Chapter Thirty-One
Malcolm knew that, strictly speaking, he had gone a little mad.
The woman had already rejected his proposals twice. It was very likely that she would do so again.
Nevertheless, after last night, he knew that he must try to secure Scarlett Perkins’s hand.
If she chose not to be his wife, he would have to live with that disappointment.
He wasn’t sure how he would bear it. But he would rather live with her rejection than wonder if she might have consented to be his wife if he had only asked one more time.
He had worried all his life about being like his father.
But last night, after he had parted with Scarlett, after she had given him her love, he knew that what they had was nothing like his father’s connection with any woman.
He loved Miss Scarlett Perkins with everything within him.
He had only ever loved her, had only ever wanted her.
He was determined now to have her.
He might not be built to make a woman happy. He might be taciturn and disagreeable.
But she didn’t seem to care. She had told him, after all, that she loved him.
And he didn’t have the strength to hold himself back from her if she was prepared to accept him, with all of his limitations, as he was.
He had always chosen safety before. His role at Parkhorne, his role with his family, had been, if not perfect, then certainly comfortable.
Scarlett, too, perhaps, was not unlike him in this way, in her life with her sister and stepmother.
He needed to take a risk if he wanted to chance being happy.
He was already two-and-thirty. If he wanted to ever be more than one of George’s illegitimate brothers and the steward of Parkhorne Hall, then he needed to act.
He needed Scarlett.
The problem was that, at present, he had no establishment to offer a lady. He couldn’t very well propose that they live together in an old hunting lodge on his brother’s estate.
Luckily, he did know of a property that had long interested him, although he had put it out of his mind as inappropriate for a bachelor.
It had been known for a twelvemonth that Mr. Dermott wanted to sell the property, a kind of notch in his larger estate.
Malcolm had reflected to himself before that, if he were ever to marry, it would be the perfect site for him.
Close to Parkhorne and exceedingly comfortable without being luxurious, Cresswell Farm, as it was called locally, would be a residence most suitable to him.
And so that was why he had sent word to Mr. Dermott that he wanted to look at the place this morning.
He knew Mr. Dermott must be less than pleased to get such an inquiry the morning after a ball, but he also knew that the man was looking to offload the house.
He had once lived there himself, but after his father died a few years ago, he and his family had moved into the main manor on the adjoining property.
He had a numerous family—and the word circulating in Parkhorne was that he needed the income from selling Cresswell to help with the future expenses of daughters and younger sons.
Malcolm had the money necessary to buy the place.
He had always been paid for his work at Parkhorne, even in the lean years, but ever since Beatrice’s marriage and the improvements to the place, he had been paid more handsomely.
And he had had few expenses and few desires to satiate. He went nowhere. He only worked.
Therefore, he could afford to buy Cresswell. Just barely.
It would leave him rather cash-poor, but he knew it would be worth it. It would be worth it to propose to Miss Scarlett Perkins with a real establishment to offer her. He couldn’t move to London, but he could do this.
Besides, he told himself, if Tilly and George were soon to be married, then perhaps living in Somerset would not be such a trial for her. She would have her sister.
“It’s perfect, Malcolm,” Beatrice said as they surveyed the place before their departure.
Bea irritated him like no other person alive, but, as usual, in the end, she was the one he went to when he needed counsel. When he needed someone to tell him that a risk was worth taking.
She would always be his headstrong, half-wild elder sister. In his way, he would always look up to her.
“It’s too much money.” He glowered. “It is foolish.”
“Malcolm,” she said softly. They were back on their horses and were about to return to Parkhorne. He had told Mr. Dermott’s agent that he would buy the place already. “If you think I wouldn’t help you—”
“You shouldn’t have to do that, Bea.”
“But I would. I want you to know it. You’re not alone. You don’t always remember that, but you’re not.”
He was too moved to speak. He knew it was true.
It was why he had brought Bea with him, why he trusted her.
She meant what she said. She would not allow him to go to the dogs or see his things sent to auction or his future family—if he were lucky enough to have such a family—thrown out of their house.
His sister had always had a way of bending the world to her whim, and it made him feel better to have her in his corner.
