The Lord of Stariel

by A J Lancaster

  Grandmamma made an impatient noise. “He’ll tell you what’s what when he’s ready. He’s a good boy, that Wyn,” she added fondly. Only her grandmother could refer so to a man nearly thirty years of age without sounding extremely silly.

  “Well, until someone gives me a concrete reason to send Miss Gwen away, I can’t help but take pity on her.”

  “Yes, it’s a sad story she tells,” Grandmamma agreed with maddening reasonableness, picking the petals off a late-blooming rose.

  Hetta threw her hands up and was about to turn and walk out when her grandmother said, “And don’t forget that the Frost Ball planning needs to be set in motion. And the estate’s contribution for the Frost Faire.”

  Hetta sighed and took this as the peace offering it was intended to be, coming back to kiss her grandmother’s cheek. “I have complete faith in you and Lady Phoebe to arrange things.”

  “Yes, parties are one of the few things Phoebe is good for,” Grandmamma agreed.

  Hetta chose not to answer this and left her grandmother to go back to her study.

  She was congratulating herself on successfully avoiding confrontation over her new status for the entire day when Aunt Sybil swept into the room in high dudgeon.

  “Where is Jack?” she demanded, striding across to the desk without waiting to be invited in. She frowned darkly around at the room. “Didn’t take you much time to shift in here, did it?”

  “I’ve no idea where my cousin is,” Hetta said politely, not rising from her seat. “I haven’t seen him since yesterday.”

  Since yesterday referred to the Choosing Ceremony, this understandably provoked Aunt Sybil.

  “Since yesterday! Then you know that he has been missing since last night!” Aunt Sybil delivered this with terrible accent, but Hetta remained unmoved.

  “I have to admit it doesn’t surprise me. The others tell me it’s quite usual for him to take his dog with him and spend a night or two out on the estate, and Shadow is as absent as her master. Apparently, many of the shepherds’ huts are vacant at present, and Jack’s been known to kip in one of those if he doesn’t fancy coming all the way back to the house for the night.”

  “As though you care where he is!” Aunt Sybil said, her colour mounting. “He might be at the bottom of a cliff and you sit there, unmoved!”

  Hetta raised an eyebrow and drew a pencil line through an entry in the accounts book with deliberate calm (she’d no idea whether it needed to be crossed out or not, but she liked the competent attitude the motion suggested. She could, after all, erase the line after her aunt had left).

  “And have you any reason to suppose, Aunt,” she said with slow civility, “that he is at the bottom of a cliff rather than in one of his usual haunts?”

  “He has suffered an immense shock, as well you know! He shouldn’t be alone at a time like this! Who knows what foolishness he’ll take into his head!”

  Hetta wasn’t sure how sincerely worried Aunt Sybil was or whether her agitation was entirely due to her continuing pique over Hetta’s new position, but she tried to give her the benefit of the doubt. She thought of Bradfield’s manner when he was dealing with particularly high-strung members of the cast.

  “I understand your concern, Aunt,” she said, composing herself. “And I agree that we should make sure Jack is well. I know my being chosen came as a surprise to him—almost as much as it did to me,” Hetta added, then hurried on before Aunt Sybil could interrupt, “But that doesn’t mean that I don’t value Jack. On the contrary, I suspect he will be essential to the effective running of this estate. If he’s still missing tomorrow morning, I will personally go in search of him.”

  Aunt Sybil would have preferred for a search to begin here and now, and Hetta tried to point out to her that Jack was probably fine and wouldn’t appreciate his relatives coming to retrieve him while he was in a sulk, but to no avail. Eventually she was forced to summarily dismiss her aunt, which startled her enough for Hetta to get up and open the door, thus making it impossible for her aunt to remain seated.

  After Aunt Sybil left, Hetta rested her head against the cool wood of the desk and tried to console herself with the thought that things couldn’t possibly get any worse.

