Page 6 of By Any Means

“Mm.” He did now.

“Domestics?”

“Of course.”

Mr. Moore smiled; not a nice one. “Footmen?”

“…one.”

“Annual donations to philanthropies? Read Carnegie’s ‘Wealth’?”

Chary grumbled. “Yes,” he said, and quoted, “The most injudicious mode is when the estates and the greatest portion of the wealth are left to the first son, that the vanity of the parent may be gratified… Is that what you mean?”

Mr. Moore made a satisfied noise. “That’s it. Sounds about right.”

Shakespeare and Carnegie and Wilde? Who are you, Laurie Moore? “Sounds like my father did not read it, you mean.”

Mr. Moore laughed, big and loud. “Right, no. Sounds like not. Now you’ve inherited a blueberry farm.” He gestured to the barrens to either side. “This one. Some vanity. They tell you how many acres she is?”

“Actually, it was my brother’s idea, before he passed on.”

“Oh.” Mr. Moore sobered. “M’sorry for your loss.” This, at least, was sincere, if a little rote. “Elder?”

“No; younger. Thank you. He thought it up, the blueberries. Whimsy, I believe. Or I suppose he thought I’d like it, being so out of the way. I didn’t know he had done it until the deed was handed to me.”

Harmless enough an answer. But when Chary glanced over again to Mr. Moore—he really must stop looking!—he got a flash-bulb impression, soft black lashes and vibrant brown eyes, narrowed in snakelike contemplation. Then sympathy took over.

“His death was unexpected, I take it.”

“Completely.”

Mr. Moore hummed. “I am sorry. That’s hard.”

“Thank you.”

The calfskin gloves landed back in Chary’s lap, the leather slapping down. He had already forgotten they existed.

“You truly aren’t cold?” he asked, more waveringly than he wanted. “Or in danger of frostbite?”

“No. Lo—” The man grunted. “See?”

“That is the same,” Chary said peevishly, though it wasn’t. But he did see. Mr. Moore’s forefinger, tan and bare and hot as a coal, slipped over Chary’s left wrist, insinuated its rough self into the space between the leather of the reins and Chary’s sensitive palm. Despite himself, he gave a little gasp.

“I got the reins,” Mr. Moore murmured. “Put your gloves back on.”

Chary gave up the reins and pulled his gloves back on.

Mr. Moore made a horse-calming wheesht sound with his teeth and returned the reins. There was a brief pause as Chary negotiated a particularly bad rut. When the horses had forgiven him for that, he found he had a decision to make.

He maybe chose wrong.

“I’m called Chary, to friends.”

“Might we be that now? Friends?”

It was soft, challenging. Faintly surprised.

“Well, I suppose if you’re going to be so… f-familiar”—his elocution tutor would’ve cried—“and ask questions⁠—”