Jack (The Jaded Gentlemen Book 4) (12 page)

Cold weather made the splitting go easier, but Theodosia’s lungs did not tolerate cold well.

Aunt was parsimonious with her coal and had even bragged in Sir Jack’s hearing about knowing how to stretch a delivery from McArdle far longer than
her neighbors could.

A bad moment, that.

“Sir Jack would do nicely as a husband,” Theodosia said, wrapping the bread in a towel and returning it to the bread box. She carefully swept
the crumbs onto a plate, saving them for her precious biddies. If not for her puppies and laying hens, Theodosia would have very little income
indeed. 

“You’re considering marriage to Sir Jack?” Madeline had been considering Sir Jack too, though she knew better than to dream of marriage
where he was concerned.

“Don’t be a goose. He’d do for you. He’s not an idiot.”

Not an idiot
was high praise for a man, coming from Theodosia. She’d married an idiot, because her parents had selected one for her. Those parents had been long
gone when she’d learned the idiot had squandered most of her dowry. He’d died without male heirs though, so Theo owned her small property free
and clear.  

“Sir Jack is a gentleman,” Madeline said, dumping her plain tea back into the pot. “When Mr. Tavis maundered on for ten minutes about the
darts tournament and the winter assembly, Sir Jack was all polite attention.”

Outside, the ax blows fell in a slow, regular rhythm. Aunt would have no need to hoard her coal if Sir Jack came by regularly.

“Tavis is not half so enthusiastic about darts or dancing as he is about the money they bring him,” Aunt retorted. “If there were
anywhere else to procure ale, I wouldn’t let you buy from him.”

Mr. Tavis was one of those older, single men of means who hadn’t the sense to take a wife.

“I’ve brought you biscuits,” Madeline said, rather than let Aunt start on the tavern owner’s faults. “These would go to waste
at Teak House, and my clothes soon won’t fit, I’ve eaten so many myself.”

She withdrew a wrapped parcel that held a dozen biscuits as well as a few pieces of shortbread and two plain tea cakes.

“Does Sir Jack’s cook know you have these?” Aunt asked, not touching a single one.

Cook had put them on the tray or plate from which Madeline had taken them, so Madeline could answer honestly.

“Of course. She sent them up to me with a morning tray or an afternoon tea tray. Sir Jack isn’t a pinchpenny, and his staff eat well. I’m
sure he’d like knowing you were enjoying a small treat from his kitchen.”

Aunt’s hand hovered over the lot, as if the sweets might dodge off as soon as she chose one. “Sir Jack looks at you.”

Madeline looked at him too, at his mouth, at his gloved hands on the reins, at his shoulders filling out the many-caped greatcoat. In her dreams, she did
more than look.

“Sir Jack is the observant type. A fine quality in a magistrate. Take the shortbread. You know you adore it.”

“It’s best enjoyed with hot tea. I’ll save it.” Aunt turned away to cough delicately into a tattered scrap of a handkerchief.

She would feed the lot to her damned chickens on the theory that happy chickens laid more eggs, and more eggs meant more money.

“Take one now,” Madeline said. “Please.”

Theodosia had been a beauty in her day. Hattie frequently said as much, with a sibling’s peculiar talent for wounding with a compliment. Theo was
still a handsome woman, but her blue eyes were sad, her manner timid. Timidity on a tall, handsome woman of mature years was heartbreaking.

The ax had fallen silent, meaning Madeline was out of time.

“I’ll save the sweets,” Theo said, smiling brightly. “You’ll bring some to Hattie too, won’t you?”

“Of course. Is there anything else you need?” Madeline asked, though she knew the answer. Neither Theodosia nor Hattie ever admitted to needing
anything, and yet, the cottage was frigid and stank of dog, the slices of bread had been pathetically thin, and Theodosia’s gloves were more darning
than weaving.

“I’m fine, dear. You must not keep Sir Jack waiting.”

Sir Jack would have driven home by way of Yorkshire to prolong the outing, the poor man. “Then I’m on my way, and I’ll see you in two
weeks.”

Aunt knew better than to walk to services in this weather.

“My love goes with you, Madeline… and about Sir Jack.”

Madeline looped her scarf around her neck, though she wanted to wrap it over her aunt’s mouth.

“Whatever you’re going to say, Aunt Theo, don’t—”

“Money is important, but it isn’t everything or even the most important thing,” Theo said, which was about the last admonition Madeline
would have predicted. “Jack Fanning isn’t frivolous, and his people speak well of him. He’s… good, if somewhat out of the common
way. He wouldn’t steal your dowry and drink the rents.”

