by Martha Keyes
Feeling stuck between a rock and hard place, Lawrence nodded his assent.
Farmer Foster called for his children to hop back into the wagon but ended in assenting to their following along with the dog to whom they seemed to have taken a great liking. Lawrence walked beside Farmer Foster, inviting Miss Renwick to join them in their conversation. She sent him a warm look of gratitude at the offer, and Lawrence felt a bit of his irritation slip away.
They passed by the tenant homes in the village, and Lawrence had the impression that his cravat was tightening with each one they passed. It was evident that the village was in a state as bad as Holywell House. The thatching on the roofs was almost nonexistent in some places.
Farmer Foster followed Lawrence’s gaze, setting a loving hand on the head of his son who had come up beside him. “Every bird nest within ten miles must have come from the village roofs, I reckon.”
Lawrence was mostly quiet, feeling pensive and conflicted by what he was seeing. Miss Renwick, on the other hand, seemed full of questions, though she looked at Lawrence tentatively before asking them. He gave a low chuckle and then his permission to ask whatever pleased her. The questions she asked were intelligent, practical ones, and Farmer Foster seemed always to have an answer.
When she commented that it was hard to believe what quick work the birds had made of the thatching, Farmer Foster admitted that the state of the roofs reflected two years of it.
“The thatching wasn’t replenished last year, then?” Miss Renwick said. Lawrence noted how engaged she was in her conversation with the farmer. She held her hands clasped in front of her and her brow furrowed as she listened to his response.
“Without wishing to speak ill of Mr. Compton,” Farmer Foster said, “he kept his purse strings very tight. I did my best to help him understand that the success of his estate and his purse depended upon the happiness of his tenants, but he could never be persuaded to see it that way.”
Lawrence cleared his throat, feeling supremely uncomfortable as his conscience nagged at him. Surely the villagers had hoped that their new landlord would be more committed to their common interests. Instead they had him.
They arrived at the end of the lane, and Miss Renwick looked up to the last house. “And this is your home, Mr. Foster?”
He nodded, looking through one of the dirty windows to a woman who was about her tasks. “It’s where the heart is.”
Lawrence looked at the roof. Its condition was by far the worst of any of the homes.
“Your roof needs immediate attention,” Miss Renwick said, pointing at a particularly large spot near the chimney where no thatching was visible.
The oldest Foster daughter followed Miss Renwick’s finger and said practically, “Papa gave his money to the Palmers to fix their wagon, but he says that after the fall wheat harvest, he can fill the holes in time for the first frost.”
Farmer Foster’s son tugged on his father’s shirt, looking up at him with large, brown eyes. “Is that man going to fix the leaks in our roof, Papa?” He shot a timid glance at Lawrence who shifted his weight.
The youngest girl who had both arms around Anne looked up. “And our chimney, too? I can’t sleep when Mama coughs at night.”
Farmer Foster looked as uncomfortable as Lawrence felt. Lawrence stepped toward the dog, kneeling down and petting her as he looked at the little girl. “I shall send someone over tomorrow.”
Farmer Foster took in a breath and smiled before looking down at his daughter. “All right, your mother needs help inside. Get your siblings and help her out with dinner.”
When he bid Lawrence and the Renwicks goodbye shortly after, a hint of embarrassment and discomfort was still apparent in his demeanor.
Lawrence walked in silence as they traveled back down the dirty road toward Holywell House. The Fosters had given him much to think on—much to reconsider. Before now, the cost of disregarding his parents’ wishes and expectations had seemed to be well worth his defiance. It was apparent, though, that the actual cost was much greater than he thought—and greatest by far to the tenants.
“I like the Fosters,” John said, skipping to catch up with his sister and Lawrence. “Can I help them with the harvesting?”
Miss Renwick laughed. “Because you wish to swim in the stream with them afterward?”
John nodded, unabashed. “Alice Foster said that there is a little whirlpool downstream with water much deeper than the bridge has.”
