The two families were the principal landowners in the area. As, under the terms of her late father’s will, Madeline was the primary guardian of her three brothers, including Harry, it was she who was the de facto Gascoigne. She ran the estate and made all necessary decisions. As she’d been groomed by her father for that duty, and had performed in the role since before his lingering death eight years ago, the neighborhood had long grown accustomed to treating her as her brother’s surrogate.
Indeed, for the exemplary way she conducted her brother’s business and for her devotion to the difficult role of her brothers’ keeper, she had earned the respect of every person on the peninsula, and far beyond.
Gervase approached; hearing his bootsteps, Madeline turned, an easy smile lighting her face. Courtesy of his years abroad, he didn’t know her well, but as he’d been born at Tregarth Manor outside Falmouth, not that far away, and had spent many months throughout his childhood visiting his uncle and cousins at the castle, he’d known of her existence for most of her life.
Since his unexpected ascension to the earldom three years ago, and even more since he’d sold out the previous year and personally taken up the reins of the estate, he’d dealt with Madeline frequently, although busy as they both were, they most often communicated by letter.
She was considerably taller than the average, only a few inches shorter than Gervase. As usual when riding about the county, she was gowned in dark colors; today’s gown was a sensible rich brown. A wide-brimmed hat dangled from one hand, worn to protect her fair skin from the sun, but even more to help confine the mass of her hair. Fine and plentiful, no matter how tightly she restrained it in a knot on the top of her head, strands escaped, forming a halo of spun copper filaments about her face, rather like a Russian madonna. Her hair, however, was the only element of her appearance beyond her control; all the rest was deliberately and severely restrained, strictly business.
As Gervase neared, she held out a gloved hand.
He grasped it, shook it. “Madeline.”
Retrieving her hand, she returned his easy nod. “Gervase.” Her expression turned rueful. “Before you say anything, I’m here to beg your pardon.”
He blinked, frowned. “I thought you’d come about the mill.”
Her smile widened. “No, although I did hear of your problem. It seems quite bizarre that your sisters were involved. Have you discovered why they did it? Or, as is the case with my brothers, was it simply a matter of ‘it seemed a good idea at the time’?”
He managed a rueful smile. “Something like that. But what’s your apology for?”
“In light of the mill, you’ll understand. I’m afraid my hellborn three’s latest interesting idea was to put your bull in among your dairy herd. Don’t, pray, ask me why-their logic escapes me. I’ve already had them out to see your herdsman to apologize, and I supervised them in recapturing the bull and putting him back in his field. He didn’t seem any the worse for his adventure, although I’m afraid your milk production might suffer a trifle due to the excitement.”
She paused, a frown in her gray-green eyes. “I should, I suppose, have expected something. They’re home for the summer, of course, but I had hoped they would have outgrown such schoolboy exploits.”
Gervase raised his brows, falling into step beside her as she walked slowly back to the front door. “Harry’s fifteen, isn’t he? He’ll stop his schoolboy tricks soon enough, but when he does, you might well wish he hadn’t. In this season a slight disruption to our milk production won’t even be noticed, and if that’s the worst he and your other two get up to this year, we’ll all think ourselves lucky.”
“Hmm…be careful what you wish for?” Madeline wrinkled her straight, no-nonsense nose. “In that you might be right.”
They paused in the shadow of the front porch. She glanced at him. “When do you expect the mill to be fixed?”
They chatted for several minutes, about the mill and the coming harvest, about the local tin mining in which both estates had an interest, about the latest local business news. Like all the neighborhood gentlemen, Gervase had learned to respect and rely on Madeline’s views, drawn as they were from a much wider pool of information than any of them could tap.
There wasn’t a local merchant, miner, laborer or farmer who wouldn’t readily talk to Miss Gascoigne about his enterprise. Likewise his wife. Madeline had a much deeper understanding of anything and everything that went on on the Lizard Peninsula and in surrounding districts, one no mere man could hope to match.
She glanced up at the sun. “I really must be going.” She met his eyes. “Thank you for understanding about the bull.”
“If it helps, you can tell your brothers that I was not amused. I’ll be going out to the mill shortly.”
With a smile, she held out her hand. Gervase shook it, then went with her down the steps to the forecourt, where her horse, a tall, powerful chestnut few other women could hope to control, waited, alert and ready to run.
Lifting her hat, she settled it on her head, then reached for the front of her saddle. Gervase held the horse’s bridle, watching without a blink as Madeline planted her boot in the stirrup and swung up to the horse’s broad back.
She always rode astride, wearing trousers beneath her skirts for the purpose. Given the miles she covered every day watching over her brother’s interests, not even the most censorious dowager considered the fact worth mentioning.
Madeline lifted her reins. With a smile and a brisk salute, she backed the chestnut, then wheeled and trotted neatly out of the walled forecourt.
Gervase watched her go, idly aware that her peers in the district were the other male landowners; in their councils, she was never treated as a female-as someone of different status from the men. While no one would actually treat her as a man-thump her on the back or offer her brandy-she occupied a unique position.
Because, in many ways, she was unique.
Thinking of his sisters, Gervase considered that a little of Madeline’s uniqueness could, with benefit, rub off on them. Turning back to the castle, he remounted the front steps. And turned his mind back to his temper…only to discover that it was no longer straining at the leash.
He no longer had anything to suppress. He felt calm, in control once more, confident and able to deal with whatever might come his way.
His conversation with Madeline-sane, sensible and rational-had regrounded him. Why couldn’t his sisters be more like her?
Or was that one of those things he should be wary of wishing for?
He was still pondering that point when he reached the drawing room. Opening the door, he walked in.
Belinda, Annabel and Jane turned from the window overlooking the forecourt, through which they’d obviously been observing him and Madeline. Sybil, swiveled on the chaise, had been watching her daughters, no doubt listening to their report.
Before he could frown at them, all four looked at him, their expressions identical, eager and expectant.
He stared at them. “What?”
As one, they stared back.
“We thought perhaps you might invite her in,” Belinda said.
“Madeline? Why?”
The look they bent on him suggested they were wondering where he’d left his wits.
When he didn’t spontaneously find them, Belinda deigned to help. “Madeline. Isn’t she a suitable lady?”
He stared at them, and couldn’t think of an answer. Not any answer he wanted to give. Oaths, he suspected, wouldn’t shock them.
He let his face harden, let his most impenetrable mask settle into place. “I have to go and unjam the mill. I’ll speak with you later.”