There was another son too, Maxwell knew. Josiah, the second eldest of the siblings. An artist, currently studying at the Royal Academy in London.
Six Northcott offspring in all, then. A nice balance of three boys and three girls. Louisa, the eldest daughter, was about to embark on her second Season, but didn’t seem overly excited about it. Maxwell wondered that the lass had not been snatched up already, for she was a bonny wee thing, though apparently a little reckless, judging by what he’d witnessed that morning. He hadn’t realized, at the time, that the wild woman charging across the moor on horseback was a Northcott. Only when she’d appeared in the stables, looking rather like she taken a lover’s tumble through the heather, did he make the connection. Her embarrassment, due to her disheveled state, had amused him. The other sensation he experienced, which felt rather like intrigue, he decided to ignore. He did, however, have somethingin his possession that belonged to her, but intended to wait for the right moment to return it.
As for the Northcott’s ‘little patch’, Maxwell knew it amounted to the nearby village of Morthwaite, the manor house in need of a tenant, as well as almost six hundred acres of pasture, moorland, and forest supported by a half-dozen tenant farmers. Not to mention the fine old house in which he now sat.
In fact, he likely knew as much about this branch of the Northcott family tree as anyone, including the family themselves. Learning about those with whom he did business—personal or otherwise—was all part of his process.
He addressed Julian’s observations. “Indeed, Mr. Northcott, the location is ideally situated for most of my business interests. I own a house in Glasgow, but otherwise I rent rooms whenever I travel. However, as I mentioned earlier, it is my engagement to Miss Chessington that has prompted my search for a suitable marital home. Northcott Manor will be the third property I’ve looked at in as many weeks.”
“Then I hope a fourth will not be necessary,” Julian responded. “However, with respect, sir, I wonder that you have not considered purchasing land and property and living off the income it brings, since you are surely in a position to do so.”
Maxwell smiled. His future father-in-law, Lord Dent, had posed the same question not a fortnight earlier. In that case, a motive had been embedded in the viscount’s query, prompted by nothing more than the sour taste of class distinction. With Julian Northcott, the question appeared to be benign. Still, Maxwell couldn’t help but respond in a like manner. “Losing my tradesman’s cap and becoming a gentleman, you mean? I’m afraid I cannot envisage such a pastoral existence. The world is changing, and I intend to be actively on the forefront of that change.”
“I meant no offense, sir,” Julian said, without malice. “On the contrary, I commend your ambition. As to being on the forefront of our nation’s industrial progress, it seems apparent that you’re already there.”
Maxwell cleared his throat. “This entire northern area is one of the most important industrial hubs in the world and is all set to witness yet more growth and advancement.”
“You’re referring to the continued expansion of the railway system, I assume,” Aldous said.
“Indeed, Captain.” Maxwell swirled the remaining cognac in his glass and drank it down. “Mark my words, travel by rail is the way of the future.”
“I don’t doubt it.” Aldous reached for the decanter. “Will you take a little more, Mr. Harlow?”
The rest of the evening passed with equal affability until, prompted by the sound of rain against the windows and the subsequent thought of a warm bed, Maxwell had taken his leave.
He was not, by nature, a covetous man, and he certainly didn’t want for anything. Yet, making his way along the shadowed hallway, its ancient, paneled walls hung with ancestral portraits, he couldn’t help but feel a slight tug of envy. Highfield Hall, like many old established houses, seemed to hold time in its grasp, safeguarding it for the ancestors long gone and the descendants yet to come.
“Too much brandy,” he muttered, a corner of his mouth lifting at the foolish direction of his thoughts. He started up the exquisitely carved oak staircase, the ancient treads creaking beneath his feet. At the top, he paused a moment to regard the large rose window that graced the upper façade of Highfield Hall. There, at the foot of the circular portal, a large, solitary candle burned steadily, its bright flame reflecting in the glass. The placement of the candle, so close to the floor, appeared to be significant rather than useful. Maxwell wondered at it. Onthe opposite wall hung the portrait of a young man, his blue-eyed gaze fixed eternally on the window. Next to the portrait, a smaller frame, with a glass front, displayed a silver disc, hanging from a red and blue ribbon. Maxwell moved closer, recognizing it as the Waterloo Medal. Another significant placement, he thought. It felt almost like a shrine.
“We light a candle here every night in memory of my Uncle Julian,” a female voice said, startling him. He turned to see Louisa Northcott moving out of the darker depths of the corridor. Garbed in a demurerobe de chambreof fine, ivory-colored wool, the lass appeared almost ghostlike, her face half-hidden in shadow, a long, dark braid snaking over her left shoulder. She had a book clasped to her breast, he noticed.
“He was my mother’s elder brother who died at Waterloo.” She gestured to the painting. “That’s his portrait. My brother is named for him.”
As she’d spoken, she’d moved closer, and most of the darker shadows had fallen away to reveal the alluring vision that now stood before him. Maxwell’s pulse quickened. Louisa Northcott was indeed bonny, with her high-cheekbones, large dark eyes, and full, soft lips. Bare feet at that moment, too, he noticed. Ten delightful toes peeking out from beneath her robe. An unbidden urge to discover what other delights lay hidden beneath that robe was acknowledged and then shoved aside. Even if Maxwell had been unattached, the lass was not to be tampered with. She was an innocent, first of all, and also happened to be the daughter of his potential landlord. But none of Maxwell’s mental restraint could prevent his physical response.
His focus, however, remained on the topic at hand, and he saw no reason to feign ignorance about it. “I’m aware of your uncle’s sad demise, Miss Northcott, though not about this nightly observance. It’s a fine tribute to him.”
“Yes, it is.” She hugged her book tighter. “But the candle also serves as a sign of life, since its light can be seen from the outside. A beacon in the darkness, you see, should anyone find themselves lost on the moor and in need of help.”
“Which makes the tribute to your uncle all the more special,” he said.
“Indeed, it does.” She inclined her head. “Well, if you’ll excuse me, Mr. Harlow, I’m off to exchange this book for another.”
Curiosity got the better of him. That, and perhaps a vague reluctance to bid the lass goodnight. Besides, he had another reason to delay her departure. “Would you consider it rude if I asked what you’re reading?”
“Not at all.” She showed him the book, a copy of Ainsworth’sRookwood. “It’s wonderful. Have you read it?”
“I have not,” he replied. “I confess, I find myself with little time for pleasurable reading.”
Her eyes widened briefly. “Oh, I see. I was about to ask if you’d care to borrow it, but there’s little point if you would never find the time to read it.”
“A kind thought, nonetheless.” He cleared his throat. “I wonder, Miss Northcott, if you would mind waiting here a moment. I believe I have something in my possession that belongs to you.”
The eyes widened again. “You do?”
“Aye. It’s all quite appropriate, I assure you.” He inclined his head.
“I’ll return in a few moments.”
