PP Non-Canon General Regency

A Gentleman's Choice

Sequel to Making Peace

"I really threw kink into things."

"Look, if all those other men were guilty and got caught in their own trap, I cannot say justice was not served. However, if something else is going on - we need to know about it.

"I know most men would not talk to their wives, but we have just married. Please, allow me to discuss things with my wife."

"Fair enough."

Steven Talks to Mr. Thompson

Ch. 16

Matthew Thompson rose before dawn, the first light of day barely touching the horizon. His life as a widowed dairy farmer was one of routine and resilience. He swung his legs out of bed as he had his whole life, as had his father before him. The wooden floor cool could easily be felt beneath his feet, and the man dressed quickly in sturdy work clothes. The farmhouse his parents had built as a newly married couple was quiet, the only sounds were the creaking of the old timbers and the distant lowing of cattle.

Mr. Thompson made his way to the kitchen, where he stoked the embers in the hearth and set a kettle to boil. His simple breakfast of porridge and bread was nothing new and he ate while quickly mentally running through the tasks of the day. The warmth of the hearth was Mr. Thompson's one small comfort in the early morning chill, but there was no time to linger as his cows needed attention more than he needed any fire.

Stepping outside, he breathed in the crisp morning air, the scent of dew and earth filling his lungs. It was one of his favorite smells. The sky was a canvas of soft pinks and oranges, promising a clear day ahead. He walked to the barn, his boots crunching on the gravel path and -without having to use his voice- Mr. Thompson's dog came running. "Hello, Barnaby. Come to say hi to our cows?" Barnaby wagged his tail as the barn doors creaked open, revealing the familiar sight of his dairy cows, their eyes reflecting the dim light.

"Good morning, ladies," he greeted them, his voice low and soothing. The cows responded with gentle moos, recognizing the man who cared for them daily and ignored the dog which they had known since he was a pup. Matthew began his work, not even having to think about what he was doing. He cleaned the stalls, making sure each cow had fresh bedding, and then set about milking them. The steady sound of milk hitting the pail was almost meditative, a steady cadence-which sounded as good as any piece of music to the diary farmer's ear and marked the start of his day.

As he worked, Mr. Thompson's thoughts wandered to his late wife. It had been years since her passing, but the memories were still fresh. She had loved the cows as much as he did, a part of her would always remain. Yet, there was another who now held a piece of his heart. He did not speak her name out loud, out of a deep-seated concern for her safety. He sensed, with an almost preternatural certainty, that there was someone who would harm her if he showed his affection too openly. So, he kept his feelings hidden, protecting her by not speaking of her to strangers, or to people in town. Yes, there was a handful of people who knew, but not many.

Once the milking was complete, Mr. Thompson carried the heavy pails to the dairy, where he strained and stored the milk. "Come, Barnaby, we neeed to do our other chores."

The dog followed Mr. Thompson as he tended to the other animals on the farm. The chickens needed feeding, and the horses required fresh water and hay. Each task was performed with care, a sign he truly cared about his land and its creatures. By the time the sun was fully up, Mr. Thompson had already accomplished more than many in town would in a day.

With the morning chores done, he returned to the farmhouse for a brief respite from chores. He washed up, the cold water from the basin refreshing against his skin. Changing into a clean shirt, he prepared for the second part of his day. As a blacksmith, his afternoons were spent in the forge, crafting and repairing tools for the farm and the local community. It helped cover the cost of running his diary, especially if a hard year hit.

Going outside he climbed onto the buckboard of his wagon and headed into town; Barnaby stayed behind not willing to go to 'that' place. It had too many people. There was too much noise. No, the old dog preferred the peace and quiet of the farm.

Mr. Matthew Thompson's drive into Wetherby in mid-fall was a journey through a landscape painted with the rich hues of the season. The trees lining the road were a tapestry of gold, amber, and crimson, their leaves rustling gently in the cool breeze. The air was crisp, carrying the earthy scent of fallen leaves and the distant promise of winter.

As Matthew drove his cart along the winding country lanes, the fields on either side were dotted with the remnants of harvest. Stalks of corn stood tall, and the last of any pumpkins lay scattered across the ground, their bright orange skins a stark contrast to the softer tones of the earth beneath their shells. The sky above was a pale blue, streaked with wisps of white clouds floating over head, and the sun cast a soft, golden light over the land below.

The road into Wetherby was well-traveled, and by this time of the morning, it was beginning to bustle with life. Matthew passed other farmers heading to market, their carts laden with their own share of produce. They exchanged nods of greeting, a wave of their hands, a silent acknowledgment of shared labor and the common pattern of rural life.

