tamped down hard on the old dream of his own stables. It was a startling discovery to find the dream was far more potent than he’d realised. He’d come home, thinking to sell the property. He would stay with his original plan. He had his work. It was only a matter of time before a summons arrived from London. He would not give in, he would not change his course, no matter how much Peyton talked.
They emerged out into the daylight, Peyton’s wellrehearsed tour complete. To his credit, Peyton pressed for nothing. He merely gestured down the road where a rider had turned into the drive. ‘I’ve invited the steward to go over the books,’ he said simply.
Crispin fought back a chuckle. Of course Peyton had invited the land steward. His brother had this visit orchestrated perfectly for maximum effect. All the same, Peyton would be disappointed. He wasn’t going to stay. He couldn’t. It just wasn’t in him.
Several hours later, Crispin knew one thing. He needed a drink and he needed a drink alone. He’d been surrounded by a horde of well-meaning people since his return home. For a man who was used to operating solo and keeping his own counsel, such attention was unnerving. Well, he had to rephrase that. He’d been surrounded by Peyton. In all fairness, Tessa, Cousin Beth, Petra, Annie, the twins and the new baby had all kept at a respectful distance. They’d done nothing more than make him feel welcome.
But Peyton knew what he wanted from Crispin and he was wasting no time in trying to extract it. Crispin could see his brother’s vision clearly. His brother wanted him to embrace the stables, settle down, take a wife and raise a family. For Peyton that had been the clear road to happiness once he’d found the path. Crispin understood it was only natural for Peyton to want that same happiness for him. However, Crispin doubted that path would work well for him. Crispin understood too that Peyton was trying not to be oppressive, certainly a harder task for him than for others. Peyton was well used to being obeyed. But Peyton could not make him into a man he could not be.
He and Peyton swung up into their saddles, thanking the steward for his time and his conscientious adherence to every detail. They turned their horses towards home, riding in much-appreciated silence; Crispin’s head was full to bursting with all he’d learned.
Crispin was amazed Peyton had stayed quiet for as long as he did. He’d bet himself Peyton wouldn’t make it a mile before asking what he’d thought of the manor. Tessa’s influence must be powerful indeed, Crispin mused. But he could see the effort the restraint cost his brother. Peyton’s mouth was tense; on two occasions, Crispin felt Peyton was on the verge of bringing the subject up, but then thought better of it.
They reached the fork in the road, one turn leading to the Dursley Road and the other going on a short distance to the village. ‘I think I’ll stop in for a pint or two,’ Crispin said off-handedly.
‘I’ll come with you,’ Peyton offered, making a quick check of his pocket watch.
‘That’s all right. I’d prefer to do some thinking in private.’ Crispin hoped Peyton understood. He needed a kind of privacy he wouldn’t find at Dursley Park and he’d have no privacy if he turned up at the inn with the earl in tow.
‘And dinner?’ Peyton asked cautiously. ‘Shall I tell Tessa to expect you?’
Crispin nodded his head. ‘Probably not. I’m not sure how long I’ll sit and think.’
‘It’s no trouble to set an extra plate if you change your mind,’ Peyton said graciously. Crispin could see that his absence wasn’t what Peyton had hoped for, but that his brother guessed at how monumental the day had been, how many things needed thinking over.
Once inside the inn, Crispin lost himself in the crowd, taking a small table by the window. Word had not yet spread of his return and he was thankful for the anonymity. Around him, the work day was ending. Large groups of local workers filed in for a pint before heading home for the evening.
Crispin studied this crowd unobtrusively. These men worked the fields as hired labour or in various other occupations in the village. They were journeymen and artisans, a few apprentices among them. They would drink and go home to supper and wives. The rougher crowd, those without familial commitments, would come in later after the supper hour and stay until closing; drinking, wenching, perhaps brawling if it suited them.
The men here now, though, would be the men he’d fraternise with if he took the manor. They’d be the men who would work his stables. They’d be the men who he’d drink with on occasion. Their lives would be interwoven into his.
Crispin took a swallow of his ale, trying to imagine his life as a gentleman landowner. It seemed so far from the things he’d told Peyton over brandy the other night as to be laughable.
These men didn’t care about the nationalist revolutions sweeping Europe, about water-routes to faraway places they’d never visit, about fighting over lines on a map. Their lives were about wheat crops and sheep, cattle and corn. If he threw his lot in with them, his life would be too. Everything to which he’d devoted his life in the first twenty years of his adulthood would cease to matter—every nebulous peace he had brokered, every boundary dispute he had negotiated, would carry little weight in that new life. It would be tantamount to erasing who he was and remaking himself in a new image. The soldier, the warrior-diplomat, would not fit into this new world of quiet landownership.
The thought sat poorly with Crispin. He rather liked himself just as he was. Of course, there were plenty of people who didn’t. The ton didn’t know what to make of him. He was too bold, too loose with the rules of proper society for many of the matchmaking mamas to trust him with their daughters. Yet, he had a certain appeal with his brother’s connections, his brother’s wealth, and his brother’s affection behind him. Any woman who married him would be well looked after under the Dursley banner. Proxy polygamy, he called it. The only reason anyone would marry him would be because they were marrying Peyton by extension. If he stayed in England, he’d have to decide in whose world he fit.
Without appearing to eavesdrop, he listened in on snatches of nearby conversations, trying to put himself in the frame of their world. Could he come to care about the issues they cared about? Could he empathise with the problems that plagued their lives?
Snatches of one conversation rose over the rest. ‘The Calhoun woman was in today to buy some shovels. It’s not natural, a woman buying tools. There’s strange things going on out there,’ a beefy man said loudly, drawing all the room’s attention. Crispin tensed. In the silence of the inn, the man let his news fall on expectant ears. ‘I’ve found out that the girls in her stables ride in trousers and they ride astride.’
Shock and outrage exploded at the announcement; questions were shouted over the din. Crispin stifled a groan. That could hardly be what Aurora wanted. But what followed was worse. Crispin slouched anonymously in his chair and listened.
The big man, named Mackey from what Crispin could gather, hushed the upset crowd. ‘Aurora Calhoun needs to go. She’s no good for our village, teaching our womenfolk to ride astride. Who knows what kind of ideas she’ll plant in their heads next? We don’t want our women turning out like her.’ There was a loud roar of agreement. ‘One of her is enough. She’s had two years to prove she could fit in. We’ve left her alone and look how she’s repaid us! The only thing she’s proved is how out of place she is.’ There were other comments too. ‘We should have paid more attention…’ ‘Should have known it wasn’t natural from the start…’
Good lord, the man was creating a witch hunt. Crispin half-expected the men to pick up torches and march out to
