Loving Rose: The Redemption of Malcolm Sinclair (Casebook of Barnaby Adair) by Stephanie Laurens Page B
Authors: Stephanie Laurens
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the celestial bodies.”
Watching the boy’s face, absorbing the eagerness lighting his eyes and the fervor in his tone, Thomas noted that Homer saw no contradiction in being a housekeeper’s son and having access to tutelage in such subjects. “Have you looked through the books in the library?” He tipped his head toward the house.
“No.” Homer sighed. “Ma doesn’t let us go in there.”
Gathering the reins, Thomas led the gray out of the stables. Homer kept pace on the horse’s other side. Halting the gray, Thomas held his cane out to Homer. “Hold this while I mount.”
Homer took the cane and watched with transparent curiosity as, standing on Silver’s off-side, Thomas angled his body so he could slip the toe of his right riding boot into the stirrup; Silver had been trained to allow him to mount on the off-side, a necessity given his injuries. Grasping the saddle, Thomas pulled himself up, swinging his stiff left leg over and sitting. The stirrup on the left hung lower than on the right, but unless one looked closely, Thomas appeared to ride as easily as any other man.
He reached for the cane. “Thank you.” Slipping the cane into its holder, he glanced at Homer. “If you like, when I get back, I could select some interesting books for you to read.”
“From your library?” When Thomas nodded, Homer beamed. “That would be wonderful !”
Thomas found himself grinning back. He could remember having just such a ravenous thirst for knowledge; in his case, he’d had it fulfilled, more or less as part of his birthright. In Homer’s case, Thomas could assist in expanding the boy’s knowledge. He was more than qualified to act as the boy’s tutor. But he should, he suspected, talk that over with Mrs. Sheridan before he raised Homer’s hopes.
Yet he’d already decided that while he was at the manor he should do what he could to help the Sheridans, and letting Homer read some books from the library was surely an unexceptionable way to do that.
The gray shifted, eager to be off. Thomas reined him in long enough to nod to Homer. “Done. I’ll look out a selection of books when I get back.”
Then he let the reins ease, and the gray surged. As Thomas steered the horse down the drive, he heard a whoop of boyish delight fading behind him.
The gray was ready for an outing and settled into a well-paced canter along the road to Breage. Although Helston was Thomas’s goal, and he could have reached the town by a more direct route, he’d elected to ride through Breage—just to see.
As it transpired, the baker Mrs. Sheridan favored for her flour and similar supplies was located in the small village. Thomas called there and spent a few minutes improving his rusty charm while adjusting the standing order for the manor.
Leaving the shop, he paused in the street, looking up and down at the few shops and single alehouse. The baker’s wife who he’d spoken with had evinced nothing more than a natural curiosity over meeting a long-absent landowner, one who was scarred and walked with a pronounced limp. As far as Thomas could recall, he had never had any real truck with anyone in the village; there should be no one there who would remember him from before.
From 1816, when, as a much younger man, he’d been party to a scheme to frighten locals who had owned tin mining leases to sell them to him. He’d done nothing more than spread false rumors, and that had been the one and only less-than-honest business venture Thomas Glendower had participated in. All the rest had been done under his birth name, the one associated with his now-dead other self.
Satisfied that there was no potential problem—either for him or the Sheridans—lurking in Breage, Thomas mounted up and took the high road for Helston.
Four uneventful and relaxing miles later, Silver clattered across the bridge over the river Cober, and Thomas turned the horse up the steep rise of Coinagehall Street. The only place in Helston in which, in
Watching the boy’s face, absorbing the eagerness lighting his eyes and the fervor in his tone, Thomas noted that Homer saw no contradiction in being a housekeeper’s son and having access to tutelage in such subjects. “Have you looked through the books in the library?” He tipped his head toward the house.
“No.” Homer sighed. “Ma doesn’t let us go in there.”
Gathering the reins, Thomas led the gray out of the stables. Homer kept pace on the horse’s other side. Halting the gray, Thomas held his cane out to Homer. “Hold this while I mount.”
Homer took the cane and watched with transparent curiosity as, standing on Silver’s off-side, Thomas angled his body so he could slip the toe of his right riding boot into the stirrup; Silver had been trained to allow him to mount on the off-side, a necessity given his injuries. Grasping the saddle, Thomas pulled himself up, swinging his stiff left leg over and sitting. The stirrup on the left hung lower than on the right, but unless one looked closely, Thomas appeared to ride as easily as any other man.
He reached for the cane. “Thank you.” Slipping the cane into its holder, he glanced at Homer. “If you like, when I get back, I could select some interesting books for you to read.”
“From your library?” When Thomas nodded, Homer beamed. “That would be wonderful !”
Thomas found himself grinning back. He could remember having just such a ravenous thirst for knowledge; in his case, he’d had it fulfilled, more or less as part of his birthright. In Homer’s case, Thomas could assist in expanding the boy’s knowledge. He was more than qualified to act as the boy’s tutor. But he should, he suspected, talk that over with Mrs. Sheridan before he raised Homer’s hopes.
Yet he’d already decided that while he was at the manor he should do what he could to help the Sheridans, and letting Homer read some books from the library was surely an unexceptionable way to do that.
The gray shifted, eager to be off. Thomas reined him in long enough to nod to Homer. “Done. I’ll look out a selection of books when I get back.”
Then he let the reins ease, and the gray surged. As Thomas steered the horse down the drive, he heard a whoop of boyish delight fading behind him.
The gray was ready for an outing and settled into a well-paced canter along the road to Breage. Although Helston was Thomas’s goal, and he could have reached the town by a more direct route, he’d elected to ride through Breage—just to see.
As it transpired, the baker Mrs. Sheridan favored for her flour and similar supplies was located in the small village. Thomas called there and spent a few minutes improving his rusty charm while adjusting the standing order for the manor.
Leaving the shop, he paused in the street, looking up and down at the few shops and single alehouse. The baker’s wife who he’d spoken with had evinced nothing more than a natural curiosity over meeting a long-absent landowner, one who was scarred and walked with a pronounced limp. As far as Thomas could recall, he had never had any real truck with anyone in the village; there should be no one there who would remember him from before.
From 1816, when, as a much younger man, he’d been party to a scheme to frighten locals who had owned tin mining leases to sell them to him. He’d done nothing more than spread false rumors, and that had been the one and only less-than-honest business venture Thomas Glendower had participated in. All the rest had been done under his birth name, the one associated with his now-dead other self.
Satisfied that there was no potential problem—either for him or the Sheridans—lurking in Breage, Thomas mounted up and took the high road for Helston.
Four uneventful and relaxing miles later, Silver clattered across the bridge over the river Cober, and Thomas turned the horse up the steep rise of Coinagehall Street. The only place in Helston in which, in
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