Thorne had the sense this recitation was important and that Margaret was most comfortable offering it here in the one place that had been hers alone during her first marriage. Even so, they were sitting on a bed, and it was their wedding day.
Maybe that was important too? “Were you having one of your periodic holidays when Charles died?”
She nodded. “I’ve wondered if Charles did that on purpose—went away to die—but his health had been precarious for ages. He was ready to go, or so he claimed, but I would rather have been with him.”
What a grim way to be married. “I hope perfumes are a more cheerful undertaking for you than medicinals were.” And no wonder she eschewed medical practice now, given Charles’s situation.
“Perfumes are a delight by comparison.” She leaned into him as if imparting a confidence. “I want you to have this journal. I have a dozen others, some containing recipes your father collected, some based on what I wrote down from Hannah’s memory. Look over this group first and see if anything strikes you as appealing to a gentleman’s nose.”
A body part other than Thorne’s nose was well aware of Margaret’s proximity. “I won’t know what I’m looking at. You mention blending rose and lemon, but I lack the imagination to conceive of what the result would be.”
She took the journal from him, set it on the table, and returned to the bed. “Imagine garnishing lemonade with a blooming damask, as some people garnish their lemonade with mint or lavender.”
Margaret could apparently do that—imagine scents. Thorne’s mind boggled at the prospect.
“Can we agree to avoid foxgloves in our recipes?” he asked, wrapping an arm around Margaret’s waist. “You keep this cottage locked, but small children climb in windows, find keys, and otherwise defeat common sense.”
“Shall we also avoid lily of the valley? Daffodils? Rhododendrons? Azaleas? Hydrangeas? Oleander?”
“I don’t even know what some of those are.” While Margaret probably knew their every property and variety.
“Most toxic plants are more of a risk to pets than people, though there are a few specimens whose sap alone can cause blindness. Your father always kept extensive notes on the exotics he collected, so you need not worry that my safety is at risk here.”
So confident, and yet, Thorne was worried. “Why all the foxglove?”
She burrowed against him as if seeking warmth. “Because in small quantities, a decoction from the dried leaves can slow the heart. Used carefully, it’s very effective for combating dropsy and similar conditions. To be sure I was mixing up a consistent dose, I harvested what I needed all at once in the spring, dried the leaves, and made the medication as Charles needed it. This is not what I want to discuss on my wedding day, Hawthorne.”
He wrapped his arms around her. “What would you rather talk about?”
“Whether you’d like your new wife to keep her boots on when she makes love with you this time.”
Chapter Nineteen
“What have you learned in my absence, Hartley?” Bancroft kept his tone pleasant, though two days of meandering along the roads with Emily and her father had driven him nearly daft. He’d left his intended—for Bancroft most assuredly did intend to get his hands on Miss Pepper’s settlements—forty-five miles up the road. Emily had promised to make good time for the rest of the journey, which Bancroft took to mean a leisurely trot that began after noon.
“Learned, sir?” Hartley took a seat without being invited to do so. His boots were less than spotless and his cravat askew, though the day wasn’t nearly over. This slovenliness would never do if the man was to be introduced to Mr. Pepper.
“Regarding dear Margaret’s inability to properly manage Summerton. About the lack of discipline with which my nieces are being raised, about the resources going to waste on the only property the little dears are likely to inherit.”
Hartley found it necessary to consult his watch. “Hepatica Freeman, for some reason I cannot fathom, informed me that her son threw rocks at the windows of Hannah Weller’s cottage. Mrs. Weller is seeking restitution for the cost of repairs.”
Bancroft’s eldest was apparently overdue for a birching, though really, what normal boy hadn’t felt compelled to test his aim against an inviting square of glass?
“What has that to do with me?”
“You asked what I have learned, and Miss Freeman did request that I pass this news along to you in my next report. She isn’t one of your tenants, but she said you’d want to know of the incident.”
