction of the settee and still, Matthew did not come striding across the garden.
“You would trust him with Priscilla’s life,” Loris said. “And you’d be right to. There was a girl born to a local family—the sort of family every village has and wishes they didn’t. Their chickens were scrawny, the husband drank too much, the wife was too quiet. They had gaunt, ragged children, and the youngest girl…she wasn’t right.”
Clouds were starting to gather to the east, above the Downs. Priscilla would be drawing snowflakes soon, though she’d be drawing them at Sutcliffe.
“I know you’re listening,” Loris said, sounding as though she talked around a bite of biscuit. “In any case, the parents treated the child awfully. She didn’t learn to speak, she didn’t mind them, she became like some sort of ill-favored human dog, tied more often than not, and allowed to grow even thinner than her siblings. Matthew came upon the father beating the child at the village well one day.”
“How do you know this?”
“At the posting inn, this is one of the stories they tell about the king’s man,” Loris said, “but in this case, I happened to be present. I could not interfere, for a man may do with his children as he sees fit, and this man was both violent and inebriated.”
Theresa had experience with violent, inebriated men. “Matthew interceded?”
“He confiscated the child,” Loris said. “Confiscated the child as if she were livestock, and I will never forget the sight of him hol
ding that filthy, mewling little girl in his arms and, with all the calm in the world, facing down the father. The child clung to Matthew, as if she knew by instinct he would never harm her.”
“One can’t confiscate a child,” Theresa said. “A man’s power over his wife and his legitimate progeny is without limit.” Fortunately, illegitimate progeny remained in their mother’s custody, but the wife part—oh, that had been a troublesome detail when Theresa had been younger.
Loris was beside Theresa again, holding out a piece of shortbread. “Take it. My guess is Thomas will appear here a chastened baron, and you will need your strength. I cannot stand against my husband, but neither will I sit meekly by while he does something he’ll regret. I grew up without family, and I will not allow him to squander what little family he’s brought to me by marriage.”
Theresa took a nibble of shortbread flavored with lavender. Matthew would have enjoyed this, which was probably why Loris had asked for it to be included on the tray.
“Please tell me the tale of the confiscated child.” For if Loris did not complete the story before the men returned, Theresa might never hear the whole of it.
“We have aldermen,” Loris said, “the same as any village, and they pass ordinances, many of which we ignore. Matthew, as the magistrate, knows those ordinances like a duke knows his ancestry. One of our little laws says a man can be fined for neglecting any creature having a value of at least one pound. The mistreated animal may be put into the care of a responsible party until it once again thrives.”
“What’s the point of such a rule?”
Loris passed over another piece of shortbread. “Matthew says it’s related to a very old custom, dating back to when villages held livestock in common. If a man can provide for his sheep or cows, and he yet neglects them out of spite or laziness, then valuable livestock goes to waste. Most villages don’t have the luxury of wasting food, so the law provides a means for the animal to be put into hands that will care for it properly.”
The Sutcliffe barony was so old, it likely dated back to when such laws were simply unwritten custom.
“So Matthew likened this child to a skinny bullock?”
Loris dusted her hands together. “He did more than that. He held his parlor session at the local tavern that Monday, and he’d rallied the wives and grannies in the days prior. By sheer coincidence, Vicar’s sermon the previous day had been about the kingdom of heaven belonging to little children. The tavern was packed to the rafters.”
Oh, Matthew. “What happened to the girl?”
“Not a soul would argue when Matthew declared the child to have a value far in excess of one pound and to meet the definition of the word creature. He fined the father, who would never have parted with the coin even if he’d had it. Matthew put the girl into the care of a pair of spinster sisters pending payment of the fine. He deduced that the child is deaf, and while she cannot speak clearly, she can communicate in her way. Matthew will not fail you, Theresa.”
“Matthew cannot change my past, he cannot make Priscilla legitimate, he cannot change my brother’s heart.”
Footfalls sounded across the parlor, a ringing, confident stride Theresa already knew.
“Only you can change your brother’s heart,” Matthew said, marching into the parlor and kissing her cheek. “Ah, I see we are having shortbread. I adore a buttery sweet with my tea, assuming I’m welcome?”
Chapter Fourteen
“I saw Mr. Belmont hit you,” Priscilla yelled down from the hayloft, ready to hit somebody herself. Why must grown-ups always ruin everything?
Uncle Thomas peered up at her from the barn aisle below, his hands on his hips. When he and Mr. Belmont had left the stable yard, Priscilla had been too upset to leave her tower. She was still too upset.
“Priscilla, you ought not to spy on your elders.”
“Elders ought not to hit each other where I’m playing. I wasn’t spying, I was waiting for Mama to come home from the hunt.”
Priscilla was unwilling to come down the ladder until she had to. She liked being above Uncle Thomas, who was a tall fellow, like Mr. Belmont. Uncle did not ride a white horse, though.
“Mr. Belmont was trying to get my attention,” Uncle Thomas said, coming up the ladder. “I was distracted.”
