Norton let out an audible sigh as she led Tesoro to the bollard to use as a mounting block. “Family dinners are going to be so dull,” he muttered as he headed back up the gangboard.
Harriet settled in the saddle and adjusted the reins in her hands, valiantly trying not to think about Langston family dinners that would never include her.
Zach mounted and nudged Button to walk over to her. “Are you sure about this? He’s considered quite a catch.”
Harriet had given the matter nothing but deep thought—agonizing, soul-searching contemplation—since walking away from Nick in the hold that night. “He calls me a little brown bird. I’m sure.”
“Lad’s an idiot,” Zach grumbled. He turned his horse toward town. “Shall we, m’dear?”
Harriet cast one last look at the Wind Dancer, at the crew lining the rail waving goodbye to her and Zach and calling wishes for a safe journey.
She raised her hand in farewell and faltered when she saw Nick standing at the aft rail. His chin dipped in a nod. She gave him a salute, then wheeled Tesoro toward town.
Toward home.
* * *
Nick buried himself in work. His steward was frantic that Nick attend to matters at Langston Hall in Keyhaven after being absent again. There were a thousand details involved in legally importing wine into England and then selling it. The London man of business who’d managed such matters for Grandfather had retired long ago, but Nick was relieved to discover the man’s son was still in business and delighted to handle these matters once more for Langston Shipping.
Alfred, the Langstons’ ever-efficient and long-neglected London butler, had failed abysmally at hiding his delight that Nick was finally staying overnight in the townhouse, even if Nick seemed to perpetually be in a foul mood. Nick blamed his moodiness on headaches, gesturing at the almost-healed gash on his forehead. Alfred had ordered the maids to prepare Nick’s childhood room, as Nick still couldn’t bring himself to sleep in Adam’s room.
The first thing Nick did upon taking up temporary residence was order the footmen to remove the straight-backed chairs that for years had been left in perpetual readiness for his father’s prayer circle meetings, and relegate them to the attic.
Nick couldn’t stand to be on the Wind Dancer. Couldn’t bring himself to sit on his bunk in his cabin, never mind lay on it. The bunk where Harriet had slept.
Alfred had personally been checking on the fire built in the study to dispel the early winter gloom, practically hovering, awaiting Nick’s slightest whim, and finally left him alone. Nick spent the long afternoon at the big oak desk, reviewing account books, signing bank drafts, and replying to correspondence. He was contemplating crawling inside a bottle of brandy when Zach strolled in unannounced and held his hands before the fire.
“And hello to you, too,” Nick drawled.
“Don’t blame Alfred. I wanted to surprise you.”
Nick hadn’t seen or heard from Zach since he’d left the dock in Torquay a week ago, riding Button and taking Harriet home on Tesoro. He wouldn’t ask about her. She’d made her choice clear.
Zach rubbed his hands together in front of the flames, then poured a snifter of brandy and set it on the desk before Nick.
Nick eyed the glass and Zach suspiciously.
“She’s fine, by the way.” Zach poured a snifter for himself and settled in the armchair by the fire, stretching his booted feet out towards the hearth. “We met a friend of hers repairing nets near the docks in Brixham, a gel who considers herself in Harry’s debt. Sabrina somebody. She was happy to help Harry disappear and Miss Chase make a quiet return home.”
Nick closed his eyes, trying not to picture Harriet in a dress.
“Tesoro is a huge hit with friends from my Army days. He loves to show off. I’ve already received a half dozen offers to buy him, some of which we might want to consider. Depending on how profitable or not your wine business is, of course.” He took another sip. “Though a few more evenings with the cards in my favor, and I might just buy him outright from you and keep him for myself. The old boy is a delight.”
Nick hedged. “It’s early days yet.” The profit from the port wine so far had exceeded that of the profit from his lands this year, but that was more an indictment of how badly the harvest had been. As cold as 1816 had been, no one’d had a good harvest. So far the money coming in from the wine would assure his tenants and flocks would be well-fed, housed, and warm for another year. Berwick, his steward, had nearly cried in relief.
Zach took a deep drink of the brandy, sighed in pleasure, and hauled himself to his feet. He withdrew an envelope from his coat pocket and tossed it on the desk. “I think it’s time to revive a tradition.”
Nick eyed the envelope with the same suspicion he’d had for his as-yet-untouched brandy. After a glance at Zach, he broke the wax seal and read the card. “This is an invitation. From me.”
Zach clapped him on the back. “Just the sample so far. I can have the printer proceed with the rest of the order tomorrow.”
Nick studied the invitation. “We haven’t held the Sheffield harvest celebration since Adam died.”
“It’s been five years,” Zach said softly. “Don’t you think it’s time?” He leaned one hip against the edge of the desk. “You’re head of the family. It’s not going to happen unless you do it.”
Nick thought back to the celebrations his mother used to plan, held every autumn after the harvest work was completed. This would be the latest in the year they’d ever held one. They might as well be having an early Christmas celebration. All the tenants, servants, and their families were usually invited, as well as Zach and all the Langston progeny. Nick’s five sisters, their husbands, and children usually attended, minus any who might be close to giving birth or recently having done so. All of Mother’s children had been born about nine months after Adam came home on leave, so their spacing was irregular. There was a gap of eighteen years between Nick and Audrey, the oldest. She and Bettina were both married and running their own households before Nick was out of the nursery.
“I know how to plan voyages and sneak past blockades. Not organize social events. And—” He swallowed a gulp of brandy. “And I have no hostess.”
