Page 23 of A Gentleman's Reckoning
“Mr. Dowling does not appear to like you,” she said as they neared the stable.
“I believe we view each other with an equal degree of prejudice,” he replied, careful not to say that he had taken an instant dislike to Mr. Dowling. It had been immediately clear the man was bent on winning Lady Geny’s regard, though he would never succeed. John did not like to boast about himself, but he knew enough about women to know that she would never respond to Dowling’s flattery.
They stepped into the cool, dim interior of the stable, and she held on to his arm for seconds more before dropping it and pointing eastward.
“It is there. The stable hand informed Mr. Biggs of it in his last week as steward. I believe he did not have the mind for repairs that he would not be around to finish.”
They walked in the direction she indicated, the straw and distinct smell of horses teasing John’s nostrils. They passed one of the stalls where a roan horse bobbed his head up and down at Geny, and she reached into the pocket of her cloak, pulled out a bit of apple, and fed it to him.
“Yours?” he asked, smiling at her. She and the horse had suchan instinctive way between them that he was certain she must know it.
“My father’s. And here is the other half of the pair. Hero.” She reached up and gave the second gelding a bit of apple as well.
“You are well prepared,” he observed.
“Always.” She flashed him a smile, showing two deep dimples on either side. How could he ever have found her cold?
He had frequently bought and sold horses when he was living as a gentleman—when he was surviving on gambling wins, the small inheritance from his mother, and the expectations from his brother’s estate. Now, he kept only one pair for driving and a stallion for riding. The stallion he had left at his brother’s estate.
That reminded John of the letter from his brother he had tucked into the pocket of his cloak, which he had not yet read. His fondness for Greg had been submerged by feelings of guilt at how low he had been brought in life. He was unworthy of the gift of the Westerly estate. Since he had fallen out of society, he had become significantly more restrained in his spending. But that didn’t atone for the way he had been living for the years before it, when he had plowed through his small fortune with wild living. His brother did not know even half of his exploits and was as yet unaware of his expulsion from society. The thought of telling him sent his mood plummeting.
“This is it,” Lady Geny said, pointing to a portion of the wall, and he followed her gaze up.
The ceilings were as high in the stable as they were on the ground floor of the asylum. The weak portion of the wall was visible above his head, and on the other side of the wall was the chapel. It did indeed need to be dealt with as soon as possible, for if the stones fell, it could injure both horses and people. When he had sought the position of steward, his mind had been bent only on revenge; the idea had not occurred to him that hewould be required to oversee such projects. That had been naïve.
“I do not have the contacts at my disposal to begin the repairs immediately,” he said, before he had thought the better of it. He may as well admit he had no experience as a steward.
“Yes, I imagine they would be different in London than where you were before. Where did you say you were from again?”
“Surrey,” he answered, prey to a mix of feelings. He was grateful that she had seen the best in him and assumed that his lack of knowledge came from his not hailing from London. There was also the fear that the more information he gave her about his life, the more likely it would lead her back to finding out who he truly was. He wished he could have known her before his fall and pursue her through traditional means.
But then, her father would not have allowed it—not even then.
“We will have to anchor it with a pattress plate and connect it to the opposite end of the stable with a tie rod.” He knew that from experience on his stepfather’s estate, for it had been done on the wall around the dower house.
“Then we must tighten the bolt until the wall straightens.” He shot her a glance, smiling wryly. “But of course you do not care how it is to be repaired. You simply wish to see it done.”
“I cannot argue with you, Mr. Rowles.” There was humor in her eyes when she looked at him. “And yet, you described it so knowledgeably, I am ready to express my admiration.”
He chuckled. “Good. Now, I have seen it, and you may leave it in my hands.” He turned toward her, unwilling to leave the quiet haven of the stable. It was cold and damp—dark even—and yet he was happy to be in her presence.
With reluctance, he turned toward the entrance and indicated with his head. “Shall we?”
She took a deep breath and pivoted as well. Was he mistaken, or was she as reluctant to leave as he was?
“Did your mother come to the asylum as often as you do?” he asked, wishing to know more about her. He could hardly imagine that any of her goodness came from her father. Lady Goodwin must have been a paragon.
“Yes.” She smiled in reminiscence. “She did not permit me to accompany her each time, but I enjoyed our visits when she did. She once told me she was unfashionably interested in the foundling asylum and the fate of the orphans. However, she was too high in society for anyone to cut her for it.”
“Your mother sounds like a remarkable woman. You must miss her.”
John thought about his own mother, remembering the shock he had experienced at the age of seven when the attending physician announced he would never see her again. She had only been married to John’s stepfather for five years, and John had been two when they tied the knot. Gregory had experienced both the loss of his own mother, though scarcely old enough to remember it, and then his stepmother who had been kind to them both. John and Gregory’s bond might have been merely that of stepbrothers, but they mourned John’s mother together with equal sincerity.
“I do miss her.” Lady Geny sighed as they approached the light streaming into the stable from the opening. “There was a time I thought I would not survive her loss. My father is not an affectionate man, you see.” She stopped short, and her face took on a guilty expression. “I should not have confessed that to you.”
She did not say,because we are not on intimate enough terms to do so, and somehow he did not think she thought it either. This comforted him.
He wished to say something that would lift her spirits. “You must take after your mother, then. For I do not think I’ve met a woman with more affection.”
