by Martha Keyes
Eleanor turned her head to look at him beside her. The playful banter she had begun to expect from him was extinguished as he spoke of his family, his eyes harsher than she had seen them.
“One’s parents have such a say in the quality of one’s life, don’t they?” she said, grimacing in understanding as he looked at her. She watched as John raced Anne. “My childhood was idyllic in many ways—my parents both loving and indulgent. It wasn’t until my mother’s death and my father’s all-consuming grief that I understood how much of my happiness and sense of security had relied on them.”
The corners of Mr. Debenham’s mouth were turned down in a thoughtful frown. “Has your father recovered from his grief?”
Eleanor shook her head, trying to smile to counter the frustration she felt. “I still have hope that he will, though.”
A silence, strangely comfortable, reigned between them for the last minute of their walk. When they arrived at the stream, Eleanor took in a contented breath. As unkempt as the area was, there was a rugged beauty in the overgrown state of everything.
Cornflowers lined the edges of the stream and encircled the bases of the thick trees. Downstream a small, wooden bridge spanned the length of the gurgling stream, and the sound of birds chirping up above added to the musical sound of trickling water.
“There’s the bridge!” John cried, running toward it.
Eleanor and Mr. Debenham followed behind Anne whose nose seemed torn between the multitude of scents to be found in the air and on the ground.
The bridge was dilapidated, with a large pocket in the middle where the wood had given way completely. John ran toward it, leaping in excitement.
“John,” cried out Eleanor, and he came to a halt. She indicated the middle of the bridge with a finger. “It’s not safe, love.”
“Phooey!” cried John. “I can walk on the sides just fine.”
Eleanor bit her lip.
Mr. Debenham approached the bridge, scanning it and prodding at parts with the stick he held. A long board rested in the grass beside the stream, and he picked it up, inspecting it for a moment before he laid it across the bridge so that it stretched the width of the stream.
He turned around suddenly, scrunching his shoulders and holding out his stick toward John with one eye squinted. “Arr! So ye wish to walk the plank, do ye?”
John smiled and lifted his chin, shooting a quick glance at Eleanor before setting one foot on the board.
Eleanor opened her mouth to remonstrate but instead bit her lip as she watched John balance across. It wasn’t dangerous precisely. While the middle section of the bridge was missing, the rest of the structure was intact, providing side boards for footing if Mr. Debenham’s plank happened to buckle.
Once John arrived at the other side, he raised his stick in the air triumphantly, and Eleanor couldn’t help but smile.
“Aye!” cried Mr. Debenham in a hoarse voice, as he walked the plank deftly, stopping once he reached the end. “Ye’ve walked the plank successfully, but now the lady must walk it!” He whipped around toward Eleanor, his expression a mixture between menacing and laughing.
John dropped his sword with a scoffing sound. “Nell never plays pirates! And she’s sure to fall in if she tries to walk across.”
Eleanor raised her brows, her pride piqued. It was true that she didn’t play pirates. She had always felt that it was more important for her to set the example of decorum and responsibility to a brother whose imagination often ran wild. But for John to say such a thing in front of Mr. Debenham, besides insinuating that she was inelegant enough to make falling into the stream a foregone conclusion…well, it was unjust.
“Oh ho!” she said, grabbing a crooked stick from the weeds at her feet. “I shall fall in, shall I?” She tapped the stick on the bridge and sent a challenging look to John and Mr. Debenham.
John’s jaw hung loose as he stared at Eleanor with wide eyes. Mr. Debenham looked intrigued. He kept his position at the far end of the bridge and made a grand welcoming gesture with his hand, inviting her to step toward him.
Eleanor smiled and took in a breath before stepping onto the bridge. She glanced down through the gap between the board she was walking on and the sides of the bridge. She wasn’t afraid of drowning—the stream wasn’t more than a foot deep—but the prospect of falling in and making a fool of herself still made her anxious. She regretted picking up the stick as it made her feel unevenly weighted and deprived of the use of one hand should she lose her balance.
