The Earl Meets His Match

Chapter 3

Christopher stayed cloistered in his study for the remainder of the morning, conscious of the fact that his new manservant would be flitting about the Abbey. Christopher did not want to make more of an ass of himself than he already had and thought it best to leave Harding be. He tried concentrating on some correspondence that he had been neglecting of late, though he ended up reading the same sentence again and again. His mind was too distracted by the sound of Plinkton’s voice echoing throughout the halls and Har-ding’sanswering murmurs. The words were muffled, but it was obvious enough that the old butler was showing the new man about the place. Probably pointing out all the relevant bits, Christopher mused, like which stairs always screamed when you trod on them wrong or where one could feel the perennial draft.

He wondered what Har-ding must think of the house’s little quirks. Christopher was seized with a sudden desire to ensure the man did not think ill of Eden Abbey. Though it was old and crumbling, it was his home. It felt like he was showing some vulnerable, fleshy part of himself to a mere stranger.

This was troublesome, as Christopher had spent years avoiding exactly that, and for good reason.

It would be impolite to say the almighty creator had erred in his making, but privately Christopher couldn’t help but think that someone somewhere along the way had made a real hash of it. If things had gone as they should have, Christopher would have been allowed to wear the clothes he liked and live the way he wanted from the very start, regardless of his shape. As it stood, he had been shoved into petticoats and taught to work on his embroidery with clumsy fingers for the bulk of his childhood. That was behind him now, thank god. But should anyone discover his origins, Christopher thought it likely that he would not only have his title and lands stripped from him, but he would doubtlessly be sent to some madhouse and forced back into womanly trappings.

That, he knew, was to be avoided at all costs. Even if it meant shutting himself away from the world for the rest of his days, Christopher would keep his secret safe. Not even Plinkton or Cook knew the truth of the matter, for reasons that inspired no pride in Christopher.

This did not weigh on Christopher as much as one might imagine, however. The fact of his singular make often faded from his mind in the face of day--to--day concerns. It was a vital fact, to be sure—-one that meant Christopher would always remember to lock his bedroom door when he was in a state of undress, for example, not to mention complicating his search for a fiancée—-but it was not his entire life. Especially not when his estate was at risk.

Christopher made one more attempt to read the letter from his steward (yet another plea for Christopher to consider investing his remaining funds as his late father had, in textiles and shipping and what have you) before giving up on the thing. He didn’t plan on replying, anyway; his childhood tutor had been a Quaker and a fervent abolitionist, and Christopher was not about to cast aside the lessons he’d learned at the man’s knee. What he needed was a little nourishment. He left the study and went in search of something to eat. With the weather as decent as it was, he had half a mind to filch a pie or something from Cook’s larder and eat it in the garden.

He was so engrossed in planning this little outing in his head that he didn’t notice James Har-ding at first. The man was standing in the main hall, valiseless now, his hands clasped behind his back while he contemplated the family portraits on the wall. He, too, seemed as lost in thought as Christopher had so recently been. Christopher cleared his throat to catch his attention.

Once he had it, he scarcely knew what to do with it. Har-ding’s dark eyes swept over to him, resting there like a bird on a branch, light as anything. “My lord,” he said. “I couldn’t help but notice—-” He nodded at the paintings.

“Ah. Yes.” Christopher looked at the portraits. It had been a long time since he’d done so with any real intent to study them. He was startled to see all the little details anew now that he was actually taking them in.

The painting of Christopher’s parents was an old one, commissioned at the very start of their marriage. His father sat in an armchair with a spyglass across his lap and a peevish look on his face, like he was annoyed with the artist and ready to give him a stern lecture. His mother was standing behind him and to the left, the white bird of her hand resting limply on his shoulder. Her gown was a watery, pale thing, more of an impression than a color. To Christopher’s mind, it looked like she was attempting to calm her husband.

“I always thought this was a poor likeness of them,” he said. He wasn’t sure where the thought came from or the inclination to share it with his cheerless new valet, but once he began speaking on the subject, he could not stop. “They look so unhappy here, but my memory of them is quite the opposite. Mother was always laughing; she had a lovely laugh. And my father was always giving her reasons to showcase it.”

If Christopher concentrated, he could smell the harbor air of his childhood, rife with humanity, and see the spires of Philadelphia from the hill where their house sat beside the river. There had been different birds there, and different trees, but the same sound of his mother laughing at something his father had said while they sat close on the chesterfield in the parlor. What excellent years they had been, that time spent abroad.

“I am sorry that this portrait does not do them justice,” Har-ding said, breaking him from his reverie.

Christopher smiled, though he did not feel like doing so. “I am, too. But it’s the only portrait of them I have, so here it is. There were others, of course, but they were lost when—-” He stopped. Swallowed. The sound of water rushed into his ears, and for a moment he feared he might lose his balance entirely. He placed a hand against the wall to steady himself. The feel of cool stonework beneath his palm grounded him in the present. “They were simply lost,” he said in a soft murmur, and decided that would suffice.

