An Unusual Courtship

C
opyright
© 2015 by Katherine Marlowe

Cover and internal design by Honeywine Publishing

All rights reserved.

No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means, including information storage and retrieval systems, without written permission from the author, except for the use of brief quotations in a book review.

All characters, places, and events in this book are fictitious or used fictitiously. Any similarity to real persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental and not intended by the author.

H
oneywine
Publishing

Boulder, Colorado

www.HoneywinePublishing.com

T
he bees were
in the lilacs as Percival made his way along the Linston Village road. A particularly fat bumblebee looped sleepily across his path, and then latched on to a spill of flowers that hung down over the stone wall along the road.

Healthy and in excellent spirits, Percival Valentine twirled his cane as he walked, overseeing everything in the parish with an approving eye. The new spring lambs gambolled happily in the meadows, and all the fields were green with fresh growth. Everything, it seemed to him, was in order, with the exception of Mrs. Hartley’s roof.

He frowned as he approached Mrs. Hartley’s cottage, finding that the damage was more extensive than he had expected. The recent storm had blown down several limbs from the tall oak tree that stood next to her house, one of which had gone fully through the roof and remained there, sticking out in an indignant tangle of leaves and branches.

Rapping politely at her door, Percival sorted mentally through what would need to be done. Mr. Rackham and his son would be best for the work. They might rig up a winch to remove the intruding branch, and Percival trusted to their good sense in the matter of roof repair.

The woman who answered the door was round and smiling, and she invited Percival in at once, clucking at him to sit while she put the kettle on and set about making coffee. “Mr. Valentine, how good of you to come so quickly. I’ve asked Mr. Green to come around with his ladder and rig up a tarpaulin over the hole before it goes and rains.”

“I’m glad for that,” Percival said. He took his hat from his dusky ginger hair and stooped slightly as he stepped through her door, which had been built for a shorter man than himself, into a kitchen hung liberally with drying herbs from Mrs. Hartley’s garden. He kept his head ducked until he had seated himself safely at the kitchen table. “I shall speak to Mr. Rackham about removing the branch and repairing the hole, I’m certain that he and his son will see to it gladly.”

“That’s very good of you, Mr. Valentine,” Mrs. Hartley said. “What a crash it was, you know! I was all cosy in my bed, little bothered by the rainstorm but for the thought that we might need to build an ark if it kept on in that manner! Just drifting off to sleep, peaceful as anything, when it crashed in with such a ruckus I thought that judgement day had come and oh I hadn’t gone to church this week!”

The oaken instigator of such crash lurked leafily in one corner of the kitchen roof, eavesdropping on their conversation like a nosy neighbour.

“I’ve always been partial to the thought that God might be forgiving of us missing one or two Sundays,” Percival said.

“Oh, to be sure, but when one is awoken with an unholy ruckus in the dead of night, you count up your sins right quick, Mr. Valentine!”

Percival laughed and propped his chin on his hands, enjoying Mrs. Hartley’s convivial company.

“But I said to myself, I did,” Mrs. Hartley set down the cup of coffee within his reach, already doctored to his taste with generous amounts of sugar and milk, “our Mr. Valentine will see to it right away, and here you are, just the next day, even with your new tenants to be seen to.”

Percival choked on his first sip of coffee. “The new tenants, Mrs. Hartley?”

“Oh, yes, Mr. Green was telling me about it, their carriage arrived just this morning at the Grange. A young lady and two young gentlemen, all three of them very elegant, that’s what Mr. Green said, the very height of the ton, a piece of the
beau monde
right here in our Linston.”

Percival cleared his throat, still coughing a bit on the coffee. “Just this morning?”

“Oh, yes.” Mrs. Hartley beamed, and then all at once her eyes went wide. “Oh! Oh, you didn’t know. Didn’t they send anyone to tell you? Oh, but here you are, and how would they find you? Dear me, Mr. Valentine, yes, just this morning.”

Swallowing a large gulp of coffee, Percival got to his feet. “Then I must see to them at once.” He kissed Mrs. Hartley’s round cheek, being thoroughly fond of the older lady, whom he had known all his life. “But not until I have seen Mr. Rackham and secured his promise that he will see to your roof.”

“What a dear you are, Mr. Valentine,” said Mrs. Hartley, blushing at receiving a kiss from such a handsome young man, which had been her reaction since he began the habit at the age of three. He was, in Mrs. Hartley’s opinion, quite a bit taller but no less charming.

