No.
‘This is a large estate. I thought I might try my hand at running it.’ A blatant lie, but Eleanor would not know he had also inherited a battalion of capable staff who ran a very tight ship unless he chose to apprise her. Which he wouldn’t. Between the estate manager, the gamekeeper, the butler, the gardener and his new solicitor, they had the entire task of Rivenhall well in hand. All Max had to do was sign things.
‘Well, that is good.’ She smiled as she sipped her tea and he was glad he had given her some hope, albeit false. ‘Do you have farmland, too? Tenants?’
Maybe. Probably. No doubt buried in the reams and reams of papers he had not bothered reading because he was indifferent to it all. ‘I haven’t met them yet.’ The only person he had met beyond the walls of his new household was Miss Nithercott. ‘There has been a lot to do.’
Like counting the candlesticks in the library or the tassels on the curtains in the study.
‘I can imagine... It is vast. Overwhelming, really, to picture you with a house like this. I am looking forward to a full tour later, but I am heartily impressed so far. The parkland looked...’
‘When are you going home, Eleanor?’
‘I have only just arrived. Are you wanting to be rid of me already?’
It would be cruel to tell her the truth after all she had done for him. ‘You have your own life to live, Eleanor. Perhaps it is time you dedicated your time back to Adam and the children rather than worrying so much about me.’
She squared her shoulders, suddenly defensive. ‘My husband is perfectly capable of holding the fort for a few days and my children are having a high old time with his mother who thoroughly spoils them rotten. They want to visit, by the way. Soon. They both miss their favourite uncle.’
‘I am their only uncle.’
‘Well, there is that and beggars cannot be choosers, but Thomas and Cecily still adore you. Despite your temporary and irritating belligerence.’
‘How many days are you staying?’
‘I need to satisfy myself that you are happy, Max.’
Happy! It would be laughable if it wasn’t so tragic. ‘You need to stop worrying about me. I am a grown man who does not need mollycoddling.’
‘You call it mollycoddling. I call it love. Either way, you are stuck with me until I am satisfied.’ A nicely, typically Eleanor piece of stubborn ambiguity which promised no clear end in sight. She took another sip of her tea and her expression became nonchalant. ‘Miss Nithercott seems nice.’
‘I hardly know the woman.’
‘But surely you must have noticed she is uncommonly pretty.’
Of course he had. He wasn’t dead. Unfortunately. ‘Is she? It’s hard to tell with her masculine attire and dirty face.’ He sipped his own tea and held his sister’s curious gaze levelly. Eleanor would take any sign of uncomfortableness as proof he was interested. ‘Apparently, the locals have little time for her and her obsessive passion for antiquity.’ Which struck him as a great shame because she was... Intriguing... Unusual... Ever so slightly hilarious. He had never met another soul quite like her. ‘Surely you noticed she is a little eccentric? She spends her days digging holes in the ground, for goodness sake. That is a trifle odd.’
‘I find it fascinating. So many young ladies have little between their ears beyond fluff.’ But not Miss Nithercott. She could calculate the difference between a nautical mile and a standard one, randomly quote Shakespeare and translate both the Angle and the Saxon languages without skipping a beat. Now that really was fascinating. ‘It is refreshing to meet one with a purpose beyond securing a good husband. All power to her, I say.’ Eleanor toasted the bane with her teacup. ‘Especially if she finds big lumps of gold in the mud. It certainly sounds a more exciting way to spend the time than embroidery.’
Or counting the brass knobs on the sideboard.
Chapter Six
Dig Day 764: four shards of pottery. A cluster of broken but cooked bones. One is most definitely the thigh bone of a chicken. Unsure whether the bigger pieces are from a sheep or a cow. Conclusion—my Celts had stew for dinner...
‘Good afternoon, Miss Nithercott!’
