Chapter Nine

M

iles had no more ridden into the courtyard of Fairwood when his new employees, women, and men, poured out of the manor house and outbuildings, led by Mr. Weldon, voicing cheers and congratulations. A champagne cork made a loud popping and foam poured out of the mouth of the green bottle handed to him before Miles had even dismounted. He held the frothing bottle away from him with a laugh.

A ring of well-wishers surrounded Miles and added to the feeling of celebration with a chorus of, “Huzzah! Huzzah!” and “Welcome home, my lord!”

“Day Dreamer’s won the 1,000 Guineas, sir! By a length and a half. Nothing was going to touch her. Remarkable performance!” Weldon grinned at him. “Her groom is spoiling her rotten as I speak. I did as you ordered, my lord; all the horses from Fairwood that Lord Marlburl scheduled to go off at Newmarket, started. We had other good showings but nothing to compare with Dreamer. She’s the queen of the farm, today.” 

He looked about the sea of upturned smiling faces, somewhat dazed by Weldon’s jubilant news. “Of all things… fancy that! Day Dreamer took the 1,000 Guineas.” Another unified cheer interrupted him. “I’m devastated to have missed it. I believe champagne should be broken out all around. This victory is far more yours than mine. Mrs. Brody, will you take care of it please.”

At that, the volume and number of cheers redoubled, and Miles handed off his bottle to a stable hand and dismounted, putting the reins of his horse into the hands of a waiting groom. “See that the gelding gets returned to the coaching house at Six Mile Bottom. Now,” he turned to Mr. Weldon, “I need to see Fairwood’s newest star.”

“Yes, sir.” Weldon grinned and shouted good-naturedly to the crowd surrounding him. “Be off with you. Enjoy the bubbly. Dreamer doesn’t need the lot of you descending on her. The lady needs her rest. Remember, you’ve still got your chores to attend to so don’t get bosky.”

With much teasing and laughter, the crowd dispersed in search of the promised champagne and Miles walked to the stables with his steward. Entering the brick building, it wasn’t difficult to locate the star attraction’s stall. A refined chestnut head hung over the half door and lipped treats of carrots and apples from her groom’s hands as he stroked her head and crooned words of lavish praise.

Miles stepped forward and ran his palm up the filly’s satin neck, his eyes inspecting what he could see of her. “You are her groom, then. Your name? Were you at the track today? Did you see her run?”

The young man, his excitement barely contained, responded with a tug at his cap, “Jemmy Struthers, at your service, m’lord. Ah yes. I seen her. Ever so swift, she was. The jock held her at the back until I was that scared she’d not get her chance, but then, he swung her clear and let her run.” The groom’s face filled with joy. “And like a streak o’light she was. Our girl showed them others her heels—as if they wasn’t even trying, sir! Even that Deluth—her wot’s supposed to be such a terror.” Jemmy grinned. “Won a whole ten shillings from Deluth’s groom and wasn’t he fair put out!”

Miles laughed and slapped the young groom on his shoulder. “Good for you, Jemmy. Get her out for me, will you? Walk her up and down a bit? I’d like to see her again.”

“With pleasure, sir.”

Miles could hardly credit the passage of time. Almost two months had come and gone since he’d arrived at his new property and the days had been filled with strenuous, manual work. Not above getting his hands dirty and lacking the funds to pay for additional help, he’d pitched in everywhere practical, digging drainage ditches in the eastern paddocks, driving one of the teams that plowed the spring fields, rebuilding the old rock walls that divided the pastures. At night, half-asleep from physical exhaustion, he went over the books with Weldon and mired himself in the daily accounts of running Fairwood. The wherewithal to make much-needed improvements was an ever-present worry. The prize money from Day Dreamer’s win was a godsend. 

In short, there was no part of life at Fairwood that he didn’t throw himself into with abandon, intent on learning every aspect. Always, there was the matchless joy of watching his horses, be it the mares gently cropping grass as their youngsters fought mock battles with others their age, or his racers thundering across the flat verge, muscles straining, nostrils flared as they obeyed their inherited imperative to run.