She set one foot in front of the other, watching her half boot appear from under her skirts. The board wobbled, and she teetered for a moment.
“Don’t look down,” Mr. Debenham said, his pirate voice gone.
She looked up at him, and though he smiled at her, his eyes watched her without wavering.
“If you watch what you’re doing too carefully, you’ll fall. Try not to overthink it. Just keep your eyes on me.”
She swallowed, thinking that she was much more likely to fall by keeping her eyes on the handsome face which was getting closer and closer with each step. But it would be rude to disregard his counsel, so she obeyed, keeping her eyes trained on his which, she noted, were an almost perfect match to the color of the bridge. His smile grew as she neared him, and he put out a hand to receive her.
Feeling a small sense of exhilaration now that she was almost across, Eleanor extended her stick past Mr. Debenham’s hand and paused, looking at John and saying, “You have grossly underestimated me, John.”
The board wobbled underneath her, and she tottered, dropping her stick as she tried to regain her balance. She stumbled forward where Mr. Debenham’s hand shot out to catch her arm.
He stabilized her, gripping both of her arms.
Eleanor looked up from the flowing water below, meeting eyes with him. His eyes didn't match the color of the bridge wood at all. They were far too warm a shade of brown. And they had a deep green rim.
“Ha!” called out John. “I told you she would fall, didn't I, Lawrie?
Mr. Debenham’s eyes danced, and Eleanor revised her opinion. He was not at his most engaging when laughing but rather when he was trying not to laugh.
Anne barked, jarring Eleanor from her troublesome thoughts and reminding them all with a whine that she was the only one left on the other side of the bridge.
Mr. Debenham released his stabilizing grip on her arms, and Eleanor ignored how her arms seemed to tingle where his hands had been.
John called to Anne, and she ran up to the beam, hesitating and then running across deftly.
“You see, Nell?” John said, petting the dog with pride. “Anne’s a girl, and she didn't fall.”
Anne barked and ran to the water’s edge where she drank freely from the stream. John followed her, prodding at a large rock with his stick. He eyed the shoreline and picked up a smaller stick, throwing it into the stream where Anne pounced after it, emerging with fur sopping wet from her belly down to her paws. The picture she presented—voluminous, puffy fur on top, matted fur which clung to her legs on bottom—made them all laugh.
Anne stepped onto the shore, dropped the prized stick onto the grass, and began shaking her fur. Eleanor cried out and drew both hands in front her face to stop the spray of stream water which wetted her cheeks and clothing.
John giggled and then used his stick to splash the dog with water as retribution. Anne looked at him for a moment, completely still.
“Oh no,” Mr. Debenham said slowly. Eleanor felt his hand grab hers and pull her away right as Anne began a second shaking.
Eleanor cried out again, letting Mr. Debenham pull her to safety as she laughed and put a hand up to steady her bonnet. Seeming to think it was all a game, John joined in with Anne, splashing the water towards them with the stick as he called out like a pirate.
Eleanor and Mr. Debenham slowed as they reached the limit of John’s range. Mr. Debenham’s hand lingered in hers as they looked back toward John, laughing and slightl
y breathless.
He turned toward Eleanor, a large grin spread across his face. It flickered slightly as their eyes met and his gaze flitted toward their hands. He let her hand drop, glancing at her and then toward John whose face was covered in water droplets, his hair tossed in a state of mixed wet and dry.
Eleanor stole a glance at Mr. Debenham, noting with a swallow the way his jaw had tightened and his smile had a forced quality to it.
“John,” she said, “I think we should be getting back.” She looked at his pants which had become spattered with mud amongst all the water. “ You’ll need a change of clothes, I’m afraid.”
She put a hand up to feel her hair. One of her curls had fallen victim to John’s splashing antics. She sighed. It didn’t matter, really. They had very little time left with Mr. Debenham. Nor could she forget the way he had looked so serious after letting go of her hand. It had clearly been a mistake.