“Thank you,” he finally managed.
“Of course, Malcolm. It might have been a long while ago now, but I have not forgotten how you came to live and work at Parkhorne for almost nothing after Father died. You gave up a better living at Mr. Lambet’s—I have never forgotten that.
Everyone knew what a talent you had for farming.
Mr. Lambet would have never given you one of his farms at such a young age if he hadn’t known it.
You did that when I was just the ruined eldest daughter of an estate that was on the brink of bankruptcy.
Without you, I would have never been able to pull it back. ”
It was true what she said. Mr. Lambet had paid him well, and his grandfather had called him a fool for taking the post at Parkhorne instead.
Especially when it had been for far less money.
As his grandfather had said, The manor has never treated any of us as they should.
He had known what lay behind those words—how his grandfather had never recovered from the heartbreak of watching his beautiful only child smashed up by the squire of Parkhorne Hall.
But Malcolm had trusted Beatrice. From the first time she approached him, he had known, deep down, that she was his sister. Not just in fact. But in truth. They were family.
“And with Leith,” she continued, and he could hear the emotion in her voice now. “You were the one who saw that he wanted to marry me. Before I did. Before I would allow myself to even think about such a thing. I didn’t think I was worthy of such a thing. But you did.”
He smiled at the memory. Beatrice had stormed back from London, where she had gone to somehow get the money to save the estate from a threat to the family.
The besotted marquess had trailed back to Parkhorne with her.
The man had clearly been in awe of her, in thrall to her, and yet—classic Bea—she had been oblivious to the effect she had on the man.
“Well, I can hardly take credit for the marriage,” he said, chuckling. “But I did see it on the horizon.”
“I’m serious, Malcolm. That you thought it was possible—that I could be regarded in the light of a wife, when you knew just as well as I did about my history. It meant more than I could say. Even when I was fighting you and lying to you and—”
“And trying to protect me. That’s what you’ve always tried to do, Bea.”
He sighed. “I am going to buy the place.”
He heard his sister smile. “I know. As I said, it’s perfect.”
“Knowing you support it”—he found himself unable to speak again and then mastered himself—“it helps.”
“Miss Perkins will love it, Malcolm.”
“She has not accepted me.”
“Please,” Beatrice said. “That woman is dying of love for you. She only needs you to ask.”
Malcolm had told Beatrice of his plans regarding Scarlett. It was easy enough when his sister had already accused him so many times of loving Miss Perkins. But he had not gotten into the details of their history.
Bea did not know that he had already asked—twice—and been refused.
“I hope you are correct.”
“If you trust me with anything, Malcolm, you can trust me with this. She’ll be your wife.” She looked over at him, laughing. “God knows why—you’re unpleasant enough company. I hope she is prepared for your sour morning moods and morose silences.”
He grinned. “Come. We must return to Parkhorne,” he said. “If my proposal is to be declined, I’d rather know now.”
“You are dramatic.”
He rolled his eyes, and they rode back to Parkhorne.
He had one more errand in the house before he went to find Scarlett.
He reached the little drawing room that he sought without encountering anyone. He supposed those who had not braved church were still abed. But he knew that Mrs. Salisbury would have gone to church with her guests, no matter what, and that by now she should be back.
And he was correct. She was sitting there, in her private sitting room, where she could always be found at this hour.
“Malcolm,” she said with a smile.
She was nursing a cup of tea and looked quite tranquil.
“Mrs. Salisbury.”
“Eleanora,” she corrected, as she always did.
He nodded, as he always did. “May I speak to you for a moment?”
“Of course.” She cast a searching look over his face. “Are you well?”
“Yes, I am well. And everything is right with the farm. We have everything set for the rest of the house party.”
He didn’t want to give her alarm on that account.
“Of course it is,” she said, smiling kindly. “You would never let it go wrong. I would thank you more, Malcolm, only I know you hate it. We wouldn’t have been able to do this infernal party without you.”
She was right—he did hate when she thanked him—but he was surprised to hear her call the party infernal.
“I hope it has all gone well,” he said awkwardly. “From your perspective.”
“As a hostess, I would say the party could not have gone better. As a mother, it has left something to be desired.”