He’d also taken the better part of ten days to remove his mother from the untenable position she endured at Chelsony Hall. He’d felt a profound sense of satisfaction after installing her in her own apartment of rooms at Fairwood and turning over the management of his house to her. By acting as his hostess and in putting to right the neglected gardens that surrounded the manor house—or whatever else she wished to turn her hand to—he was hopeful that she would rediscover, as she put it, her gaieté de coeur—her gaiety of spirit and her joie de vivre—her joy in life.

As comfortable as he was with his new employees and as much as he enjoyed seeing his mother starting to bloom hand-in-hand with the gardens, in the odd moments when he wasn’t staggering into bed at night or growing bleary-eyed trying to balance tally sheets, his thoughts turned to a particular woman. This woman shared his passion for the Thoroughbred horse, and with her, the exchange of new theories and proven methods had flowed without restraint. It was a route his thoughts retraced with greater frequency as days passed. He missed her dry wit and insightful comments. He missed her sensible attitude and ruefully admitted to himself that he could certainly use her experience. The healthy animal within that had rarely gone without a regular outlet for his male urges reminded him of her passionate response to his kisses and chided him for his cold bed.     

When he added together the number of times she’d intruded into his thoughts, he realized he’d given frequent thought to the whole of her—the woman who had provided his avenue to this heaven on earth—and his conscience simply would not allow him rest. He came to a most reluctant decision—one he’d only become reconciled to after weeks of self-reproach—and decided he’d make one more peace offering in an effort to put right the damage he’d wrought to their association. The offering would be painful to him and Fairwood—he could well imagine Weldon’s howls of outrage—but if it mended Eleanor’s hurt, he’d count the cost justified.

His interview with his farm manager went as he’d expected.

“Have you taken complete leave of your senses, my lord? This is the action of a mad man!” Weldon’s voice rose in hostility and volume until with a sense of mild curiosity, Miles wondered if the man would lunge over his desk and physically assault him. Weldon seemed to recall his position, however, and drew rein just short of physical attack, snarling, “I strongly object to this…this…lunacy!” Without taking his leave, the man abruptly stormed out of Miles’ library, slamming the door so hard that it failed to catch and rebounded open with a quiver.

Closing his eyes, Miles inhaled a steadying breath, released it slowly, and then rose and crossed the room to a window which looked out on the intimate garden his mother was returning to vibrancy. He crossed his arms on his chest and tried to find some calm within, but the thoughts and emotions running through him were as disorderly as the water that tumbled willy-nilly down the irregularities in the rock wall that formed part of the garden’s water feature.

“I was coming to see you and overheard what you told Mr. Weldon.” His mother regarded him from the open door with gentle knowing eyes, a soft smile giving her beautiful face a beatific countenance.

“Maman. Come in, dearest.” His gaze returned to the garden scene. “Then, you also heard his response. My steward declares I’ve gone mad. I think I’m in agreement with him.”

A soft swoosh of gown and footsteps ended at his side, and his mother took his arm, laying her head against his shoulder, and joined him in gazing out the window.

“What do you think?” he murmured.

“Hmmm… that it was a lovely thing to do, and that I’m very much looking forward to meeting your Eleanor.”

He raised his eyebrows and drawing back, gave his mother a look of inquiry. “Why do you call her my Eleanor? I’ve told you how I came to marry her. This is strictly a business arrangement.”

His mother held him in a playful gaze, a mysterious smile flirting with her mouth. “Miles, my darling boy,” she chided gently. “You would never have given that lovely filly to a business associate.”

Eleanor snuggled into Julian Bitters’ old sofa, sipped her tea and stared into the flames of the fireplace, her muddy boots propped on the fire-irons. Heavy rain had interfered with the afternoon rounds, and both she and her stud manager had retreated to dryer spaces. “I need to give this sofa a new covering, Bitters.”

A low chuckle greeted her in response. “Aye, my lady. It could do with some refurbishing, but then would you feel so free to put your muddy self upon it?”

Her eyes smiled at him over her pottery mug as she took another sip of hot liquid. “It’s difficult to decide what’s more dirty—me or the sofa. But, I understand your point. The sofa will stay as is.” She sighed. “It’s going to be a quiet spring for Rutledge with Cinsyr our only hopeful.”