  16

  A Tour of the Estate

  The next morning at breakfast, Hetta enquired of her youngest brother whether Jack had, to his knowledge, returned. Gregory rolled his eyes, although the gesture wasn’t intended for Hetta. He’d been grilled by Aunt Sybil the night before and was quite out of temper with the topic of his cousin.

  “I’ve not seen him,” he said.

  “Could you hazard a guess as to where I should look for him? I know everyone says he’s likely happily holed up in one of the shepherds’ huts, but I admit I’d rest easier knowing he was well.”

  “Jack knows Stariel like his own hand,” Gregory said scornfully. “You won’t find him if he doesn’t want you to.”

  “I was also thinking I need to tour the estate anyway. Will you come with me?”

  Gregory looked torn, and Hetta noted with amusement the way his gaze slid to Miss Gwen, who was seated at the other end of the table next to Alexandra, quietly engaged in conversation.

  The problem was resolved better than Hetta had hoped when Lord Angus Penharrow abruptly arrived after breakfast to pay his respects to the new lord. Hetta roped him into accompanying her with such efficient ruthlessness that they were mounted on Alexandra and Gregory’s hacks and several fields away from the house before he could protest.

  “Let me get this straight,” Angus said, his voice rich with amusement. “I’m giving you a tour of Stariel Estate?”

  “Let’s say that you are enlivening my tour with your presence. I don’t need a guide, per se. It’s not as if Stariel is unknown to me.” She smiled at him. “And if it wouldn’t be terribly unprofessional to admit it, I would truly appreciate your opinion. I don’t know what I should about land management, and you seem quite the expert.”

  “I’ve a weakness for damsels in distress,” Angus confessed easily, nodding to her. “Especially ones that ride as well as you.”

  “Thank you for saying so, even if it is raw flattery, for I’m sadly out of practice,” Hetta said frankly.

  Whilst there were vehicle tracks through Stariel, the bulk of the estate was accessible only from horseback or on foot. Hetta had decided to tackle the Sheepfold first. North of the house, the Sheepfold encompassed the rolling foothills of the Indigo Range. It was a landscape of contrasts: steep hillsides that descended into narrow valleys criss-crossed by streams and the occasional small lake. The valley floors tended to be boggy, particularly this late in the year, and the soil was thin on the hillsides, making them treacherous.

  The horses of Stariel were a local breed, stockier and less beautiful than their Southern counterparts, but much more sure-footed. The mare that Hetta rode was a mottled brown-and-white creature with a smooth gait and good manners. Lord Angus rode the larger horse, a grey gelding that already looked grubby about the hocks from mud-splatter.

  Something deep and solemn in her settled as they picked their way up towards the higher hills where the more isolated shepherds’ huts were located. As a child, she’d spent hours wandering these hills, certain she was the only one to discover particular overhangs and interesting tree formations. The landscape seemed shrunken, somehow, from her memories, but there was something reassuringly solid in the smell of damp earth, grass, and sheep leavings.

  “You ought to drain some of the lower flats,” Angus commented, scanning the area. “And put it to use for something other than sheep. There’s good soil here in places.”

  “I’ll have to take your word for it.” She sighed. “I suppose drains are expensive?”

  Angus cocked his head to one side. “In the first year, yes, but they more than pay for themselves in the increase in productivity.”

  “And that’s what you’d do, in my place?” Hetta asked. “Won’t it affect the waterways downstream
?”

  Angus nodded. “Aye, but you can prepare for that. If you design it well, you can reduce the effects of floods as well. I know this area is prone to flash-floods.”

  “Yes, it is,” Hetta said. “And what else would you do, if you were in my place?”

  Angus, it seemed, had put considerable effort into thinking exactly how to answer this question. “Well, Stariel is good land. It’s a waste that so much of it is spent on low-margin goods, or not producing at all. The sheep are a reasonable use of some of the hill lands, but the flats would be better put into something else, with the proper drainage. And it’s a crying shame to leave all the land to the south in forest.”

  “What would you replace them with?” Hetta prompted.

