Chapter 3
A man by the name of George Rutley arrived at Ravensmoor shortly after noon, with his hat in one hand, his riding gloves in the other, and the air of a man who had never yet entered any house as if he feared being unwelcome.
Edward, who had been standing over a map of the northern farms with Benedict’s steward and discovering that neglect had a peculiar talent for making itself expensive, looked up at the sound of George’s voice in the hall and felt something in him ease before he had given it permission.
There were friendships which required careful maintenance, such as letters answered at suitable intervals, invitations returned, offenses avoided, and confidences measured. His friendship with George had never been one of them.
It began in boyhood with a black pony, a broken fence, and a shared punishment that had seemed, at ten years old, a persecution of the highest order.
It survived school, London, women, politics, long silences, and George’s unfortunate habit of laughing precisely when Edward most wished to be taken seriously.
“I see Ravensmoor hasn’t altered,” George declared, entering the library as though he owned at least one corner of it by affection. “It still looks as if it expects every guest to justify his existence.”
“Then you’d better begin,” Edward said.
George grinned and clasped his hand. “My dear fellow.”
It was an absurdly simple greeting, and yet Edward felt it with more force than all the formal welcomes he had received since his return. George’s hand was warm, his expression open, and his pleasure entirely unarranged.
There was comfort in that. There was also danger, though Edward did not think so then. A man accustomed to being studied might forget the power of being merely liked.
They took luncheon in the smaller parlor, where the fire had been lit against the damp and the windows gave upon a sweep of lawn still silvered from the morning rain. George had always possessed the happy gift of making himself agreeable without appearing to make any effort at all.
He spoke of London, of mutual acquaintances, of an opera singer whose temper outperformed her voice, and of a horse he nearly purchased before discovering that its chief accomplishment was opening stable doors with its teeth.
Edward listened more than he spoke, though this was common enough. With George, silence had never been mistaken for displeasure.
At length, when the servants withdrew and the coffee was set between them, George leaned back in his chair and looked at him properly.
“Well,” he said, “are you very miserable?”
Edward lifted a brow. “Am I expected to be?”
“Not expected. Suspected. There is a difference.”
“I have been home only a few days.”
“Exactly. Long enough to be congratulated, instructed, inspected, advised, and possibly married by your mother in theory.”
Edward’s mouth moved despite himself. “You remain impertinent.”
“And you remain very easily provoked by accuracy.” George took up his cup. “Tell me the truth. How bad is it?”
“The estate?”
“The estate. Your mother. The matrimonial campaign. The general sensation of being returned to one’s cradle and finding it now expects rent.”
Edward looked toward the window. The rain began again, not heavily, but in that fine persistent manner which seemed less to fall than to settle upon everything.
Beyond the glass, the lawns blurred at the edges.
Ravensmoor, with its old stone and dark woods, seemed to draw closer beneath such weather, as if the house disliked being observed from a distance.
“There is more to be done than I was told,” he confessed.
George’s expression altered at once. The ease remained, but beneath it came attention. That had always been George’s particular talent. He could make seriousness appear voluntary rather than imposed.
“The farms?”
“The northern drainage has been delayed. The mill lease must be reconsidered. There are arrears among tenants who ought not to have been left to fall into them. Some roads require repair, and there has been petty theft near Whitcombe.”
George whistled softly. “A cheerful inheritance.”
“It is not an inheritance,” Edward replied. “It is a responsibility.”
“Spoken like a man who has already decided to exhaust himself honorably.”
“I have decided to understand what is mine.”
George studied him over the rim of his cup. “And does it feel like yours?”
The question was too simple. Edward disliked simple questions. They had a way of exposing what cleverness contrived to conceal.
He set his cup down. “It feels as if everyone else has been waiting for me to remember that it is.”
George nodded slowly. “That isn’t quite the same thing.”
“No.”
For a moment, neither spoke. The fire flickered in the grate, giving off a small collapse of sparks.
Edward could smell coffee, damp wool from George’s riding coat, and the faint polish of old furniture.
This room was his father’s favorite for winter mornings.
He hadn’t considered that when he chose it, or rather, he thought of it and refused to acknowledge doing so.
George spared him by turning the subject.
“And the other responsibility? The future duchess?”
Edward exhaled with feeling. “You sound like my mother.”
“No man deserves that insult.”
“My mother has spent the past months converting the unmarried women of the county into a catalogue. I am now informed of dowries, accomplishments, complexions, maternal ambitions, and, in one case, the quality of a laugh.”
“A laugh may be decisive.”
“In favor or against?”
“That depends whether one is expected to hear it at breakfast for forty years.”
Edward’s amusement came before he could prevent it. George looked gratified, as he always did when he forced Edward into any expression short of solemn endurance.
“And do you mean to marry one of these catalogued creatures?” George asked.
“I came home with that intention.”
“Intention is a cold beginning.”
“It is better than impulse.”