Miss Renwick put a hand on his shoulder. “I don’t think we shall be here for the harvest, love. The carriage should be fixed by tomorrow, I hope.”
John let out a large, discontented sigh, his shoulders stooping. “I don’t want to go. I like it here with Lawrie.”
“Yes, he has been very good to you, hasn’t he?” she said. She looked over at Lawrence who was looking at John with a half-smile. Did Miss Renwick share John’s sentiments? Surely she was anxious to put as much distance as possible between her and the disarray at Holywell House.
“I am sure,” she said, watching John run ahead in a race with the dog, “that Mr. Foster and the other tenants are all breathing a large sigh of relief to have you in residence. It sounds as though the last landlord left much to be desired in his management.”
Lawrence couldn’t think what to respond to such a comment—hadn’t she put together what a terrible landlord he was from what she had seen and heard? “Did you learn as much as you had hoped from Mr. Foster’s conversation?”
“Yes,” she responded with enthusiasm. “I found him to be very intelligent and well-acquainted with the particulars of the village and the land. Mr. Compton seems not to have realized just how fortunate he was in his bailiff. A sad and short-sighted waste of skill. Mr. Foster’s ideas on new methods to increase the crops could be a boon to the estate if implemented.”
Lawrence nodded slowly, thinking of the steward his father had hoped him to take on and wondering how he would stack up to someone like Mr. Foster who had years of experience besides the advantage of living in the village himself.
“He didn’t say as much,” Miss Renwick said, “but I assume that many of the villagers are discontent because of their experience with the last landlord. Did you hear when he mentioned that two good, hard-working families are reaching the end of their lease? I imagine they could be persuaded to stay by someone as capable and resourceful as yourself.”
Lawrence whipped his head around to look at her. Was she teasing him? His parents had always lamented his lack of enterprise. “I’m not sure what you mean,” he said.
She stared back at him, blinking as though his response was unexpected. “Someone with a creative mind like yours has an infinite resource at his disposal for solving the type of problems which must arise as the landlord of an estate like Holywell House. Besides,” she added, not meeting his eye, “you solved a great problem for John and me when you took us in, though you were under no obligation to do so.”
Lawrence opened his mouth and shut it again. He was so unused to the type of praise Miss Renwick was giving—not flattery or manipulation—genuine praise. He didn’t recognize himself in what she was saying. When he thought on meeting the Renwicks at the inn and how he had decided to help them, he couldn’t remember feeling that sense of obligation that he had become so sensitive to—the feeling that someone would be disappointed in him if he didn’t comply. He had offered his help because he saw a need he knew he could satisfy, because it felt like the right thing to do.
He stole a glance at Miss Renwick. She was smiling as she looked down the lane where John was throwing a stick for Anne. John didn’t want them to leave the next day.
And neither did Lawrence.
Chapter 7
John declared himself to be famished when they reached Holywell House, and Eleanor sent what she felt was her hundredth—but surely not the last—apologetic glance at Mr. Debenham. He only smiled and then concurred with John, tugging on the bell with gusto once they had entered the drawing room.
Mr. Adley and Mr. Bower had ridden out on horseback, they were informed by the frazzled-looking housekeeper, so the three of them partook of the meats and cheese without them. Anne sat at John’s feet, raising her head off the ground with beseeching eyes each time one of them set another serving on their plate.
Between John’s unpredictable comments and Mr. Debenham’s always-forbearing responses, Eleanor found a great deal of amusement in her company. She hadn't realized before how much difference there was in having an ally in her caretaking of John. Every time she worried about something John said or did, Mr. Debenham was quick to show her that her concern was unnecessary—that she could relax.
When she thought on where they might be if Mr. Debenham had not taken pity on them at the inn, she felt a fresh wave of gratitude toward him—gratitude that he didn't wish to hear expressed.
He was an enigma to her in many ways. Lighthearted and easy-going, decidedly handsome, and yet there was a streak of disregard in him that she couldn't understand. The state of the home, his ignorance of all things relating to his tenants and farmland—they puzzled her. Based on what Mr. Adley and Mr. Bower had conveyed that morning, they had all been living a life devoted solely to their entertainment and comfort.