  Angus frowned. “I’ve been thinking you should update your sheep breeds. Some of the newer breeds can still cope with the cold and produce higher wool yields. And I think I’d trial some orchard varieties to the south. You’ve tasted the fruits of Stariel’s home farm—you should know they’re something quite out of the ordinary. As I said, there’s something in the soil here that makes the produce superior to that of the surrounding area. To be perfectly frank, I think that’s the only reason the estate hasn’t gone under. Not to mince words, but the management’s been pretty abysmal for decades.”

  “Father was a great believer in tradition.”

  Angus shook his head as if this were an argument he’d had before. “There’s tradition, and then there’s refusing to take advantage of modern ways of farming that would be good for the estate.”

  “You sound like you’ve put a bit of thought into it.”

  Angus shrugged. “Don’t like to see good land go to waste.” He paused, then added, “Jack was of much the same mind. We got to talking about it a time or two.”

  “Well, if Jack is willing, I have a good mind to put him to work,” Hetta mused.

  Angus looked doubtful. “He loves this place, but he’s always imagined it as his. I don’t know how well he’ll deal with being under your authority.”

  “Well, I am held to be persistent, if nothing else,” Hetta said lightly, although privately she agreed with Angus.

  Angus again swept the landscape with his gaze, and said without looking at her, “If Jack won’t help you, I know of at least one neighbouring lord who will.” He turned back to watch her expression, one eyebrow raised quizzically.

  “You do, do you?” said Hetta, amused but also pleased. “Are you sure that you’re not merely trying to bargain for a piece of Stariel for yourself? My steward tells me you’ve been making offers to my father for the last several years.” It was understandable that Angus should be eager to buy a swathe of the eastern lands; the estate adjoined Penharrow Estate along much of that boundary. Stariel was far larger than Penharrow, but far behind it in terms of land improvements. When she’d asked Mr Fisk about the tenant farmers’ views of the situation, he had given a noncommittal response. Hetta had added this to the ever-growing list of things she didn’t know enough about.

  Angus shot her a quick, brilliant grin. “Heard that already, have you? Well, I won’t deny that it’s true. I’ve been viewing those eastern boundary lands with avarice for some time now. Say the word and I’ll make you a good offer.”

  “Given that I’ve been in my position for less than two days, I should think it somewhat premature to start selling off my inheritance,” Hetta told him sternly, though she liked him the better for his honesty.

  He laughed. “Fair enough. Don’t mind waiting for you to come around.” He looked her up and down as if he were taking the measure of a new horse, eyes twinkling. “It helps that you’re easy on the eyes.”

  Hetta was decidedly glad that she’d taken Angus with her rather than Gregory. She wasn’t quite certain whether his flirting was in earnest, but she was enjoying the attention from her childhood hero nonetheless.

  She could see why he and Jack might have struck up a friendship. They shared the same abiding interest in the land and its people. They were both archetypal country men: broad shouldered, bluff, good humoured, and not too high in the instep to dirty their hands when necessary. There was a streak of deep patience in Angus that wasn’t present in Jack, and Hetta wondered if this was an essential difference in personality or if Jack would mature into it.

  They encountered a couple of the hill shepherds; rangy, introspective men who chose their words with care and seemed almost preternaturally aware of their dogs. The first denied any knowledge of Jack, although he didn’t meet Hetta’s eyes as he spoke. Hetta wasn’t sure if this was because of discomfort at encountering a woman in what he might very well think was a man’s place or if he was being deliberately evasive. The second was only slightly more helpful. He had seen Jack late the day before, but he hadn’t spoken to him, nor had he seen where he’d gone to roost.

  “You might try up in the Thornfield,” he said at last.

  They followed this shrugging piece of advice without much hope. They did find recent signs of someone’s presence in the Thornfield hut, but there was no sign of Jack.

  “I thought this might happen,” Angus said. “If the man doesn’t want to be found, we won’t find him. Let him come back on his own terms.”

  Hetta sighed. “I fear you’re right.”

