Page 23 of The Gentlewoman Companion

Chapter Six

“Are you all right?” Halverton belatedly asked the closed door. What sort of question was that? She clearly was not. Smoke seeped from under the door. He rested his forehead against the wall, his heart continuing its fearful rhythm, even as he reminded himself that the room was not ablaze as he had believed when the burning smell had drawn him from the study. The house was intact, but Miss Thorpe was not. He hated to leave her in anguish, but clearly, this was not the time to question her. He slowly returned to his study.

At his desk he sat listless, hands motionless, unable to remember what he meant to do with the neat piles of paper stacked around him. Witnessing her emotion had shaken free his own, made him impotent to do anything other than try to settle his rapid breath and press his palms to his burning eyes. Miss Thorpe’s expression, the flame reflected in her eyes, the pink sheen of her cheeks mirrored what he kept so carefully tucked away within himself—a grief he recognized.

Not a quiet, dull ache, but one that came in torrential waves and left him drenched in longing for his father’s instruction. If he’d not been so enamored with his travels, had he returned home six months earlier, he might have bid farewell to his father and now feel more prepared to be Earl of Halverton.

His mother came to remind him to join the evening meal, but she must have seen his distress and did not press. He only commented that she should not worry herself about the smoking chimney from earlier that day. The light in his room changed from gold to pink, and he remained immobile, trying to re-order his feelings, to return them, neatly folded, to their compartments.

Miss Thorpe entered his study, and Halverton stood, sending his chair into the bookcase.

“My lord, forgive me if I startled you,” Miss Thorpe said, twisting the lace at her sleeve. “I simply wanted to… My behavior earlier… I came to beg your pardon.”

“It is I who owe you my deepest apology.” He resisted the urge to take her hand in a demonstration of empathy.

“It was unwise to burn something like that in your home.” She rushed her words, and he wondered if she had practiced. “And it was discourteous of me to close the door on you.”

If he had not seen such an echo of his own grief in her, he might have been inclined to agree. “When my father died,” he said, “I missed him and the future we would never share.” Though his words discomfited him, he wanted to assuage her embarrassment. “I went to the attic, searching for something—a forgotten journal, letters, I hardly know what—but it was not there. Instead, I found a tarnished candlestick. Hideously ornate but large and heavy.” He met her eyes. “I used it to smash every breakable thing in the attic.”

Miss Thorpe made a noise, half gasp, half laugh. “I am not alone in dramatic displays of passion.” She sat down. It was rude of him not to offer her a chair but even less polite of her to take one.

“Tell me about your father,” she said.

Since returning home, he had found himself more often listening to stories about his father than sharing his own. The generosity of her willingness to hear him cracked him open, releasing a bright sting that swelled from his chest to his eyes. He turned to the window.

“My father, the late Lord Halverton, was the finest man to ever live.” He took the seat beside her. “He was the third Earl of Halverton, a Tory, and all I hope to become. He graduated with a master’s in art from Oxford and later received an honorary Doctor of Civil Law from Magdalen College. He was the controller of customs.” Miss Thorpe’s brows rose but her eyes narrowed. She wasn’t impressed? Hoping to say something she would appreciate, he added, “He created his own breed of horse. Hunters with the smoothest gait, calmest tempers. They are excellent jumpers, as you’ve learned.”

“But what was he like?”

He sought a narrative that exemplified his father’s exceptional character, a man renowned for consistently doing the right thing. His father had taught him to ride and hunt and fish, but those childhood tales did not capture his father’s greatness.

“One evening, while in London, my father found himself confronted with a blazing shop belonging to a brandy seller. The scene was pandemonium—shouting, desperate people, all anticipating an explosion that would burn all of London. He stepped in and commanded the turmoil. He sent for the Foot Guards, ordered onlookers to remove crates of brandy, and directed the fire engines.” Halverton wished he’d been there to see it.

“An impressive story. You are fortunate to have exemplary parents.”

“I am indeed. And he adored my mother.” When his father returned from town, he always greeted his mother with gifts and kisses. Their affection had made him feel safe, and he aspired to find the same love in his future marriage. “What was your mother like?”

Her face became a mask. “I must meet Lady Halverton in the drawing room. She has a stack of books for me.”

He could not tell if Miss Thorpe dreaded or anticipated those books. Both? And why did she close off when he asked questions about her loss? He had thought confessing his grief would establish a certain level of trust. “Quite,” he said. “Have no fear; she will not suspect your role in the fire.”

“Thank you for not telling your mother about it,” she whispered.

“I told her your fireplace was smoking.”

“But why would I have a fire in this heat?”

“You were unpacking and needed to dispose of a few things.”

“Clever. Thank you.”

She left in a quiet rustle, her shoulders square, hands clutching the fabric of her skirt. At the foot of the stairs, she glanced back at him, sending a quiver through his chest. Her distinct collar bone and narrow shoulders made her seem delicate, but after witnessing steel in her eyes, he knew better.

Who was this woman his mother had taken in? Why had she run away? She had recently lost her mother, but leaving the protection of her family was a strange way to grieve.

The next day found Halverton again in his study, more determined to work diligently at his many tasks and make up for the time he’d spent contemplating the loss of his father the day before. He had been quite productive that morning, responding to all his correspondence, progressing on his speech, and beginning to see after his steward’s account books.

“James. It’s time for our walk,” his mother called from the parlor.