But she had seen the way Mr. Debenham’s brow had become troubled as they walked through the village and as Farmer Foster’s children innocently demonstrated the conditions they were living in, absent the care of Holywell House. Could he truly have been ignorant of what was expected of him as a landlord? It seemed impossible.
She watched with the hint of a smile, her mind only partially present, as Mr. Debenham and John argued over the merits of different cheeses, Mr. Debenham claiming victory when Anne chose his cheese over the one John had defended.
“Well,” said Mr. Debenham once it was clear that they had all had their fill of the luncheon food, “I believe that a second room has been prepared for your use if you'd care to see it?”
John’s head tilted to the side. “What's it like?”
“Like any other room, I should think,” Mr. Debenham said, glancing at John who looked disappointed. He paused a moment then leaned toward John. “But next door to it is a room full of secrets,” he said in a whisper. “We call it the Neverland room.”
John's eyes widened like saucers. “Like the ship you told me about?”
Mr. Debenham nodded solemnly, and Eleanor took her lips between her teeth, trying not to smile. “Should you like to go see it?”
John nodded energetically, his eyes still round. He commanded Anne to stay and then followed Mr. Debenham from the room with Eleanor in their wake.
The hallway upstairs was dark even in the middle of a sunny day, the ivy providing a near-impenetrable barrier for the outdoor light. On a cloudy day such as this one, it was particularly dim and smelled of must. Mr. Debenham led them past the door to the room they had slept in, following the hallway past three more doors. He stopped in front of one and opened it, peeking in.
“This is the room that has been prepared for you,” he said, moving so that John could look in. “Terribly boring, I’m afraid.”
Eleanor came up behind John, placing a hand on each of his shoulders and looking into the room. It had two tall windows from which the curtains were pulled back, showing the outline of the green leaves which made a thick frame around them. There seemed to be an unusual number of candles in the room, placed on the hearth, the bedside table, the wardrobe, and the writing desk.
Eleanor glanced back at Mr. Debenham behind her, sending him a look of thanks. John was used to having plenty of light before bedtime, and it seemed Mr. Debenham had gathered as much.
“Plenty of candles,” she said, “for further experimentation with shadows.”
Mr. Debenham smiled. “Ah yes, I like an abundance of candles in my rooms, generally. I have somewhat of a reputation for my ability to create shadow creatures.”
John’s head whipped around. “Really?”
Mr. Debenham nodded. “Perhaps I can show you later this evening.”
“I should like that above all things!” John said fervently.
Mr. Debenham closed the door and led them to the next room. He stopped in front of the door which was ajar and turned to John. “This is the Neverland room. You may be wondering why it is called that. Simply because, when I arrived here, this room had been left untouched by those who lived here before. They took nothing from the room, leaving it all to gather dust. Some of it is very mysterious. The servants have made mention of strange noises at night.”
John looked as though he was itching to open the door himself. Mr. Debenham sent a mischievous half-smile at Eleanor and then opened the door as slowly as he could, delighting in the suspense that was apparent in the way John leaned forward.
The room was dim, the curtains pulled to with only a halo of light surrounding them where some of the light managed to seep through. Holland covers hung over some of the furniture, and the four-poster bed centered against the back wall had its maroon and gold curtains drawn.
John’s neck turned as he scanned the room slowly. His shoulders slumped down. “This is nothing but an ordinary room!” he cried in a disillusioned voice.
Eleanor looked at him, biting her lip. He was right. There was nothing mysterious about the room beyond the cloth draped over some unknown pieces of furniture.
Mr. Debenham’s brows went up, and he put a finger in front of his mouth to quiet them. He took a ginger step toward the bed, keeping his forefinger to his mouth. Eleanor felt her skin tingle as she watched his careful movements, and she noted the way John seemed to hold his body taut.
