by Kelly Bowen
“Tell me, Miss Murray, can you honestly say that you feel nothing when standing in St. Paul’s? Or at the gates of Westminster?”
Maeve felt her cheeks heat. “I’ve not been to London, Mr. Blackmore, so no, I can’t honestly say that I feel anything when I stand in these buildings you speak of.”
“You’ve not been to London?” He sounded genuinely shocked.
“Do I need to repeat myself?” That came out far more defensively than she would have liked. Not having traveled to London was something that she shouldn’t be ashamed of. Lots of people had never been to London.
“Have you traveled anywhere outside of this county?”
“No.”
“Do you not wish to?”
“What I wish has no bearing on anything, Mr. Blackmore. Travel requires both time and means and I have the luxury of neither.” She stared resolutely ahead. “Not all of us are born to the peerage, flush and free to pursue whatever fancy strikes us.”
Blackmore’s mouth snapped shut and mercifully, he seemed to run out of things to say after that. They made the rest of the slow journey in a tense silence until the manor house came into view.
Maeve jerked her chin in the direction of the old mews to the side of the manor that had been converted into livestock barns sometime in the last century. “I’ll take the mare into the stables from here,” she told him.
“I can do it,” he replied without breaking stride.
“Mr. Blackmore, you do not have to—”
“I insist.”
Maeve stopped and watched the stubborn, insufferable man lead the mare into the yards. Every muscle in his body was stiff, his eyes fixed firmly on the limping horse. He was no doubt composing a letter in his head that would be forwarded to the estate agent that recommended her removal from her position of steward. So much for civil and rational.
“Miss Maeve!”
Maeve turned to find Mrs. Thorpe waving her arm as she bustled from the manor across the yards in Maeve’s direction. She came to a rather breathless stop beside Maeve, frowning slightly as she watched the back of Henry Blackmore disappear into the stables with the lame horse.
“There was a large trunk delivered to the house a half-hour ago,” Mrs. Thorpe announced.
Maeve grimaced.
“Am I to assume that we have a guest?” The housekeeper sounded incredulous.
Aside from Gerald Newton’s tiresome visits and the estate agent’s biannual appearances, they never had guests.
“We do.”
Mrs. Thorpe stared at her expectantly. “And that was him disappearing into our stables?”
“It was. Mr. Henry Blackmore will be staying at Greybourne House.”
The housekeeper’s face went slack before she smiled widely. “Henry Blackmore? That was Henry Blackmore? Oh, this is good news,” she said, pressing her palms together. “You’ve finally done it, Miss Maeve. All your letters, all your requests for improvements —”
“I’ve done nothing,” Maeve stopped her before she could go on. “Mr. Blackmore isn’t here to improve the estate. He’s here to restore Greybourne House. And Greybourne House only.”
Beneath the limp ruffle of her cap, Mrs. Thorpe blinked at her rapidly. “The house?”
“Yes.” Maeve forced her jaw to relax. “The house and the surrounding gardens. Not the mill or the enclosures or the buildings or the roads, but the bloody hall and rose beds.”
“Hmmm.”
“Hmmm? That’s all you have to say?” Maeve twisted to stare at the housekeeper. “Does the fact that he’s here for all the wrong reasons not make you even a little angry?”
“Perhaps.” Though Mrs. Thorpe looked more thoughtful than angry. “The duke himself has never cared about this estate – he’s never even set foot on this land. And the last time Henry was here, that visit ended in tragedy.” The housekeeper paused, her hands on her wide hips in contemplation. “Truth be told, I never expected to see Henry Blackmore here again. I can’t imagine why he has chosen to return now.”
“Like I said, to repoint the stonework,” Maeve supplied waspishly and then immediately felt guilty. The death of Henry Blackmore’s brother was awful. But then so were the deaths of Alfred Baxter’s sons at Vittoria and Isaac’s brother at Quatre Bras and—
“Are you sure that Mr. Blackmore is here only for the house?”
Maeve threw up her hands. “He made the purpose of his presence crystal clear. His interests lie with the manor and the manor alone.”
Mrs. Thorpe looked between Maeve and the stable door the architect had disappeared through. “Then what’s he doing in the stables?”
Chapter Six
Henry was hiding in the stables.
The nauseating tightness in his chest hadn’t improved and the references to his dead brother, however well-meaning, had only intensified the chronic guilt that gnawed at his insides. Greybourne was merely a means to an end and Henry needed to get this project designed and done as quickly as possible if he was going to survive this. And unfortunately, in order to do that, he needed the steward of Greybourne on his side.
Henry knew from experience that local assistance and support could make the difference between a project going very well or a fight the entire way. Miss Murray, no doubt, had the ear of every individual at Greybourne and those who populated the surrounding area. Henry had heard the passion in her voice when she’d spoken of the land and the people who lived here. And despite all her hostility toward him, he could understand her frustration with the lack of resources that she was working with here. Perhaps he could write a letter on her behalf to the estate agents—
“How does the hoof look?”
He glanced back to find Miss Murray leaning in the doorway of the stable, her arms crossed over her chest, and her expression closed and remote.