Oh, she meant well. The aunties always meant well. “He also won’t marry me. His own dear    

mama has brought him nothing less than a bride to cheer him past winter’s gloom. Don’t feed all the biscuits to your hens.”

Aunt looked chagrined, but when Madeline bent closer to kiss her cheek, Theodosia grabbed the ends of Madeline’s scarf.

“So he won’t marry you. He’s a bachelor for now, and a lonely one. Show him some attention, and see where it leads. Many a woman has been
happy and well-cared-for outside of marriage.”

Aunt was not among them. “You are being scandalous, Theodosia Hickman. Shame on you, and enjoy the biscuits.”

Madeline escaped into the bitter weather and found Sir Jack and the sleigh waiting for her on the lane. She climbed in beside him and scrambled under the
lap robe before he could tie up the reins and assist her.

“Are we to wait here until spring?” Madeline asked.

“You are as bad as I am,” he said, clucking to the horses. “She’s half your extant family, and you charged out of there as if a
press gang were after you. Did she upset you?”

Lately, everything upset Madeline, including the concern in Sir Jack’s eyes, and Aunt’s cough.

“I’ve been saving the biscuits off my tea tray for her, and she’ll just feed them to her biddies.” And worse, Madeline could look
forward to the same future, if she was lucky.

“There is no stubbornness like the stubbornness rooted in aspirations toward self-sufficiency. Among the Hindu, a beggar’s blessing is a
coveted treasure.”

What had that to do with anything, and why must it be so blasted cold? “My aunts are not beggars.” Not yet.

“The beggar’s blessing is coveted, because a blessing is all he has to give, the equivalent of a rich man’s entire fortune. Your aunt can
be generous with her chickens. Mr. Tavis can boast of his darts tournament, though it’s simply one noisy if profitable night out of the year.
We’re all beggars, viewed in a certain light, and we all have our fortunes to bestow.”

Some might say Sir Jack’s musing was the result of having spent too much time in the tropical sun, but Madeline found comfort in his words. Theodosia
was not eccentric for pampering her chickens, she was… human.

“Thank you,” Madeline said. “For splitting the wood too.”

“Exertion is a way to stay warm.”

He said nothing more, but when he’d turned the sleigh onto the road that would take them back to Teak House, he shifted the reins to one hand, and
wrapped his other arm around Madeline’s shoulders.

She bundled into his warmth, grateful for his generosity, but wishing he’d ask the horses for a slower pace.

“Jack is just like your father,” Mama said.

Even to Jeremy’s professionally charitable ears, this was not a compliment. “In what sense, Mama?”

“Jack uses duty to do as he dashed well pleases,” Mama retorted. “Pass the salt. Lucy Anne, don’t you care for the soup?”

The soup was a peppery version of chicken stew, the recipe suited to one who enjoyed Indian cuisine. Jeremy had finished his out of politeness, but Lucy
Anne—Miss DeWitt, rather—was mostly staring at hers.

“I’m afraid my digestion isn’t up to the robust spices,” she said, pushing the bowl an inch away. “It’s quite
delicious, though, quite… interesting, really.”

“It’s not to my taste either,” Jeremy said. “Give me good English cooking, and don’t spare the salt.”

Mama set down her soup spoon. “Where can Jack be? And in this weather, as if I don’t have enough to worry about.”

Jeremy was ordained in part because he enjoyed the study of Scripture. A snippet of a parable would get stuck in his mind, and he’d wring from it
every possible significance, going back to the Hebrew, Latin, or Aramaic to appease his curiosity. Unfortunately, he was prone to the same habit with
remnants of conversation, such as his mother’s claim to have worries.

Jack had outwitted native assassins, army politics, matchmakers, and stupid generals. He would handle himself well enough on a winter day in his own
backyard.

“Sir Jack is escorting Miss Hennessey,” Lucy Anne said. “I saw them take the sleigh out as I came down to breakfast. I’m told
it’s half day for some of the staff, and assume that includes Miss Hennessey.”

Mama dragged the salt spoon through the cellar. “They went sleigh-riding in this cold?”

Sleigh-riding generally worked best in brisk weather. “If you ladies would like some fresh air, I’ll be happy to take you out when Jack
returns.”