Effie had hastily stood and done her best to look presentable the moment she had heard the approaching hoofbeats, but up against the elegant sophistication of the older woman’s riding habit she still came up woefully short. Largely due to the morning’s light rain, which had caused the sticky peat-filled soil to be more adhesive than usual. She tucked her filthy hands behind her back and hoped Lord Rivenhall’s sister wouldn’t judge her too harshly.
‘Good afternoon, Mrs Baxter. I trust you are well.’
‘Very, thank you.’ From her seat in the saddle, she gazed past her to nose into the ever-increasing trench Effie had been furiously digging since breakfast. ‘Is this where you found the bracelet?’
‘Indeed it is. Among other things.’ She pointed towards the ruined church. ‘Over there has been very fruitful for finding Roman, medieval and the occasional Tudor artefact. Pre-Reformation, of course, as that is when Henry the Eighth turfed the monks off the land and had the Abbey destroyed. While over here, in my most recent trench, the evidence of human settlement appears much older. From the ancient Celtic tribes which once populated this part of East Anglia.’
‘Like the Iceni, you mean? Queen Boudicca?’ Effie had hoped not to appear surprised, but clearly her face must have given her away as Mrs Baxter grinned rather than appearing mortally insulted at the blatant disbelief at her knowledge. ‘Mr Baxter is in the book business, Miss Nithercott. A bookshop in Bond Street, where the aristocrats can purchase their bespoke leather-bound volumes, and a lending library in Cheapside where the masses can borrow them for a pittance. His library has an extensive historical collection which I have been known to make great use of when the mood takes me. I am all for broadening the mind...sometimes. However...’ she raised her dark eyebrows mischievously ‘...I am also a hopeless devotee of the works of Mrs Radcliffe. I know they are far-fetched and a trifle salacious, but I do love a good Gothic novel. Especially if it has a romance in it.’
‘My favourite is The Italian.’
‘You read Mrs Radcliffe?’ Now it was the other woman’s turn to look surprised.
‘I read everything and anything, Mrs Baxter, and find much enjoyment in a bit of escapist fiction.’ Back when she still harboured fanciful ideas of love and romance herself, Effie had gobbled up Gothic novels as though they were going out of fashion. But she’d cast them all aside in disgust years ago when she realised they were promising her a dream she was unlikely to ever have. Not when she terrified every man who dared come within six feet of her with her odd brain. ‘Which is your favourite?’
‘The Castles of Athlin and Dunbayne—because it ends so happily with a double wedding.’ She sighed wistfully for comic effect, fluttering her hand like a silly dolt with the vapours. ‘As does The Italian, so I approve of your choice, Miss Nithercott. You should also know I thoroughly disapprove of all novels which end unhappily because the world can be miserable enough at times, I fail to see why we should be forced to consume more misery in fiction during our leisure time. And because I am a shameless romantic at heart and choose to believe love really does conquer all. Is that why you adore the book?’
It used to be. Before realistic cynicism replaced girlish romanticism. ‘I adore the way the women characters take control. It gives me hope that one day we mere females might be treated almost equally to males.’ The snippiness leaked out before she could stop it.
‘Do you disapprove of men, Miss Nithercott?’ She appeared horrified at the thought.
‘Not all men and not usually.’ If one ignored the fact she hadn’t met one yet who didn’t ultimately disappoint. ‘However, you have caught me on a bad day and I find I am now predisposed to be vexed at the entire sex this afternoon on principle.’
‘Oh,
dear... Dare I ask what has happened to make you so aggrieved at all the poor men on the planet?’
‘The Society of Antiquaries of London have refused to read the paper I sent them on Romano-British coinage.’ Something they did with great regularity, so Effie knew she should be resigned to it by now. Yet it still galled they could be so blinkered when she was telling them something entirely new.
‘Why would they refuse?’
‘Because I had the audacity to be born female, Mrs Baxter. The Society neither admits women to their illustrious ranks nor deigns to read anything submitted to them by a woman’s hand, let alone publish it in the hallowed pages of their sacred Archaeologia. Regardless of the fact I am quite certain I have excavated at least three coins which have never been seen before. Not that they know that, of course, because they haven’t read my paper or as much as glanced upon my sketches.’
