Page 37 of The Gentlewoman Companion

She slowed the donkey a bit and turned to face him. “Oh.”

“But you avoid conversation.”

“Sometimes I don’t feel like talking.” She nudged his shoulder with hers. “But we are friends.”

The pronouncement left him unaccountably pleased. Trust and vulnerability required time, and he could not force her confidence. But he would offer his friendship, even if she never explained herself.

Miss Thorpe left him in front of Lundbrooke and rode off to return the carriage. Halverton watched until she turned a corner, then found his mother in the parlor with a book.

“Excuse me. Mother, may I speak with you?”

“Of course. Sit.”

Halverton sat across from his mother. “Why didn’t you tell me how involved you are in estate matters?”

Her eyes grew sharp. “I’ve simply always done it. Mr. Hunsaker keeps you apprised and asks your opinion on weightier issues.”

“After months perusing Father’s papers, I know nothing more of Lundbrooke than that it’s extremely profitable. I’ve learned plenty about his political views, but it seems he cared nothing for the estate.”

“He did not have time for it, but you can learn, should you choose.”

“There won’t enough time before I must return to London, and I hate to leave the responsibility to you.”

She waved him off. “Don’t concern yourself on my account.”

“But you should not be burdened with it.”

“James, I’ve been involved for twenty years. It takes very little thought.”

He drummed his fingers on the armrest of his seat. “I’m useless. And foolish, seeking for information in Father’s papers when I should have been speaking with you. Why did none of my education prepare me to undertake my future responsibilities?”

“Mr. Hunsaker is exceptional. You will have time to learn, and until you do, the estate will be in safe hands.”

“I can only accept your help, but I sense knowing about the lives of my tenants—about working people—would help me vote more honestly.”

She leaned forward and rested a hand on his fingers, stilling them. “You cannot expect to know everything, even if you had all the time in the world.”

Halverton rested his elbows to his knees and gripped his hair. “At Oxford, I was consumed with my studies. Then I could not tear myself from the wonders of travel. I would trade all that for five more minutes with my father.”

They fell silent, Halverton slipping into dark regret. “I should have spent more time at home, prepared myself for this.”

“There is no alternative to choices already made. Here we are, and everything is as it should be. Let us speak of what you can do today. Tell me, how is your speech?”

“I know very little about the Foundling Hospital. I’ve never been, but I will visit upon my return to London.”

“There is no requirement for you to speak.”

“Father would require it. I require it of myself. Besides, Tilney suggested it.”

Over the fireplace hung the late Lord Halverton’s portrait. Halverton marked the contrast between his father’s stern mouth and his kind eyes. The familiar, cavernous ache opened in his chest. His father was gone. No matter how much he wished it otherwise.

Halverton kissed his mother’s cheek and made his way into his father’s dressing room, where he sat on the floor, inhaling the musk that preserved his father’s memory. Some of his father’s clothing hung from pegs, probably the last things he had worn before he’d fallen ill. His shaving kit and snuff box were arranged on the dressing table as if the great Lord Halverton might enter the room at any moment. He rose, removed his father’s coat from a peg, and slid his arms through cool satin lining. It was as heavy and unfamiliar as Halverton’s new responsibilities.

And a poor fit. His father had been shorter and broader in the chest. He ran his palms against navy superfine and slid his hand into the pocket. The sharp edge of paper scraped his palm. He withdrew a letter folded many times until it was a thick square. Since returning home, Halverton had spent hours reading his father’s correspondence, seeking wisdom that would never come from his father’s lips. This forgotten missive felt intimate, a gift meant just for him.

His heart quickened as he cracked open the page. Inside, sepia ink spun words in large, swirling script, the date only weeks before his father’s passing. It was addressed to his father.

William,