Rather than replying, the gentleman merely huffed and gave a wry smile, which made Malcolm’s hackles rise.
Striding to the door, Sidney called back over his shoulder, “Suit yourself, but you ought to ask yourself whether it is the ride you object to or seeing your stable staff.”
And with that, Sidney disappeared, leaving Malcolm scowling at the fireplace. Sidney Bracegirdle was a fool who found far too much enjoyment in needling others. The implication was clear enough but entirely ridiculous. With a shake of his head, Malcolm scoffed at the thought that he would avoid riding simply because he didn’t wish to see his stable staff simply because they were the ones who had borne the brunt of his machinations.
Ludicrous.
Simply ludicrous.
Chapter 28
Reaching to the side table, Malcolm pulled out his book. He only wanted an afternoon to himself. That was all. As he opened the cover, his eyes fell to the words on the page, following them along with his usual speed without absorbing a single word. Malcolm forced himself to focus on the black print, but another attempt yielded no results.
It was difficult enough to ignore Miss Leigh’s assertions, but Sidney’s now joined in with hers, making it impossible to shake free of them. The hands of the grandfather clock inched along as he considered their words, unable to make them fit his world as he knew it but unable to dismiss them entirely.
“Come in,” called Malcolm as a knock sounded on the door, and a footman stepped in with a salver in his hands. Silently, the young man stood before him and offered the missives sitting atop it. Malcolm took the post and waved the footman off. The servant bowed and withdrew, leaving Malcolm alone once more as he perused the letters.
For all that his detractors claimed him to be a demanding master, they had simply seen him at his worst—and few people looked saintly at such times. Had they witnessed that interaction, they would’ve sung a different tune. Malcolm wasn’t irritated that the letters had been delivered so late in the day, nor would he criticize them for not having arranged them with the most important on top; his mother’s correspondence deserved higher precedence over a tailor’s bill, after all.
Malcolm had seen many a master who needed no excuse to rail against his retainers, curtailing their pay and half-days without compunction. He couldn’t ever recall himself or his father behaving in such a manner. Yes, they demanded loyalty and perhaps they might make requests their servants didn’t care to fulfill, but the Tate masters were hardly monsters.
Was being merely not a monster enough?
It was as though Miss Leigh had appeared at his elbow to whisper the question into Malcolm’s ear. The words were clear and entered his mind without hesitation, halting that previous thought with the implacability of a stone wall.
He tossed his book aside and rose to his feet. Surely there was something better to occupy his thoughts.
But that question followed him about as he went through his day. Despite his attempts to distract himself with correspondence, the newspaper, ledgers, and anything else he could think of, the question lingered in his mind like a cough after a lengthy illness—not doing anything of value and never leaving him be.
Oh, how his father would laugh at the whole business. Was it truly wrong to expect his staff to do as they were bidden?
The answer seemed clear enough, but any time Malcolm settled on it, Sidney’s question emerged to dispel any peace he might’ve found.
“What would you do if a gentleman asked you to blacken your honor with his lies?”
That was far easier to answer. Malcolm wouldn’t stand for such behavior. There were plenty of gentlemen in his past who’d thought to sway him into paths he didn’t wish to travel or behaviors that ran contrary to his conscience. And with a few exceptions in his youth, Malcolm had remained firm, ignoring the calls to debauchery, which were so prevalent for the bachelor heirs of the gentry.
But how was his behavior any different from those who’d attempted to lure him into living in excess?
Yet again, the answer was clearer.
In his situation, Malcolm Tate was free to choose any course he desired. His servants had only two: go against their conscience or lose their livelihood. Not that Malcolm had any intentions of treating them in such a shabby fashion, but Miss Leigh’s logic was all too clear. His staff hadn’t known him from Adam, and too many masters were vindictive enough to not only sack a servant but destroy any chance they had of gaining other employment.
Masters didn’t need reasons. They could do as they pleased.
As the hours and days passed, Malcolm found himself sneaking about his house, avoiding the staff altogether as often as he could, which his father would likely find even more ridiculous than this entire debate.
It wasn’t as though servants had honor to blacken.
Malcolm dropped his quill on the ledger, belatedly cursing himself as the droplets of ink scattered across the entries. Where had that thought emerged from? His head had been so full of Miss Leigh, Sidney, and his father that he hardly had a thought of his own of late. But those words couldn’t be attributed to anyone but himself.
It was true that the concept of honor was often attributed to gentlemen and nobility, but the commandment to be honest in all things was universal and did not belong solely to the upper classes. When one owned nothing else in the world, one’s good name and integrity were all the more precious. And no one had the right to demand that another choose between starvation and their honor.
With a frown, Malcolm settled back into his chair and stared at the window opposite. The desk in his study was positioned to face the garden, and though he’d enjoyed the rainbow burst of color found in the neat beds, at present the garden was dormant. The flowers were either trimmed back or covered, awaiting the coming winter frost until the warmth of spring woke them once more from their slumber.
Standing from his desk, Malcolm wandered from the study, his feet finding a familiar route as he paced Boxwood Manor, leading him through the halls past the drawing room, library, and study.
He took the stairs down, and when he reached the bottom, he spied the butler marching towards the servants’ stairs. All the thoughts of the past few days built up into a cacophony in his head, and before Malcolm knew it, he was speaking.