The ladder shook with each step he took, and if Priscilla had had any Greek fire—whatever that was—she might have poured it on her uncle’s head. The hayloft was her tower, and stupid grown-ups were not allowed up here.
“If somebody is distracted,” Priscilla said, “you say excuse me, and you wait—without fidgeting or pulling on their arm—until they stop talking. That’s only if you must interrupt, which is a rare occasion.”
When Uncle Thomas stood up in the hayloft, his head almost touched the roof of the barn.
“Your braid’s coming undone, child.”
“I’ll tidy up before Miss Alice or Mama catch sight of me. Beckman or Jamie can fix my braid because they braid manes and tails. I’ve helped them.”
The hayloft was much smaller with Uncle Thomas in it, less of a tower, more of a dusty old hayloft. Priscilla couldn’t very well ask her uncle to leave his own hayloft, which was a great pity.
“I’m sorry you saw that altercation,” Uncle Thomas said, taking a seat cross-legged in the hay. “What were you doing up here all by yourself?”
“I’m always all by myself when I’m up here, unless Nick or Beckman see me. They know I’m here, though, and Mr. Belmont knows where I am from the tracks I leave. What’s an altercation?”
Uncle Thomas fished through the hay and plucked out a long stem of grass. He smelled good and spoke in a lot of languages that sounded very pretty. Right now he looked sad, which suggested he was truly sorry, not simply grown-up sorry.
“An altercation is when I get more angry than I should, maybe a lot more angry than I should. You saw your mama kissing Mr. Belmont?”
They had kissed at Belmont House too, so Priscilla had gone around to the parlor door rather than tapping at the library window, and she’d been careful to make a lot of noise as she’d cantered up to the library.
“I saw them kissing each other,” Priscilla said, taking the place beside her uncle. The hay was scratchy, but Uncle needed to understand a few things, and scolding him in private seemed the wiser course.
“They did, indeed, kiss each other. A fine distinction,” Uncle Thomas said, turning so he could get his hands on Priscilla’s loose braid. “The squire pointed out that very same fact to me. Do you like him, Priscilla?”
“He has ponies, he’s teaching me to ride Tut, and Miss Alice likes him. Mr. Belmont makes Mama smile.”
Uncle Thomas’s touch was not like Mama’s or Miss Alice’s. He was slower, and the braid would be looser. Not a proper braid for going into the hunt field, in other words.
“Your mama doesn’t smile much, does she?”
“She does sometimes, when I get my sums right. I like sums and languages.”
“So did I,” Uncle Thomas said, sounding more like a grandpapa than an uncle. “So did your mother. She was much like you.”
“Was she im-per-ti-nent? That’s my word for today. It means I speak up when I ought not.”
Uncle Thomas hugged her. He had a good hug, quick but firm, like Miss Alice, only with more muscles.
“I do that—speak up when I ought to hold my peace,” he said. “I did that, which is why Mr. Belmont had to get my attention.”
From the corner of her eye, Priscilla could see Uncle was smiling, though not a happy smile. More of a thoughtful smile. He tied a snug, lopsided bow at the bottom of her plait than flipped the braid forward over her shoulder.
Priscilla scooted around and sat up as tall as she could while perched on a pile of hay.
“You yelled at my mama. A gentleman doesn’t raise his voice to a lady. He doesn’t argue with a lady.”
This was important for him to know, though perhaps nobody had told Uncle Thomas this rule yet. He and
Aunt Loris had not been married for very long.
“How do you know this, Priscilla? Last time I checked, no gentlemen lived at Sutcliffe Keep. I fear that’s been the case for a very long time.”
He had found some more grass stems about the same length and was braiding them together now in the same loose fashion.
“Mama told me you lived at the Keep. You grew up there.”
Uncle pitched his little grass rope away. “I was a boy when I lived there, and not always a very nice boy.”
“Did you yell and say bad words?”
“I did, though sometimes I was justified.” He grabbed Priscilla and scrubbed his knuckles over her crown, which she sort of hated. “Sometimes I was horrid.”
“You cannot yell at Mama again, Uncle. You will make her sad, and she’s been sad too much. When she got your letter, she cried.”
“I nearly cried when I wrote it, but your aunt said I must.”
“I like Aunt. She makes scents and always has biscuits on the tea tray.”
“I like your aunt too, and if you’re lucky, she and I will provide you with a few cousins—” Uncle Thomas fell silent, and Priscilla let him think for a moment. A fellow who went around yelling at people and getting hit in the face might not be too quick to figure things out.
“Priscilla, do you have any playmates?”
Tut was much more than a playmate. “Real ones?”
“Real ones, real children.”
“No, not at Sutcliffe. Here, I play at the vicarage.”
Uncle Thomas studied her for a long time, as if trying to find the right words in English to say something he knew how to say in French. Miss Alice said he was a prodigy with languages, which was fortunate, because apparently he wasn’t very bright otherwise.
He kissed Priscilla’s forehead and rose, making him very tall compared to Priscilla’s perch in the hay.
“I’m sorry, Priscilla.”
She had the sense he wasn’t speaking to her, but to himself. Priscilla knew what to say though, because the rule for this situation was simple.
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