“It’s not my fault if a woman of loose morals and an old witch can’t come to terms over a boyish prank. I have other concerns pending, and important concerns they are. Miss Freeman ought to keep a closer eye on her offspring, and you will please tell her as much.”
Hartley put his watch away. “One of the rocks struck Mrs. Weller on the shoulder. She’s eighty-three years old. Had she fallen, broken a bone, and gone into a decline, the boy might have been liable for charges of assault or worse.”
Bancroft rose from behind his desk. “Hartley, a man of my station tries to remain above the petty dramas of the village square. I’d advise you to do likewise. I am to host distinguished guests, and all must be in readiness for their arrival.”
Hartley got to his feet as well. “I’ll send the housekeeper to you, then, sir, or the butler. Perhaps both? Haying is due to start next week, and I’m sure you’ll want me to bend my energies to the success of that venture.”
“I don’t give a bloody bent copper about damned haying, Hartley. Mr. Osgood Pepper and Miss Emily Pepper should be here by the day after tomorrow, Monday at the latest if they eschew travel on the Sabbath. When I’ve needed you to keep a close eye on the doings at Summerton and prepare the way for my management of that property, you’ve been involving yourself in spats over broken windows. I am not at all pleased with your performance.”
Bancroft never raised his voice with his subordinates, but he never threatened idly either.
Hartley apparently did not grasp that last point, for he strode across the office, stopping only when he had one hand on the door.
“Half your farm wagons need new axles,” he said. “Your scythes haven’t been sharpened in two years, because when I gave the orders last summer to see that done, your tenants failed to heed me. One of your teams is threatening to founder because the spring grass came in too quickly and your most experienced grooms have all retired or quit. Three of your tenants are feuding with the other five, so you can expect haying to be a slow, contentious undertaking. One good thunderstorm, and you could lose an entire field’s worth of fodder. Two thunderstorms, and you’ll be buying hay for half the winter. If you’ll excuse me, I must pick up the scythes from the smith, who agreed to sharpen the lot for half what he should have charged.”
That was the longest speech Hartley had ever made, also the most disrespectful. Bancroft had spent down his ready cash at a perilous clip in London—needs must when a gentleman goes up to Town—and he wasn’t in the mood to humor a fractious employee.
“Hartley, your problem is you haven’t learned to delegate. Haying never goes well. Thunderstorms always ruin at least part of the yield. Tenants always feud, but I rarely entertain such illustrious guests. I am hopeful that Miss Pepper will look with favor upon my suit. If you expect to keep your post in that event, you’d be well advised to moderate your tone.”
Hartley was the best paid of any employee at Summerfield, and housing for him as well as stabling for a horse were part of that compensation. No bachelor without means could afford to turn his back on lucrative employment, and yet, no man with any pride liked to be verbally thrashed.
Watching Hartley struggle with that dilemma was the best entertainment Bancroft had had in weeks.
“Have you anything more to say, Hartley? For you are correct: I need to meet with both the butler and the housekeeper, and you will please send them to me.” An errand fit for a junior footman.
“Yes, sir, I have one
more thing to say. The scythes at Summerton are all sharp. The farm wagons and teams are all sound. The tenants all get along, and as far as I know, Mrs. Summerfield is not so daft as to invite fancy guests down from Town at the busiest time of year for her staff and dependents. You may rely on that information, because I all but beggared my honor to verify it.”
“Do you imply that Margaret is a better steward than you are, Hartley?”
“Her tenants and staff respect her, and she benefits from proximity to Dorning Hall. The earl’s family is known to aid any neighbor in need, and if her tenants failed to tend to their responsibilities, one or the other Dorning brother would call on them and set the matter to rights. And Mrs. Summerfield is a very competent manager who also takes excellent care of the children. Good day.”
Hartley closed the door softly, leaving Bancroft to ponder whether he should dismiss the man with a character or without one after the Peppers’ visit was successfully concluded. A character that damned with faint praise could be more damaging than no character at all.
