Total pages in book: 89
Estimated words: 82982 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 415(@200wpm)___ 332(@250wpm)___ 277(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 82982 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 415(@200wpm)___ 332(@250wpm)___ 277(@300wpm)
I looked toward Milton Manor, seeing the new structures still rising from the rubble, the crops taking shape. Cottages for the tenants dotted the land, the first item of business Edward and I had concluded on the estate. We had torn down the decaying house and stables, rebuilding newer, more modern buildings in their place. Lydia had been beyond excited at the thought of residing in a home with running water. Being the mistress of a house as lovely as the new edifice was a joy to her. I had worked with Edward and the company employed to erect their home. It was more modest than most estates but suited Edward and Lydia perfectly. Maddie was thrilled her friend would be so close, and I was pleased to know Edward would be with me, still at my side, as he had been all these years. Together, we ran the already profitable estate, and I knew the riches would only grow.
I looked at the small bundles I carried on my steed, knowing Maddie would roll her eyes and tell me I was spoiling her and our children again.
And she would, as usual, be correct.
But I refused to stop.
My family was my greatest joy. My treasure.
Our son, Andrew Charles, was pure sunshine. He looked like me, but he had his mother’s sweet temperament. He was inquisitive and intelligent. Tall for his age and robust. Kind and loving. He toddled around, always asking questions, constantly climbing onto my lap. I insisted he was the cleverest boy I had ever met. Barely past three years of age, he had an incredible vocabulary. He was curious about everything and loved to walk the estate with Edward and me. He enjoyed digging and farming with us. He could name seeds, plants, and birds. He knew a weed from a shrub. The tenants loved him, and I was certain one day he would be a good master.
His table manners, however, still required some polish. He enjoyed his meals thoroughly, his hands his preferred way of eating. Maddie was endlessly patient, and I had given up worrying about the Axminster or the table. We removed the carpet for the time being as the servants found it easier to sweep the wood floors, and the table was protected with a heavy cloth. Watching Maddie coax him to use a fork or spoon often made me laugh. He would smile his sunny smile, nod, eat a mouthful or two, become impatient, then discard the utensil in favor of a fistful of beef or potatoes that he would jam into his mouth and chew away on. We loved his antics. Maddie and I enjoyed his company, so he ate with us daily. Scandalous to some, but for us, it was normal. I didn’t want my children to be seen and not heard. Maddie had no desire for a nursemaid to raise her children. We had help but were very involved. We agreed we had years to teach them all the manners they would require, but they were small for such a short time, we wished to enjoy them. Andrew loved his mother fiercely, gazing at her in rapt adoration when she spoke with him. He enjoyed it when she read to him or they sat together drawing. She encouraged his artistic side, and I was pleased to see it. I wished for him to know the love of arts as well as the land and his duties as a future marquess. I wanted him to have it all.
I knew it was thought that I was strange. And Maddie odd. Edward had informed me I was quietly referred to as the “eccentric marquess” in certain circles.
“Stories of your family shock the ton,” he informed me. “Children eating with their parents. Spending hours with them daily—not just an appointment. Digging in the dirt alongside their father like common farmers. Supping with locals as if that was normal. Best friends with commoners.” He opened his eyes wide. “Not wearing hats.”
I had laughed hard at his imitations of the London town folk. I liked being different. And since Maddie and I went to London rarely, their opinion mattered not.
Our friends, those I had known and valued since my school days, knew me. Knew us. Knew the truth. And it was their opinions that mattered. The people of the village knew us and regarded us as their benefactors. They didn’t care if I missed some dirt under my nails when I went into a shop. Or if my son rode on my shoulders and pretended I was his steed in the middle of the street, pulling on my hair and yelling, “Go, Papa! Go!” They loved the fact that my wife drove the wagon herself into town, dropping off fresh vegetables to the villagers who needed them the most—just like my mother used to do. We were welcomed. Respected.