What Ales the Earl

by Sally MacKenzie

  She’d been relieved and, well, yes, also a little sad. To be honest, in her heart of hearts, she’d wanted some visual reminder of Harry.

  I used to tease him that he’d trapped a moonbeam in his hair.

  He’d been completely revolted by the notion.

  And then this year, shortly after Godfrey arrived in Little Puddledon, Harriet had taken ill. When she’d recovered, a thin ribbon of silver shimmered from her temple. It wasn’t terribly noticeable. When she wore a bonnet, or combed her hair in her usual fashion, no one could see it. Up until now, she and everyone else had accepted Pen’s fever explanation.

  “That’s not what Verity says. She—and her mother—called it the ‘Graham streak’ and said only the Earl of Darrow’s family has it.”

  Pen’s heart sank. Surely there must be others with the distinctive mark. Could she claim Harriet’s father was descended from the distaff side of the family? Had Harry’s father had a sister? She couldn’t remember.

  And that would just be adding one more untruth to the many she’d told already. Better to stick to her original story.

  She’d taken too long. Harriet had her father’s sharp intellect and unflinching courage.

  “It’s true, isn’t it?”

  “Ahh.” Suddenly, she couldn’t lie any longer. The moment she’d been dreading for years had finally arrived. “Er . . .”

  It was so very hard to find the words.

  Harriet’s face began to crumple, but she caught herself. She straightened as if a poker had been shoved down her back. “You were the earl’s wh-lightskirt, just like Verity and her mother said, weren’t you?”

  “No, I wasn’t.”

  “And all those stories you told me about my father were lies.”

  Pen felt as if she’d been kicked in the gut. “No!”

  Oh, blast. So many lies to unravel, though the one about having a husband lost to war had been Aunt Margaret’s idea. Pen had been too confused and frightened and sad when she’d landed on her aunt’s doorstep to object. And the story hadn’t been that far from the truth—Pen’s heart’s truth, at least. She’d felt married.

  She’d known from the beginning Harry wouldn’t actually marry her, of course—earls’ sons didn’t marry farmers’ daughters—but it hadn’t mattered. She’d loved him as only a naïve seventeen-year-old girl could—blindly, passionately, completely. Defiantly. And she truly believed he’d loved her—as much as a randy eighteen-year-old boy getting ready to go off to war could love anyone.

  No wife could have worried more for a husband than she had for Harry while he was on the Continent. She’d scoured every news report, terrified she’d see his name among the casualties.

  “Harriet . . .” Pen stepped closer. If she touched her daughter, if she put her arm around her, she could make her understand.

  But Harriet dodged her, backing toward the stile that would take her over the fence and off across the fields.

  Pen’s hands fell awkwardly to her sides. “I . . . It was easier . . . It never seemed important.” She twisted her fingers in her skirt. “I would have told you when you were older.”

  Or would she have? Perhaps she’d hoped they could live forever in this happy fiction. And really, what did it matter? It wasn’t as if Harriet had wealth and security depending on her legitimacy. Girls couldn’t inherit their father’s titles or lands.

  Harriet’s face was flushed and her words came in quick little gasps. “Verity’s mother said . . . my real father . . . d-died last year.”

  What?! That was ridiculous. Pen had read newspaper accounts of Harry’s social exploits throughout the Season. Betting seemed to have him offering for the Earl of Langley’s daughter at any momen—

  Oh. Of course. Rosamund and Verity thought Walter was Harriet’s father. It was what everyone would think.

  Ugh. Her stomach twisted.

  Harriet sniffed, fighting to hold back her tears. “I could have met him, and now I can’t.”

  “Harriet—” It might be simpler if I let her believe—

  No, she was done with lies. And she didn’t want Harriet thinking the profligate, cheating Walter was her father. Pen’s stomach turned again. Or that Pen had slept with a married man. Worse. When she’d conceived Harriet, Walter had not only been married, he’d had one daughter and another on the way.

  “Harriet, stop. Your father is the current earl.”

  An odd look—some mix of confusion and shock—flitted over Harriet’s features.

