by Kelly Bowen
“Help?” She made a decidedly rude noise. “If you had wanted to help, you would be using your money to buy new plough blades and not new chandeliers. Chandeliers are very difficult to eat come January.”
“Miss Murray, I—”
“Do whatever you wish, Mr. Blackmore. This is, after all, your family’s land and you are more than free to go wherever you like. I am merely the steward and as such, I will be attending the duties that your family pays me to attend.” And with that, she hurried away back in the direction of the church and the twisted lane that led up to the north.
Chapter Five
Maeve glanced behind her.
Henry Blackmore was still there, leading his horse after her with determined steps. The fury that she had felt when Blackmore had made clear the purpose of his presence was taking a long time to recede. The entire estate was falling down around her ears and all her efforts and all of her pleas over the years had resulted in the third son of the Duke of Rutledge arriving not to help, but to entertain himself by repairing rooms no one had used for as long as she could ever remember. The unfairness of that made her want to shriek and rant like a lunatic. Instead, she silently put one foot in front of the other, continued along the lane, and tried to see the best of the situation.
Henry Blackmore was the first member of the Rutledge family to step foot on the land since the death of the duke’s youngest son over a decade ago. And perhaps if Maeve could open his eyes to the real needs of Greybourne, then she could convince him to divert Rutledge money where it was most needed. Plans could be altered, minds could be changed.
She could almost hear her father intoning that one always catches more flies with honey than vinegar. It would behoove her to listen to that advice, though she wasn’t exactly sure what sort of honey the son of an absentee duke would find compelling enough to change his mind about his restoration project. But she did know that a shrieking, ranting lunatic would get nowhere. She owed it to the people of Greybourne to at least attempt to be civil and level-headed and above all, convincing.
The rain had stopped again, and the mercurial clouds had parted, sunlight streaming through and bathing everything in vibrant color. The moisture on the grass and foliage glittered like a million diamonds. On her right, the stream that ran through the property burbled away, more light dancing off its swirling surface.
“Is that the only mill?” The question came from behind her.
Maeve glanced toward the building in question. “Yes.”
The mill sat eerily silent on the bank, the tumbling water alongside the only movement. The waterwheel listed slightly from the stone building, and it was missing three spokes. The sluice gate to the channel of water that ran under the wheel had been closed, and the inert waterwheel had a carpet of moss growing along the uppermost edges. Once, the mill had been a hive of activity.
“Why isn’t it running?”
Maeve stopped and then stumbled back a step. Blackmore was a lot closer behind her than she’d realized, though he was staring at the mill and not looking at her.
A caustic answer was on the tip of her tongue but she managed to swallow it. “The mill wheel cracked in two pieces eight years ago,” she said evenly instead. “It has yet to be replaced and as such, the mill has fallen from use.”
“Why wasn’t it replaced?” Blackmore asked.
Maeve starting walking again. “Because, Mr. Blackmore, a new mill wheel is expensive. About the same price as the new leaded glass windows you’ll be replacing in the manor,” she added despite her best intentions.
“So where does the milling get done?” His horse’s hooves were once again thudding on the ground behind her.
“At one of Newton’s mills. He has three of them. He charges us a fair price but it’s still a cost that we can scarce afford.”
Henry didn’t answer, and they walked on in blessed silence. Even though Maeve knew such failings like the mill weren’t her fault, they still chafed. Like she had let her people down by not being able to come up with a solution that would have kept the mill running and the miller’s family at Greybourne.
They angled up away from the mill and the stream. Maeve’s tired legs strained as they went up the incline. Ahead, she could make out Isaac Dunlop shouting at his team, the horses leaning into their traces as the farmer guided a plough through the heavy earth. Off to the side, Alfred had another horse unharnessed from the wagon on which the seed and supplies were piled. Isaac’s twin sons, Owen and Graham, hovered anxiously at his side. Maeve hurried forward.
“What’s wrong?” Maeve asked.