“Not always. Impulse at least has a pulse.”
“A pulse is not a recommendation.”
“Spoken like a man who has never enjoyed being foolish.”
Edward gave him a dry look. “I enjoyed being foolish with you often enough as a boy. It usually ended in mud, blood, or a lecture.”
“And yet those were some of your happiest hours.”
That silenced him more effectively than George could have known. Edward looked down, turning the signet ring upon his finger once with his thumb. George, observing the movement, had the good sense not to press.
“There is a ball at Pemberton House, I hear,” he revealed instead.
“So my mother has informed me.”
“You will attend?”
“I am under the impression that the county has already arranged itself in expectation of my doing so.”
“Then you must. It would be cruel to disappoint so many new gowns.”
Edward leaned back. “You seem well informed on the subject of local anticipation.”
“Because I have been here longer than you.”
“And more socially industrious.”
“More socially willing, perhaps.” George paused, then added with studied carelessness. “I was at a small gathering at the Westons’ last week.”
Edward said nothing. That was frequently the best way to make George continue.
“There were the usual people. Mrs. Weston spoke a great deal about her daughters. Sir Lionel’s heir said three things, all unfortunate. And Lady Charlotte Pembroke was there.”
The name stirred some faint recollection in Edward: a girl running across a lawn with a ribbon flying loose behind her and Lord Henry Pembroke laughing as if he had never possessed a care he could not charm away. The memory was indistinct and had no immediate consequence.
“Pembroke’s daughter?” he inquired.
“The same.”
“I haven’t seen her in years.”
“No. I believe she has altered.”
“That is the common habit of children.”
George smiled into his coffee. “She is no longer a child.”
There was something in the tone that wasn’t impropriety, not even admission, but a warmth too carefully folded away. Edward looked at him more closely.
“Indeed?”
George appeared interested in the fire. “She was very pleasant. Easy in conversation and not in the dull way, you understand. Some women are easy because they have no opinion strong enough to obstruct anyone else’s. Lady Charlotte is easy because she is not the least anxious to be admired.”
“That must make her singular in the county.”
“It makes her refreshing.”
Edward’s mouth curved. “Refreshing.”
George glanced at him. “Do not repeat the word as if I confessed to poetry.”
“I would not accuse you of so violent a decline.”
“She reads a great deal,” George continued, with a carelessness so elaborate that it became its own evidence. “Not only novels. Histories, essays, matters which would terrify Miss Carrow’s harp into silence. And she rides exceedingly well, by all accounts.”
“By all accounts?”
“I have heard it said.”
“By whom?”
George looked injured. “Am I on trial?”
“Not yet. I am collecting evidence.”
“Then collect this: Lady Charlotte is good company. That is all.”
Edward watched him for another moment. “Is it?”
George laughed, but a little too quickly. “My dear Edward, you have become very ducal. One cannot mention a lady without being examined as though applying for a license.”
“One cannot mention Lady Charlotte Pembroke in that voice and expect impunity.”
“What voice?”
“The one you have used since we were seventeen and with which you attempted to persuade me that Miss Ellery’s singing was tolerable.”
George flushed faintly, which in a man of thirty-one was both ridiculous and revealing.
“Miss Ellery’s singing was tolerable.”
“It was a crime against air.”
“She had fine eyes.”
“And Lady Charlotte?”
George’s hand stilled on his cup. Then he looked up with a smile that was almost his usual one.
“She has fine opinions.”
Edward laughed quietly. “Worse and worse.”
“You mistake me entirely.”
“I am sure I do.”
“You have not seen her in years. When you do, you will understand. She is not the sort of woman a man speaks of lightly.”
That, more than all George’s praise, caught Edward’s attention.
For a second he saw, not the easy friend across the table, but the boy George had once been: warm, eager, secretly proud, always wanting something before he had learned how to ask for it.
Edward knew him too well not to understand that Lady Charlotte Pembroke occupied more of his thoughts than he wished to admit.
Yet the matter held no discomfort for Edward.
Why should it? Charlotte Pembroke belonged to that indistinct region of childhood acquaintance.
If George admired her, then let George admire her.
Edward had no claim upon every unmarried woman in the county merely because his mother had sharpened her attention toward marriage.
“You should call,” Edward suggested.
George gave him a look of exaggerated horror. “And have Lord Henry suppose me sensible? I have my reputation to consider.”
“Your reputation would survive one morning call.”
“My heart might not.”
Edward’s eyes narrowed with amusement. “Ah.”
“There is no ah.”
“There was distinctly an ah.”
George rose and walked to the window, as if the rain required his supervision. “You are insufferable when you are pleased with yourself.”
“Then I must be pleased less often than you deserve.”
George turned back, laughing. “I forgot how disagreeable you are.”
“No, you remembered and came anyway.”
That softened something between them. George crossed the room and clapped him once on the shoulder, more gently than the gesture pretended.
“I am glad you are home,” he smiled.