‘That is beastly of them.’
‘It is stupid. That is what it is. Near-sighted, thick-headed, narrow-minded, pompous and ignorant prejudice. Thanks to their decision, no other antiquarian will be able to benefit from the knowledge only I currently hold.’ None of which was Mrs Baxter’s fault. ‘But enough of my foolish woes. How are you enjoying Rivenhall?’
‘Exceedingly, Miss Nithercott. It is a beautiful house and the grounds are stunning. I think Max will be very happy here.’ Mrs Baxter tugged on the reins as her horse began to dance impatiently on the spot. ‘And speaking of my brother, we should both very much like to invite you to dinner this evening.’
‘Lord Rivenhall wishes to invite me?’ All the acting in the world wouldn’t cover her disbelief this time. Not when he had avoided her like the plague since he had reluctantly agreed to let her dig around the Abbey and the man had practically thrown her out of his house yesterday before the tea to which she had technically been invited arrived at the door.
Although, to his credit, at least he had disliked her before he got to know her. There was something comforting in that because she knew exactly where she stood. He hadn’t been all flirty smiles and charm in the beginning and then standoffish once he realised she was too intelligent for her own good. That was a first and one which allowed her to be herself before him unhindered by the knowledge one wrong word or question would damage their relationship.
‘Are you sure?’
‘Of course I am sure. We both want to know more about your fascinating work here. Perhaps you could bring some of those artefacts you were just telling me about?’
‘I suppose I could...’
‘I know he was rude yesterday. He really does not mean to be. The last few years have been...difficult for him and...’ For the first time the friendly smile faltered and Mrs Baxter appeared immensely troubled before she waved it away as if it was no matter, leaving Effie wondering exactly what had gone on. ‘Well—suffice to say he is not himself and his bark is much worse than his bite. Please come to dinner. I shall be leaving on Saturday and I should like to get to know you better before I go.’
‘That is very kind of you—I should love to come.’ She felt the loneliness keenest at mealtimes which nowadays, since Lord Richard’s passing, were always on her own.
‘Splendid... Is there somebody else you would like to bring with you? A fiancé or beau we can invite, perhaps?’
‘Neither a fiancé nor a beau, Mrs Baxter.’ And pigs might fly.
The older woman beamed. ‘Dinner for three it is, then. We eat at eight. Or thereabouts.’
* * *
She had ridden off before Effie had had the foresight to ask how formal the meal was going to be. Which meant she had stared too long at the contents of her wardrobe with uncharacteristic indecision as the hands of the clock chimed seven and now had her practically running down her host’s drive to avoid being late, clutching her bouncing cleavage in a gown she already bitterly regretted. But in a nod to fashion, and entirely because she had felt uncomfortably dowdy up against Mrs Baxter’s effortless up-to-the-minute style, she had donned it simply to prove she was capable of looking more glamourous and ladylike than the average potato sack. Less muddy, too. She had scrubbed her poor hands nearly raw in the bath in her quest to get her nails clean and even press-ganged the maid to do something fancy with her hair. By the time she was done, she hardly recognised the woman in her looking glass and was quietly pleased with her reflection.
However, remorse had set in as soon as she left the house and began walking towards Rivenhall. Only then had she learned the pretty coral silk was entirely decorative and not the least bit practical. It was much too low. So low, that any movement on her part beyond a sedate glide proved too much for the neckline to contain what she had stuffed into it. Gravity was apparently its nemesis. She would have to keep her shawl clamped tightly around her all evening in case the flesh beneath made a sudden break for freedom and proved Newton’s third law unequivocally in front of her hosts.
Effie darted behind the screen of a shrubbery to wrestle all the displaced parts of her person back into the gown, then carefully arranged the stupid, filmy shawl she had paired with the impractical gown to cover the vast expanse of skin she had on show before gingerly climbing the steps to the front door without displacing it all again.