  Pen reached for her again—and again Harriet backed away. She now had one foot on the stile.

  “So, so he doesn’t c-care about me?” Harriet’s voice wavered with pain and uncertainty.

  Dear God, Pen hated to see her strong, fearless daughter look so fragile.

  She would fix things. She’d marry Godfrey. Then Harriet would have a father and a room of her own. She wouldn’t have to be around that nasty Verity all the time. Wedding Godfrey would solve all their problems.

  “He doesn’t know about you.”

  Harriet’s eyes widened as her jaw dropped—and then anger twisted her features into a dark scowl. “You didn’t tell him?” The words were sharp and heavy with accusation.

  Pen shook her head, a wave of sick helplessness washing over her at Harriet’s fury, bringing with it the memory of how helpless she’d felt when she’d discovered her pregnancy. “I couldn’t. He’d left for the Continent before I knew I was increasing. He was in the army. I didn’t know how to reach him.”

  Harriet wasn’t satisfied with that answer. “But he came home months ago, didn’t he? You could have told him about me then.”

  Yes, she supposed she could have. “There was no point in that.”

  “What do you mean? He might have married you. We could be a family!”

  Harriet had grown up in Little Puddledon. She was too far removed from the peerage and polite society to understand how these things worked.

  “No, we couldn’t. He wouldn’t have married me, Harriet. I’m only a farmer’s daughter. Earls don’t marry so far beneath them.”

  “But I’m his daughter.”

  Pen’s heart broke at the pain in Harriet’s voice. Perhaps that had been her real reason for not writing Harry—by not putting the matter to the test, she’d been able to keep alive a faint hope he would indeed care about their child.

  Silly. It was more likely Harry had followed in Walter’s footsteps—well, footsteps weren’t precisely what he’d have been following in—and had a raft of illegitimate offspring.

  “It doesn’t matter, Harriet. You’re my daughter. I’ve taken care of you all these years. I’ll always take care of you.” Perhaps Harriet would feel better if she knew Pen’s plans. “When I marry Mr. Wright—”

  “Marry Mr. Wright?!” Harriet sounded—and looked—horrified. “The vicar?”

  “Well, yes, of course the vicar.” Pen tried to keep the annoyance out of her voice, but without much success. “That’s the only Mr. Wright in the village.”

  “He’s asked you to marry him?” From Harriet’s tone, the man might just as well have asked Pen to dance naked down the church aisle.

  “Not yet, but I’m quite certain he will.” Pen smiled in what she hoped was a comforting fashion. “And then we’ll have a real home. You won’t have to deal with Verity and the rest of those girls all the time.”

  Harriet was shaking her head, looking distinctly ill. “Marry Mr. Wright?” she repeated in a hollow voice.

  “Y-yes.” This certainly wasn’t the reaction Pen had expected.

  “He’s . . . he’s horrible.”

  “No, he’s not.” Godfrey might be a bit pompous and sanctimonious and, well, boring, but he wasn’t horrible.

  “Yes, he is. He looks just like an ugly, sneaky toad—”

  “No, he doesn’t.”

  “—and wrinkles his big nose when he sees me, as though I stink.” Harriet’s eyes narrowed just like Harry’s used to when he was angry. “I hate him.”r />
  “Harriet!” Where had her calm, controlled daughter gone?

  “And he won’t marry you when he finds out you’re a wh-whore.”

  “Harriet!”

  “That’s what Verity called you.” Harriet was shouting now, but Pen heard the quaver in her voice as well. “You had a baby and you weren’t married.” She sniffed furiously and swiped a few traitorous tears from her eyes. “And he’ll look down his long, ugly nose even more at me because I’m a bastard, conceived in sin.”

  “You’re not.” Now she was the one feeling ill. “And he won’t.” Godfrey was a vicar. Surely, he’d embrace charity.

  But Harriet was gone. She’d scrambled over the stile and was now running across the field, taking Pen’s heart with her.

  Should I follow her?