“Mare’s lame,” Alfred said, picking up the horse’s left foreleg and examining the hoof. “Think it’s just a bruised sole but she’s hobbling something awful. Can’t use her to run seed to the west fields or to pull the seed drill.” He let the hoof down gently and straightened.
Maeve pulled her cap from her head and wondered if fate was simply seeing how far it might goad her before she stopped repairing roofs and started looking for one to jump from.
“I can carry seed out to the fields,” Owen volunteered worriedly. Like his brother, he was ten, with a shock of red hair falling over a freckled face and bright blue eyes that were usually full of mischief.
“You can’t move that much seed, pudding-head. The bags weigh more than you do,” his brother scoffed. “’Sides, doesn’t matter without a horse to pull the seeder.”
Alfred used his sleeve to wipe the sweat and dirt from his face. “Ye heart’s in the right place lad, but Graham’s right. Those sacks weigh more than the both o’ you combined.” He sighed. “Should’ve asked to borrow a horse from Newton at the same time as a plough.”
Maeve cringed. The idea of crawling back to Newton to ask another favor was enough to—
“What’s the problem?” The question came from behind her.
Maeve had momentarily forgotten about her temporary companion. “Lame horse,” she replied curtly, aware that Alfred and the two boys were now staring at Blackmore. She sighed. “Mr. Blackmore, may I present Mr. Alfred—”
“Baxter. I remember,” Blackmore interrupted her introduction.
“It is good to see you looking well, Mr. Blackmore,” Alfred said quietly. “And for what they’re worth these years later, my condolences on the passing of your brother.”
Blackmore’s face was stony. “Thank you,” he managed through compressed lips.
Maeve and her father had been in Chelmsford selling wool when Henry Blackmore had visited Greybourne with his younger brother Charles. They hadn’t been there when Charles Blackmore had fallen while playing in the ruins of the ancient, private chapel that sat behind the manor house. But Alfred Baxter had.
Maeve glanced back and forth between the two men but neither seemed inclined to say anything further. “This is Owen and Graham Dunlop,” she forged on. “Their father, Isaac, is currently working the plough. Owen and Graham are two of the best helpers a steward could ask for.” She shot them a smile but their eyes were still fixed on the man standing beside her.
“You don’t look like someone with a pa for a duke,” Graham commented.
Owen smacked his brother on the shoulder. “Ma would tell you not to be rude,” he hissed.
“Ma’s not here,” Graham hissed back.
“What is someone with a pa for a duke supposed to look like?” Blackmore asked. He had a funny look on his face as he gazed at the two boys.
Owen exchanged a look with his brother. “Like a king,” he said tentatively. “With fancy clothes and fancy carriages and fancy words and people following you about everywhere to open doors and serve you food.”
“And wipe your arse,” Graham added.
That earned him another smack from his brother.
“Luckily, I am not a king or a duke,” Blackmore replied, his face suddenly splitting into a grin, the corners of his eyes crinkling. “I am but a mere architect.”
Maeve’s breath caught at the way his smile transformed him. She
had thought Blackmore handsome before but now… Now he was positively hypnotizing. If he had smiled like that at her while she was on the roof, she might very well have fallen off. No doubt fancy ladies in fancy clothes swooned in their fancy carriages when Henry Blackmore smiled at them like that. She tore her eyes away.
“An architect.” Owen tried the word out on his tongue. “What does an architect do?”
“Builds things,” Blackmore answered. “Fixes things sometimes.”
“Well, my pa and my ma will be happy you’re here to do some fixing. Greybourne needs lots of fixing.”
“The mill don’t work. An’ our roof fell down last night.” Graham, not to be outdone, jumped into the conversation. “An’ Hamlet got into the kitchen again.”
“Who’s Hamlet?” Blackmore asked, looking confused.
“The boar. He’s slippery as a river eel. But you’ll help Miss Maeve fix the gates, right?”
“He’ll help Miss Maeve fix everything,” Owen said with the confidence of the very young. “And me and Graham can help too.”