Donning his hat, Percival tipped it to her and took his leave.

Linston Grange was on the far side of the village, and just as far on foot as it would be to return to his own residence at Linston Manor, so there was little use in turning back to fetch a horse. Percival thought that the walk might suit him, so long as it did not rain, and there was still the matter of Mr. Rackham.

It had begun to rain, in a halfhearted little drizzle, by the time he reached Linston Grange. He had been reassured that Mr. Rackham and his son would be able to manage the roof repairs that same day, which allowed him to straightaway put the matter out of his mind. Tomorrow, if he were able, he would visit Mrs. Hartley again. There would be more coffee, the roof would be fixed, and all would be well in Linston.

Linston Grange was an Elizabethan estate, considerably more spacious and luxurious than his own Gothic manor, and Percival smiled to see it bustling with activity once again. Servants were at work all about the lovely estate, cleaning windows and airing out linens. He had been by twice in the past week to oversee matters and to ensure that everything was done to his satisfaction. The skeleton staff he had formerly kept at the Grange had been tripled in anticipation of the new tenants, who hadn’t been expected to arrive for another week.

Percival hesitated only briefly upon the steps. As certain as he was that the splendid grandeur should meet with the approval of the new tenants, he was not so certain of himself and his country manners. Nothing could be worse, in Percival’s mind, than if he should give some unintended slight out of ignorance of modern London courtesy.

The butler, Mr. Elkins, greeted him properly at the door and took Percival’s hat and cane. “Mr. Valentine, how pleased we are to see you. I shall inform Mr. and Miss Bolton promptly of your arrival. Ah, Mr. Valentine—” With the utmost decorum, the butler reached out and plucked a sprig of rosemary from Percival’s wavy, Titian-coloured hair.

“Oh, thank you, Mr. Elkins,” Percival said, smiling at the revelation of this herbal stowaway. “Mrs. Hartley has very low ceilings, you see.”

Mr. Elkins, who had been hired and sent up from London only a week ago by the new tenants, looked puzzled at this information about Mrs. Hartley but was too well-mannered to inquire.

Once he had been appropriately defoliated of wayward herbs, Percival was shown in to a well-appointed drawing room and announced.

The occupants of the room were threefold: seated on a couch were a gentleman and lady of familial resemblance, while near the mantelpiece stood a third gentleman of generous height and regal bearing. The duo on the couch were too near in age to be anything but siblings, and their likeness of appearance—both of brown hair and warm brown eyes, with small noses and pointed chins—signalled that they might even be twins. The gentleman by the mantelpiece was dark-haired, with lively blue eyes. His shoulders were quite broad and seemed muscular by the way they pulled at his well-fitted coat, and his body tapered to a fine waist above a well-formed leg.

The butler introduced them as Mr. Bolton, Miss Bolton, and Mr. Everett.

“Good morning,” said Percival, and cut a fine bow. “I pray you allow me to earnestly welcome you to Linston Grange.”

All three of them stared at Percival in a state of shock for a moment longer than was polite.

“Oh, forgive us!” said Miss Bolton, rising swiftly to her feet. “We were expecting Mr. Valentine. Unless you are indeed Mr. Valentine? Or perhaps you are his son! You must forgive our surprise.” She glanced toward Mr. Everett at the mantlepiece. “Did you not tell me that Lord Barham had said that Mr. Valentine was elderly? And here you are, sir, of our own age!”

“You are correct on all counts, madam,” Percival assured her, and made a bow. “I am Mr. Valentine of Linston Manor, and also the son of the same. I have inherited the management of the estates from my father, who has been dead these past five years.” His curiosity was much piqued by the mention of Lord Barham, Marquess of Linston, in whose absence Percival and his father had performed management of the Linston estates for decades. “Are you indeed acquainted with Lord Barham?”

“We all are,” Mr. Everett said. “It is our pleasure to be in residence here at Lord Barham’s generosity. Mr. and Miss Bolton are his tenants and I am to be their guest. I understand that he has written to you of the matter?”

“He did indeed,” Percival confirmed, with a forthright nod, wanting them all to be assured that he was entirely capable in his management of the estates and that he acted with Lord Barham’s full authority. “And it has been my pleasure to coordinate with your staff to ensure that everything is in readiness.”