Chapter 6
Lawrence strode through the grass just in front of Eleanor, John, and the dog. He had suggested a different route home—taking the road—since the wet state of their clothing made them likely to attract no small amount of dirt in a walk through the alfalfa field.
He clenched his hand. He had grabbed Miss Renwick’s hand in a thoughtless moment, hoping to spare her from becoming soaked by the dog. But somehow he had kept his hand in hers even after it was necessary, and for some reason, he couldn’t stop thinking about how it had felt. He had felt immediate embarrassment for the presumption, innocent as it had been, but Miss Renwick hadn’t seemed bothered by it.
Seeing her take up the implicit challenge issued by John to cross the stream, watching her laugh in the midst of being sprayed—it had been completely unexpected from someone who seemed to take life very seriously. Lawrence had caught a glimpse of Miss Renwick’s genuine laugh—one that she tried to hide by putting a hand in front of her mouth. But that hand couldn’t mask the enjoyment twinkling in her eyes.
Lawrence cleared his throat, stepping onto the dirt lane that led to Holywell House. Thinking such things of Miss Renwick was counterproductive. If there was one thing his parents wanted as much as to see him running the estate to perfection, it was for him to settle down and marry. To do either would be to surrender to two people who were always used to having their way, who had come to take for granted that their son would do whatever they wanted—and in the precise way they wanted.
John ran up beside Lawrence, looking up at him with hesitant eyes. “Lawrie, are you angry at me?”
Lawrence’s shoulders dropped, and he chuckled. “Of course not.” He mussed John’s hair as evidence of his words.
John’s lower lip jutted out. “You looked very angry. That is always how Papa looks when he is unhappy with me.”
Lawrence shot a look at Miss Renwick whose hands were clasped behind her back, her eyes directed at the ground in front of her. Had she also assumed he was angry?
“No, my good man,” he said to John. “In fact….” He snatched at one of the long, butter-colored stalks lining their path and thrust it out toward John. “En guarde!”
John snatched one of his own, parrying an attempted thrust by Lawrence, but both of their stalks bent, the chaff weighing them down.
“Hmm,” Lawrence said, inspecting his makeshift sword. “I find my sword somewhat lacking.”
The sound of horse hooves and turning wheels brought them all around. A one-horse wagon, driven by a man in farming garb approached them. In the wagon sat three small children. Two held apples in their hands, while the third and youngest seemed determined to have a bite of one of her siblings’ apples.
Lawrence turned back away from the wagon and continued walking on the edge of the road to let the wagon pass. He hadn’t interacted with any of his tenants in person, so he expected nothing but a friendly nod.
The wagon wheels slowed, and Lawrence heard the children calling out, “Dog! Dog!” He turned around. The Renwicks had both stopped walking to let the wagon pass, and Miss Renwick was looking at the group in the wagon with a friendly smile.
The children jumped out of the wagon, the youngest trailing behind, and skipped over to the dog who greeted them with a tail wagging frantically. The man who Lawrence assumed to be their father watched them with a large grin on his sun-tanned, wrinkled face. His eyes flitted over to Lawrence, though, and the smile wavered slightly.
Accepting that he could no longer avoid the interaction, Lawrence nodded, and the man returned the nod, tipping his wide-brimmed hat.
“Mr. Debenham, I presume?” the farmer said, coming down from the seat of the wagon. “My name is Joseph Foster. I live just at the end of this bend.” He indicated the road behind him with his head.
“Right next to the river?” John said, awe-struck.
Farmer Foster nodded.
The envy in John’s eyes made Lawrence bite his lip.
“You must play in the river every day!” John said in near reverence. “I know I would if I lived so close. We never had any rivers by us in London—well, ‘cept the Thames, but I only swam in there once, and Nell knew right away on account of I smelled bad.”
Lawrence stifled a laugh and caught eyes with Miss Renwick who nodded to confirm the story, a hint of that alluring twinkle in her eyes. He could only imagine all the stories she had with a younger brother like John in her charge.
“We swim after we work in the fields in the summer,” piped in one of the girls as she tried to swipe at Anne’s swooshing tail.