“No need to make that decision today.” Bancroft resumed his seat at the desk, assembled pen, paper, ink, and sand, and dashed off a note to Margaret. If the Peppers’ arrival was still two days off, tomorrow would be time enough to collect the children and install them at Summerfield.
Making love with Hawthorne was magical. He brought a sense of deliberateness, of focus and savoring, to all that he did. For Margaret, his unhurried touch was balm to a soul that had been too often involved in hurried couplings or attempted lovemaking that ended in disappointment for all concerned.
The bed was cramped for a man of Hawthorne’s proportions, particularly when the agenda was something other than a quick nap.
“Can you sit up?” Margaret asked, scooting back over his thighs. She was still in her shift, while he—magnificent beast—wore not a single stitch. He’d troubled to close the drapes on every window before he’d disrobed, turning the cottage into a shadowy retreat full of peaceful memories and happy intentions.
He hoisted himself back on his elbows and propped himself against the pillows at the headboard. “Like this?”
“Exactly like that.” Margaret recommenced kissing him, mentally assuring herself that in the next month, they’d make love in every possible position, at every conceivable time of day or night. What Hawthorne’s hands on her breasts did to her was the stuff of large families and cheerful unions.
“You drive me… I want to make you as frantic as you make me,” she said, pressing her forehead to his shoulder. “More frantic even than that.”
He brushed his thumbs over her nipples, slowly, back and forth. “You do, Margaret. You most assuredly do.”
He was aroused, wonderfully so, but he didn’t sound aroused. He wasn’t panting, gasping, and heaving with need. Between one caress and the next, Margaret grasped why that should be: Hawthorne’s heart was sound. He was not a man slowly losing a fight with death. He was hale and whole, and hers.
Thank every benevolent power, Hawthorne Dorning was hers. She sank down over him in one glorious undulation of her hips, physical pleasure blending with profound joy.
“I’m delighted that we’re married,” she said, going still. “I will be the very best wife to you that I can be.”
They were eye-to-eye in this position, and what lovely eyes Hawthorne had. They would always remind her of the bluebell wood, where this marriage had truly begun.
“I will be the very best husband to you, and the best father figure to the girls, that I can be. We will be like the seeds you’ve learned to collect so carefully. The ceremony that joined us was small and humble. With time and care, the marriage can be magnificent.”
He kissed her sweetly, and Margaret understood why tears of joy might befall a woman. The relief of intimate commitment to a man of such dear and honorable intentions was enormous, like a reprieve from a life-threatening diagnosis.
Hawthorne gave her no time to ponder particulars, but began moving with the sort of quiet intensity she could not outlast. He brought her pleasure upon pleasure, until she lay spent, naked, and drowsy in his arms.
“Is that what you meant by three times a day?” she murmured, kissing his chin.
“Of course not. I only spent the once, so this only counts as once. Male math.”
“What is male math?”
“Female math says ‘help yourself’ means take no more than three biscuits, even if the rest will get stale and be wasted on the hogs. Male math says so long as I leave at least three uneaten, I’ve stayed within the parameters of ‘helping myself.’ Female math is exact but has little logic, and its adherents advocate for it passionately.”
“In this instance,” Margaret said, “male math will suffice. I’d like to open a window.”
Hawthorne kissed her temple. “Because I’ve loved you into a swither?”
“Because I want fresh air in here.” And in my life. Wonderful Hawthorne-scented fresh air. “This herbal has been shut up and unused for too long. I need to burn that damned foxglove or send it to Hannah. The footmen didn’t do a thorough enough job of cleaning the stoves, and—” She fell silent as she climbed off her husband and gained her footing beside the bed. “I need to store a few snacks here. Making love with you leaves me famished.”
Hawthorne half sat, half lay against the pillows, resplendent in his nudity. “We’ll be making love here often?”
