Chapter Nine
Sculthorpe Manor stables
Five in the afternoon
Judith was not certain which terrified her more—seeing her four-year-old son sitting atop a gentle pony or the fact that he did, in truth, have “a fine seat.”
Their time in the park had been short, yet they had still run later than Judith had wished.
She desperately needed a wash and a rest before supper, but she could not break away from watching William as he learned to groom his own horse.
He stood on a stool, with Mr. Robins within catching distance should he fall, and Nanny nearby, waiting to take him for a bath and supper.
They had waited until early afternoon so that Robbie could join them, and he, too, stood nearby, brushing his own, slightly larger Highland Pony.
Although they would seldom have to groom their own horses when they were grown, she—and Mr. Robins—felt learning to care for the animals an important part of becoming an adept and knowledgeable estate manager.
Tears clouded Judith’s eyes. Her babies were becoming skilled and handsome young men.
“Oops!” The brush flipped from William’s hand and hit the floor of the stable with a thunk.
“I’ll get it.” Nanny scooped up the brush and handed it to Mr. Robins. Their hands touched briefly, and they glanced at each other. Nanny’s cheeks pinked and Mr. Robins cleared his throat, returning his attention to William.
She should be grateful, Judith told herself, that her boys were so loved and cared for by so many. But she did not feel grateful.
She felt afraid.
Judith took a deep, steadying breath and swept away the tears. She moved forward and brushed a hand down William’s back. “Did you enjoy today?”
“Yes, Mummy! When can we go again?”
Everyone chuckled.
“Soon. As soon as I recover.”
He scowled. “What? Are you hurt?”
She kissed his cheek. “Never you mind. I must go up. Will you be all right with Mr. Robins and Nanny?”
“Yes!” He rocked up on his toes, almost losing his balance on the stool.
Mr. Robins gripped him, standing him straight. “We’ve got him, my lady.”
“I know you do.” She touched the man’s arm and turned, striding from the stable before the tears flowed again.
Her marriage to Edmund had not been one of tremendous love, but his loss had still hollowed Judith out, leaving her bereft, without an anchor.
Her only grounding had been the children—all five of them.
Now she felt that hollowness again as she watched her three boys edge away from her, just as Edmund and Daniel had, simply by growing up.
Daniel, who had quarreled with his brother over some issue they had never explained to her, had become estranged from them all, and Judith missed him terribly.
They are all leaving me.
Although she wanted exactly that—she dearly wished to see them become healthy and happy young men, thriving in whatever they chose to do—but it still left that ache of emptiness.
The curse, she supposed, of being a mother who adored her children.
Maybe her peers who saw their children as little more than accessories had it right after all.
Never.
Taking another deep breath, Judith swept up the steps, pausing on the first floor as she heard voices from the receiving room, businesslike and strident. Edmund’s . . . and a voice familiar but annoying. Not their steward. With apprehension, she stepped into the open doorway.
Their words stalled as they spotted her.
A man Judith knew by sight—and reputation—sat in a wingback opposite Edmund and Margaret, who took up either end of the settee.
The man—and Edmund—rose to their feet as Judith swallowed and spoke, her words coming rapid-fire.
“My apologies. I did not realize you had a guest.” She dropped her voice as she addressed Edmund.
“Have I overlooked a visit at which I should have been present? Or am I intruding?” She gestured down at the flared skirt and coat of her riding habit. “I was riding with the children.”
The man touched his forehead. “Not at all, my dear lady. We are discussing estate business, but you are welcome, if you like.”
Ah. That explained why Margaret looked like a trapped fox, huddled against the arm of the settee, fingers digging into the arm.
She had probably arranged for the tea and assumed it to be a social visit before the truth emerged at a point when leaving would appear rude if she suddenly bolted.
Edmund gave his wife a quick glance, then sniffed and focused on Judith.
“Ahem, um, Lady Sculthorpe, may I present Henry Tatlock, Marquess of Whitlow.”
The marquess dipped a quick bow, the emerald-green skirt of his immaculate silk frock coat brushing with a soft whisper against his gold-embroidered waistcoat.
