by Kelly Bowen
The boar grunted and lifted its snout, small eyes blinking at her. He snuffled and shuffled toward Maeve. She backed toward the kitchen door, the basket of apples held high above her head.
“That’s right, just keep on coming, my happy little bit of bacon,” she said through gritted teeth.
The boar broke into a trot.
Maeve turned and bolted.
She ran through the kitchen door, out into the yards, and down the gentle slope that led to the enclosures for the swine and the cows. She reached the boar’s pen, its gate hanging drunkenly from broken hinges. Hamlet was hard on her heels, his grunts and snuffles following her through the broken gate and into the pen. She snatched an apple from the basket and threw it into the far corner, jumping up on the nearest rail without dropping any more of the precious fruit.
The boar trundled past after the apple and Maeve darted toward the broken gate. She set the basket safely aside, yanked the listing gate shut, and realized too late that it wouldn’t stay that way with the hinges damaged as they were. She was stuck where she was indefinitely, crouched in the mud, her arms wrapped around a gate.
Maeve rested her forehead against the rough post and tried not to give in to frustration. All the penning needed new hardware. Hamlet’s unwanted sojourn had been only a matter of time.
“Thought you might need this,” a voice from behind her said.
Maeve turned to find Alfred Baxter approaching, pulling a length of rope from a canvas bag slung across his chest.
“Yes, thank you.” She might have kissed the elderly man had she been sure she wouldn’t have embarrassed him beyond reason. “If something is worth doing, it’s worth doing right,” she muttered, taking the rope from his hands and wrapping it around the gate and posts. This wasn’t anywhere close to right, but it would work for now until she could figure out how to replace or repair the broken hardware.
“I beg your pardon?”
“What my father always told me.” She pulled the last knot tight as Baxter held the gate steady. “He’s turning in his grave right now with the way I’m repairing this damn gate.”
“You’re doing your best with what you have,” Baxter said.
Maeve sighed. “Most days my best doesn’t even seem adequate.” She straightened. “Hope your day is going better than mine, Mr. Baxter.”
The farmer seemed to hesitate for a moment. “Truth of the matter is I was coming to see you when I saw that beastie chasing you across the yard,” he said. He reached into his canvas bag and drew out an unrecognizable hunk of metal. And then two more, all no bigger than a small luncheon plate.
“What is all that?”
He winced. “What’s left of the plough blade.”
Maeve’s shoulders sagged. That had been the only plough blade that still existed in one piece. With planting needing to be completed without delay, the timing couldn’t have been worse.
Baxter turned the broken parts over in his hands. “Hit a stone in the back fields, and the whole thing just cracked apart. Been fixed too many times, I reckon.”
“Indeed,” Maeve grumbled, wiping her hands on her trousers. And something fixed too many times wasn’t anything that was new. As the steward of this estate, it was a daily struggle for her. She spent most of her waking hours patching things together as best as she was able, managing to stay just one step ahead of disaster and despair by the skin of her teeth and a fair bit of ingenuity.
What she really needed was new equipment. New ploughs, new tools, new wheels for the hay wagons, a new millstone for the mill, new hardware for the damn livestock enclosures. Preferably from the current century, but at this point, Maeve wasn’t picky. Though she knew very well that she might as well request a unicorn from the Rutledge solicitors and agents who oversaw Greybourne. She’d written a hundred letters petitioning for the money or means to help the handful of remaining tenants who still struggled to survive on the duke’s estate.
She’d yet to receive anything back save for terse regrets from a never-ending string of lawyers and clerks and agents. It had been made clear that the Duke of Rutledge had little interest in the estate and even less inclination to repair it.
“How much did you get ploughed before it broke?” she asked.
“Bout a quarter of the north field. What do you reckon we do?” The weathered lines of his face creased even further, his faded eyes reflecting the same frustration she felt.
Ploughing the plot by hand was out of the question. Even with Maeve’s help, it would be damn near Christmas before they finished. It was only Alfred and his wife now, both their sons killed at Vitoria, leaving the Baxters on their own. And Alfred wasn’t the only tenant who needed the plough in the coming weeks. It was spring, and the amount of work that needed to be completed in a short period of time was overwhelming. She couldn’t afford delays. No one could afford delays.
“I’ll find another plough,” she said, having no idea how she was going to do that.
“From where?”
“Leave that to me.” Mentally, she reviewed the list of items that still moldered in the dilapidated manor house. She no longer had any reservations about selling what might remain to purchase a necessity for the greater good of the estate. But in truth, the manor had been emptied of valuables by the family long ago, and what remained was decrepit at best. Like everything else. The more she thought about it, the more discouraged she got. There really wasn’t anything remaining worth selling, and that left her with a far less palatable option—
“Maybe Mr. Newton could help?” Alfred ventured.
Maeve fought to keep her expression neutral. She would rather plough the rest of the land with her teeth before she went to Gerald Newton for help. Their neighbor to the north had very strong opinions on how Maeve should be running this estate. Opinions he shared on his regular visits after, of course, sharing his opinions about the suitability of her running it at all. Unfortunately, Gerald Newton, Esquire, owned a profitable estate with well-planted crops, well-tended flocks, well-milked herds, and well-fed tenants. And a great deal of equipment from this century.