With care, Henry set the hoof he’d been holding down and straightened, stepping away from the horse. “No heat or swelling. Probably just a bruise. I’d tell the grooms to prepare a poultice for it. You don’t want it turning into an abscess.”
“I’ll be sure to tell them,” she said flatly, making no effort to move.
Henry held her gaze, comprehension dawning a second too late. “You have no grooms.”
“I think they left to find a new mill wheel and didn’t come back.”
“Very funny.”
“I’m glad one of us thinks so.” Miss Murray uncrossed her arms and strode toward him, coming to a stop near the mare’s head. “I’ll see to the horse. In the meantime, your trunk arrived,” she told him. “Mrs. Thorpe, the housekeeper, is preparing a room for you.”
Miss Murray was trying to get rid of him, he knew. And he would go. Just not quite yet.
“I was wondering when you might be available to assist me,” he said. “I’ll need at least a half-day of your time to start.”
“I think we’ve already had this conversation, Mr. Blackmore.” Miss Murray shook her head. “My time belongs to the estate, not you. And, honestly, I can’t imagine what you think you would ever need me for.”
“Even if I can’t find local labour, I will need to find and use local materials. Greybourne is only a half day’s ride from London, but to bring everything from the city will be too expensive. I’ll need the names and direction of local quarries, smiths, sawmills, glassmakers, stonecutters, and so on. I was counting on your assistance in that regard. As steward, I assume you’re knowledgeable about such things?”
Miss Murray opened her mouth as if to argue and then abruptly shut it. A gleam that Henry wasn’t sure he liked lurked in the depths of her grey-green eyes. “I am very knowledgeable,” she said slowly. “I could help you get everything you need.”
That had been too easy.
“But in return, you must help me get something I need.”
“I’ve told you before that this is not a negotiation.”
“I recall.” She stroked the mare’s forehead gently. “But there are two types of people in this world, Mr. Bla
ckmore. Those who find a way and those who find an excuse.”
“What is that supposed to mean?”
“I’m willing to find common ground. Are you?”
“Concessions and compromises are not things that I have time for, Miss Murray.”
“Ah, yes. Time. Interesting that you should mention that.” Her fingers smoothed back the horse’s forelock, her gaze fixed on the mare. “You know, once rumours get out that a Blackmore with a fat purse is looking to restore Greybourne House, there will be all sorts of tradesmen and vendors flocking here.”
“And your point is?”
“From experience, some of those vendors will have a great deal more honesty and integrity than others. From experience, I can tell you that some will be able to deliver what they promise, and others will not. I can also tell you that there are individual craftsmen who have a great deal more expertise and ability than others.” Maeve let her hand slide down the mare’s nose.
Henry stood rooted where he was.
“I hate to think how much time and money you’ll waste winnowing the wheat from the chaff without guidance from a steward who has known and worked with these people her entire life.” Miss Murray grasped the horse’s rope and started to lead the mare away. “But maybe you’ll get lucky. And then again, maybe you won’t.”
Henry cursed inwardly. She was right and they both knew it. “What do you want, Miss Murray?”
She stopped. “A new plough blade. To start.”
“To start?” Henry was beginning to understand that he might have underestimated this woman terribly.
“Yes.”
“What’s wrong with the blade you have currently?”
“Nothing is wrong with the blade save for the fact that it does not belong to Greybourne. Out of necessity, I reached an agreement with Mr. Newton that secured the loan of one of his blades.” Her lips pursed in faint distaste, though from the idea of the loan or Mr. Newton himself, Henry could not be sure.
He found himself inexplicably hoping for the latter and frowned. “What sort of agreement?”
Miss Murray shook her head, her drying curls brushing her cheeks. “It doesn’t matter. What matters is that in the future, I need not depend on the benevolent whims of Mr. Newton to ensure the ability of my tenants to work their cropland. I do not enjoy being beholden to anyone nor do I enjoy the idea of my success being held hostage by circumstance.”
Henry could certainly understand that.
“Look, Mr. Blackmore,” Miss Murray started, seemingly mistaking his silence for recalcitrance. “As I see it, you have three options before you. You may treat me as your enemy or simply have me banished from my position here. You have the power to do both but neither of those options really furthers your agenda.”
Henry winced. Miss Murray made him sound positively mercenary and he wasn’t sure that he liked it.
“And the third option?” he asked.
“Consider me your ally. In good faith, I freely admit that I am frustrated and dismayed by the idea of sinking large amounts of money into a house that no one here really cares about and ignoring the larger needs of the land and its tenants. However, I also recognize holding a juvenile grudge does not further my objectives. As your ally, I will do everything I can to assist you in exchange for your assistance when required. A mutually beneficial arrangement.”
“And how often do you portend that my…assistance may be required?”
“I can’t say with a great deal of certainty, Mr. Blackmore.” Miss Murray led the mare into a stall. “But I am not an unreasonable woman.” Her voice was muffled behind the partition.
Henry glanced up at the rafters but there were no answers to be found in the age-blackened beams. “Very well, Miss Murray. In return for your company and your knowledge tomorrow, you will have funds for your blade immediately.”
