A Woman of True Honor: True Gentlemen Book Eight Read online

  The compliment stung, though Valerian wasn’t in truth any sort of uncle to the children at all. “I am the uncle they know the best, all the others having found gainful employment elsewhere.”

  “And yet,” Margaret said, taking the bag and holding it out to him, “you somehow have the coin to buy the children a treat.”

  Valerian had exactly three shillings on his person and not much more than that to his name. He did own Abbotsford, but the property produced no income at present.

  “With all the other uncles flown,” he said, “somebody must drop by to spoil them. I did have a question for you, though.”

  “Have a lemon drop, Valerian.”

  He took one to humor her, but in truth he’d counted them out and figured he had about six visits’ worth in the bag.

  “My question regards Pepper Ridge, or Summerfield House, as it will likely be called for the next fifty years.”

  Margaret wrinkled her nose, which made her resemble Greta facing a plate of mashed turnips. “I don’t miss the place. I didn’t spend much time there if I could help it. My former brother-in-law was no sort of house steward, and that became increasingly evident.”

  “If you were to make a list of matters to address in an effort to restore the house to its former glory, how would you go about it?”

  Margaret rolled up the bag of lemon drops and passed it back to him. “This has to do with Miss Pepper, doesn’t it?”

  “With being neighborly. I gather her father’s improved health means she’s more or less on her own putting the house to rights, and she has no experience with a dwelling that size.”

  Margaret returned to her chair, so Valerian took a seat as well. This was the point of his call, for he’d no real need to observe the good cheer, laughter, and comfort in which Hawthorne and his family dwelled. Hawthorne’s air of contentment was palpable from twenty paces upwind.

  “The problem as I saw it,” Margaret said slowly, “was a want of leadership in the senior staff. The cook and housekeeper get on well, which means they spend an inordinate amount of time in the housekeeper’s sitting room, ostensibly discussing menus, but in truth gossiping. When the upper servants set that kind of example, and the butler and first footman are no better, the entire staff mills about, criticizing each other, nattering about nothing, and slacking. The hard workers are compelled to slack lest they be condemned for making others look bad, and the whole house suffers.”

  Valerian had written exactly this in the chapter of his book on managing domestics. “Are they capable, the senior staff?”

  “Capable, but unmotivated. I should call on Miss Pepper, shouldn’t I?”

  “In a social capacity, I’m sure that would be appreciated, but you cannot be seen to undermine her authority or criticize her as lady of the manor. Perhaps if you took Lady Casriel with you, or Daisy, or both?”

  “We should call on her,” Margaret said. “I have been remiss, what with”—she smiled at her hands—“being a newlywed.”

  Valerian rose rather than allow her to extol the virtues of the married state. “I’m sure Miss Pepper would appreciate a call. Please give my regards to Hawthorne.”

  “I certainly will.” Margaret escorted him to the door, and he was tapping his hat onto his head when the inevitable question came. “How is your manuscript coming along?”

  He said the same thing he’d said the previous Saturday when Hawthorne had asked him. “Quite well, thank you. The revisions are complete, and the next step will be publication.”

  “I look forward to reading it someday. Thank you so much for calling.”

  Valerian bowed over her hand, made his escape, and paused only long enough to wave in the direction of the nursery windows before swinging into the saddle and cantering—not galloping—down the drive.

  He hadn’t been exactly honest with Margaret regarding his manuscript. Publication was one possible next step. The more likely eventuality was that nobody would want to print the damned thing, nobody would sign up to buy it, and months of hard work would never see the light of day.

  That possibility constituted failure.

  Complete, utter failure, and it was by far more likely than publication.

  Chapter Four

  In London, the great mass of unvouchered wretches who were denied access to Almack’s regarded Wednesday evenings during the Season as drudgery. They hosted or attended consolation entertainments and by mutual agreement ignored the shame of exclusion from the sanctum sanctorum.

  Emily gave her appearance one last appraisal in the cheval mirror. What woman in her right mind preferred tepid punch, dry cake, and gossip to the fresh air and friendly company to be had in Dorset?

