George snorted. “No,” he said. “It’s The Mysteries of Udolpho by Mrs. Radcliffe! Can you believe it? Your uncle read scandalous novels!”
Theo raised a brow. “Is that a scandalous novel?” he asked. He could remember seeing it in his mother’s private sitting room.
“I think so,” George said, putting the book back on the shelf. “All novels are scandalous, aren’t they?” He glanced at Theo. “You’re quite right that I’d rather be reading about crop rotation.” He shrugged, his lips twisting in a self-mocking smile. “Or maybe some Seneca or Epictetus.”
Theo snorted. “I’ve no idea what Seneca or Epictetus wrote about, but I’ll bet it was all very sober and moral.”
“True.” George sighed. “I’m afraid I’m a very dull fellow, Theo.” He smiled, but it was a sad sort of smile, and Theo immediately regretted his words. In two minutes he’d somehow regressed to schoolboy Theo, ragging George about reading books.
“Sorry,” he said. “I was only teasing. Tell me about Seneca. Or the other chap. I do want to know.” But George only laughed and shook his head, and before Theo could argue with him, there was a knock at the door.
It was the lad, Tom, with some kind of beverage in a brown pot bottle. He set it carefully on the table with two glasses. “Mrs. Ford said to tell you there’s no wine, but this is Mrs. Morgan’s cider, and she’ll be through with your dinner in a few minutes.” Flushing, he added, “Mrs. Ford, that is. With the dinner. Not Mrs. Morgan. Mrs. Morgan made the cider. Ages ago. Last summer.” He cleared his throat then, looking agonised, and Theo had to press his lips together to stop himself laughing.
George, as always, was the better man. “Thank you, Tom,” he said kindly. “Cider is perfect. I’m absolutely parched.”
The boy looked relieved and quickly escaped.
“Poor Tom,” George said once the door had closed behind him. “He really doesn’t like this sort of work, does he? Just wants to be in the stables with the horses.”
Theo’s amusement faded. “Shame there aren’t any horses,” he muttered.
George sent him a sympathetic smile; then he slid the volume he’d been holding back onto the shelf, saying, “Let’s sit down.”
“By all means,” Theo agreed, sliding into one of the chairs. Yanking the stopper out of the pot bottle, he gave it a dubious sniff. The scent of apples was immediate and intense. At once, it was early autumn, the days still long, but crisper in the mornings, the leaves on the trees just beginning to rust at the edges.
“Do you like cider?” Theo asked George as he poured the cloudy, golden liquid into their glasses, “Or were you just being polite?”
“Depends on the cider,” George replied. He lifted his glass and took a swig, then closed his eyes. “Ah, now that's good.” He took another swig. “Hmm.” His moan was low and appreciative, and Theo found himself staring at George’s full mouth. At first glance, George looked positively strait-laced in his plain, sober clothes, so neat and polite. But when Theo’s gaze landed on that mouth—those full lips, that lazy smile—it all hinted at a nature that was far more hedonistic and sensual than one might otherwise imagine.
And, hell, was Theo’s cock hard again? He barely suppressed a groan, but thank God he did, because all at once, Mrs. Ford was entering the dining room, deftly opening the door with her ample rump, before turning to bring the large tray she carried to the table.
“Here we are, gentlemen,” she said brightly, setting it down. “You should find tonight’s dinner a sight better than the eggs I gave you yesterday evening.”
And with that, she began laying out one heavenly-smelling dish after another. A small but wonderful-smelling joint of roast pork, the first few slices already carved, a big jug of rich, brown gravy, gratin potatoes, braised leeks, and a dish of fat, fluffy dumplings.
“This looks wonderful, Mrs. Ford,” George said. “You must have been working all day at this.”
“Pshaw!” Mrs Ford waved that away. “I could’ve done another half dozen dishes with one hand tied behind my back.” She chuckled. “It’s been nice to have a reason to cook a proper dinner for once. Just make sure you leave room for dessert, Mr. Asquith. There’s ginger pudding and custard.”
George practically whimpered at that news.
“Now,” she said, putting the tray aside, and reaching for George’s plate, “Let me serve you a portion.” And with that, she began to deftly pile his plate with a little of everything, before setting it down in front of him and reaching for Theo’s plate to do the same for him.
As she worked, she chattered. “How did you find your tenants today, sir?” she asked Theo. “Is Mrs. Morgan looking well? She’ll be having her baby soon enough, I expect.”
“I daresay,” Theo agreed vaguely, though he hadn’t the least idea how far along Mrs. Morgan was, and was entirely uncurious about the matter.
“Mr. and Mrs. Morgan were very hospitable,” George put in. “They seem to be a very pleasant couple.”
“Oh, they are that,” Mrs. Ford agreed. “Mr. Lockhart was very lucky to get Ned Morgan as a tenant. He came along just at the right time, just after Mr. Lockhart got ill the first time.” She sighed sadly. “It was obvious by then he needed a tenant to spread the load.”
“Is Mr. Morgan from around here?” George asked.
“Yes,” she said. “His father’s a tenant farmer up near Little Whitterton, about eight miles away. Old Man Morgan was blessed with four sons, and Ned’s the youngest, so he needed to find his own place. He was right lucky Mr. Lockhart was willing to take a chance on a young fellow, and an unmarried one too, when he took the lease on. But that was your uncle, all over, Mr. Caldwell.” She turned to Theo, a misty smile on her face. “He was ever such a kind gentleman.”
Theo hadn’t the faintest idea what to say to that. He’d only met his uncle once or twice, when he was a child, and had barely formed even a vague impression of him then.
“And how was Mr. Martin?” Mrs Ford went on. She shook her head, disapproving and smiling at the same time. “I’ll wager he’s not eating properly.”