“Very good. I’ll send Mr. Dunlop to see you at his earliest convenience to make arrangements. He’ll be travelling to Chelmsford this week and can purchase one while in town.” Her head popped out from behind the stall door. “Thank you.” She smiled at him, another one of her breathtaking, luminous smiles that did alarming things to his insides.
Henry grunted, words sticking in his throat.
“You won’t regret it, Mr. Blackmore.”
And oddly enough, amid all the regret that he had been drowning in since he had stepped foot on Greybourne land, Henry believed her.
Chapter Seven
Henry had waited until dawn the next morning to begin his inspection of the exterior of Greybourne House.
At first glance, the long, rectangular manor was just as he remembered it. Built from heavy stone, sand-grey in color, it sat up on its gentle rise, the gardens and yards sloping down to the mews and out-buildings surrounding it. Curvilinear gables across the manor’s face betrayed its Tudor beginnings, as did the tall, crenellated tower that soared at the west end. Thick chimneys sprouted from the steep, slate roof, and rows of long rectangular windows glittered in the morning sun.
It wasn’t an ornate structure by any stretch of the imagination – not like Nonsuch or Richmond — and the generations that had resided in the manor over the centuries hadn’t made any significant changes to the exterior. Henry had once been delighted its architectural history had been so well preserved. He reminded himself that it should still delight him. It would make a restoration that would impress John Nash that much easier.
“Good morning, Mr. Blackmore.”
Henry spun to find Miss Murray standing behind him, leaning against the base of the tower, pulling apart a biscuit with her fingers. She was dressed again in her patched trousers and worn coat, her glossy curls tied back from her face with a frayed piece of emerald-green ribbon. Standing in the brilliant sunshine as she was with a smile as her only additional accessory, Henry found himself tongue tied and at an utter loss for words.
“Thank you again for the use of your horse yesterday,” she said. “We were able to finish the planting on the north and west fields.”
“Of course,” Henry replied. He tried to think of something more to say and failed.
“Did you sleep well?” she prompted after a moment.
“Yes, thank you,” Henry lied, recovering his wits. The truth of the matter was that he had tossed and turned all night in an uncomfortable bed in a cold house full of restless ghosts before abandoning all attempts at sleep before dawn.
“You’re an awful liar, Mr. Blackmore. You look exhausted.”
“Then why did you ask?”
“It seemed the polite thing to say.”
“Your manners leave something to be desired, Miss Murray.”
“Says the man who just lied.” She offered him half her biscuit.
Henry declined, shaking his head. She shrugged and bit into the crust.
“Mrs. Thorpe gave you the best room that Greybourne has,” she said, swallowing her bite. “But it’s large and drafty and on the north side of the house. You might want to sleep with me in the servants’ quarters.”
Henry stared at her, his imagination instantly painting a very vivid, very sensual picture of what sleeping with Maeve Murray would be like. And in his imagination, there was very little sleeping involved.
Miss Murray blushed. “That is to say, you might want to take a room closer to mine in the servants’ quarters,” she hastened on. “They’re small and closer to the kitchen and seem to retain more warmth.”
“I didn’t realize that you kept a room at Greybourne House,” Henry said, desperate to get the image of Maeve Murray reclining in a bed, wearing naught but that captivating smile of hers out of his mind before he did or said something stupid.
“I gave the steward’s cottage to one of the tenants years ago,” she said, stumbling over her words and sounding equally as eager to direct the conversation to mundane affairs. “After theirs caught fire and burned. It seemed practical to simply take a room here. All the correspondence and business are conducted from the manor anyway.”<
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“I see.”
“I didn’t think the duke or your family would care.”
“I can’t imagine that they do.”
“Do you?”
“Do I what?”
“Care that I’m living in your house?”
“Of course not.” In fact, the notion seemed to send a peculiar twist of pleasure through him.
“Good. I would have asked you last night but you had already retired by the time I returned to the manor. I didn’t want to disturb you.” She took another bite of her biscuit.
Henry found himself wishing that she had disturbed him. “Do you have any duties that you need to see to before we start, Miss Murray?”
She swallowed. “No. I’ve already seen to the chores that need seeing to until later this afternoon. Isaac Dunlop can handle anything that needs addressing in my absence. I am yours for the remainder of the morning as per our agreement.”
Henry looked away from her, a fierce, undeniable longing unexpectedly wrapping itself through his chest at the idea of Maeve Murray belonging to him. And he to her. Good Lord. Perhaps he was even more exhausted than he thought. He’d never had cause to feel…lonely before. He’d lived a life immersed in his studies and work, surrounded by colleagues and clients and professors. He was far from alone, and until this moment, far from lonely.
“I am assuming that you wish to start with an examination of the exterior of the house?” Miss Murray asked beside him, thankfully oblivious to his thoughts. She had shaded her eyes with her hand and was peering up at the tower crenellations. “Or did you wish to inspect the interior first?”
“The outside,” he replied. Where he would make notes and sketches and determine exactly how he would go about with the restoration of this damn house. Where he would ask Miss Murray logical, practical questions as per their agreement, and treat her like a respected colleague as she deserved.
“Mmm.” She finished her biscuit and dusted the crumbs from her sleeve. “Where would you like to start?”
