Chapter 3 #3
Miss Fielding excused the footman with a nod and took the place beside her mama. “My lord, how do you take your tea?”
“A dash of honey. If the pot is piping hot, a dollop of milk as well.”
She served him first, which subtly implied that he was a guest rather than a family member.
An old warning ran through Richard’s head: You have been on your own to such a degree and for so long that you imagine slights where none are intended. You had better learn to trust somebody, because you will certainly need to be trustworthy yourself if you are to succeed in commerce.
That had been Sorcha’s final scold before he’d departed for Portugal, and she’d been right.
She was usually right.
“Mabel, you should give his lordship a tour of the property,” Mrs. Fielding said as Miss Fielding passed her mother a cup of tea nearly white with added milk. “The lot of it is his now, or will be when the solicitors turn loose of it, and he’ll have some ideas for its management.”
“Does your lordship ride?” Miss Fielding asked, pouring a third cup.
“Adequately. I can procure a hack from the local livery if our stable is short of guest horses.”
“Perhaps that would be for the best,” Miss Fielding said. “We’ve kept only mares for our riding stock.”
And titled gentlemen did not in the ordinary course ride mares, for no reason Richard had ever been able to discern. A good, sturdy, sensible mare suited him just fine.
“If you have a mare up to my weight, I’ll happily try her paces.”
“You could take the dog cart,” Mrs. Fielding suggested. “The Glen has some lovely views, my lord.”
Richard hadn’t come racketing up the Great North Road to admire Yorkshire’s numberless views.
“A quiet hack will serve nicely as a starting point,” he said. “Does Miss Blackstock ride?”
The Fielding ladies exchanged a look. What to say?
“Of course she does,” Miss Fielding said, “and quite competently, but if I’m to be a proper tour guide, my lord, I will maunder on about tenants, marling, cottage repairs, and garden crops.
Wealtha has heard the whole litany many times over.
You and I can start with that quiet hack tomorrow after breakfast, if the weather obliges. ”
“Tomorrow after breakfast, then. I shall look forward to it.” Rather than attempt more direct inquiries relating to his mother, Richard tried a different tack. “Have we anything in the nature of a portrait gallery?”
“The Glen does have a lovely gallery,” Mrs. Fielding said.
“When we finish our tea, Mabel will direct you to it. Abernathy Blackstock was the first of his family to take an interest in art other than the usual sketches and coming-of-age portraits, and you will find some of his acquisitions interesting.”
What Richard wanted was a full-length oil portrait of his mother.
The sketchbook had been full of Mama’s likeness, but contrary to Miss Fielding’s opinion, Richard found Orla Fielding to be a mediocre artist. She’d been accurate but uninspired and had difficulty conveying anything other than a collection of features or a bonnet and three-quarter profile.
I want my mother. Not the tired, distracted parent who’d scrubbed floors late into the night and patiently taught him his letters, but the young, pretty woman who’d caught the eye of a doting swain.
The sentiment howled through him as he finished his tea and endured a cheerful lecture about the local weather. Clouds were deceivers in Yorkshire, promising rain and providing none or barreling in from the North Sea to wreck a sunny morning without warning.
“Madeira has the same quality, in a different manner,” Richard replied. “A ridge of mountains along the center of the island can mean rain and gloom on the north shore, while all is summer sun to the south.”
“Will you be returning there?” Mrs. Fielding asked.
Behind that expression of cordial interest, did she want him to decamp? “My plans are undecided.”
“Of course they are.” She set down her empty tea cup. “You have been taken very unaware, and we must give you time to adjust to your good fortune. We are certainly agog at ours. Mabel will agree.”
“Emphatically,” Mabel murmured. “Perhaps your lordship would like to see the gallery now?”
Richard had promised not to tire his aunt, and while she did not look fatigued to him, she’d also been described as stoic. Heaven knew Richard had ignored his own fatigue often enough to know how it was done. Smile, chat, nod, smile… And that little performance was exhausting in its own way.
“I would love to see the gallery. Mrs. Fielding, to make your acquaintance has been a profound pleasure, and I hope we might continue our conversation at dinner.”
She remained seated when Richard rose.
“Depend upon it, my lord. You will soon know all the latest Wellsborough gossip, and Mabel will ensure you know the tenants by name and the age and lineage of each ram as well.”
Mabel finished tidying up the tea tray and rolled the cart through the doorway. Richard followed, though the leave-taking felt awkward.
As if, in half an hour flat, he’d overstayed his welcome with the aunt who’d professed that his arrival was the answer to years of prayers.