“Yes, that it is. But you know how it goes. Feast or famine. You run three of your own against each other, or you run none.” Bitters shrugged. “Tis the way of it.” He paused thoughtfully. “Have you sent an inquiry to Fairwood about purchasing Day Dreamer, the Old Codger mare’s filly?”

She threw an admonishing glance at him. “No, and I’m not going to.”

“It would be nice to see the get of Rutledge’s newest stallion winning under Rutledge colors.”

“Agreed.”

“It would be nice to have the management of an enormously exciting home-bred back in our hands. Not to take anything away from Fairwood—they’ve done a decent job with her—but we’ve been at this game a little longer.”

“Agreed.”

Bitters held her gaze steadily. “So…?”

“So, I’ve not made inquiry, nor do I intend to do so—and that’s the end of it.”

Bitters grunted. After a lull during which only the snapping of the fireplace and the muffled thuds of the occupants in their stalls could be heard, her stud manager asked, “Any improvement in the Earl?”

She stretched forward and set her mug on the floor, then settled into the sofa and allowed her head to loll backward. “Thank you, Bitters. You are such a ray of sunshine.”

A snort answered her flat complaint. “I do my best, ma’am.”

With a heavy sigh, she closed her eyes. “Since my return from London, he’s taken to his bed. Mamma won’t leave him, so I’ve instructed her bed to be moved in beside him as she is too feeble to endure so many hours in a chair.” Tears creased her cheeks, and her voice thickened. “I’m losing them, Bitters. They’ll go together. I’m certain. He of a multitude of ailments and she of a broken heart.”

She felt Bitters place a warm hand on her shoulder and press a linen handkerchief into her hand. “The house will feel like an empty cavern when they are gone.” She sniffed. “It already echoes.”

“At least they will go knowing that you have done your best to secure Rutledge, my lady.”

Yes, she’d done her best to secure Rutledge, and it had only cost one small piece of her soul. She wiped her tears, blew her nose and sat up. “Well, I suppose I should take advantage of this foul weather to catch up on my correspondence. Lady Florence Lloyd-Smyth wants to visit, and I should respond to her letter, and there is something from my barrister in London.” She rose. “I’ll see you in the morning.”

He nodded as she turned to leave and she knew he watched her from the window of his office as, through the deluge, she sprinted across the courtyard to the front entrance of the main house.

The doorman swung the door open for her and she didn’t pause, but pounded up the grand staircase, down the hall and into her apartments. She rang for her maid and began stripping herself of her sodden garments. Two hours later, bathed and dressed once more as “Lady Miles Everleigh,” she checked in on her parents.

“How are they, Laura?” she murmured. The nurse looked up from her reading and crossed the chamber to stand beside Eleanor as she looked down at two dear faces, both asleep in their beds.

Laura replied in a low voice, “The Earl had a difficult night, my lady, but her ladyship slept peacefully. The dears were up for several hours this morning and have just fallen asleep again. Should I ring you when they wake?”

“Yes, if you would please.” She smiled at the nurse. “I’ll be in Father’s study.”

The nurse dipped into a curtsy. “Yes, my lady.”

Exiting quietly, Eleanor made her way to the first floor and into the masculine room that served as the hub of operations for Rutledge. She sat in the Earl’s huge leather chair and sorted through the mail piled on a silver tray in the middle of her father’s immense desk. The missive from Elsington & Elsington bearing four shiny red seals demanded her attention first. She scanned through the opening address with its predictable courtesies and got straight to the pertinent message:

.... after determining Elsington & Elsington had been the victim of a burglary, we searched the interior of my office most thoroughly. I regret to inform you the only papers we discovered missing from my files were that of your premarital contract with Lord Miles Everleigh and some of the addendums thereto.

I can only speculate as to the purpose of this egregious theft; however, I feel duty-bound to remind you of HRH’s pernicious interest in your recent marriage and to put you on notice that should you receive a personal visit from one of his representatives, which I feel is only a matter of time, it would be advisable to appear ensnared in conjugal bliss.

I am devastated at our failure to protect your most private papers and ...