“Three times a day, according to my husband, whom I esteem most earnestly. Where is my shift?” Hawthorne had drawn it off of her at some point when Margaret had been ready to pitch the last nod to her modesty into the nearest ocean.
“On the table. I aimed for the chair, but somebody distracted me. Spoiled my accuracy.” He smiled at her, the most naughty, pleased, masculine smile she’d ever seen a man aim at a woman.
Dorset had a long tradition of wise women, though in unenlightened times, some had called them witches. They danced naked under the moonlight and worshiped the deities of the fields and forests. When Hawthorne smiled at Margaret like that, she felt a kinship with her pagan sisters.
A happy kinship. “Will you lie in the altogether before me all day, Hawthorne? I’d like to get something to eat, then visit the girls in the nursery.”
He rose from the bed and took up Margaret’s shift, tugging it down over her head. “You didn’t eat much at the wedding breakfast, Mrs. Dorning. How will you have strength enough for your marital exertions if you neglect your tucker?” He pulled her braid free from her shift, buttoned the top two buttons—Margaret had no memory of them being unbuttoned—and kissed her nose.
“You are so casual about these joys,” she said, tossing him his shirt for the sake of her own dignity. “I am unused to a man of such an affectionate nature.” Such a vigorous, healthy, straightforward, affectionate nature.
“I am affectionate with those I care for,” Hawthorne said. “I desire you, I esteem you, and I also like you exceedingly, Mrs. Dorning. One hopes you will soon hold me in similarly warm regard.”
How brave he was to put those sentiments into words, and how careful.
“I already hold you in warm regard. I’m just not used to it yet. Such happiness is an adjustment.”
Hawthorne assembled his clothing into a pile—breeches, stockings, waistcoat, cravat. “Give it a week. By the end of the first day of cutting hay, you won’t be able to stand the smell of me, and I will have to stand upwind of myself lest I faint from my own stench. Thank God the mill pond is always good for a peaceful swim at the end of a hot day.”
He was worried about haying, and Margaret delighted in being able to deduce that from his grousing. She delighted in the way they helped each other to dress and in the obvious glee with which both girls greeted Hawthorne when Margaret took him up to the nursery.
Adriana told him her story about the woman who’d tumbled into the mine shaft. Greta simply held his hand and studied the pocket watch he’d passed over for her examination.
Whi
le Margaret fell in love with her husband. Thank the good angels that Bancroft had yet to return, because this marriage to Hawthorne was, indeed, a gift to be savored.
Married life hadn’t started off quite as Hawthorne had envisioned. His first assumption had been that the steward’s cottage would turn into a family home. He’d anticipated the laughter of children greeting him when he returned from the fields at the end of the day and Margaret’s affection making those days more pleasant than bachelorhood could ever be.
The more pleasant aspect was off to a spectacular start, if yesterday’s interlude in the herbal was any indication. Today, Hawthorne was taking Margaret with him on calls to the Dorning Hall tenants, a day-after-the-wedding-day courtesy necessitated by the haying that would commence on Monday.
The visit to the nursery also hadn’t gone quite as planned. Thorne had been waiting for Margaret to say something to the girls about the wedding. Something simple and honest.
Mr. Dorning and I have married, and I hope you can be happy for us. Too grown up.
Mr. Dorning has fallen madly in love with me, and I’m Mrs. Dorning now. Too daft.
Mr. Dorning would like to be a papa to you, though he knows he can never be your true papa. Too honest. Also complicated.
Perhaps Margaret was waiting for inspiration, but children could not acquire a step-uncle, change abodes, and hear their aunt’s form of address altered all without an explanation. Then too, Margaret might be waiting for an infusion of courage, because clearly, certain topics related to the nursery would require that she and Thorne come to an understanding, the sooner the better.
But those discussions could wait at least until haying was done.
Thorne brought the gig to a halt at the foot of the Summerton front steps and wrapped the reins. A groom took the horse by the bridle.
A Lady of True Distinction Page 23