  She had done as Mr. Dorning had suggested and saved the blue dress for the upcoming assembly, which meant this week’s choice was a pale green muslin with three-quarter sleeves that ended in small lace cuffs. The bodice and collar were also edged in cream lace, but only edged.

  “I cannot believe Prattle laid out such an unimpressive ensemble for you,” Briggs said, coming to a halt on the threshold of Emily’s sitting room. “I will have a word with her. When you are new to the neighborhood, appearances matter. I thought I’d made that plain to her, but she is merely a lady’s maid.”

  Briggs hadn’t knocked before entering, though if Emily remarked that presumption, Briggs would sulk until Michaelmas.

  “I chose this outfit,” Emily said, turning from the mirror. “I tried to impress all and sundry with my sartorial splendor in London, and my plan failed. If last week’s outing is any indication, I am well advised to reconnoiter the neighborhood before I trot out the French fashions and expensive evening gowns.”

  The plan to win the tolerance of London’s hostesses through an abundance of lace, jewels, and embroidered flourishes hadn’t been Emily’s, but rather, the confident advice of the best modistes and milliners. Blaming them for bad guidance now served no purpose.

  Briggs closed the door gently, and even in that simple task—by the posture of her shoulders, her downcast gaze, the soft sigh she permitted herself—she signaled resignation.

  “Do you know how frustrated you become with your father?” Briggs asked. “You tell him to rest, to partake of good food, to moderate his consumption of spirits. He pretends to listen, then does as he pleases much of the time, and that course brought him perilously close to ruined health.”

  Papa had actually come perilously close to death. “Papa is an adult. He can be reasoned with, but his decisions are his own.”

  Briggs crossed to the dressing closet and opened a wardrobe. The dress hanging on the door was a cream dinner gown with puffed sleeves and intricate pearl embroidery all over the bodice. The ensemble was both exquisite and hideous. By candlelight, the pearls turned Emily’s bust into a beacon worthy of a Channel lighthouse.

  “Mr. Pepper is a man,” Briggs said, taking down the dress. “He need never consider who will have him for a spouse or who is measuring him against some comely schoolgirl with a winsome smile. Beyond a certain point, wealth is a burden, miss. I have explained this to you. A fellow doesn’t want to be seen as a bought-and-paid-for ornament. You lack the standing to attract the notice of a truly wealthy aristocrat. You lack the beauty to turn the heads of important young men. You must fish in a shallow river, among wealthy gentry and not-quite-venerable money.”

  Briggs carried the cream confection from the dressing closet, holding it as carefully as if it were a holy vestment.

  “I am not an angler hoping to catch my supper, Briggs. I’ve mentioned that to you before.” In the gentlest-possible terms, of course.

  Briggs tilted her chin up and closed her eyes, a martyr beseeching the heavens for patience. She completed her tableau vivant with a grand sigh and a pitying gaze aimed at Emily.

  “If you fail to marry before your father goes to his reward, your fortune could be held up for decades—decades, I tell you—in chancery. That fate is one your good father would spare you. I daresay either o
f his minions would willingly accept you as a spouse, though you know my opinions regarding that pair.”

  Emily took up the reticule and parasol made to complement the green dress. “Marry Caleb or Tobias?” Briggs had muttered something similar a few weeks ago, and Emily had ignored the comment as one borne of Briggs’s penchant for dire imaginings.

  “Why do you think they have remained single all these years? Your father trusts them, you know them, and they are familiar with your family’s circumstances.”

  Briggs hung the pale dress on Emily’s bedpost, where the pearls sewn across the bodice caught the late afternoon sunshine pouring through the window.

  “My family’s circumstances are hardly remarkable, Briggs.”

  “Don’t lie to yourself, miss.” Said ever so quietly. “You have wealth, your father is respected to the extent a merchant can be respected, but your brother’s disgrace reflects poorly on all concerned. I know of what I speak, having been similarly shamed by my own brother’s poor choices. Your brother’s situation must be disclosed to any man who offers for your hand, though both Mr. Granger and Mr. Booth already know the particulars.”