The success of his estate was what even a moderately competent steward could achieve when that steward had access to resources. When that steward had a landlord who cared about his land and the people who lived on it.
Maeve looked at Alfred, and her heart broke. He couldn’t be more than fifty, but he looked eighty. He deserved better than this. His wife deserved better than this. They all deserved better than this.
Alfred cleared his throat and held out the broken blade pieces. “You want me to take these to the smith again?” he asked dubiously.
“No.” There was no point. The ancient, decaying blade was beyond salvage, and they both knew it. “I’ll get a new blade.”
And to do that, Maeve would put on a dress and present herself to Gerald Newton. She would play the damsel in distress if required and hate every second, but she would do it because her tenants needed her to. She would allow Newton to rescue her because a plough that would allow the people she loved to plant enough crops to see themselves through another winter, was worth far more than her pride.
She would do all of that. After, of course, she wrote another scathing letter to the Duke of Rutledge.
Chapter Three
“I received your message that you have a letter for me, Carruthers.”
The man behind the massive desk looked up from the documents he’d been reading and stood. “Lord Henry. It’s been a long time. Please. Do come in.” He stepped from behind his desk with a broad smile. “It’s good to see you looking so well.”
“And you.” Henry stepped into the well-appointed office, curiosity warring with a faint sense of trepidation. Henry had cause to meet William Carruthers only a few times, but he admired the solicitor’s attention to detail, forthright manner, and most of all, his discretion. Carruthers had served the duchy for numerous years, handling the more intimate of legal negotiations and matters. Wedding contracts, financ
ial issues, disbursements, deaths. What the lawyer wanted with Henry now was baffling, especially given how much effort Henry put into distancing himself from all things ducal.
The solicitor motioned for Henry to take the chair opposite the desk before reclaiming his own seat. He wasn’t a great deal older than Henry, with dark hair and eyes, and a rich, bronzed complexion that emphasized his Indian heritage. He was dressed neatly, in fine clothes tailored for his long, lean frame.
“My lord, I—”
“You can dispense with the title, please,” Henry interrupted. “I’ve certainly done my best to do so.”
Carruthers hesitated.
“I prefer Blackmore. Mr. Blackmore if you must.”
“Very well.” The solicitor inclined his head. “I appreciate your attendance to this matter in such a timely fashion,” he continued.
Henry’s jaw clenched. Time he had in droves. Since Nash had dismissed him, Henry had thus far been unable to procure any sort of restoration commission, though not for lack of trying. Not that he was about to discuss that here.
“I still don’t know what this matter is that you’re referring to,” Henry said, wincing at the edge he heard in his voice. None of his current problems were William Carruthers’ fault. He attempted to moderate his tone. “My correspondence is not generally directed through solicitors.”
“Indeed.” Carruthers reached for a file, opening it with easy movements. “It’s not correspondence, exactly.”
Henry frowned. “I’m afraid I don’t understand.”
“It’s a commission.”
“I beg your pardon?”
The solicitor unfolded a document and smoothed it flat on the surface of his desk. “A commission,” he repeated.
“A commission for what?”
Carruthers’ long fingers paused over the paper. He seemed to study the text scrawled across the document for an eternity before he looked up again at Henry, his face a mask of neutrality. “A commission for the restoration of Greybourne.”
Henry froze, his knuckles going white where they gripped the arms of his chair. “Is this a joke?” he managed.
“No.” The solicitor turned the paper around on his desk so that it faced Henry.
Henry ignored it. “Did my father put you up to this?” he rasped.
Carruthers shook his head, his dark eyes level with Henry’s. “No.”
“This is the sort of thing he would do.” Henry lunged to his feet, nearly upsetting the chair. “The sort of game he would play. Just to punish me.”
“This has nothing to do with your father,” Carruthers repeated evenly. “But it has everything to do with you.”
Henry stalked across the office and came to a stop in front of a towering bookcase, trying to compose himself and failing miserably. “Me?”
Carruthers sighed. “You might think you are an island because you’ve chosen to go your own way, Blackmore, but you’re still the son of a duke. And the things that you do — and don’t do— are still of great interest to the gossipmongers of the ton.”
“What?”
“You were taken off the Chattonham project.”
Henry whirled.
“The Earl of Chattonham was disappointed, as I understand, that your vision was — as John Nash put it— not a good fit. I think the earl rather fancied the idea of a ducal son redesigning his family pile.”
“I don’t believe this.”
Carruthers tapped his finger on the document. “This contract was drawn up before you were removed from the Chattonham project, but the timing was —is— fortuitous. You need this commission more than ever now, Blackmore. If you want to keep Brighton.”
Henry glared at the solicitor. “How can you possibly know that?”
“I didn’t. My client did. My client also knows that you had, at one point in the past, planned to restore at least a part of Greybourne House.”
“Your client?” Henry was aware he was almost shouting, but he didn’t care. “Who is your client?”
“That I cannot disclose.”
“Cannot or will not?”
