Matthew quickly discovered that traveling in Bristol with Lord Westcliff was a far different matter than navigating the port city by himself. He had originally planned to stay at an inn located in the central part of Bristol. With Westcliff as his companion, however, they took up temporary residence with a wealthy shipbuilding family. Matthew gathered there had been many such invitations extended by prosperous families in the area, all eager to host the earl in the finest style possible.
Everyone was either a friend of Westcliff’s, or wanted to be. Such was the power of an ancient aristocratic name. To be fair, it was more than a name and title that inspired such enthusiasm for Westcliff…he was known as a political progressive, not to mention a skillful businessman, both of which made a man very sought-after in Bristol.
The city, second only to London in its volume of trade, was undergoing a period of explosive development. As the commercial areas expanded and the old city walls crumbled, narrow roads were being widened and new thoroughfares appeared on what seemed a daily basis. Most significantly, a harborside railway system connecting the Temple Mead station to the docks had just been completed. As a result, there was no better place in Europe to establish a manufacturing business.
Matthew had grudgingly admitted to Westcliff that his presence had made their negotiations and meetings much easier. Not only did Westcliff’s name open doors, it practically inspired people to give him the entire building. And Matthew privately acknowledged there was a great deal to be learned from the earl, who possessed reams of knowledge about business and manufacturing.
When they discussed locomotive production, for example, the earl was not only conversant with principles of design and engineering, he could also name the dozen varieties of bolts used on their latest broad-gauge locomotives.
Without modesty, Matthew had never met another man who could rival his own ability to understand and retain vast quantities of technical knowledge. Until Westcliff. It made for interesting conversation, at least to the two of them. Anyone else taking part in the discussion would have started snoring after five minutes.
For his part, Marcus had embarked on the week in Bristol with a dual purpose, officially to accomplish certain business-related goals…but unofficially to decide what to make of Matthew Swift.
It hadn’t been easy for Marcus to leave Lillian’s side. He had discovered that while the events of childbirth and infancy were perfectly ordinary when they happened to other people, they were monumentally important when his own wife and child were involved. Everything about his daughter fascinated him: her pattern of sleeping and waking, her first bath, the way she wiggled her toes, the sight of her at Lillian’s breast.
Although it was not unheard of for an upper-class lady to nurse her own child, it was far more common to hire a lactating maid for that purpose. However, Lillian had abruptly changed her mind after Merritt was born. “She wants me instead,” Lillian had told Marcus. He hadn’t dared to point out that the baby was hardly capable of a discussion on the matter and would likely be just as content with a wet nurse.
Marcus’s fear that his wife might succumb to childbed fever receded day by day as Lillian returned to her old self, healthy and slender and vigorous. His relief was vast. He had never known such overwhelming love for one person, nor had he anticipated that Lillian would so quickly become his essential requirement for happiness. Anything that was in his power to do for Lillian would be done. And in light of his wife’s worry over her sister, Marcus had decided to form some definitive conclusions about Matthew Swift.
As they met with representatives of the Great Western railway, the dockmaster, and various councilmen and administrators, Marcus was impressed by the way Swift acquitted himself. Until now he had only seen Swift interact with the well-to-do guests at Stony Cross, but it immediately became apparent that he could relate easily to a variety of people, from elderly aristocrats to burly young dock laborers. When it came to bargaining, Swift was aggressive without being ungentlemanly. He was calm, steady, and sensible, but he also possessed a dry sense of humor that he used to good effect.
Marcus could see the influence of Thomas Bowman in Swift’s tenacity and his willingness to stand by his opinions. But unlike Bowman, Swift had a natural presence and confidence that people intuitively responded to. Swift would do well in Bristol, Marcus thought. It was a good place for an ambitious young man, offering as many, if not more, opportunities than London.
As for how Matthew Swift would suit Daisy…well, that was more ambiguous. Marcus was loath to make judgments in such matters, having learned from experience that he was not infallible. His initial opposition to Annabelle and Simon Hunt’s marriage was a case in point. But a judgment would have to be made. Daisy deserved a husband who would be kind to her.
After a meeting with the railway representatives, Marcus and Swift walked along Corn Street through a covered market filled with fruit and vegetable stalls. Recently the pavement had been raised to protect pedestrians from mud splashes and street refuse. The street was lined with shops featuring goods such as books, toiletries, and glass objects made from local sandstone.
Stopping at a tavern, the two went inside for a simple meal. The tavern was filled with all manner of men from wealthy merchants to common shipyard laborers.
Relaxing in the raucous atmosphere, Marcus lifted a tankard of dark Bristol ale to his lips. It was cold and bitter, sliding down his throat in a pungent rush and leaving a mellow aftertaste.
As Marcus considered various ways to open the subject of Daisy, Swift surprised him with a blunt statement. “My lord, there is something I would like to discuss with you.”