  They made their way back via some of the northern pastures, and Hetta was interested to see that many of the tenant farmers they passed not only knew Angus but were known to him in return. They seemed rather more pleased to see him than Hetta. They paused briefly to greet the farmers they met. Some acknowledged Hetta as Lord Valstar; others only stared with disquieting silence or monosyllabic grunts.

  “They’ll come around,” Angus said staunchly.

  Even though they hadn’t found Jack, Hetta didn’t feel that the day had been wasted. Angus was good company, and besides having more of a feel for the estate, she felt exhilarated by the exercise, although she knew she would pay for it tomorrow.

  They handed the horses back into the care of the head groom, and she walked Angus back to his kineticar. The garage was deserted, and she wondered if he’d repeat his impropriety of the previous week. He looked like he was strongly considering it. Did she want to encourage him? It had been a very pleasant kiss, and Hetta wouldn’t mind repeating the experience, but things were different now. It had been one thing to kiss the neighbouring lord when she was leaving within a week; it was quite another now that she was staying. Hetta-the-no-name-illusionist could do what she liked with whomever she liked—that would not be the case for Henrietta Valstar, Lord of Stariel.

  Before the issue was decided one way or the other, they were interrupted by Gregory, who besides wanting to plague Angus about his kineticar, demanded to know if they’d seen Alexandra and Miss Gwen.

  “Don’t tell me we have another runaway,” Hetta said with a groan.

  Gregory grinned despite his frustration. “No, just that the girls went out walking earlier this morning without telling me where they were going and I—”

  “Felt like you were much in need of exercise,” Hetta finished for him.

  He laughed, unrepentant. “Well, yes, now you mention it!”

  “Well, we didn’t see either of them, so I’m afraid we can’t help you,” said Angus, not unkindly, looking somewhat bemused.

  Hetta took her leave of them both and went back into the house. She made a mental note to order some books on drains and speak to Mr Fisk about making an appointment with the bank manager. Angus’s advice had made her feel surer of her own instincts about the need to modernise.

  Her steward proved elusive, so she made her way to the library with some thought of asking Marius if he’d found out anything about the lord’s land-sense yet. The library was one of Hetta’s favourite rooms at Stariel. The warm, high-ceilinged room was laid out almost like a hall, with staircases giving access to the upper level of books lining the walls. It was probable, Hetta thought, that it had once been a ballroom, but she applauded whichever of her ances
tors had decided to build the east wing with its more modern ballroom and convert this smaller room into a library.

  There was no sign of Marius, but before she could complete her circuit of the room, Aunt Sybil descended upon her.

  “Are you going to tell me that you spent the entire morning off gallivanting with Lord Penharrow instead of looking for my son, Henrietta?” Aunt Sybil demanded. Evidently she’d come looking for Hetta for the express purpose of chastising her.

  “I wasn’t planning to tell you anything about my morning, no,” Hetta said before she could stop herself.

  Aunt Sybil swelled with indignation. “And I’ve heard you were seen being…familiar with Penharrow at Deeplake last week. It may have suited you very well to conduct yourself like a lightskirt back in Meridon, but here you have a reputation to uphold!”

  “I wasn’t aware I had any reputation left,” Hetta said coldly. Then she buckled down her anger and said in more measured tones, “But you won’t make me believe that you truly think I was in any danger in Lord Penharrow’s company. Why, I’ve known him since we were children!”

  “That is not the point!” Aunt Sybil seethed. “People will talk!”

  “They always do.”

  At this point, the far door into the library opened behind Aunt Sybil, and Hetta’s stepmother appeared with her youngest daughter in tow. Lady Phoebe eyed the two of them with alarm; little Laurel, with interest. Aunt Sybil didn’t notice their entrance and continued her tirade. It was very passionate, if not entirely logical, and contained not only dark predictions of the fate that befell damsels whose reputations were sullied but also the conflicting sentiment that whilst Hetta did not at all deserve Lord Penharrow’s attention, since she seemed to have got it, she’d better make sure not to put him off with her unwomanly illusory powers.

  “Are you going to marry Lord Penharrow?” Laurel piped up interestedly.