“If the land goes back to the Crown,” she started up again, fists propped on ample hips, “you have nothing. Twenty years of slaving for that man, and nothing to show for it.”
“If the land goes back to the Crown, somebody still has to manage it, and we’ve money set aside, Portia. I’m a good steward, and there’s work to be had for such as me, and for thirty-eight years, my father has provided either directly or by means of furnishing me a livelihood.”
“Like hell.” She shifted to block his exit, and Able knew for the thousandth time some sympathy for men who beat their wives. “Stewards are invariably poor relations, and that old man is the only person you’re related to, and he’s looking worse each year, Able Springer. Each season.”
Able couldn’t argue that, not when his father was indeed showing his considerable age. “He has been generous with us, Portia, and you’ll not be pestering him now regarding his will. His lordship has had enough of death and grief these past few years.”
“Not so much he couldn’t remarry well before his mourning was up,” Portia snapped. “You must get all that strutting and pawing in the bedroom from him.”
He was torn between the urge to lay hands on her and the urge to emigrate to the Antipodes—alone. “Portia, dearest wife, if I could recall the last time you permitted me the pleasure of strutting and pawing in the bedroom, I might comprehend your remark, but for a woman who’s intent on inheriting a title and wealth, you’re doing precious little to secure the succession.”
He departed on that volley, not sure he’d know what to do if she did allow him intimacies. Eight years ago, she’d seemed like such a catch—practical, knowledgeable about the running of an estate, and comely enough for a man of his station. He’d hoped they could be friends.
His father hadn’t commented on his choice of wife, and a few years later, Lady Muriel had succumbed to the illness plaguing her. He’d liked Lady Muriel, and thought Portia might share a few of her more interesting qualities. More fool him.
He found his father in the breakfast parlor, noting again the older man’s gauntness, and felt a sweeping sense of loneliness. They didn’t know each other well, but, by God, they were the last of their line.
“Good morning, your lordship.” Able took a seat at the table. “I trust you slept well?”
“I slept.” Lord Longstreet’s smile was fleeting. “As one ages, that becomes a practice of dozing between trips to the chamber pot.”
“You miss your wife,” Able said. “Perhaps you’d sleep better in her company.”
“Vivian?” Lord Longstreet’s eyebrows rose. “One can hardly imagine such a thing. When are you and Portia to present me with some grandchildren, Able? It’s been what, six, seven years?”
“About that.” Able topped up Lord Longstreet’s teacup. “The Lord hasn’t seen fit to bless us.”
Lord Longstreet stirred his tea. “Is it the Lord being stingy, or your lady wife?”
The morning was to be a series of interrogations. “Is there a reason for such blunt inquiry?”
“An old man’s nosiness. A father’s nosiness. The male line in our family is not known for its fecundity. You might have to work at it, do you want children, if you’re like I was.”
“You had three sons. Many families make do with less than that.”
Lord Longstreet took a sip of his well-stirred tea. “Is she hounding you?”
“My lord?”
“Portia, is she hounding you regarding the estate?”
Able studied his tea—into which he had not put even a dash of sugar.
“You never call me father, Able.”
“You’ve never invited such familiarity,” Able said, wondering if everybody in the household had gone daft. “And you do not call me son.”
Lord Longstreet considered him from across the table. “You are certainly acknowledged. You always have been.”
“I’m not your heir, and I never can be.” Able addressed his teacup. “I understand that.”
“Though Portia would have it otherwise,” Lord Longstreet concluded. “She has the ambition I found in Muriel but not the integrity.”
Able bristled, because indirectly, it was a harsh judgment of him—and accurate in all its implications. “That’s an unflattering conclusion about a woman you barely know.”
“I’ve thrived in the Lords for half a century, Able, because I am an astute judge of character. Not as astute as Muriel, but she taught me to see what most men miss, and Portia is becoming bitter. She likes being lady of the manor, pretending to be the viscountess, but she’s the steward’s wife. That’s all she’ll ever be, and it tears at her.”
“The bastard’s wife,” Able said. “I was the bastard when she married me, and not even the regent can change that. I do comprehend my station, my lord.”
“And I comprehend your worth, Able.” Lord Longstreet rose slowly, mostly by bracing his knuckles on the table and pushing. “You may assure your wife of this fact and refer her to me should she doubt it. It looks like we’re in for more snow.”
“Snow means it can’t be all that cold,” Able said, rising out of respect. “Would you like to ride out with me today?”
“Ride out? I haven’t ridden the land here for what, three years? Suppose we could bundle up, take a flask or two?”
“Of course.” Able smiled as much at the prospect of escaping the house as at the twinkle in his father’s eye. “And maybe drop in at the Hot Cross Bun for a scone.”
“Haven’t had one of their scones for years.” William smiled in remembrance, and Able knew, he just knew, the last time William had dropped by the local bakery for a treat, Lady Muriel had been the one to jolly him into it.
“Let’s be off, then,” Able said. “Before we’re caught and forced to spend the day with the ledgers—or worse.”
Vivian Longstreet was proving problematic—interesting, but problematic. A month wasn’t going to be long enough to unravel the blend of shyness and determination Darius sensed in her, and a month was going to be too long to have her underfoot.
He glanced at the note from Blanche Cowell complaining of his month-long absence from Town. Because her husband would require her at the family seat for at least two weeks of that month, Darius hardly spared her a thought.
Lucy Templeton was similarly discommoded by Darius’s absence, and her missive promised predictable retribution for his not coming when she snapped her fingers at him.
Darius set her note aside as well, anticipating a game of Spoiled Puppy when he returned to Town. She’d spank him until her hand hurt, and “let” him put his nose in her lap for his reward when he was sufficiently contrite. It was beyond tedious. If Lord Longstreet provided the remuneration he’d promised, Lucy Templeton, Blanche Cowell, and all of their ilk might soon be nothing more than bad—very bad—memories.
“So this is where you hide?”
He glanced up from his desk to see Vivian standing in the door of his study. She was attired in the closest thing he’d seen on her to an attractive dress—a soft brown velvet creation with a raised waistline, suggesting it was years out of date, though it looked comfortable.
“This is where I shovel my way through the reams of correspondence that must occupy a man involved in commerce.”
“Commerce?” She advanced into the room, glancing around. “I thought you were a gentleman farmer.”
“A farmer, in any case.” He tossed his pen down. “I haven’t enough land to raise corn and livestock in any quantity, so I raise those goods that can be easily sold in Town.”
“And those would be?”
“I’m still figuring it out.” He rose and gestured to a pair of reading chairs near the hearth. “I’ve done well with garden vegetables thus far, mostly because I take inordinate care in their transport. I eschew the practice of hauling manure out of London in the same wagons I use to haul the vegetables in. The flavor benefits as a result. Eggs are easy to produce in quantity, chicken manure is valuable, and the feathers can also be sold, to say nothing of having a steady supply of chicken for the table. Eggs are hard to transport, though, and most everybody with an alley can keep a coop themselves in Town. Some keep their chickens on the rooftop, much like an old-fashioned dovecote.”