“What are we gonna fix first?” Graham asked, looking between Maeve and Blackmore.
“The mill of course,” Owen said. “’Cause it’s the most ’spensive. Right Miss Maeve?”
Maeve gave a noncommittal shrug, unable to bring herself to correct the boys. She avoided looking at Blackmore, the conversation serving as a cold bucket of water dumped on whatever ridiculous attraction that she’d felt.
“Indeed, Mr. Blackmore, you are a sight for sore eyes,” Alfred said, and the hope in his voice was like an arrow into Maeve’s heart. Alfred had made the same assumptions the Dunlops had— the same assumptions she had first made— about the purpose of Blackmore’s presence.
Blackmore frowned. “I don’t—”
“Mr. Blackmore and I are just getting started with our tour of Greybourne,” Maeve interrupted. She’d tell them why Blackmore was really here but not right now. Not when they were soaking wet, behind in planting, and holding a lame horse. At this moment, maybe a little bit of hope, however false, was the only thing Maeve could offer that might get them through this day.
“Do you need to fetch another horse?” Blackmore asked Maeve, looking between her and Alfred and the lame mare.
“We don’t have another horse,” Graham piped up.
Blackmore made a face. “Surely another tenant can loan you a horse—”
“Graham is right, Mr. Blackmore. There are no other horses. These are the only three left on Greybourne land,” Maeve told him.
“I beg your pardon?”
“The tenants share the horses. Just like they share the farming equipment and the wagons and everything else that’s left.”
“You have three horses?” Blackmore repeated, disbelief coloring his words. “On the entire estate?”
“Two and a half now,” Maeve grumbled.
“And the west fields still left to seed,” Alfred added. “Not sure how we’re going to get them seeded.”
“Here.” Blackmore extended the reins of his bay. “Use my horse. He’s worked as much in harness as he has under saddle. You’ll have no trouble with him.”
It was Maeve’s turn to stare at him. “What?”
“You need a horse. I have a horse.”
“Mr. Blackmore, I don’t—”
“Know how to thank you,” Alfred finished for her, taking the offered reins from Blackmore’s outstretched hand. “This is very kind of you.” He beamed at the architect.
Blackmore shrugged. “I can take your mare back.”
“She’ll need a bit of doctoring. You’ll want to check her sole. Left front.”
“I can see to that too.”
“I’m sure you have more pressing things to do, Mr. Blackmore,” Maeve said stiffly. Over her dead body would she allow this temporary interloper, who was here for no other reason than to make the fountains pretty again, see to anything of crucial importance.
Alfred was already unsaddling the bay. “I’ll return your horse and saddle to the house at the end of the day if that suits, Mr. Blackmore?” He handed the saddle to Owen who hurried to put it in the back of the wagon.
“That suits.”
Graham led the limping mare to Blackmore and passed him the lead rope.
Maeve turned her attention to the placid bay being hitched to the wagon. “You need a hand, Mr. Baxter?”
Alfred waved her off. “All done. You see to that mare. Mr. Blackmore’s going to need his horse back eventually.”
The two boys scrambled up onto the back of the wagon as Alfred climbed up onto the bench. “Good day, Miss Maeve. And many thanks again, Mr. Blackmore.” He beamed at them both before he clucked to the bay. Horse and wagon lurched away in the direction of the far fields, leaving Maeve once again alone with only Henry Blackmore for company.
“I’ll take the mare back to the manor,” she told him. “I’m sure you have better things to do.”
“Not at all,” he said, starting slowly back in the direction they had come, leading the limping horse.
Maeve reluctantly fell into step with him. “I would also like to offer condolences. I was remiss earlier and can offer no excuse other than your arrival caught me by surprise. I was sorry to hear about your brother.”
“It was a long time ago,” he replied curtly. “And I do not wish to talk about it.”
Maeve could understand that. Easy enough to change the topic, especially to one she still didn’t fully understand. “Why did you give Mr. Baxter your horse?”