  “Then they know Adam was innocent.” And how had this dreadful topic come up in the middle of an otherwise pleasant afternoon?

  “Your own father testified against him and saw him transported.”

  “Old news,” Emily said, snatching up the bonnet she’d chosen for this outing. “And Papa regrets his decision.” She hoped he did, though he never mentioned Adam by name or otherwise. Adam was dead to him, and Adam was none too happy with Papa.

  “You have time to change that dress,” Briggs said. “You needn’t go about in public looking like a dairy maid.”

  The green dress had been Emily’s idea, a rebellion against all the modistes’ suggestions and flattery.

  “That is unworthy of you, Briggs. I am decently clad, comfortable enough for dancing, and certainly not in the mood to belabor odd notions such as marriage to Caleb or Tobias. I bid you good day.”

  Emily forced herself to leave the room at a decorous pace, but fleeing Briggs’s fulminating glances and fraught silences was nearly as compelling a motive as spending another pleasant few hours in Mr. Dorning’s company.

  She took herself to the second guest parlor, which had a view of the drive, and tried to re-establish the sense of happy anticipation she’d enjoyed before the confrontation with Briggs. Like a pesky housefly, Briggs’s reminders refused to depart Emily’s awareness.

  That Adam’s situation could affect Emily’s marital prospects was a disturbing notion she’d managed not to dwell on. If Papa learned that Emily corresponded with her brother, Papa would be furious, but Emily refused to believe her brother had been guilty as charged. An occasional letter seemed the least consideration she could spare her only sibling.

  A clatter of wheels on the crushed-shell drive sent thoughts of Adam back into the mental cupboard where Emily usually locked them. Five minutes later, the butler announced Mr. Valerian Dorning, who looked positively resplendent in country riding attire. His boots were clean, but lacking the champagne shine the Town dandies affected. His cravat was a neat arrangement, no cascades of lace or starched grandiosities of height. His coat was a soft brown that made a nice contrast with his striking blue eyes.

  “Miss Pepper, a pleasure.”

  The words were the most uninspired of civilities, but Emily believed he meant them. He bowed over her hand and offered her a smile that conveyed not mere approval, but genuine warmth.

  Emily dipped a curtsey. “Mr. Dorning, the pleasure is mine.”

  She aimed a look at the butler, who was trying to hover by the doorway. He withdrew, and then Emily was alone with her escort.

  “Have I chosen appropriate attire?” she asked, stepping back and twirling. “You must always be honest with me, Mr. Dorning.”

  “Your ensemble is quite fetching, and I am being not only honest, but restrained in my compliments. Clovis awaits us on the drive, and I suspect you are ready to try your hand at driving again.”

  Emily preceded him from the room and was soon seated next to him in the gig. He steered the horse around the circular driveway and turned him onto the lane, then passed Emily the reins.

  “I have looked forward to this outing,” Emily said, clucking the horse into a trot. She had worn riding gloves, but she needed a pair of driving gloves, for she intended to become a proficient whip.

  “I have looked forward to another dancing practice as well. A little socializing in the middle of the week is good for us, I think.”

  Emily knew what to say in response. First, agree with the gentleman. Second, flatter his insight, his wit, or his knowledge. Third, ask him another question designed to allow him to show off his opinions and education. Flatter, smile, repeat.

  Mr. Dorning would know that silly exercise for the insult it was.

  “Do you know what I think is good for us?” Emily replied, guiding the horse around a curve in the lane, then drawing back gently on the reins.

  “My heart beats with anticipation to know your thoughts, Miss Pepper.”

  She brought the horse to a standstill in the shade of a towering oak. “A kiss shared on a quiet country lane.”

  Mr. Dorning gazed out over the summer-ripening fields and pastures, his expression caught between humor and something uncomfortable to see.

  “Miss Pepper, while I esteem you greatly, I must remark on the lack of variety in your topics of conversation.”