  No. Harriet was like Harry in this, too. She needed time alone to come to terms with her feelings—she had had a lot of unpleasant things to deal with all at once. She’d come home when she was ready.

  Pen started back up the road to the manor, though now she felt as if she were dragging herself through treacle.

  Godfrey won’t really hold Harriet’s birth against her, will he?

  She scowled down at the dirt. I won’t let him. The moment she saw—or suspected—anything of that nature, she’d let the man know in no uncertain terms that she would not tolerate it. She would do anything for Harriet. Even lie.

  If he hears the gossip, I’ll deny it.

  She’d been taken unawares this time, but now that she knew what Rosamund and Verity were saying, she could come up with a convincing story, one that hewed as much to the truth as possible. She wasn’t an accomplished liar. She would have to keep the tale simple....

  Ah, now she had it. She’d say her dear departed Mr. Barnes was descended from a Graham by-blow, a female born on the wrong side of the blanket. Surely that would work. Godfrey had a powerful reason to believe whatever she said. He wanted her in his bed.

  She repressed a shudder and quickened her pace, forcing her thoughts to the safer topic of her hop garden. She’d check the plants when she got home and pluck off any nasty bugs she found lurking there. It wouldn’t be much longer before the cones were ready to harvest and she could stop worrying—about the hops, at least.

  If only she could pluck the nasty words and hurtful looks from Harriet’s heart as easily.

  Chapter Three

  Pen brushed off her skirts as she left the hopyard and headed up the path to the house. She’d spent the last—she glanced at her watch—almost three hours carefully tending her hop plants, keeping a sharp eye out for any sign of mildew or greenflies. So far, so good.

  If only raising a child was as straightforward.

  She bit her lip, trying to will away the worries infesting her thoughts as destructively as any garden pest, but no matter what she did, they kept coming back to devour her peace.

  Maybe she should have told Harriet the truth about her birth years ago, but she’d thought her too young to understand. Why did she need her life complicated with things that had happened so far in the past and which neither of them could change?

  No, the fault went further back than that. She should never have gone along with Aunt Margaret’s widow story—and yet it had saved her and Harriet years of being judged and excluded.

  What you really should never have done was let Harry under your skirts.

  Ha! Most of the time her skirts had been discarded long before Harry touched her.

  She smiled, remembering. That summer with Harry had been wonderful, the best thing—besides Harriet—that had ever happened to her. She’d never before—or since—felt so alive and, well, real. Everything—every feeling, every smell, every touch—had been so intense: brighter and sweeter than at any other time in her life. Instead of going through her days enduring or hoping for something in the future, she’d lived in the present, savoring each moment, storing it away to cherish later, after Harry was gone.

  She’d always known he was going.

  And then she’d got Harriet, and as hard as it was to be an unmarried mother, she’d never once regretted it or wanted to be free of her daughter. Harriet was a living piece of Harry, but she was also precious in her own right.

  Precious, but maddening, too.

  Pen desperately wanted to go in search of her, but she knew talking to her now would do no good. In fact, it would likely make things worse. She had to let Harriet work things out on her own. She’d come to Pen when she was ready.

  She flicked a bead of sweat off the tip of her nose as another worry intruded.

  Is Harriet right? Will Godfrey think me a whore when he hears the rumors and wash his hands of me?

  Something that felt suspiciously like panic formed a tight knot in her chest.

  No, surely not, but she’d best not give the story time to reach him—if it hadn’t already. She glanced at her watch again as she entered the yard with the service buildings. She’d go down to the Dancing Duck in a little while and catch Godfrey as he was leaving after his big Sunday meal. Perhaps she could get him to propose today.

  “Pen!”

  She looked over to see Caro striding toward her from the brewhouse.

  “Jo wants to see us.”

  “All right.” Good. She had some time before she had to leave to ambush—er, talk to Godfrey. Meeting with Jo would give her the chance to mention again the problems Verity was causing Harriet—not that anyone could have missed the drama in church earlier.

  “All still good with the hops?” Caro asked rather anxiously as they walked across the yard.

