Those Autumn Nights by Theresa Romain

Author:Theresa Romain [Romain, Theresa]
Language: eng
Format: epub
Published: 2016-06-18T21:00:00+00:00

Chapter Six

* * *

By the time the few remaining days before Michaelmas had passed, Bertie had realized three things.

First, a well-run household bore much in common—in organization and camaraderie—with a well-run cavalry regiment. Through hours in the study, the stables, and the butler’s pantry, he could give free rein to habits he’d honed in the military: punctuality, meticulous record-keeping, a patience with the grievances of one’s underlings, and a bit of reckless flair to keep everyone full of energy. Best of all, as in the 13 th Light Dragoons, there was a companionship and satisfaction in working together toward a common goal.

Second, Eliza Greenleaf liked to be kissed to the point of breathlessness in the corridor before the secret passage—and also in the stables, and along the footpath leading to the tenants’ cottages, and late at night in the candle-lit kitchen while they wore dressing robes and boiled milk for chocolat chaud.

Third, he had fallen in love with her again—if, in fact, he had ever managed to stop.

In Bertie’s mind, quarter day had loomed in large, jagged capitals across his mental calendar, as he anticipated chaos and unhappy tenants. But with Eliza in the Friar’s House, welcoming everyone with the ease of a lady born to lead, this quarter day would be different. There was nothing he could not overcome.

On the morning of Michaelmas, when tenants streamed to the house, rough hats in hand, they received smiles of greeting and a bit of chat about their families. Thanks to the notes circulated among those families by Bertie and the footmen, the Friar’s House rent rolls and records were up-to-date for the first time in…

“Don’t ask how long it has been,” Eliza murmured in Bertie’s ear. She was seated behind a desk in the library, a ledger and strongbox before her. A burly footman kept a wary eye on the file of tenants, but Bertie saw no emotion on their faces except for pleasure at the sight of Miss Greenleaf.

“What matters”—Eliza dipped a pen, ready to inscribe the next name—“is that we’ve sorted the numbers, at least until my father or brothers work over the accounts again. Mrs. Jenkins!” Her tone lifted. “What a fine baby you’ve brought. How old is he? Five months?”

Thus it continued, smoothly as the 13th had once drilled and marched.

The French servants were in their element, Georgie had roses in her cheeks and was chattering like a magpie, and even Lord Sturridge peeped in amidst his own quarter-day wranglings to raise a glass of brandy with Bertie in the study.

“Atop the usual drama, you’ve stolen my wife’s guest.” Sturridge winked, looking scarcely older than he had during their Cambridge days. “You must send Miss Greenleaf back to us if you’ve a need.”

“There is no need,” Bertie assured his old friend. “I should have stolen her away long ago.”

As Sturridge took his leave, he reminded Bertie of their commitment to judge gourds at the harvest festival a week hence. “I must have angered Francesca,” he said of his wife.

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