Chapter 1 #3
“Politely. He invited me to dinner at his club, which I gather is some sort of rite of passage. I am in trade, ma’am.
You must surely be aware of that fact. Given my status, my commercial activities are either ignored or acceptable.
I have more or less inherited my business ventures from my cousin, Lord Lorne, who is newly wed and focused on estate matters. ”
His small talk definitely needed work. “You needn’t apologize to any self-respecting Scot for doing an honest day’s work for an honest day’s pay, Mr. Huxley. One would think, though, that you’d kit yourself out with a mount more in keeping with a prosperous cit’s image.”
Mr. Huxley aimed such a look at her that Sorcha nearly sent her mare trotting across the grass. He was not angry with her so much as he scrutinized her with an intensity that went past rude to intrusive, to… oracular?
“I am a cit. You are correct. Interesting. Shall we canter the next bit? You note that my steed lacks conditioning, and I agree. He and I both need the exercise.”
“A canter, then.” One did not gallop neck or nothing in the park at dawn. Not unless one was a young, drunken lordling with more money than sense.
Sorcha set a sedate pace along a flat stretch, while Mr. Huxley’s gelding kept pace. The beast was game for the first hundred yards or so, but quickly tired thereafter. Mr. Huxley pushed the horse on for another couple dozen yards, then cued the trot and, after another two dozen yards, the walk.
“He’s not a hunter,” Sorcha said as the gelding puffed along beside the mare. “Where did you find him?”
“The knacker’s yard.” Mr. Huxley patted the horse on the shoulder. “His conformation is excellent, his manners impeccable, but somebody did not want the bother of feeding him through the winter. Based on appearances, he wasn’t enjoying much tucker in summer or autumn either.”
Another inefficiency of city life—fodder for horses also had to be brought in from afar, and at considerable cost.
“He was a bargain, then?”
“Probably not. I have no idea what horses in London sell for, but he was a gentleman fallen on hard times, and deserved a second chance. I’m bringing him along slowly and will have him out on this path again, now that I know the direction.”
The faster pace had put some color in Mr. Huxley’s cheeks and a little more animation in his delivery. He had a beautiful voice, soothing, resonant, male without being strident or fussy.
Very English too, though. “What’s his name?”
“Bounder.”
“He jumps well?” Bounder was more often an insult in common parlance.
“I named him for Romans chapter 15, verse 13. Saint Paul exhorts his correspondents to ‘abound in hope.’ Seemed appropriate, given the straits the horse was in when I acquired him.”
Where had St. Didier got off to? Sorcha adjusted her reins and took a casual inventory of the surrounds. Leopold had dropped back a good fifty feet and was idling along with some old fellow on an equally venerable bay.
“I am having trouble categorizing you, Mr. Huxley. You rescued a horse on a whim and named him for a bit of Scripture. You are a cit, but you were a vicar. You detest London, but you’re apparently a natural talent with commerce. What sort of guardian will you make for my children?”
“I suppose that depends in part on what sort of children they are.”
“No, it does not. Good children can fall into the hands of a very bad guardian, and a mere mother can do nothing about it.”
Your temper is your besetting sin, madam wife. How often had Barclay said that before raising his own hand in ire? Even he had eventually been shamed by that blatant hypocrisy.
Mr. Huxley did not appear to take offense.
“I beg leave to question your powerlessness, Lady Barclay. St. Didier speaks well of you, and anybody who claims that man’s regard has at least one capable ally.
From what I can deduce, this guardianship is a test of my worthiness to claim a Chanderton connection.
If I bungle and cause trouble, you will report me to the authorities.
If I fulfill the office adequately, I will be invited to Almack’s or some boating party or another honor signaling my conditional acceptability. ”
He did not mince words or deal in innuendo, which was turning out to be a backward relief.
“You might be right, though you don’t sound very impressed with the prospect of yachting with the duchess.
” Her Grace was a good sort, despite the fact that keeping the duke content was the only meaningful imperative guiding her existence.
“I’m sure Her Grace is excellent company,” Mr. Huxley said. “I have nonetheless struggled along adequately without her acquaintance for my entire life. I will manage somehow should she decide not to acknowledge me.”
Either Mr. Huxley was an articulate bumpkin or he was socially dimwitted. “Will your businesses manage adequately if she cuts you?”