The communication from her solicitor ended with all the usual prostrations of apologetic blather. She thoughtfully folded the letter and put it in the top right drawer of the desk. Who could possibly desire a copy of her prenuptial agreement other than the Prince Regent? It was worrisome in the extreme, and a feeling of foreboding apprehension overwhelmed her momentarily. She disciplined herself to long, slow breaths and lectured herself, “rational mind over raw emotion”. There was little point in getting ahead of events. If or when an agent for Prinny appeared at Rutledge, she’d deal with him. Until then, she had other immediate issues more pressing.

As the unpredictable spring weather was prone to do, it went from drenching rain to brilliant sun by evening, and when Eleanor paused the next day to take lunch with her parents in their bedroom, the sun still shone brightly in milky blue skies. She’d no more gotten a piece of roast beef to her mouth while listening to her father give sought-after advice on what to plant at the Balisters’ tenant farm, than a knock at the door sounded. Laura answered. The footman’s voice carried into the bedroom.

“Mr. Bitters requests her ladyship’s presence as soon as may be convenient. Not an emergency, he said, but something of great interest to her ladyship.”

“I heard him, Laura.” Eleanor stood and put her napkin on the table. Leaning over she kissed her father and mother on the cheek. “I’ll see you at dinner, my dears. Please mind Laura, Father. She tells me you’ve been difficult about taking your medicines.”

He grumped some indistinguishable answer and waved her off with a gnarled hand, and her mother smiled up at her. “Tell Bitters to come visit. We miss him.”

“I will, Mamma. The sun has come out, and it looks like it’s decided to stay. Would you like me to have Walters send some footmen to take you out to the garden? You and Father might enjoy some sun.”

“Oh, that would be grand, wouldn’t it, darling?”

Her father smiled at his wife. “If you would like it, my dear.”

Eleanor turned to Laura. “Bundle them warmly, and I’ll send up some footmen with the wheeled chairs.”

She relayed her instructions to Walters and then sought out Bitters to discover what it was that “was of great interest” to her.

“Ah, my lady.” Bitters opened his arm and directed her into the stable aisle where a young groom, unfamiliar to her—she knew all her stable workers on sight and by name—stood holding the lead line of an elegant chestnut mare.

“Oh! Bitters…” Her voice oozed admiration as she walked slowly to the attentive horse and ran a caressing hand down her long neck and up to scratch at the mare’s withers, a universally “itchy” spot for any horse. Stepping back to admire the animal further, she glanced at the young man. “Hello. I’m Lady Miles and who might you be? Furthermore, who is this lovely lady?”

The young man pulled at his cap. “Jemmy Struthers of the Fairwood Stud, my lady, and this be Day Dreamer, the filly wot won the Newmarket 1,000 Guineas.” He reached into his jacket and pulled out a formerly cream envelope, creased and much marked with dirty fingerprints, and handed it to her. “My master, Lord Miles, says if you’d be so good as to read this and I’m to…” The young groom broke off his explanation with an impassioned plea. “Please don’t send me back, ma’am. Lord Miles said I can stay with Dreamer if you agree. He’d pay me wages n’all. Don’t send me back, ma’am. My girl needs me. Cause ain’t nobody else—”

Eleanor held up a hand to stop his outpouring. “Mister Struthers, silence. Allow me to read what Lord Miles wrote?” She smiled. “Please?”

Jemmy nodded nervously, and Eleanor, with a wide-eyed glance at Bitters that conveyed her amazement and consternation, broke the seal on the letter from her husband and read.

Dear Lady Miles,

I cannot let another day pass without addressing the harm my inappropriate action or lack of action caused you on the evening of our marriage. While I understand how you could arrive at the conclusion that you did, I feel I must set the record straight—less to make you see me in a better light, though I should hope that you might—but more that you might see yourself in a better light.

To facilitate my explanation, please allow me to reconstruct the events leading up to that certain evening.

I’m sure you will recall the Willinghams’ ball and my escorting you home. Upon leaving you at your door, I proceeded to Baron Stanton’s residence, borrowed a hack and rode ten hours to Newmarket where I spent the day riding the property of the Woodward farm. Since it came into my possession, I have renamed the property Fairwood Stud. It is this farm that I spoke to you about purchasing that day in Hyde Park. Completing my tour, I dined with the seller’s agent and finalized the purchase of the farm whereupon; I hacked another ten hours back to London to arrive late morning on the day of our wedding.

