He dressed quickly, though he doubted she was waiting to break her fast with him in the dining room. For a brief moment, he considered bringing a book along, so he needn’t dine alone.
Too much of a risk.
Mr. Harper had already sent Eli’s father one letter. If the next happened to mention the presence of a botany text at the table, after Father expressly forbade scholarly pursuits until the betrothal was announced, the current fraught situation would become even more untenable.
The marquess was ruthless when crossed. Eli was lucky to be allowed a carriage for this trip. He was not permitted to bring a valet, nor was he given any extra coin. All he received were strict instructions and several threats.
The usual interaction with Father, really.
Eli smoothed his waistcoat and made his way to the dining room.
As expected, the table and chairs were empty. Eli supposed he could ring for service, but he would rather forage for his own food than demand a hot meal, and place the household under any more hardship than his presence already caused.
The cottage was lovely, but empty. There was no butler. There might only be a maid-of-all-work, too exhausted by her regular duties to add the ill-timed desires of a Town suitor to the mix.
Or perhaps there was no staff at all.
In the center of the kitchen stood Mr. Harper, rolling pastry. Flour dusted his hands all the way to his rolled-up shirtsleeves.
Eli halted in the doorway, intending to forgo breakfast altogether, when Mr. Harper glanced up and smiled. He lifted his rolling pin to motion Eli in.
Splendid.
Eli had been hoping to nick an apple and make do with that. He had never in his life attempted to make breakfast, and he hadn’t the least notion how to make pastry. Yet all of that spoilt ton ignorance paled next to his complete loss as how to act with Mr. Harper.
As if the firstborn sons of mortal enemies regularly wandered into his kitchen whilst Mr. Harper kneaded pastry in semi-undress, his pleasant expression did not falter as he used a serrated cutter to fashion small semi-circles from the pastry and place them into a twelve-cup fluted tin before filling them with sugared, minced pieces of fruit and peel.
Mince pies.
Eli’s stomach let out a mortifying growl of appreciation. Fortunately, Mr. Harper could not hear it.
The older man began to form hand-signs with fingers.
Eli shook his head and shrugged apologetically.
Mr. Harper pointed at a platter of cooled pies, pointed at a shelf of dishes, and then pointed at Eli, each movement more exaggerated than the last.
Eli nodded to show that he was capable of comprehending some things, and set about helping himself to a mince pie or three while Mr. Harper moved on to the next lump of pastry.
The quiet companionship was unlike anything Eli had ever experienced with his own father.
The marquess was the only immediate family Eli had. No siblings, no mother, just Eli and his father, and an enormous house full of silent servants.
“Marquess of Milbotham” was a courtesy title… and the only courteous thing about the man.
Audiences typically consisted of Father vociferously objecting to everything Eli did or thought, followed by a detailed description of what the perfect heir ought to be. This concluded with a list of mandates of how Eli was to comport himself going forward, as well as the consequences he would face should he fail to meet expectations.
No matter how hard he tried, Eli rarely met the marquess’s expectations.
Rather than give up, the constant punishments and recriminations had only served to make Eli all the more determined to follow his own path. He’d prove his worth to the botanists he so admired, to the people he strove to help, and now... to Miss Harper.
Daunting? That had never stopped him before.
No matter how impossible it seemed to please those whose opinions he valued, Eli had never given up. No matter how many times he failed, at least he would know he had tried. If a man wasn’t giving his all, then he was part of the problem.
Even when forced into an arrangement as distasteful as this one.
If Miss Harper had hated Eli before... He could only imagine what she thought of him now. Was he foolish to dream things might one day get better?
She strode into the kitchen just as Eli was washing his dish in the sink.
Gone was the mossy satin gown from the night before.
Her long limbs were clothed in men’s leather breeches. A wide-shouldered coat to aid range of motion hid her bosom completely. Her scuffed riding boots were outfitted with shiny spurs. A pair of kid gloves flopped out from her pocket.
She looked magnificent.
Eli, on the other hand, was uncomfortably aware of the unsuitability of his olive frock coat with its matching silk waistcoat. He looked like he was on his way to White’s for a glass of sherry and a round of cards, not about to stomp through a farm to inspect the stables.
“Washing dishes?” she said, as if there could be no greater offense. “Don’t think for a moment that your false kindnesses to my father will sway my opinions of you in the least.”
So far, so splendid.
Eli dried his hands on a cloth and tried to think of what to say. Any attempt to explain that he hadn’t been toadeating in hopes of recognition would be met with disbelief at best.
Mr. Harper made rapid hand gestures to his daughter.
A flicker of amusement crossed her face. “He says he told you not to bother with the dishes, and it’s not his fault you don’t understand sign language.”
“Is there no maid?” Eli asked, and wished he hadn’t. The indelicate question would win him no favor.
“There are three,” she replied after she’d interpreted. “Plus two footmen and a half dozen stable hands.”
Eli glanced around dubiously.
She took pity on him. “We always give them the week of Christmas to be with their own families. Papa and I are not so helpless that we cannot manage ourselves for a few days, and besides, we rather like the reminder that we can always rely on one another.”
That... was... a wonderful sentiment, which would never in a hundred years occur to the Marquess of Milbotham, much less appeal to him if someone else were to make the suggestion.
Eli respected and admired the Harpers’ obvious shared love. He might also be the tiniest bit envious.
Mr. Harper gestured again.
“Papa wants to know if you’re excited to meet our horses.” Miss Harper cocked her eyebrows expectantly, as if the answer to this question was an obvious and foregone conclusion.
“Er,” said Eli. How could he answer without lying? “I’ve heard so much about them.”
Her eyes sparkled. She exchanged brief signs with her father before turning back to Eli. “Whatever you’ve heard is only the beginning.”
Yes. Precisely what Eli was afraid of.
As the son of the man who owned the largest, most celebrated horse farm in the southern half of England, one might presume Eli lived and breathed horses.
One would be wrong.
His knowledge of the beasts was more theoretical than practical. Oh, he’d tried, for all of the good it did him. As a child, he’d been thrown from the back of a horse more often than he’d remained seated.
Even back then, Eli would rather have been left alone with his books.
“What do you do when you’re not with your horses?” he asked.
Surely, he and Miss Harper could find some common ground.