Farmer Foster looked at Lawrence, slight hesitation written on his brow. “Speaking of working the fields, sir,” he said, “the village is ready and willing to harvest these fields for you.” He looked out over the alfalfa fields. “They’re in prime state for harvesting, and we’d all be glad for the work.”
Lawrence’s brow furrowed as he looked toward the fields. He hadn't even considered that the field would need harvesting or that it would fall to him to arrange. He smiled. “That’s kind of you, but I don’t think I shall harvest this year.”
Harvesting was likely one of the things his father expected him to undertake—no doubt there was a very particular way he would believe it should be done. Lawrence’s jaw tightened. He had no intention of folding under pressure—at least not until he had shown his parents that he was his own master and had no intention of bowing to the obligation they made him feel.
Farmer Foster’s jaw hung slack, and Lawrence could see Miss Renwick looking at him, blinking slowly.
“No plans to harvest?” Farmer Foster said, incredulous.
Lawrence straightened his shoulders a bit, feeling uncomfortable with their gazes on him.
“But sir,” Farmer Foster said, his voice betraying his desperation, “our village won’t survive the winter.”
Lawrence bit the inside of his lip, avoiding Miss Renwick’s eyes. He hadn't wanted Holywell House. He had done his level best to explain that to his father when he had informed him of the purchase and plans. His father had only become angry, accusing Lawrence of ingratitude and threatening to rein in his allowance. So Lawrence had come.
But the sense of freedom he had felt upon his arrival at Holywell House had overcome him, and anytime the creeping feeling of the obligations he was neglecting came upon him, he shoved them to the back of his mind, opting for more of the lighthearted entertainment which Adley and Bower were so anxious to show him.
The result was that all considerations more serious than who should win the next boxing match in town were driven from his mind. He hadn't paused to contemplate that there might be sufferers apart from his parents if he left the estate in disrepair.
For the second time in a day, he felt petty and foolish for his intentional negligence. And he didn't relish the feeling. Somehow it felt connected to Miss Renwick—before she had come, he had been getting along just fine, unplagued by such uncomfortable notions of himself.
“What did you say your name was?” he asked the farmer, feeling the need to fill the silence
.
“Joseph Foster, sir,” the man said, doffing his hat and holding it against his chest in both hands. “Perhaps you’ve seen the letters I’ve sent? Two since your arrival in June.” He dropped the hat to his side, his posture becoming more confident. “I acted as bailiff for Mr. Compton—the gentleman who lived at Holywell House before.”
Lawrence thought he recollected his housekeeper handing him a stack of letters once, but he had been on his way out the door and had no memory of where he had put them. He didn’t know anyone in the vicinity, after all, so he had assumed they couldn’t have been of great import.
“Hmm. I must have missed the letters,” Lawrence said. “I have been somewhat occupied since my arrival, but I shall ask if any of the servants are aware of them.” It was true that he had been occupied since arriving, but the activities he had been occupied with had been unrelated to estate matters.
Farmer Foster nodded, and the look of hesitation crossed his face again. “I don’t wish to overwhelm you, sir, but I know that there are some matters in the village in need of attention. Mr. Compton left without much notice, and the village has been without means of repairs since his departure. If you have but five minutes, I could show you.…” He trailed off, pointing in the direction of the village.
Lawrence felt his muscles clenching. It wasn’t that he was opposed to helping the villagers, though he would be lying if he said he had considered them much before now. It was simply that he had become used to digging in his heels whenever he felt more obligation being thrust upon him.
Farmer Foster seemed a nice enough man, but what he was asking was precisely the sort of thing Lawrence’s father had hoped to accomplish in sending him to Holywell House. If Lawrence began arranging for repairs and harvests and such, he was as good as complying with his father’s will.
He glanced at Miss Renwick who smiled and nodded. “We would be happy to join with you if you are agreeable. I have a feeling that I will be called upon to manage much of my father’s new estate, so anything I can learn by observing—” she looked at Farmer Foster “—would be wonderful.”