Blackmore shrugged. “It was a simple problem that I had the means to fix.”
Maeve stole a glance at him, a kernel of hope daring to extend tentative roots. If Henry Blackmore was willing to fix simple problems, perhaps he would be willing to tackle bigger ones.
“Do you really only have three horses?” he asked abruptly.
“Yes. Three horses, one boar, four sows, seventeen ewes, and two dairy cows between the remaining tenants. Greybourne – well, your family— owns the livestock, and the tenants share in their produce in exchange for feed and labour. It’s completely unorthodox, I know, but it gets us by.”
“How many are left?” he asked.
“What do you mean?”
Henry reached into his coat pocket and withdrew a paper once again. He passed it to Maeve. “That’s a partial list of tenants that the estate agent furnished me with.”
Maeve opened the damp paper and scanned the smudged ink. “This isn’t a partial list.” She refolded it and handed it back. “That’s everyone who still remains to scrape what living they can out of this estate. Did you not notice that most of the cottages in the village were empty? Or falling down? Outside of the village is much the same.”
“How can the estate be productive with no—”
“The estate isn’t productive at all, Mr. Blackmore. It hasn’t been for a long time. That is simply a list of the tenants who have managed to pay what’s owed the ducal coffers twice a year when the agents come collecting.” Maeve winced. That last sentence sounded bitter and angry, and she was trying to avoid sounding bitter and angry. Civil and rational was what she was aiming for.
“With your help, Mr. Blackmore, we could make the estate productive again,” she tried. “It would take a fair bit of capital in the short term but in the long term, it would benefit everyone. Including your family.”
“My family is not my concern,” he said shortly.
Maeve ignored that incongruous comment and pressed on. “If you would reconsider the restoration of the house— or at the very least, postpone the restoration of the house— the estate as a whole could use whatever capital you may have to—”
“I’m sorry, Miss Murray but that is impossible.”
“Not impossible at all, Mr. Blackmore. Like I said earlier, I have plans already drawn up that you could review and evaluate. Even if we could just get the mill running—”
“This is not a negotiation, Miss Murray. I am here to restore Grey
bourne House, not a mill.”
“You’ve already proven yourself a man of generous honour. You could do so much for Greybourne, Mr. Blackmore.” Maeve resorted to unvarnished flattery. “The future of this estate—”
“Is not my concern.”
“But you are the duke’s son—”
“And I am happy to petition him on your behalf once I return to London with whatever requests you may have. But in the meantime, it is my future that I must focus on. I’m sorry, Miss Murray. I cannot help you.”
Maeve’s nails bit into her palms as whatever hope had sprouted died a swift death. Henry Blackmore cared only about Henry Blackmore and there didn’t seem to be any discernable way for Maeve to change that.
“I am willing to pay a fair wage for local labour,” Blackmore said.
“Oh, indeed?” She abandoned her efforts at civil and rational and let her frustration vent. “I regret to inform you that the tenants here are too busy with their own survival to worry about cornices or whatever it is that interests architects with money to waste.”
“You think what I’m doing has no value?” There was an edge to his question.
“You think right.” It was astonishingly refreshing to answer that question with honesty.
“Greybourne House is a brilliant example of surviving Tudor-era architecture, including design elements that were not seen in the following Elizabethan period. There is history here that should be preserved for future generations. Kings have slept within these walls.”
“Truthfully, Mr. Blackmore, I don’t have a lot of use for dead kings and even less use for their architecture. You can save your lecture.”
“Architecture makes up the physical environment that we live in, Miss Murray. It surrounds us, from the smallest of cottages to the grandest of cathedrals and monuments. It’s an expression of entire civilizations and how they are perceived for generations to come.”
“Fascinating, I’m sure,” Maeve muttered, not even trying to muffle her hostility. As frustrated as she was, she’d be best to end this conversation before she said something that would justify her dismissal as steward of Greybourne. But Blackmore wasn’t done.