“They are not, strictly speaking, my businesses. I am slowly acquiring a controlling interest from Lorne, who has instincts I lack when it comes to trade. Even he, a famously errant younger son, would advise me to tread lightly around duchesses.”
“Then if Chanderton tells you that Jordan must be sent off to Rugby next year, you’ll send him off?”
“Not necessarily, for two reasons. First, Chanderton could well have had himself appointed guardian had he wanted ultimate authority over the children. The responsibility instead falls to me, and thus my judgment becomes determinative.”
Sorcha did not like the sound of that at all. A bit too Old Testament, a bit too typical male of the Chanderton line ordering the universe to suit his every arrogant whim.
“The second reason?”
“I haven’t even met the boy. If he’s longing to depart for public school, that’s a very different situation from a little fellow who’s perfectly content to continue making excellent progress with his tutors at home.
If you, as his mama, oppose the notion of public school, the matter takes on a different hue than if you support it.
The tutors must be allowed to weigh in and an inspection made of the offerings at Rugby.
Master Jordan should be included in that inspection, as should you.
One does not sign a contract for goods or take on a curate without doing thorough research, your ladyship. ”
Whatever Sorcha had expected from Mr. Huxley, it wasn’t a homily on the management and education of a duke’s grandson.
“Sorry,” Mr. Huxley muttered. “The sermonizing habit is proving tenacious.”
Sorcha halted her mare and sent a glower in St. Didier’s direction. “I have a tenacious habit too, Mr. Huxley. I am plainspoken when tact and discretion would better suit my objectives.”
“Say on, my lady.”
Mr. Huxley again seemed only politely curious when another man might have turned up sniffy.
“If you think to impose your will on my children, and I am convinced that your judgment is contrary to their best interests, then I am your enemy. I will ruin your business prospects, poison the duchess against you, and steal your skinny horse before I let you interfere with the happiness or wellbeing of my children.”
“My enemy, Lady Barclay?”
“They are my children.”
“Very well. Bounder prefers apples to carrots, and he likes to have his hind feet picked out first. I learned that the hard way. St. Didier, did you lose your way?”
Leopold toddled up on his gelding, and some chat ensued about Colonel Weatherspoon’s predictions for the St. Leger. Sorcha listened with half an ear from long habit, but also with growing puzzlement over her last exchange with Mr. Huxley.
She threatened his livelihood, his social standing, and his horse, and he came back with… drollery? Was he even capable of drollery? What manner of guardian had Chanderton chosen?
“I must let this fellow stretch his legs,” St. Didier said, patting his gelding. “Huxley, can you escort her ladyship back to her groom?”
“My pleasure, of course. Shall we take a different path, my lady, or would you prefer to retrace our steps?”
“Retrace our steps.” The more privately, the better. St. Didier completed his desertion by trotting off toward Rotten Row, where he doubtless knew half the assembled crowd and was spying on the other half.
Sorcha held her peace until she and Mr. Huxley were within sight of Park Lane and the grooms loitering at the gates.
“Thank you for accompanying me, Mr. Huxley. When would you like to meet the children?”
He drew his horse off the path and halted. “When would suit you and them?”
“Tomorrow. You and I can have an afternoon tea and then visit the nursery. You will want to interview the nurserymaid and tutor, I’m sure.”
“Eventually. Tomorrow is for introducing me to my cousins. If you would let me explain my role as guardian, I would appreciate it.”
She could hardly stop him. “Provided I am present when you do.”
He tipped his hat. “Until tomorrow, then. A pleasure making your acquaintance, my lady.”
No irony, no warmth, just correct words with the correct intonation. “I hope I can say the same, sir, but if you fail my children, we are enemies.”
“Right, horse thievery to follow. Thank you for the warning.”
He waved the groom over, touched a finger to his hat brim, and directed his gelding—Bounder—to Park Lane.
“I am utterly flummoxed,” Sorcha muttered in the Erse, which her groom did not know. Bernard Huxley was complicated, and she had no patience, none at all, with complicated Englishmen and their convoluted male stratagems.
She rode home through the increasingly crowded streets while trying to decide if she liked him or disliked him and then realized that was an irrelevant inquiry.
In a short, polite, slightly awkward exchange, Sorcha had learned that she’d best approach Bernard Huxley with respect.
He wasn’t stupid, silly, or vain, and neither was she.
They would never be allies, but they might not be enemies either, once she’d sorted him out properly.