Chapter 9
“Lord Marwood is coming this morning,” Harry said matter-of-factly as he plopped down in the breakfast chair and took a large piece of toast in hand. “He sent word that he is bringing the cob and we can practice in the paddock.”
Rosalind frowned. This was unusual—it was not yet time for their lesson. “Why here?”
“He wrote that you and he have some business to attend to,” Harry said, around a mouthful. “What business?”
“I am not entirely sure,” she answered slowly, looking out the window.
Since her interview with the viscount the day before, her mind had struggled to think of anything else. His response had been so immediate, so gracious, and so full of thoughtful wisdom that she had been taken aback. It was the first time she had felt truly safe and seen since her father’s death.
“I see no reason why the lesson cannot take place here,” she said casually, pouring herself a cup of tea.
“Good!” her brother retorted, scarfing down the rest of his meal with alarming speed. “Because he is set to arrive within the hour.”
“Ah, so soon,” she flushed, despite herself. “Tell me, Harry—you need not eat so fast, I am sure Lord Marwood will allow you a chance to finish your morning meal—what do you think of your lessons thus far?”
“I would like to do more,” he said, spreading a scone thick with preserves before taking an enormous bite and muttering around it, “but other than that he is a good bloke.”
“Bloke?” she said, raising her eyebrows and laughing. “I do not think the viscount would take kindly to being referred to in such a casual manner.”
“He does not mind,” Harry said, chasing his scone with tea. “He told me I could call him whatever I liked. He even said I could call him Adrian, if I wished.” Catching his sister’s sharp gaze, he said quickly, “I told him you would not like that, I promise.”
“He is doing you and I a great kindness,” Rosalind said quietly. “I wish you to treat him with the utmost respect.”
Harry nodded, wrapped up two pieces of ham in a napkin, and pushed back from the table. “That is what he said about you.”
“I beg your pardon?” she asked.
Harry shrugged into his jacket, secreting the ham in the front pocket. “Oh, you know,” he said dismissively, waving his hand. “that you were kind to care for me, and to speak to you with honor when you told me what to do… that sort of thing.” He grinned. “See you later, at the paddock?”
She nodded, speechless for the moment. The idea of Adrian defending her to Harry warmed her heart, and her cheeks. Her brother scampered away.
After finishing her morning meal, Rosalind downed a cup of willow bark tea to fight the headache lurking in the background of her day and, wrapping a thick brown shawl around her brown-sprigged muslin, walked out to the paddock to catch the end of the lesson.
She had braided her hair and pinned it in a low chignon—unfashionable, but comfortable on her aching head, and forewent a hat in the face of an overcast day.
Adrian and Harry were just finishing their lesson. Adrian was perched atop the paddock fence, giving quiet direction to the boy, and Harry was cantering about quite handily. Rosalind was surprised at how well he kept his seat, despite the cob’s increased gait.
“That is it,” Adrian called out, “do not pull back so hard on the reins—trust your horse and control him with your body, not the leather.”
Harry nodded, adjusting.
“Much better, lad!” The viscount sounded proud. “Now, we have reached our time for the day. Dismount and take the cob to the hitching post. You must rub him down yourself and tend to his food and water needs before I take him back to the estate this afternoon.”
Harry did so eagerly, and was busy brushing the horse down when Rosalind walked up to Adrian’s side.
“He is coming along well, I see,” she said.
The viscount turned and smiled at her. He had taken off his jacket, likely in response to the exercise, and was wearing only a loose shirt with a vest over the top, billowing sleeves pushed up to reveal muscled forearms. “I thought you said you would be at every lesson,” he answered.
“I thought you could use a bit of time alone with Harry,” she acknowledged, wincing as a sharp pain clouded her vision. “And besides, your visit this morning was rather unexpected, and even more early.”
“You say that as though you would scold me about propriety,” he said, slipping down off the paddock fence and dusting his hands off on the thighs of his trousers. “But we are neighbors, are we not? What are proper visiting hours when I can simply pop through the hedge at my earliest convenience?”
She smiled. He was so easy to smile around, which surprised her again and again. After all, he had such a grave and sober countenance most of the time that she would have expected his personality to match it—but there was something mischievous in his eyes, at least when he spoke to her.
“Harry tells me that you have business with me this morning.”