A floor board creaked under Mr. Debenham’s feet, and he froze. Eleanor could feel herself stiffen. They were all still, listening for she knew not what. The air in the room suddenly seemed thick with anticipation, and the bits of light from the windows illuminated the dust that their presence had agitated, filling the place with a sense of mystery.
Mr. Debenham took another step toward the bed, reaching a hand toward the bed hangings and glancing backward toward John who inched a bit closer to Eleanor. Mr. Debenham ripped the hangings toward him, saying, “Ah ha!” John jumped toward Eleanor, and dust swirled around in the air.
The bed was empty, and Mr. Debenham relaxed his posture. “Hmm,” he said, rubbing his bottom lip with his finger.
Eleanor looked at John whose eyes were narrowed. “It is just a regular old room after all!”
“Ah,” said Mr. Debenham. “Perhaps so. Unless you have the eyes to see what lies beneath.”
Eleanor smiled, but she felt her skin prickle nonetheless. Mr. Debenham had a way about him that was completely captivating. She almost found herself wishing she had the kind of eyes he spoke of.
He walked over to a large piece of furniture, shrouded by a holland cover and pulled it off, revealing a wardrobe. He opened the doors, revealing a number of garments and hats inside. He pulled a tricorne hat out and set it on his head.
Something fell to the side of the wardrobe, making a large clanking noise on the wooden floor. It was a cane. Mr. Debenham picked it up, inspecting it and running his hand along the polished wood. He suddenly jumped, spreading his legs into a fighting stance and pointing the cane at John and Eleanor who both reared back.
“So ye’ve come to Neverland, ay?” he said in the same pirate voice he had used at the stream. He reached behind him, keeping the cane pointed at them as he pulled out a hat and threw it to John who fumbled to catch it and then donned it.
He reached again and pulled out a long piece of purple fabric which he flung over to Eleanor. She reached to catch it and then held it up in confusion. A smaller, white piece of fabric dropped from within its folds.
She glanced at Mr. Debenham for guidance, and his shoulders shook as he shrugged. She tied the purple cloth around her waist like a belt and then reached for the white one, nonplussed.
Mr. Debenham dropped his sword and walked over, taking it from her han
ds and then moving behind her. She swallowed, unsure what to expect, electrically aware of his proximity. He wrapped the fabric around her forehead, tying it haphazardly on the side of her head. He put a hand on her shoulders and turned her toward him, inspecting his work with his bottom lip jutting out. She pursed her lips to stifle her smile as he nodded with decision and let go.
He strode back to his place and flipped around, pointing the cane at them again. “What are ye doing aboard Neverland?” he said. “Come to wrest the gold from the pirates, are ye?”
“Never!” John cried. “I’m a pirate, too!”
Mr. Debenham’s lip trembled, but he said, “Well why didn’t ye say so before? Come on over here!”
John rushed obediently to Mr. Debenham’s side, turning to face Eleanor.
“And who might ye be, lass?” Mr. Debenham said to her. “Another pirate?”
“She’s a traitor!” John cried. “She must be captured!”
Eleanor had only a split second to make a decision, but she chose to run toward the bed, with John and Mr. Debenham on her heels. She looked fiendishly for a way of escape, but there was nowhere to go but onto the bed.
She stopped short of it, turning around in time to see both John and Mr. Debenham just before her, and no time to prevent the resulting collision. She fell back onto the bed, John falling onto one side of her and Mr. Debenham onto the other.
Confusion ensued for a few moments, but John was the first to hop off, and he used his advantage to wrest the cane from Mr. Debenham’s hand and level it at both him and Eleanor.
“Ha!” he cried. “Captured the traitor and the pirate! Now I may have all the gold for myself.” He attempted a maniacal laugh.
Eleanor felt her shoulder resting against Mr. Debenham’s arm, and her stomach flipped. She knew if she turned her head that his own would be only inches away.
“We’ve been caught, lass!” Mr. Debenham said. “Must we walk the plank then?”