“I see,” Har-ding said. His gentle tone made it seem possible that he did, indeed, see and knew better than to press the issue. He turned again to contemplate the imposing wall of cold stone and the other painting that hung there.

This time, Christopher had to force himself to look. He raised his eyes to the portrait and tried to see what Har-ding was seeing: a boring picture of a rather ordinary girl of nine, her blond curls arranged in an elegant fall over one shoulder. She was dressed in a gown of dark navy dotted with seed pearls which gave the impression of a night sky, and in her hand was a fan, closed and dangling quite uselessly. The only noteworthy aspect was her eyes—-a piercing, almost desperate stare of ice--cold blue, as if the girl were pleading silently with the viewer for some kind of succor.

Christopher coughed into his fist, finding his throat suddenly dry. “My sister Catherine,” he offered. “My twin, in fact.”

“Yes, I can see the resemblance, my lord,” Har-ding murmured. He continued staring up at the painting, his gaze no doubt roving over the nose, the chin, the lips, and mentally comparing them to Christopher’s. “She’s lovely.”

“She’s dead,” Christopher said.

He took a fiendish sort of pleasure at seeing the composed man twist in the wind at these words.

Har-ding was silent for a long moment, concern creasing his handsome features before he finally said, “My condolences, my lord. I did not know.”

“That’s surprising. I thought everyone was aware of the tragedies heaped upon the Winterthrope family.”

“I am not so well--informed, I suppose,” Har-ding said. He executed a deep bow. “Forgive me, my lord. Perhaps I should have made inquiries before coming to Eden Abbey, if only time permitted.”

Christopher waved away the notion. “Please, it’s actually very refreshing not to have someone tiptoeing around the thing.” Plinkton avoided the subject entirely, and Cook had a habit of pursing her mouth and making a rapid sign of the cross whenever she mistakenly mentioned the late Winterthropes within Christopher’s earshot. His earlier glee at Har-ding’s discomfort faded in the face of the man’s sincere apology. It was the first chance he’d ever had, he realized, to tell the story—-or rather, a version of it—-on his own terms. He nodded at the portrait of the late Lord and Lady Eden. “You see, my father had some business interests in the States some years ago”—-ghastly business, as it turned out, which Christopher had only discovered when he first took up the title and saw the accounting ledgers, hence the divestment that his steward so despaired at—-“and when my twin and I were about ten years of age, it was decided we would accompany him there.”

“Is that where you developed your sense of independence, my lord?” Har-ding asked, raising a cool eyebrow.

“The likelihood has occurred to me.” Christopher smiled, pleased at the notion, but his gaze landed on the portrait of the young girl, and the smile slipped away. “At any rate, a fever swept through the city one summer before we had a chance to decamp to the country. It claimed many victims, including my parents.”

“Your sister as well?” Har-ding asked in that gentle way of his.

Christopher shook his head. “No. That came later.” A wave of dizziness washed over him. For a moment, the floor seemed to roll beneath his feet like the deck of a troubled ship. His throat worked, and he found that even now that he had the chance, he could not finish the story. It was all rather mortifying. These episodes normally happened without an audience, and Christopher sternly reminded himself to breathe so as not to draw Har-ding’s notice. He turned away from the portraits and clapped his hands. “Well! Enough of this morbid talk for the moment, eh, Har-ding? I came this way to raid Cook’s larder, so I’ll be off.”

“I would be happy to wait on you while you take your midday meal, my lord,” said Har-ding, floating behind at a polite distance.

“No need; I always wait upon myself. I find it best that way,” Christopher said cheerfully as he pushed through the green baize door that led belowstairs. Cook’s scrumptious meat pie was calling his name. Unfortunately, so was his annoyingly solicitous valet, who followed close behind. And just as he was catching his breath, too.

“Lord Eden, if I may,” Har-ding said, his footsteps crisp on Christopher’s heels, “I could not help but notice there is no portrait of yourself hanging in the main hall.”

“Hm?” Christopher glanced over his shoulder as they descended the stairs. “Ah, that’s true, I suppose.”

“Have you never sat for one?” Har-ding asked.

“Oh, I have,” he replied breezily. “I believe the painting is stored somewhere in the attic. It’s the twin to my sister’s portrait. Mother had us sit for them before we left En-gland.”

“You don’t wish to display it?”

Christopher led the way into the kitchen. “Ha! The last thing I want to see every day is a painting of myself in a skeleton suit. Can you imagine? What little authority I have in the household would disintegrate. Cook would laugh for hours.” He turned his attention to opening the larder door with enough care that the hinges wouldn’t creak and alert Cook, wherever she was lurking.

Har-ding waited behind him, playing lookout without being told. No doubt trying to be useful, as he’d promised. “Have you considered commissioning a more recent portrait of yourself, my lord? A man of your stature should have one on display.”

“I haven’t, and I won’t,” Christopher said, finding a clean plate and helping himself to a hefty slice of golden pie left over from Cook’s dinner the night before. “The thought of sitting for a portrait bores me.” He did not mention that it also filled him with dread that the artist, after making such careful study, might see something in his face and bearing that gave him away. “I think I will leave the walls to the honored dead.” He turned and swept past Har-ding with the pie and a fork in hand, heading for the kitchen door that led outside.