A diamond-and-pearl pin anchored his cravat, matching his cufflinks, and his cheeks bore the telltale blush of a light touch of rouge.
Kohl rimmed his eyes, winging outward from each corner.
His trousers carried the look of silk, and his leather shoes shone with a high polish.
He looked dressed more for a royal appointment with the Prince Regent than afternoon tea with an earl, and completely out of place. “Lady Sculthorpe, it is an honor.”
Judith gave a sharp nod, trying to get a flash of irritation under control.
“The honor is mine, Lord Whitlow, as I know well who you are.” She glanced back at Edmund, then eased down into the wingback next to the one Whitlow had occupied, noticing that the early tea had been served and mostly consumed.
Empty teacups and small, crumb-dusted plates of their finest set of china littered the table between the settee and the wingbacks.
The silver urn and trays were from their most elaborate collection.
The three-tiered tray had been divested of most of its scones, biscuits, and small sandwiches.
Margaret’s grip on the arm of the settee tightened, her knuckles white. The mood in the room remained tense, and Judith was not convinced it was only because of her sudden—and apparently unexpected—arrival.
The gentlemen sat as well, and Whitlow gave a straightening tug on his starched white cravat.
“The oversight is mine, I’m afraid, Lady Sculthorpe.
I requested a visit sometime after noon today.
Although Lord Sculthorpe graciously agreed, it did not leave much time for preparation.
” He waved a hand at the cluster of dishes.
“Although the countess has provided a most luxurious respite.” He patted his stomach.
“My own supper will have to come much later.”
“And you were already out at the stables.” Margaret leaned toward Judith, her words sotto voce. “We thought you would be gone all afternoon.”
Both Edmund and Judith shot her a silencing look. To her credit, Margaret pressed her lips together but commented no further.
“Which mounts did your sons ride today?” Whitlow did not meet her gaze. He instead focused on his forefinger, which tapped the arm of his chair with a relentless pattern.
The irritation in Judith’s gut spread. She knew what Whitlow was about, including his reputation for swooping in to “rescue” respected and noble families who struggled with a changing financial situation.
Now, thanks to an offhand comment from her four-year-old son, she understood exactly the reason for his visit—and his seemingly innocent question.
She narrowed her eyes and opened her mouth, then noticed the warning scold in Edmund’s eyes.
So it was true. Edmund planned to sell some of their cattle. How many? Which kinds? More importantly, why?
Judith looked down a moment, gathering her thoughts, then flashed a reassuring smile to Whitlow.
“We have a blessedly gentle, older gray pony who has been ridden by all the boys as they were learning, even Edmund here. William is four but is already developing a fine seat. He will probably need the pony only a few more months. Robert is ten, and our groom has moved him to a delightful bay Highland Pony who is only fourteen hands.”
Whitlow’s eyebrows arched, but he still stared at his own fingers. “You still have Highland Ponies?”
Judith glanced at Edmund, who gave her no sign.
“We do. Four. Two here and two on our country estate. My husband, the late earl, found them to be reliable and stolid, perfect for young children or work on the farms. We had sev—” Judith stumbled over the word, a sudden realization sweeping over her.
Still? He asked if they still had Highland Ponies? How would he know?
They had had more than sixteen of the sure-footed beasts on the estate—breeding stock—until this past spring.
Edmund had sold them, assuring Judith it had been because of their ages, and that he would exchange them for more powerful workhorses, perhaps a new breed that had been growing in reputation in Scotland the last few years, strong animals bred from Flemish stallions.
He had not. The ponies had gone, not to be replaced.
She snapped a look at Edmund, who barely met it. What have you done with all our money?
As if he could read her thoughts, he shook his head.
Judith forced a weak smile to her face. “Are you greatly interested in horses, Lord Whitlow?”
“Not greatly.” A smile flicked across his face, and he glanced at Edmund, then back to his finger. “More for investment purposes, I’m afraid. I am not much of a rider.”
“But surely you appreciate the magnificence of a well-formed stallion?”
“I leave such to my head groom. He advises me when to buy and when to sell. One does not have to be an expert on such. Just to know when to hire an expert.”