Page 7 of Falling For The Dowager

A small little frown creased her brow. “You fear I would write and tell on you?”

That was precisely his worry, and it galled him how much it seemed Lady Sidney was able to understand him.

Sucking in a breath, he settled on telling her all. His father’s illness and its various expenses. How he had managed to maintain both positions without hiring another man for either role, or how he had used the money from the second salary to care for his father. Finally, he looked into her crystal blue eyes—the colour of a spring sky after rain—and was shocked to see they were rather damp. It was the second time Lady Sidney had welled up in front of him. The first was when Skye had birthed her first pup.

“Your brother may well wish to expel me but⁠—”

“He will never hear from me any of this.” Lady Sidney drew herself up, and there was a determined set to her rounded chin that brooked no defiance. “You are a good son. I will help you now that I am here, managing the stewardship, but the money will go to your father. In fact, I have a good mind to write to my brother and tell him to send the funds directly to the elder Mr. Dickon. It is his responsibility, and your father has surely given my family long and devoted service.”

“Forty years,” Dickon said. He had expected to beg and plead with the lady only for her to utter the most kind and shocking response imaginable.

“He should receive as much care as we can give in his twilight years. So, he can look forward to seeing his grandchildren in as much comfort as my brother can supply.”

“I shouldn’t think that likely, ma’am, at least from me,” he said and then, unable to resist, although not sure why he wanted her to know this personal matter, “I am unwed.”

“Oh.” She suddenly looked a little pink-cheeked but then continued in a brisk tone, “My brother, Walter, spends too much on races and his various artists. It is high time that money went to something more important.”

Emotion slipped into his voice, unbidden and causing him to feel as vulnerable as a calf, “Thank you, madam.”

“Of course. I will need your help at the start, looking through the estate, if you want me to.”

“You are too good,” he managed to say. Giving out compliments came awkwardly to Dickon. It was a rather unnatural act, as if he had attempted to speak to her in French. He was better at praising Skye, or one of pigs or cats, than a grown woman who would have been used to flowery poetry and elegant verse written in her honour. How to explain this fear over his father had plagued him for the last year along with the guilt mixed in there too. With just a few decisive words from Lady Sidney. There was an urge within him to fall before her and kiss the helm of her black dress. Not trusting himself to say her name, Dickon lowered his head. It was an honour he had not considered, an intimacy he did not want to share with anyone else employed in Dulbain. He set about finishing his task of preparing the vitals—thickly cut bread, homemade yellowed butter, and last year’s honey. It was an especially fine batch, faintly flavoured with the summer’s heather.

At least, he could perform this small service for her, and carefully, he laid the simple meal out before her and watched in fascination as Lady Sidney started to eat with the enthusiasm of a feral child.

“I haven’t eaten since this morning,” she admitted as she swallowed down her mouthful. “I don’t think I knew how starved I was before now.” Unable to look away, he watched in a curiously thick-blooded way as she licked the honey off her fingers. The glide of her mouth over the digits and the sheen to her lips made him feel foolish.

“You should have said that,” he replied.

“And ruin the moment with dear Skye? Not for all the world. Come, you must eat too,” she commanded and indicated the seat opposite her. Slowly Dickon sank into it, although the thought of food was not an especially appealing one. All he wanted to do was watch her. Listen to her. Study her. Marvel in her. Never had he ever felt this sort of fascination with a woman before. It was entirely novel. Of course, he could not admit such a thing, not with her watching him trustingly.

“I will write to him tonight and say I need the additional funds for him.” She had finished her two slices and leant back in her seat. “It does take a little while for these messages to go south. We can use some of my funds if the matter is urgent.”

“I could not⁠—”

“I insist,” Lady Sidney said firmly. “I would also like to visit the gardens and parklands to see what else exists around the keep. If the weather is as fine as today, we could journey out then. I suppose there are horses…”

“There’s the old carthorse,” Dickon said, thinking of Marley, mainly used for ferrying items to and from the docks. “He wouldn’t be used to carrying a lady.”

“No matter in that case,” Lady Helena said. “Perhaps it is better if I see it on foot.”

“It may look wilder than the London neatness.” That was a grave understatement. Dickon had seen the sketches of what was considered fashionable in the plates and magazines of the grand houses, and the keep’s lands were nothing like those pictured. “I would not envision little mazes and topiary.”

“Have I not said I wish for a change from London’s sterile landscapes? No, whatever is out there, I will enjoy. I will learn.” A pink tinge was growing across her cheeks, brightening her deliciously.

“I look forward to showing you how the household is run,” he said, and it wasn’t a lie. That truth of the excitement glimmered between them as Dickon stood up and went to make them both more buttered and honeyed bread, all the while dwelling on how much he wanted Lady Helena to love this place as much as he did. He was utterly convinced it would be wonderful if she did.

CHAPTER 5

Running the estate was not as simple as Helena had pictured, nor was it as formal or strict as being countess had been. She had to learn the local farmers and tenants, each and every one of their families. What could be given out as an act of a charity and what might be an offence. Meeting with the parish vicar, Mr. Peterson, an earnest middle-aged bachelor who had blousy tempest-blown hair the colour of carrots and talked more than any London gossip that Helena had ever met. And with about as much substance to his conversation too.

There were also the practicalities of running the household, with Anna being one of the silliest girls Helena could remember meeting. As for Mrs. Fuller, she was a fond reader and a dear soul, but anything too daunting, be it a mouse in the corridor or Skye giving birth, she tended to rush to Mr. Dickon’s side. It was a great shame because the more time Helena spent with Mr. Dickon, the more she came to realise he was happiest outside in nature. It was as if it lit him from within him—the same way her brother seemed to be when he argued with Edwina, or how her husband Benedict used to get about his fox hunting. In the quiet light of the fireside, with a good novel by her side, Helena felt much the same, but no one had ever told her this for sure. Benedict was not the kind to notice.

“My lady.” He had beckoned her into the woodland as they walked back from visiting the farm of a tenant, Mr. Reliford and his young family. As they cut through the side path, Helena watched Mr. Dickon move ahead of her, his stride confident, his shoulders broad and strong. Her eyes travelled down the smooth cut of his simple coat, thinking he would cut a fine figure in London but knowing with absolute certainty there was nowhere Mr. Dickon would be more uncomfortable.

“Where are we going?” She lowered her voice to match his own low tone as her eyes continued to study his body, and of course when he turned around and caught her, Helena hurried forward, desperate not to be seen blushing. It would not be the first time he had seen her watching him with appreciative glances, nor the last time when one of their hands had brushed against each other whilst going through the books. It was a relief to be outside and surrounded by distractions. At least, that was the logic Helena had clung to when she’d set off this morning to Mr. Reliford’s.

“I thought you’d like to see the glade,” he said. He lifted one branch aside, leading her farther into the tangle of bright heather, mossy green covered trees, and twisting clumps of bright flowers. A week ago, Helena would not have known the names of half of them, but now she knew which one was a field gentian and a sneezewort or a collection of purple harebells. Mr. Dickon was a wonderful teacher, his Scottish brogue rather like a fine wine that was easy to slip into. To lose herself in and almost forget who she was.