Marcus adopted a pleasantly encouraging expression. “Very well.”
“It turns out that Miss Bowman and I have reached an…understanding. After considering the logical advantages on both sides, I have made a sensible and pragmatic decision that we should—”
“How long have you been in love with her?” Marcus interrupted, inwardly amused.
Swift let out a tense sigh. “Years,” he admitted. He dragged his hand through his short, thick hair, leaving it in ruffled disarray. “But I didn’t know what it was until recently.”
“Does my sister-in-law reciprocate?”
“I think—” Breaking off, Swift took a deep draw of his ale. He looked young and troubled as he admitted, “I don’t know. I hope in time…oh, hell.”
“In my opinion, it would not be difficult for you to win Daisy’s affections,” Marcus said in a kinder tone than he had planned. “From what I have observed, it is a good match on both sides.”
Swift looked up with a self-derisive smile. “You don’t think she would be better off with a poetry-spouting country gentleman?”
“I think that would be disastrous. Daisy doesn’t need a husband as unworldly as she.” Reaching for the wooden platter of food between them, Marcus cut a portion of pale Wensleydale cheese and sandwiched it between two thick slices of bread. He regarded Swift speculatively, wondering why the young man seemed to take so little pleasure in the situation. Most men displayed considerably more enthusiasm at the prospect of marrying the women they loved.
“Bowman will be pleased,” Marcus remarked, watching closely for Swift’s reaction.
“Pleasing him has never been any part of this. Any implication to the contrary is a serious underestimation of all Miss Bowman has to offer.”
“There’s no need to leap to her defense,” Marcus replied. “Daisy is a charming little scamp, not to mention lovely. Had she a bit more confidence, and far less sensitivity, she would have learned by now to attract the opposite sex with ease. But to her credit, she doesn’t have the temperament to treat love as a game. And few men have the wits to appreciate sincerity in a woman.”
“I do,” Swift said curtly.
“So it would seem.” Marcus felt a stab of sympathy as he considered the younger man’s dilemma. As a sensible man with a laudable aversion to melodrama, it was more than a little embarrassing for Swift to find himself wounded by one of Cupid’s arrows. “Although you haven’t asked for my support of the match,” Marcus continued, “you may rely on it.”
“Even if Lady Westcliff takes exception?”
The mention of Lillian caused a little ache of longing in Marcus’s chest. He missed her even more than he had expected. “Lady Westcliff,” he replied dryly, “will reconcile herself to the fact that every once in a great while something may not happen as she wishes. And if you prove to be a good husband to Daisy over time, my wife will change her opinion. She is a fair-minded woman.”
But Swift still looked troubled. “My lord—” His hand clenched around the handle of his tankard, and he stared at it fixedly.
Seeing the shadow that passed across the young man’s face, Marcus stopped chewing. His instincts told him something was very wrong. Damn it all, he thought, can nothing involving the Bowmans ever be simple?
“What would you say about a man who builds his life on a lie…and yet that life has become more worthwhile than his original one ever could have been?”
Marcus resumed chewing, swallowed hard, and took his time about drinking a large quantity of ale. “But it all hinges upon a falsehood?” he finally asked.
“Yes.”
“Did this man rob someone of his rightful due? Cause physical or emotional harm to someone?”
“No,” Swift said, looking at him directly. “But it did involve some legal trouble.”
That made Marcus feel marginally better. In his experience even the best of men could not avoid occasional legal problems of one kind or another. Perhaps Swift had once been misled into some questionable business deal or indulged in some youthful indiscretions that would prove embarrassing if brought to light all these years later.
Of course, Marcus did not weigh questions of honor lightly, and news of past legal trouble was hardly what one would want to hear from a prospective brother-in-law. On the other hand, Swift appeared to be a man of good bearing and character. And Marcus had found much about him to like.
“I’m afraid I will have to withhold my support of the match,” Marcus said with care, “until I have an understanding of the particulars. Is there anything more you can tell me?”
Swift shook his head. “I’m sorry. God, I wish I could.”
“If I give you my word that I will not betray your confidence?”
“No,” Swift whispered. “Again, I’m sorry.”
Marcus sighed heavily and leaned back in his chair. “Unfortunately I can’t solve or even mitigate a problem when I have no idea what the bloody problem is. On the other hand, I believe people deserve second chances. And I would be willing to judge a man for who he has become instead of what he was. That being said…I will have your word on something.”
Swift looked up, his blue eyes wary. “Yes, my lord?”
“You will tell Daisy everything before you marry her. You will lay out the issues in full, and let her decide whether she wants to proceed. You will not take her as your wife without giving her the complete and unvarnished truth.”
Swift didn’t blink. “You have my word.”
“Good.” Marcus signaled the tavern maid to come to the table.
After this, he needed something much stronger than ale.