Carruthers’s expression softened. “Look, I know what happened at Greybourne, Henry. I know how hard it was on your family.”
“You know nothing.” He didn’t want this man’s pity.
“I know that Greybourne has been left in the care of a handful of your father’s agents and solicitors. I know that no one in your family cares what becomes of the estate.”
“My brother died because of that place,” Henry breathed, his chest tight and his words ragged. “He was only nine. Let it rot.”
“From what I understand from the agents who handle the estate’s management, your father has left it to do exactly that.”
So there did still exist one thing in the world Henry and his father agreed upon. “Good.”
Carruthers gazed at him with his impenetrable dark eyes. “Your brother died in an accident that no one could have prevented,” he said gently.
Not true. Henry could have prevented it.
“I won’t do it.” He would never go back to Greybourne.
“My client has put up five-thousand pounds for the restoration of Greybourne.” Carruthers sat back in his chair. “Upon completion, there is an additional thirty-thousand pounds that will be transferred to your accounts to be used as you see fit. It was suggested that you might incorporate your own architectural firm once the restoration is completed.”
Henry grasped the bookcase to steady himself. “I’m sorry?”
“Five-thousand now. Thirty-thousand and your own firm when you’re done.” The solicitor was speaking in brisk, clipped sentences. “The only condition being that the details of this contract must be kept confidential and be shared with no one.”
Henry could only stare.
“This opportunity represents everything you’ve ever wanted, Blackmore. All you need to do is sign right here.” He leaned forward again and tapped the document.
Henry closed his eyes, fighting to understand what was happening. “Why? Why would someone do this?”
“That is not for me to know. I am merely the messenger here.” Carruthers paused. “May I speak frankly?”
Henry opened his eyes and waved an unfeeling hand in acquiescence.
“I understand that you lost something dear in the past. But you have a gift, Blackmore. Do not squander it by letting the past dictate your future. Sometimes you must think with your head and not your heart.”
“It’s not that easy.”
“It never is.” A shadow passed over Carruthers’ features before it was gone. He picked up a quill and held it out to Henry. “Take a chance, Mr. Blackmore. Take this chance.”
Chapter Four
“Don’t take any chances, Miss Maeve.”
Maeve cursed and then cursed again as she slid further down the rotting thatch.
The rain had been relentless last night, and the west corner of Edith Dunlop’s roof had caved in, missing the sleeping occupants below but creating a horrendous mess and leaving the cottage uninhabitable.
“Miss Maeve?” Edith was still looking up anxiously from where she stood below the roof, her one-year-old daughter balanced on her hip. “Please be careful.”
“I’m always careful.” Maeve adjusted her grip on the new bundle of thatch. This was ridiculous. The entire cottage roof, including the ridgepoles, needed to be replaced, not patched. But that would take a thatcher and money, both of which Maeve did not currently have.
She struggled with the bundle, getting it set against the sagging frame. This would have to do. It might hold for a while, but Maeve didn’t fool herself into thinking that it would last the entire summer. Already, clouds were gathering again, the scent of impending rain hanging in the stagnant air. If she could just get this patch in place before the heavens opened up again—
“Maybe I should fetch Isaac to help you?” Edith asked from below. “Or one of the boys?”
“No!” Maeve blurted before cat
ching herself. “No,” she said again. Edith’s husband Isaac and both their young sons were with Alfred Baxter in the northern fields, ploughing and planting. “I need Isaac exactly where he is.” Right behind the new plough loaned to Greybourne by Gerald Newton.
Somewhere below Maeve, the baby fussed unhappily.
“Why don’t you take some things over to the manor house?” Maeve suggested, eyeing the darkening sky. “Stay there until this is fixed and cleaned up.”
“Oh, I couldn’t,” Edith said, still sounding worried.
“You most certainly could.” Maeve wrapped the tarred twine around the frame and secured it tightly across the bundle. “I’m not sure I’ll have this finished before it rains again. And while the manor doesn’t offer much in the way of luxury, it has a roof that won’t collapse.” At least she hoped it wouldn’t.
Maeve glanced over the edge of the roof. Edith still stood, looking between the roof and the sky and the door of her ruined cottage with indecision.
“It won’t be for long.” Maeve yanked her knife from where it was impaled in the thatch and trimmed the bottom of the reeds. “Besides, Mrs. Thorpe could use some help in the house.”
A few heavy rain drops smacked into the thatch.
“All right. Thank you, Miss Maeve.”
“Of course. You better hurry.” Maeve moved as quickly as she dared across the edge of the roof and placed another bundle of thatch.
Edith ducked back into her waterlogged cottage and within minutes, remerged with a bundle tucked under her arm and her daughter in the other. She headed up the rutted lane at a brisk walk toward the wooded copse that hid the manor house from the tiny village.
Maeve glared at the threatening sky and wiped her forehead with the sleeve of her coat. Adding to her frustration, broken bits of thatch were stuck to her skin and making her itch. She set her jaw against the discomfort before squaring her shoulders. Every path has a few puddles, her father used to say to her. And wallowing in self-pity had never fixed a roof before.