“I do indeed.” He turned and asked Harry, “Are you set here, lad? The groom can help you put the cob up in the stables until I am ready to go. I should be here for a few hours more, at least.”
Harry nodded, and waved enthusiastically.
“A few hours?” Rosalind laughed. “Very serious business indeed, I suppose.”
“Shall we?” he asked, gesturing towards the house. “I have had an idea, but we will need Mrs. Hollis to bring it into the light of propriety.”
“How interesting.” She started walking back to the house with him striding at her side. “Go on.”
“I wrote to my London solicitor, as I told you I would, and he replied immediately—likely sent the missive back with the post. He knew of this Mr. Crewe, and says that if you send the list of witnesses to this address—” he held out a slip of paper with a name and a street number on it, “—he will check your witness list himself.”
“Thank you,” Rosalind said, raising her eyebrows. “You work very fast, I must say.”
“He suggested something else,” Adrian went on, without hesitating. “He believes that, if I am to speak on your behalf in a court of law, I will need more than mere proximity to justify why I have an opinion one way or the other. He encourages me to build more of a connection with Thornefield.”
“How?”
“He did not specify, but I have some ideas of my own,” Adrian said gravely. “I propose to come to Thornefield more regularly while the matter is pending—a visible connection between my household and yours is its own kind of armor.”
They neared the house, and he turned momentarily to gesture to the gardens and the land beyond.
“I can walk the grounds with you, look at any accounts you feel comfortable showing me, and be as public as possible about my involvement. People will begin to see me take an interest, and that will lend my testimony weight.”
Rosalind could hardly believe what he was saying. “It is quite a bit of responsibility,” she said slowly. “You would be functioning in part as a land agent, or at least an advisor.”
He nodded, and said nothing.
Rosalind shook her head. “I am sorry, but it is impossible. With legal fees looming… I cannot reimburse you for the gift of your time and attention.”
He tipped his head back and laughed, the sound rumbling out of him, deep and comforting. “Miss Thorne, I did not ask for payment. This is my own suggestion, born of my own personal interest.”
“Have you thought how it will look to the county, to have you take such a sudden interest?” she asked, avoiding his gaze. “It could be dangerous for your reputation if people begin to suspect a deeper… connection.” She could not bring herself to say ‘romance’ outright.
He was quiet for half a second before responding. “I do not care overmuch what people believe anymore,” he said quietly. “If they jump to conclusions—let them. You and I both know that this arrangement is above board, and that is all that matters.”
Rosalind thought to herself that it was, in part, his privilege of sex speaking. An aristocratic viscount could afford to say that he did not care what society thought, while a woman—even of her standing—had to view public opinion as currency.
“I am grateful,” she said at least, setting aside her desire to clarify. “For the time and thought you have put into this. It is a great sacrifice.”
“I see no sacrifice in it at all,” he said frankly, as they stepped inside.
Mrs. Hollis was in the parlor when they found her, preparing lessons for the following week. When she saw that her friend was not alone, she hurried to shove the lesson papers under a large book, but Rosalind reassured her, “Fear not, Mrs. Hollis. The viscount knows about the school.”
The former governess blanched. “How… surprising.”
“You need not look at me with such censure,” Rosalind said with a gentle smile. “I assure you the information was necessary to share—”
“And I assure you it is safe with me.” The viscount walked over to the table where Mrs. Hollis was working, his fingers pulling a slip of paper out from under the book. “Ah. You are working on poetic composition.”
Mrs. Hollis glanced at Rosalind, and then back at the viscount. “You think, perhaps, that it is an unnecessary skill for a milkmaid to possess?” There was a quiet challenge in her words.
Adrian looked at her for a long moment and then quoted quietly, “No man is an island entire of itself; every man is a piece of the continent, a part of the main; if a clod be washed away by the sea, Europe is the less, as well as if a promontory were.”
Mrs. Hollis raised her eyebrows and looked at Rosalind. “Shelley?” she asked.
“Donne,” Rosalind smiled. “John Donne.”
“Indeed,” Adrian acknowledged. “Whether a promontory or a clod, as Donne says, each man is a piece of something greater than himself—if we are to think of some men, or women, as undeserving of certain rights… then we might as well think of the entire continent as undeserving.”
“That is startlingly progressive of you,” Mrs. Hollis said, standing and extending her hand. “I hardly know if I can believe it.”