As he neared the town, the scenery around him, and fellow travelers, began to change. The open fields gave way to hedgerows and stone walls, marking the boundaries of smaller plots of land. Ones that always made him more grateful for his own farm. The houses, with their thatched roofs and ivy-covered walls, appeared one by one. Something about it shouted town had a history just as long as his farm. Smoke curled from chimneys, and the sound of children playing could be heard coming through open windows.

Entering Wetherby, the cobblestone streets were bustling with just as much activity as the road into town, more even. Shopkeepers were setting up their stalls, and the aroma of freshly baked bread drifted through the air. The town square was just as busy as any beehive, with townsfolk going about their daily business. Horses and carts clattered over the stones, and the chatter of market-goers filled the air.

Matthew pulled up to the blacksmith shop, a familiar sight with its sturdy wooden structure and the anvil standing proudly outside. Peace and quiet was not something Mr. Thompson expected as he pulled up to the blacksmith shop. However, he had not expected to see the one called Mr. Steven Walton standing next to the locked door either. This could not be good.

Mr. Walton had planned to go the farm, but had been waylaid so had gone to the blacksmith shop instead.

"What have I done now that is so special that warrants a visit from South England Solicitor? I thought I was done with the likes of you."

"I love you too." Steven laughed, not one bit offended as he watched Mr. Thompson unlock the blacksmith's shop and then proceeded to follow him in. "I need to talk to you about a John Corby."

"Told you, he was a good apple turned bad. I think though there is still hope for him; if the right people get a hold of him. If not…the young man is doomed." The blacksmith got the forge going.

"Have you seen him around?"

"No, but I have felt him."

"Felt? What do you mean by that?"

"I meant what I said." The man struck a horseshoe with a rounding hammer. "He is in the area. I do not know where, or what he is doing, but he is here. You go talk to Mr. Brown. Men go to him that are wanting to get their act together. Some succeed, some do not. If I am right, and if…and I mean if…this John Corby is really in the area and wanting to change; Mr. Brown would be the gentleman he would run to." Again the rounding hammer hit the horseshoe metal.

"What do you know about a George Wickham or his wife Lydia?"

"I heard he is dead and, if I were a gambling man, I would say one of two things got him killed."

"And that would have been?"

"Owed the wrong man too much money, or messed around with the wrong man's woman." WHAM! Another heavy hit to the metal. "As to the one called Lydia…same word is she divorced him, no reason not to believe it. Men like that often have their wives leave. Now…" Mr. Thompson turned and shot such a sharp glare Steven's way that it shocked even the solicitor. "I do not know why you are asking questions about a dead man who, in my opinion, walked down a path he never should have walked—everyone knew how many women he messed around with. Nor do I know why you are inquiring about a woman who left such a man. One who, in my opinion, must view herself as dead or wishes people to view her as such. However, whether I am wrong, or right, I am most definitely done with this conversation. Please, leave."

Mr. Walton nodded and made his departure. Climbing into his carriage, he thought about the post he had received from Mr. Hurst. We do not think the Ensign was killed due to any spy action or drug dealing. What we suspect hits closer to home. Please, you said Mr. Thompson shoots straight. Bring up the name John Corby again, also bring up George and Lydia's names again. Send me word as to what he says, and how he reacts.

Steven just knew that man knew where Lydia was. And, if he had been a fly at Lady Shaw's home after she had sent Mr. Hurst away, he would know he was correct. However, he did not. As much as he wanted to go to Mr. Brown's right away, it would have to wait. He had other obligations to attend to first.

As Steven drove away from the blacksmith shop, he took in the sights and sounds of Wetherby. The market was in full swing now, with vendors calling out their wares and customers haggling over prices. It was a common sight to the gentleman as was the smell of roasted chestnuts and fresh apples. Children running and playing, their carefree brought a smile to the man's face. It was a bright spot in his day, quite the contrast to the weighty matters on the man's mind.

He guided his carriage through the bustling streets, nodding to those passing by and exchanging brief pleasantries. He passed by the town hall, its clock tower standing tall against the clear blue sky, a reminder of the steady passage of time.

As he made his way out of town, the road opened back up to the countryside. The fields stretched out before him, a patchwork of autumn colors under the midday sun. The rhythmic clip-clop of the horse's hooves and the gentle sway of the carriage were almost soothing, once again a brief respite from the tension of his mission.

Steven's thoughts returned to job Mr. Hurst had asked him to do. He needed to find John Corby and get to the bottom of the mystery surrounding George Wickham's death. He resolved to visit Mr. Brown as soon as possible, hoping that the man could provide the answers he sought.

For now, though, he focused on the journey ahead, the road stretching out before him like a promise of resolution and justice. The crisp autumn air filled his lungs, and he felt a renewed sense of strength. However, he had to admit to himself; he hoped whatever was found out at Mr. Brown's was enough for Mr. Hurst because Steven really was ready to take a break from all this traveling.