  “Yes, but you know that already. I’ve seen you sneaking out of the hop garden. You’ve counted each cone, haven’t you?”

  Caro laughed. “I’ve tried, but I’m happy to say there are too many for me to keep track of. Still, I’ve heard you mutter about bugs and blight, so I’m not breathing easy yet. Could we still lose the crop?”

  “Yes.” No point in beating around the bush. Caro knew very well that there were no guarantees in farming. The last two freakishly cold summers had taught her that, but even something as simple as a sudden storm at the wrong time could put paid to their entire crop. “That’s why I check the plants so often. But I’m optimistic—cautiously optimistic.”

  “Thank God for that,” Caro said as she opened the door to Jo’s office.

  “Thank God for what?” Jo asked. She was sitting behind her desk, her big ledger open before her. Freddie, her brown and white spaniel, came over to be petted before returning to sprawl at her feet.

  “So far, the hops are doing well,” Pen said, taking the worn, red-upholstered chair she always did.

  “And—fingers crossed—if we get the harvest it looks like we will, I can increase production, which means I can expand our distribution.” Caro sat on the edge of the other chair that faced Jo’s desk and leaned forward, almost vibrating with excitement. “I’m sure I’ve told you both that the Rooster’s Tail in Tuddlegate and the Drunken Sheep in Westling have asked about getting more Widow’s Brew. I’ve had to put them off because I was hard-pressed to produce enough for the Dancing Duck, but now—”

  “Don’t count the hops before they’re off the bine,” Pen warned. She wasn’t particularly superstitious, but she hated to tempt fate—even with crossed fingers.

  “Yes, yes. Of course. But as soon as we know for certain how big the harvest is, I’ll contact those public houses again.” Caro bounced slightly on her chair. “And Mr. Harris, the owner of the Drunken Sheep, has a brother with a tavern in London. If our ale keeps doing well at the Sheep, I’m certain he’ll recommend it.”

  Caro’s brow furrowed and she tapped her pursed lips with her index finger. “I’ll probably have to see about hiring another man to help in the brewhouse. Albert’s getting too old for all the lifting, though don’t tell him I said that.”

  Jo’s brow was now furrowed, too. “What about Bathsheba and Esther? I thought you said they were managing quite well.” She ge
stured at the ledger. “We don’t have money for extra wages, so I’d much rather you utilize the women who live here.”

  Caro smiled the way she did when she wanted to cajole someone into doing something they didn’t want to do. “They are managing well, but you know there’s a lot of heavy lifting and carrying involved in brewing. Bathsheba and Esther are both strong—quite likely as strong as Albert—but they are not as strong as a young man would be. I’m sure the increased production would pay for one man’s wages with plenty left over to go toward the Home’s support.”

  Caro was so ambitious, she sometimes lost sight of reality.

  “Even if we have a stellar harvest, we can’t compete with the London breweries,” Pen said. “Their facilities are much, much larger than ours. I’ve heard they can host dinner parties for hundreds of people in just one of their vats.”

  Caro scowled at her. “I know that, but I still say it would be a very good thing if we got our beer into the London market.” She grinned, her imagination clearly galloping away with her again. “We can ask a better price because the supply will be limited.”

  “Anything we can do to bring in more money would be a good thing,” Jo said, her voice tight with worry.

  Oh, Lud. “Still no word from the new duke?” Pen asked. Jo had been fretting their support would evaporate ever since she’d read that the old Duke of Grainger and his family had succumbed to influenza.

  “No.” Jo rubbed the spot between her brows where a deep line had begun to form. “This year’s funds have yet to arrive.”

  Pen felt her stomach drop. If the new duke cut off his support—

  No need to panic yet. “They’re only two weeks late, aren’t they?” she asked.

  “Yes.” Jo sighed, her shoulders drooping. “But they’re never late.”

  Caro made a sound that closely resembled a growl. She looked as if she’d like to push the man into her large copper when it was full of boiling wort. “The duke can’t cut us off.”

  “Yes, he can,” Jo said. “You know we’re only squatters here.”