  He was teasing her again, flirting gently, and Emily did not want to be teased or flirted with. She did not want to be instructed regarding her marital prospects, or scolded regarding her choice of dress. She wanted to be noticed by a man whom she could esteem, one who took her situation to heart and dealt with her honestly.

  Mr. Dorning apparently wanted to get on with his afternoon appointments.

  “Then I will cease prosing on about a topic which is so clearly of no interest to you.”

  She gathered up the reins and would have given them a stout shake, but Mr. Dorning’s gloved hands covered hers.

  “You mistake the situation, Miss Pepper.”

  No, she did not. She was attracted to a fellow who was doubtless used to the daughters of cits tossing themselves at him, and today was just another day when Emily Pepper had made a cake of herself.

  “I have overstepped, Mr. Dorning. It won’t happen again. My upbringing is ever a disadvantage in polite company. You needn’t make excuses for me.”

  He gazed down the deserted lane, giving Emily perhaps her last opportunity to admire his profile. He was handsome, but he was also self-possessed, kind, good-humored, and a true gentleman.

  “I am attempting to make excuses for myself,” he said, slanting her a look, “and largely failing.”

  “You have done nothing inexcusable.”

  “Not yet, perhaps.” He wrapped the reins around the brake and took off his gloves. Next, he removed Emily’s gloves, drawing them from her hands slowly, as she watched him in puzzlement.

  He cradled her cheek against the warmth of his palm, then slid a hand around to her nape. “I am about to take unforgivable liberties, Miss Pepper.”

  “Good. I am about to do the same with you, Mr. Dorning.”

  And then, heavenly days, he took the most wonderful, glorious, breath-taking liberties Emily had ever enjoyed.

  * * *

  Valerian’s childhood had ended shortly after his tenth birthday. On that occasion, he’d been reading away a summer morning in the crook of an enormous hemlock when his parents had chosen to quarrel on the bench beneath the tree.

  The earl and countess were frequently at odds, and Valerian’s first reaction had been resentment that they’d interrupted his peace with their bickering. Mama and Papa argued, they even shouted at each other on rare occasions, and when hostilities were at their worst, Papa would spend long days far afield on the estate collecting botanical specimens.

  Because Papa al
so spent long days far afield in the same pursuit when Mama was in her less bellicose moods, Valerian concluded that parents vexed each other in the normal course—his parents, in any case.

  Eavesdropping was rude, but so was interrupting, and once Mama began her cannonades, no sane boy revealed that he was within earshot of the battlefield. What’s more, Papa was giving as good as he got.

  “You have enough bonnets and furbelows to last into the next century,” Papa declared. “I will not stint on the education due our children for the sake of your vanity.”

  Mama sat up very straight, though her expression was obscured by a straw hat sporting nesting sparrows and silk roses. “For shame, my lord, that you would begrudge your countess a few fripperies. Oak has no need of a drawing master. He draws well enough from sheer natural ability. You want to make the boy into your personal botanical illustrator. Admit it.”

  Oak could draw anything, from caricatures to portraits to landscapes. He sketched in papers secreted in his hymnal during services. He drew patterns in the dirt with sticks. Despite that prodigious talent, he longed to make what he called art, about which Valerian knew exactly nothing. Painting fusty old gents in frock coats or beldames in enormous skirts wasn’t a very exciting ambition.

  “Oak could do worse with his talent than to illustrate learned treatises,” Papa shot back. “People pay money for such a skill, and those herbals and plant guides serve a greater purpose than keeping your milliner in chocolates and lace.”

  Mama shifted a foot farther from Papa on the bench. “Talk of money is vulgar. Our sons are gentlemen, and you would have Oak in trade. I despair of you, my lord. You own thousands of acres, enjoy a fine income, and yet you expect me to economize like some shopkeeper’s wife. If you encourage the boy, he’ll end up as an itinerant drawing master. Is that what you want for him?”

  If Mama expected her goading to escalate the battle, she was bound to disappointment. Papa took off his hat, ran his hand through his hair—he was going thin at the top, much to Valerian’s consternation—and rested his arm along the back of the bench.