“A most admirable job you have done of it,” Mr. Bolton commented. “You should know that Lord Barham himself did express to us that he had always respected the competent management of Mr. Valentine of Linston Manor, which competence, he said, only seemed to increase with the passing years.”

Percival flushed with pleasure at the compliment to himself and his father, which was almost the first compliment he had ever received from the strange and distant landlord of Linston. “It has been my honour and pleasure to oversee the Linston estates. And an even greater pleasure to welcome new tenants to Linston Grange. This elegant old place has been too long lonely and empty. She will be glad of such charming occupants.”

Miss Bolton laughed with delight at the compliment. “She can hardly have suffered much, when she kept such an admirable overseer. Do sit with us, Mr. Valentine. I shall call for tea.”

Guiding him to a chair, Miss Bolton went to ring for tea. Mr. Bolton leaned in at once to chat, while Mr. Everett left his post by the mantelpiece and came over to take a chair by Percival’s elbow.

“May I ask, Mr. Valentine,” said Mr. Bolton, “has your family had management of the Linston estates for many generations?”

“Oh, yes,” Percival said, sitting up proudly at the opportunity to speak of his favourite topic, which was to say anything whatsoever related to the lands and people of Linston. “My great-grandfather was the last Baron Lindsay, who had the Grange and Estates, but he was the last male heir, with nothing but daughters. I have the Linston Manor from my grandmother, which she held in her own right, but the title of Baron Lindsay is extinct. It was my grandmother and her husband who first had the management of the estates in the manner that I do today, first in the name of the Crown, and later in the name of Lord Barham, created Marquess of Linston.”

Mr. Bolton leaned forward during this recounting with polite and earnest interest on his face. Since Percival’s chair faced Mr. Bolton and it was Mr. Bolton who had asked, he spoke primarily to Mr. Bolton, but found himself alertly aware of Mr. Everett, sitting to Percival’s right. Mr. Everett leaned his elbow idly upon his knee, chin rested upon his fist. His dark, handsome face was turned toward Percival, steady and intent in a way that sent an eager chill down Percival’s spine.

This was not the first time that a handsome and well-formed gentleman had evoked such a reaction from Percival, although he was somewhat preserved from the frequency of these reactions by the obscurity of Linston, which had a significant lack of handsome young gentlemen, especially those of noble birth. Percival was quite certain that his cheeks had flushed, and did his best to maintain control over himself in all manageable ways.

Near the end of his recounting, Miss Bolton sat down beside her brother once again, and Percival fixed his attention upon her. The elegant and refined Miss Bolton was of above average height, and her straight white dress, artfully trimmed with gold, served to accentuate her willowy figure. Her brown eyes sparkled engagingly above her pert nose and cupid’s-bow lips. Percival was entirely surprised that such a charming young lady of seemingly comfortable means should remain unmarried, when she was certainly old enough to have seen at least a Season or two in London society.

“Do you not find yourself lonely in such a sleepy village as Linston?” Mr. Everett asked. His voice was deep and rich, with what might have been a note of brogue tucked into the crisp respectability of his accent. “For surely there cannot be much society of your own rank and age.”

The sound of that voice, so near by his side, sent another chill down Percival’s spine and brought renewed colour to his cheeks.

“Certainly not at all,” Percival assured him. He turned his gaze to Mr. Everett’s blue eyes and found them to be focused upon him with the sort of idle intensity that Percival imagined he might find in a lazy tiger. Clearing his throat and continuing to blush, Percival dropped his eyes so that he might regain the ability to structure his thoughts. “There are an assortment of noble families in the district, many of whom are quite sociable.”

Mr. Everett’s gaze remained unwavering upon his face. Percival met it briefly and then looked away, fastening upon the much less alarming faces of Mr. and Miss Bolton for a few seconds each before he found his eyes returned to Mr. Everett’s face and remaining there.

“And—the—” Percival cleared his throat again. “Indeed, I quite enjoy the provincial society of Linston’s inhabitants.” He was staring at Mr. Everett. Realising this, Percival looked away swiftly, fixing his eyes upon the carpet out of desperation that he should be too obvious in his reaction to Mr. Everett. “They may not be people of Quality, but I am deeply proud to have the acquaintance—and hopefully the trust—of every one of them.”

When he looked up again, he found Mr. and Miss Bolton exchanging a glance, and feared that his lack of experience with the London ton must be quite evident in his countrified ways. Mr. Bolton looked particularly amused: his lips tilted with a smile that was thankfully free of mockery or malice.