I slept briefly, rose and appeared at All Hallows to be married. I thought you a vision of loveliness and congratulated myself on my good fortune. I do not wish to be vulgar, but I anticipated our night together with some eagerness. I say this only so you may understand my state of mind. At the time of our post-wedding dinner, I had been awake and physically engaged in some fashion or other for the better part of sixty hours with precious little sleep.

When you left for your bedchamber, I collected a glass of Madeira and settled on the sofa in front of the fireplace with the intention of giving you an hour and one-half to make ready. At which point, Eleanor, I fell soundly asleep, not waking even when the glass of Madeira slipped from my hand and saturated my clothing.

Let me restate this so that there can be no misunderstanding. My failure to appear in your bedchamber on the night of our wedding was not a result of a lack of desire, nor was I drunk. It was a result of sheer fatigue. Had I to do it again, I assure you, I would arrange events far differently.

Which leads me to a certain four-legged beauty that I assume is now standing in your stables accompanied by her devoted groom.

It is custom for a new husband to bestow a bride gift on his wife. Due to our peculiar circumstances, there was little that I felt I could offer you that would have any meaning, for whatever I gave you would have been bought with your own coin; until by the greatest of happenstance I discovered that the purchase of the old Woodward farm also included a promising young filly out of your unproven stallion, Dare To Dream. I arrived at Fairwood Stud to take permanent possession shortly after she won the 1,000 Guineas Stakes at Newmarket. You can imagine my great joy as it has ever been my ambition to be successful on the track. It was an auspicious start to my new life. This was a horse that could make prominent the name of Fairwood Stud.

After much consideration, and contrary to the strong adjurations of my farm manager, I would like to give this lovely filly to you as your bride gift—accompanied by her groom, whom I pray you will retain as it would break his young heart to be parted from her—with my fervent request to forgive me and think better of yourself. I hope the gift of Day Dreamer will convince you, as I was unable to do in person, that I continue to hold you in the highest regard.

I remain

Your Most Obedient Servant,

M. Everleigh

The letter shook in hands she couldn’t hold steady, and the muscles in her face—most particularly those of her chin—quivered uncontrollably. Never in her life had she striven so fiercely for composure as she did at that moment. In addition to Miles’ letter, she unfolded a formal transfer of ownership, filed with The General Stud. Clutching Miles’ correspondence in one hand, she shoved the accompanying registration papers toward her stud manager and then stuffed her betraying hands and his letter into her pockets.

Bitters hadn’t ceased his scrutiny of her since she’d opened the letter and she forced out raspy words of explanation. “Lord Miles has given me the filly as a bride gift. Please see that she and Mr. Struthers are housed and find the lad some Rutledge livery.”

She whirled around and strode out of the stables, pulling deep breaths that turned into helpless sobs before she reached the doors to the great house. Damn that man. He’d reduced her to tears over him again.  Pausing briefly on the threshold, she wiped her face on her sleeve and jerked open both doors, surprising the doorman. Wordlessly, she swept by him, up the stairs and into her room whereupon she threw herself face down on her bed and wept without restraint into a pillow to muffle her unchecked cries. This time she didn’t censor herself, and she sobbed until she had no more tears to cry. With a final shudder, she rolled onto her back and stared at the ceiling through swollen lids.

What was worse? Thinking Lord Miles Everleigh had succumbed to drink because he found her unattractive, or knowing that she’d misread the situation thoroughly and had driven him away with words purposefully chosen to wound and belittle—words he did not deserve. She pulled out his letter and reread a portion.

“….I feel I must set the record straight—less to make you see me in a better light, though I should hope that you might—but more that you might see yourself in a better light….”

For him to be so generous and forgiving when she’d been so hasty and judgmental… She felt unwell and very forlorn. Once again, her stupid, stupid pride had tripped her up. She stifled another sob, rose from the bed and rang for her maid.

The past couldn’t be undone, and no matter how gloomy and despondent she felt, she needed to dress for tea with Mamma and present a happy front. “I could have gone on stage,” she muttered to herself. “I’ve practiced enough pretense.”

“….but more that you might see yourself in a better light….” She hung her head. Her husband’s insight into her character was uncomfortably astute.