Page 32 of A Gifted Earl

Chapter Eleven

As the days went by, Morgan felt more and more out of sorts. Christmas was approaching, yet he could not look forward to it in any way. Unless he managed to make something change, it would be lonely and uninspiring. To make things worse, his desire to see Lady Venetia only grew with time, rather than decreasing – it was like an itch he couldn’t scratch, and he mentally castigated himself regularly for having been such a fool as to not spend more time with her when he could have. And especially for not having shown her that he found her interesting – for he did, he now knew, and in ways that related to far more than conversation.

But what could he do to provide company and entertainment for Christmas? He had few relatives now, and those were distant, his mother’s relatives were people he hardly knew, who had been uninterested in him – but now that he was Earl, that had probably changed. Still, he doubted that they would be good company…

Perhaps some of the people he had met in London?

He wasn’t sure about that idea at all, so he pushed the thoughts aside, and went back to concentrating on the state of his estates, and what must be done before snow set in. His uncle had not been particularly generous with his tenants, but at least his estate manager had not outright mistreated them, so there was necessary maintenance to do, but nothing disastrous.

*****

Lord Crosswood’s man had bought all four brood mares for his master, but not the stallion. It wasn’t enough, but it was a start – enough, Venetia’s mother thought, to get them through to Twelfth Night, but not much further. Lady Hardenwell had sent out letters to various people, seeking a buyer for the large travelling coach, and the pair of larger horses to pull it, but as yet, they’d had no interest from anyone.

The mail had just been brought in for the day, after one of the footmen had been to the village to collect it and some supplies for the kitchen. Venetia watched as Lady Hardenwell opened it, wishing with all her might that one of those letters might be someone interested in the coach. When all were opened, Lady Hardenwell set them down on the side table with a sigh.

“Nothing of use, Mother?”

“Nothing. Some gossip from one of my friends in London, a brief note from your uncle hoping that our stay at Hardenwell House went well, our monthly invoice from the village store, and a note from Lord Crosswood, letting us know that the mares arrived in good order, and that he is delighted with them. But nothing which might bring us any income, I am afraid.”

Venetia’s heart dropped. Things were beginning to look very bleak.

“Surely we will find a solution soon.”

“I do not have any great confidence about that, I am sorry to say. But we must keep trying – perhaps there will be some Christmas Balls in the district, and opportunities for you to meet gentlemen there?”

“Perhaps.”

Venetia tried to smile, but she feared it was not a convincing expression. Her mind went back over their weeks in London – was there any more that she could have done, to make a suitable match? Surely she could have encouraged Lord Templewick more?

But she shook her head at that thought – he had offered nothing more than kind friendship – and how could she have encouraged more, when she valued that friendship so much? She could not have, not without doing something which was against her nature.

She thought over all of the men who had offered her anything – but only Lord Blatherfort and two others had offered marriage, and the other two were just as repulsive as Blatherfort – well, perhaps not quite as much, but very close. Could she, if it came to it, bear to accept one of them? A shudder of horror ran through her at the thought, but she forced herself to look at the idea. Would it not be better than starving? Than reaching the point where they lost everything?

Perhaps it would. But she could not face that idea yet. If her mother thought that they had funds enough to get to Twelfth Night, then she would give herself that long, before doing anything rash.

And she would pray for a miracle to come to save them, every single day. Prayers in which she was sure that the miracle of her imagination would look like Lord Templewick.

*****

“I’ve been thinking about what you told me – about feeling lonely and rather isolated here. And about what you didn’t say, about the sort of company you’re missing.”

Morgan lifted his head from his book and met his mother’s eyes. He wasn’t sure exactly what she meant, but he had his suspicions.

“And… I take it that you have come to some conclusions?”

She smiled.

“Oh yes, I most definitely have.”

Those words left him with the distinct feeling that, whatever that conclusion was, he was going to be doomed to act upon it.

“I see. Will I like these conclusions?”

She laughed then, and shook her head a little.

“I am not sure – perhaps not until you get used to the idea.”

Despite himself, he was intrigued.