Page 4 of My Best Friend's Earl
Worry gnawed at him, as it had for weeks. Staring at the reality of barren trees and empty fields made his concern grow exponentially.
This afternoon he’d visited the estate storerooms and tenants to glean an idea of what they’d need to make ends meet. He hoped that looking the farmers in the eye would soothe their rising panic. Oliver might not have the power to make the weather cooperate, but he could reassure them that no one would starve. It didn’t matter if it cost him dearly. Their welfare was his responsibility.
Please, God. Don’t let it come to that. The weather has to turn soon.
Many families working the Southwyn estates remembered the erratic, unreliable late earl, and still viewed Oliver with distrust. Or, if not outright distrust, they treated him the way his mother had taught him to interact with the animals housed in the menageries she’d loved. Cautious, careful, aware of his ability to hurt them.
“No one is ever truly tamed,” he remembered her saying as she held his hand in hers, gliding over the leathery hide of a young rhinoceros. “Our wild nature lingers under thesurface, relying on instincts rather than logic. Humans are no more than animals that have declared ourselves in charge. Be cautious, my love. Even though we treat this beast with respect, and although he’s accustomed to people, we aren’t safe from instinctual urges.” As a grown man, Oliver wondered if she’d referred only to the rhino or was subtly speaking her piece about his father.
In the distance, the house loomed from the fog like some kind of legendary castle. His childhood home looked exactly as it always had. Imposing and solid. It gave the impression of something that had been standing since the beginning of time and would remain in place until the end. Birchwood Court had once been an abbey. During the Reformation, Queen Elizabeth gifted it to the first Earl of Southwyn—after stealing it from the Catholic church, of course.
Oliver’s earliest memories were of playing hide-and-seek with nurses, nannies, and occasionally his mother in the many priest holes built into the place. They hadn’t been able to find him on one occasion, and he’d fallen asleep in the narrow space, only to wake hours later hungry and disgruntled. Apparently, after some time had passed, the nurse tried to raise the alarm, but the earl declared that if his “boy was stupid enough to get himself lost, he deserved whatever he got.”
The mare snorted in his ear, pulling Oliver back to the present.
Every negative feeling about his home involved his father in some way. The rest of his memories—and there were many, because the late earl was rarely in residence during those early years—painted the picture of a privileged and happy childhood.
Unfortunately, that childhood had been too short. The games and laughter stopped when his mother died. After that, the only play he found was with the girls next door.
Dorcas, the older Thompson girl, whom he’d expected to marry, and Althea, the blond pigtailed little sister who followed them everywhere. It would have been nice to simply enjoy them as playmates, free of the ever-present duty that damned betrothal agreement brought. None of it seemed real back then. More a reoccurring topic of make-believe they created as children were wont to do.
“Pretend you’re a knight, and you have to rescue me from the dragon.”
“Pretend we are exploring ancient ruins and this tree is a doorway to the land of the fairy folk.”
Pretend our fathers bet our futures in a card game and we have to live with the consequences.
Many important life decisions stemmed from hating the old earl. When a comely barmaid had given Oliver his first kiss, his father had been drinking with friends on the other side of the pub. He could still feel his shame and humiliation when the earl lumbered over, drunk off his arse, and slapped a coin on the table.
“Here. Your first time is on me. She’s a sweet one, Oliver. You’ll enjoy her.” Like he’d been recommending a bottle of wine, rather than a woman.
Oliver had run, ignoring the riotous laughter from the table full of his father’s drinking partners. He’d vowed not to be like his sire. He would be reliable. Honorable. Honest. Steadfast. Responsible. Loyal.
The cold bit at his extremities, urging Oliver to return to the house. Saying a silent farewell to the river and depressing orchard, he led his mount away from the bank. With each step, his boots squelched in the muddy turf.
Birchwood Court sent memories—good and bad—flitting through his mind like ghosts. They didn’t lessen the trepidation he felt about Althea’s continued resistance to theirengagement. Once upon a time, he and Althea had been friends. Perhaps that old relationship would help them create a peaceful marriage. Provided, of course, Althea ever stopped hating him for going through with the wedding.
His parents had been ill-suited and never had a chance at happiness. They’d had no prior friendship upon which to build. By the end, they’d despised one another, and the earl never forgave Oliver for his devotion to the late countess. She’d been intelligent and kind, deserving of devotion. Loving his mother so deeply had been the easiest part of his life.
This mare, in fact, was the offspring of her favorite mount. Oliver ran a hand down the wide flat of the horse’s cheek, then patted her thick neck. “What do you think about going home with me to London? If your hoof is fine by morning, I’ll bring you along.” And bring a piece of his mother with him.
The advice she’d given that day with the rhinoceros lingered as he made the uphill trek to the house.
Mother had been wrong about one thing. Unlike that rhinoceros, there was no wilder nature lurking beneath Oliver’s calm facade. Any baser instincts had been well and truly ground to dust long ago.
“All right. What have you tried so far?” Connie settled a writing box on her lap and smoothed a fresh piece of paper on the scarred wood. It had been three days since Althea enlisted her help as a matchbreaker, but this was the first opportunity they’d had to sit and plan.
Althea plucked a ginger biscuit from the tin Connie brought with them to the darkened bookshop’s sales floor. With only a lamp sitting on a small table by their side, thequiet store felt cozy. Meeting at Martin House had been ideal, as it offered privacy and a place out of the weather.
“Well, when he agreed to the engagement and didn’t listen to my protestations, I immediately stopped considering him a friend, obviously. Since then, I’ve griped and complained at every opportunity and tried to be as unlikable as possible. Honestly, Connie, I sometimes fear I am genuinely becoming the shrew I pretend to be with him. The longer this engagement goes on, the deeper the bitterness burrows into me. I hate it. And I hate who I’m becoming.” She bit into the treat and offered a sad shrug. “There’s only so far I can go in public, though.”
Constance rolled a short pencil between her fingers and tried to determine the best line of attack for their task. “May I ask why he offered for your hand at all when you were so opposed to the match?”
Althea leaned forward. “Don’t you know? I thought for sure the duchess would have told you.” At Constance’s blank look, she gave a rueful laugh. “He never offered for me. I’m the consolation prize, because his last fiancée, my sister, eloped with someone else.”
A gentle breeze could have knocked Constance on her rear, she was so shocked at that. Not taking her eyes off her friend, she reached into the biscuit tin and took two. “Your explanation only bred more questions. Talk.”
Althea smirked as she settled back in her chair. “Your shock makes me feel better about the whole thing, to be honest. Like maybe I’m not utterly mad for thinking this whole situation is rubbish. The story goes like this. Something happened when we were children—I don’t think I’d even been born yet—and our fathers drew up a betrothal. Oliver’s father was a rather notorious rogue, and their estate was always halfway up the River Tick. The earl needed funds.There was some sort of card game, and a wager, I think. Father gave the earl enough money to keep him from debtor’s prison. In exchange, he got a bit of land and a countess for a daughter.”
