Richard let out a short, one-note laugh. “That’s the funny part. I thought I was a man. I’d gone to Oxford, I’d—” He caught himself before he said he’d slept with women. Iris was his wife. She did not need to know about the benchmarks by which stupid young men measured their virility.

“I thought I was a man,” he said with a rueful twist of his lips. “But then . . . when I had to go home and be one . . .”

She placed her hand on his arm. “I’m so sorry.”

He shrugged, but with his opposite shoulder. He did not want her to remove her hand.

“You’ve done a remarkable job,” she said. She looked around, as if the verdant trees were evidence of his good stewardship. “By all accounts, Maycliffe is thriving.”

“By all accounts?” he said with a teasing grin. “How many accounts, pray tell, have you heard in your lengthy time in residence?”

She gave a gigglish snort and bumped her shoulder against his. “People talk,” she said archly. “And as you know, I listen.”

“That you do.”

He watched as she smiled. It was a satisfied little turn of her lips, and he loved it.

“Will you tell me more about the Burnhams?” she asked. “All the tenants, actually, but we should begin with the Burnhams, as they are our first visit.”

“I’m not sure what you wish to know, but there are six of them. Mrs. Burnham, of course, her son John, who is now head of the family, and then four other children, two boys and two girls.” He thought for a moment. “I can’t remember how old they all are, but the youngest, Tommy—he can’t be much more than eleven.”

“How long has it been since the father passed?”

“Two years, maybe three. It was not unexpected.”

“No?”

“He drank. A great deal.” Richard frowned. He did not wish to speak ill of the dead, but it was the truth. Mr. Burnham had been too fond of ale, and it had ruined him. He’d grown fat, then yellow, and then he died.

“Is his son the same way?”

It was not a silly question. Sons took their cues from their fathers, as Richard well knew. When he had inherited Maycliffe, he, too, had done what was convenient, and he’d packed his sisters off to live with their aunt while he continued his life in London as if he had no new responsibilities at home. It had taken him several years before he realized how empty he had become. And even now, he was paying the price for his poor judgment.

“I don’t know John Burnham well,” he said to Iris, “but I don’t think he drinks. At least not more than any man does.”

Iris didn’t say anything, so he continued. “He will be a good man, better than his father was.”

“What do you mean?” she asked.