Mama waved a dismissive hand over her cooling soup, which inspired the footman to remove the bowl to the sideboard. He followed with Lucy Anne’s and
Jeremy’s bowls, and placed the serving trays on the table. Ham, potatoes, turnips, bread, and butter soon graced the table.

“Thank you,” Mama said. “That will be all.”

The footman hovered at the sideboard, his expression uncertain.

“He can’t hear you,” Lucy Anne said. “He’s deaf, from being a soldier. Mr. Pahdi explained it to me. The guns were loud,
apparently.”

Of course the guns had been loud, but Lucy Anne was so sweet, so kind. “You’re excused,” Jeremy said, slowly. He pointed to the door for
emphasis.

The footman bowed and withdrew.

“I hope you see what I mean,” Mama said to Lucy Anne. “Sir Jack left a portion of his reason in India. Out running about in the snow,
employing footmen who cannot hear the simplest commands, leaving the house only half-decorated when guests are due any day and the holidays not half
through. He’s a good man, but he’s not… He’ll be a good husband, and all husbands have shortcomings. A woman must be
realistic.”

Jeremy was abruptly embarrassed for his brother, and for his mother. No handy line of Scripture came to mind, no witty quip.

“I like Jack,” Jeremy said. “He’s brave, honorable, and kind.”

“Kind?” Lucy Anne muttered, slanting a glance at the empty seat at the head of the table.

“Of course he’s kind. Why else would he have taken Miss Hennessey to see her aging relations on her half day? At least, that’s what he
told me he was about when our paths crossed this morning. Miss Hennessey would never ask him, so he must have been motivated by kindness.”

“Miss Hennessey has aging relations?” Lucy Anne asked.

“Doubtless, she does,” Mama said, taking Lucy Anne’s plate, and scooping a heap of turnips onto it. “All paid companions have aging
relations. One feels sorry for the woman, to have a pair of doughty aunts and that unfortunate red hair too. Then the poor thing is cursed with excessive
height. Jeremy should remember Miss Hennessey in his prayers, considering the crosses she has to bear.”

Lucy Anne’s expression went from adorably confused, to pleased, to dismayed. “Mrs. Fanning, you must leave some turnips for everybody
else.”

“Nonsense. Turnips promote regularity. Trust me on this. If we’re to remain cooped up in this house, we’ll all need frequent servings of
turnips, for inactivity does not promote regularity. Jeremy, you shall carve the ham because your brother is detained elsewhere by his charitable
nature.”

Mama went off onto one of her diatribes about her own charitable exploits, many of which Jeremy suspected were years in the past, if not outright
fictitious.

He took Lucy Anne’s plate to serve her a portion of ham, and just happened to tip half her turnips onto his own plate while Mama was busy buttering
her potatoes.

The smile Lucy Anne aimed at Jeremy, however fleeting, was as real as the scent of turnips perfuming the parlor’s warmth.

When a man refused to participate in blood sports, he became an object of conjecture among those who did ride to hounds, shoot, hunt grouse, and otherwise
comport themselves like normal landed Englishmen.

Jack compensated for a lack of bloodthirstiness by honing his abilities as a darts player, and for his efforts, was captain of a team. Axel Belmont
captained another team, though the primary activities on any given darts night consisted of trading ribald insults and drinking rather than hitting the
bull’s-eye.

“For this, I left the company of my darling wife and beloved offspring,” Belmont muttered, beneath the roar of the assemblage at a comment
regarding Vicar Weekes’s imperfect aim.

“I’m investigating the theft of a few bags of coal,” Jack replied, passing Belmont a tankard of ale and taking one from the bar for
himself. “Or that’s what I told my guests I was about. Shall we sit?”

Belmont led the way to a table beside the snug, and Jack followed. They would be ignored so long as the ale was kept flowing, and Tavis ensured it flowed
like a spring tide.

“The pot gets richer each year,” Belmont said. “His Majesty will soon get wind of our little tournament, and dip the royal fingers into
the winnings.”

The tournament stakes were the result of the shilling-apiece entry fees paid by each member of a team for each contest during the year. The teams that
progressed to final rounds paid considerably more, it typically being the captain’s obligation to cover his team’s entry fees.

“Tavis would do better to have this tournament during the summer,” Jack replied. “The stink in here is prodigious.”

The Wet Weasel had an
English
stink, composed of damp wool, sweat, ale, tobacco, coal smoke, muddy floorboards, plus fresh bread, and a beef stew
contributed by the kitchen.