* * *
If Max was ever going to get rid of Eleanor in days rather than weeks, he had quickly realised he needed to categorically prove to her he was coping as well with life as he claimed he was. That meant making a good show of going through all the expected motions and masking the bleak hopelessness until her blasted carriage was hurtling back up his new drive bound for London. To that end, he had given her an extensive tour of the house and gardens this morning, then pretended he had urgent estate matters to attend to all afternoon as an excuse to hole himself up in his study and count the books on the bookshelf in between staring at the walls.
By then he had desperately needed the solitude. Attempting to be his old self was exhausting. It had involved making meaningful conversation, showing an interest in his sister’s conversation and lying through his back teeth about his plans. And what a plethora of optimistic plans he had conjured out of thin air for her sake. Plans to increase the yield of his fields, stock his stable with the finest horseflesh to breed, to put down roots and live up to his new role as lord of the manor. He even, when pushed, suggested he might soon start to familiarise himself with the local society here in Cambridge. He did, and would continue to do, whatever it took to satisfy her he was finally moving on so she would leave him the hell alone.
Tonight, and no doubt tomorrow, he would also have to suffer the chore of dinner. Eleanor put great stock in the ritual of mealtimes. The communal breaking of bread with others around a table, endless conversation followed by yet more conversation once the meal was blessedly done. Back in London, she and he had locked horns repeatedly with his refusal to play along during his long convalescence and in the dark months since. She wanted him to be civilised and felt those interminable family dinners would aid his recovery and he wanted to be left well alone. By the end, all those meals with Eleanor, her husband and their children only served as a constant reminder of all the things he would never have, leaving him angrier than he might have been if he’d been allowed to take his meal on a tray all alone.
Fortunately, it would just be Eleanor tonight and he already had a plan to escape early, citing his imaginary crack-of-dawn schedule now that he was the lord of the manor. For her sake, and to a greater extent his, he had abandoned her for a second time an hour ago to dress for dinner. Not that his toilette ever took that long, even when he’d had to button himself into his dress uniform and cared about what he looked like. Nowadays, he could complete the task in a fraction of the time and shave blind, so to kill time he had lain in the bath for so long, the pads of his fingers resembled prunes and the water had gone cold.
As tempting as it was to stay put and freeze, dinner was imminent and he had to perform like the b
rother Eleanor wanted him to be rather than the one she had nursed back to health and still worried about constantly.
Max hauled himself out of the tub and briskly dried himself off. It was only after he had turned to retrieve the fresh clothes he had reluctantly laid out on the bed that he realised the sheet covering the large gilt mirror on the wall had slipped off the frame. Thanks to the lamplight and his nudity, he was confronted with the abhorrent sight of himself in all his glory properly for the first time in months. He instantly felt the bile rise at the ugly, raised and contorted skin marring his left cheek, neck, shoulder, upper arm and chest, like a poorly drawn map of Africa on the cheap papier-mâché globe he’d had in his cabin aboard the Artemis.
Sadistically, he stared at himself for as long as he could bear it as a test, silently hoping he could see some sign of improvement to pin fresh hope to, but there was none. The scars were just as big and just as ugly as they had been when he had first seen them almost two years ago. The only difference was the mess was now permanently healed over rather than an agonising, weeping open wound which had threatened to kill him and then cruelly failed to come good on the promise.
Instinctively, he tore his eyes away and snatched up his shirt, shrugging it ruthlessly on before he dared to replace the fallen sheet back on the only mirror left inside his new house. He no longer cared that the old gilt frame was embedded in the wall by several centuries’ worth of plaster, or that the glass was Tudor and therefore very rare indeed. As soon as this blasted dinner was done with, he would take a chisel to the damn thing himself and enjoy shattering it into a million pieces rather than witness the awful truth ever again.
Max was still tying his cravat when he slammed out of his bedchamber and, both despairing and fuming, he charged down the stairs to the front door.
Redeeming The Reclusive Earl (HQR Historical) Page 6