Har-ding, for reasons Christopher could not fathom, continued to follow. “My lord,” he said as they left the house and stepped into the little side yard where Cook kept a few scraggly herbs, “if you are anxious to appear in society as a gentleman of means with good prospects, you may want to consider things like this. These details are easily managed. I can commission a portraitist upon your arrival in London, if you so desire.”

“I do not desire,” Christopher said waspishly. He used his hip to knock open the little gate that led from the kitchen yard to the rose garden. “Some details cannot be borne, Har-ding. No one needs to look at my face that badly.”

“Your betrothed may wish to, my lord,” Har-ding said.

Christopher whirled, nearly upsetting the pie from its china plate. “My what ?”

“Your betrothed. You intend to acquire one imminently, do you not?” Har-ding stood tall and dark, looking like a black heron stalking amongst the plants.

“How did you know that?” Christopher demanded. “My solicitors didn’t tell you, did they?” Such a breach of confidence would be beyond the pale.

“No, I made the assumption myself,” Har-ding said, still looking as placid as a pond. “You are a man who famously prefers to live in the country year--round, so I’m told, yet you’ve arranged to stay in London for an extended period during the Season. You are suddenly concerned with giving the impression of a conventional earl who employs the usual amount of servants. These facts, combined with your age, made me think it likely that you are considering marriage. It was not a great leap of logic, my lord.”

Christopher boggled at him. “Are all valets masters in the art of deduction or is it just you?”

Har-ding considered the question seriously, his hands clasped behind his back and his chin dipped to his chest. “I’m not sure, my lord.”

With a roll of his eyes, Christopher stomped into the garden to set his plate upon a stone bench. Har-ding followed, as he’d predicted. It was as disconcerting to have him for a shadow as it was to have said shadow somewhat understand the shape of Christopher’s secret plans. He could only pray Har-ding would not puzzle out all the sordid details.

He had it on good authority that he was not the first man in history who had been forced to marry for the purpose of claiming an inheritance. He had heard rumors—-written in the more gossipy columns of his men’s fashion magazines—-of miserable women tied to husbands who barely knew their names or faces, married just to fulfill some legal stipulation. Christopher abhorred such practices.

Though he wanted no part of their sisterhood, Christopher liked women well enough. Having nearly been one himself, he had more sympathy than usual for the fairer sex. Therefore, he had no intention of luring an upstanding lady into a marriage without first giving her all the facts: that he could not sire children for her, that he was a man of unusual make, and that she would need to take his secret to her grave. In return, Christopher was prepared to offer her whatever she required, such as an understanding that she would be able to conduct her own affairs discreetly and with Christopher’s blessing. Most importantly, she would need to understand that Christopher would have no romantic designs on her whatsoever, as the necessity of this marriage had soured him on the idea of love entirely.

True love, the soft kind with longing gazes and tripped heartbeats, was all well and good for other people, but it was not possible for him.

“Listen to me, Har-ding, for I will only say this once.” He turned and crossed his now empty arms over his chest. He wished he was just a little bit taller so that Har-ding did not loom over him as he was doing now, but there was nothing for it. “You are not to share this tidbit of information about the young master with anyone, do you understand? No one knows that I hope to find a wife in London, not even Plinkton and Cook, and I would prefer to keep it that way.”

Har-ding’s frown was so small as to be imperceptible, but Christopher had become an expert at cataloging them in a short span of time. “Surely it is no secret that a man in your position and at your age would be thinking of marriage. It is not a shocking development in the least.”

“No, but it is very private,” Christopher said, “and I value my privacy above all else.”

Har-ding inclined his head. “I am beginning to understand that, my lord. I will not breathe a word of this to anyone.”

Christopher sniffed. “See that you don’t.” He glanced down at the pie on the bench, wanting nothing more than to sit and eat in the sunshine as planned, but loath to lose what little commanding presence he had. He wished Har-ding would just leave already.

Har-ding, though, seemed content to stand there in the garden until the end of time. “May I ask, my lord, is there a certain lady who has caught your eye?”

“What?” Christopher nearly choked on his tongue. “No. God, no. I haven’t—-”

“Because if there was a specific lady you wish to pursue, I could keep my ears open once we arrive in the city to . . . assist in your cause, my lord.”

“The entire thing is theoretical at this juncture, I assure you,” Christopher said. He could feel his damnably fair cheeks flaming with embarrassment. “I don’t have my heart set on any particular person.”

“I see.” The very corner of Har-ding’s lip lifted at this pronouncement. “In that case, my lord, I will await any updates on the matter from you, should you see fit to share them.”

“I want to eat my lunch now,” Christopher said, trying and failing not to sound like a petulant little boy. “Could you . . . ?” He made a shooing motion with both hands.

“Absolutely, my lord.”

And with a bow, Har-ding at last fucked off.

Christopher all but collapsed on his stone bench. This valet would be the death of him.