He nudged his horse forward, sparing a glance up the far hill to his left. A roof, just visible above the trees, met his eyes. Caulfield Hall, seat of the Earl of Clarion. He turned his face away. At least he didn’t have to deal with those people; he’d be gone soon enough, and, with luck, he wouldn’t encounter any of them, even to investigate the Willowbrook woman.
He forced his gaze back to his destination and rode down, only to pull up, jolted by a flash of recognition, when an old man turned to make his slow way from the stables to the kitchen door. The elderly laborer spied the major before he could speak, stopped to gape, and spoke first. “Are you home, then, Robbie?”
The major studied the familiar lines of the innkeeper’s face, and a remembered panic came to him. How do I address this man? What do I call him? He took a deep breath.
“Hello, Da,” he said.
The two men watched each other in silence for a moment before the younger dismounted. A sudden flash of motion disrupted the awkward moment; a boy no more than seven or eight years old darted out and grabbed the empty bucket from the old man.
“My mum will have my hide, me letting you empty the slops, Grandda! Come sit before she catches me.”
Rob’s brows rose. Grandda? Emma’s boy? Must be; there were letters… But my sister can’t be old enough to have a boy that age.
“Slow yourself, boy. Make your greeting to your uncle.” The old man laid a gentle hand on the boy’s head.
At “uncle” the lad’s mouth gaped open, and the bucket hit the dirt. “Uncle? Is he Robbie, then, Grandda? The one who’s a hero? Gol.”
“Robbie…” So it begins. Torn between irritation and laughter over the boy’s expression, Rob put a hand to his chest, gave a ludicrous bow, and proclaimed, “Major Sir Robert Benson, at your service. And what is your name, young sir?”
“I’m Matt Corbin. Does my mam know you’re here?” Quicksilver expressions flashed across the boy’s face. “Can’t, can she. You only just came.” He bobbed as if struck by another thought and ran off, bucket forgotten, calling over his shoulder. “I best fetch her.”
“Does he ever walk?” Rob asked the innkeeper, staring after the lad.
“Not often. Like you that way,” the old man replied with an affectionate smile. He picked up the forgotten bucket and beckoned with one hand to the hostler who had been watching the scene avidly from the door of the stables. The young man came running to take the horse. “Best come in for a pint, Robbie. Travel dries a man’s throat fierce.”
Travel dries a man’s throat. Rob had heard his father—yes, father, and if not that then what—say those words to guests hundreds of times. At that precise moment, he could think of nothing he wanted more than a pint of ale at The Willow and the Rose. Loath though he was to hand Khalija over to a stranger, he gave the reins to the hostler and followed the man he called “Da” inside.
Ducking his head to enter, he felt for a moment as if he stepped back in time, so little had changed. The dark plank floors, once his mother’s pride, showed little wear and less dirt, as always. The banister leading up to guest rooms and the upright beams at the taproom door smelled of beeswax, as always. “Do you still keep bees?” The hives had been his mother’s; he wondered what became of them.
“Me? No. A neighbor took them over when—you know.”
When Mam died—and I left.
“She keeps us in honey and wax, like always,” the old man said proudly.
Like always. Emma said they had troubles, but, from what Rob could see, the inn hadn’t suffered. Only a few sat in the taproom, but midafternoon with the mail gone, that was normal. Pewter pints still hung above the bar. Sun showed through clear, clean windows overlooking the road. If the curtains over them were unfamiliar, they were ones his mother might have sewn. A respectably dressed girl still smiled at customers, although Rob didn’t remember the table servers being so young.
“A friend, Mr. Benson?” the girl asked.
“Better, Clara. Family. Fetch my son a pint of the best.”
My son. The old lie fell like a hot brick into Rob’s stomach. Fish or cut bait, he chided himself. You called him Da, but you bristle when he names you his son. He clamped his jaw shut to keep from barking out the truth in the public room. Maybe I should have it out with the old man once and for all before I leave. The innkeeper must have seen something in his face because his eyes darted away.
Rob’s sister had questions to answer. For now, the promised pint arrived promptly, and he drank deeply of ale every bit as fine as he recalled. He’d stay a few more days for that alone.
Chapter Three
Emma’s successful effort to avoid Rob his first evening home made him almost as uneasy as being under the same roof as Robert Benson the Elder after so many years. Sleep had proven elusive. He stood at the door intending to set out for a vigorous ride before he faced them again, but the smell of coffee drew him, and muted sounds from the kitchen told Rob he wasn’t the only one prowling the inn before the sun came up the next morning.
Inside he found a woman he didn’t recognize elbow-deep in bread dough. She had the girth of a well-fed cook and the serenity of one comfortable in her work. A lad of twelve or so sat a table, scratching a pencil across a bit of foolscap. Clara, the serving girl from the day before, stirred what looked like porridge but smelled infinitely better than any he had around an army encampment.
“Sorry to disturb your work, but I hoped to have some of that coffee I smell.”
“God be praised, Robbie,” the cook exclaimed. “You gave me a start. Clara, fetch the man a mug. Robbie always takes… But I expect we’re meant to call you Sir Robert now,” she added, looking flustered.
It was the way she squinted that triggered the memory. She’d been seventeen and a slip of a girl waiting tables in the taproom when he saw her last. “Annie?” he asked. “Annie Carrick? Is that you?”
“Annie Morris, now, if you please. I expect I’m a mite changed since you saw me last. That’s my son Wallace yonder,” she said, indicating the boy who stared up from his schoolwork. “Only one we were blessed with before my Walter passed.”
A blushing Clara handed him a steaming coffee, hot and black, exactly how he liked it, and a Chelsea bun that smelled of spices—heaven in the hand. The guests at Robert Benson’s inn were fortunate indeed. He gobbled it down, and Annie, laughing, gave him another.
“Annie, you’re an angel,” he sighed, juggling the Chelsea bun and striding to the kitchen door, his mood considerably lightened. He didn’t get far.
Ellis Corbin, Emma’s husband, stood near the stables in conversation with the young hostler who had taken charge of Khalija the day before.
“Robbie!” Ellis strode across the yard, hand out in greeting, only to laugh when he saw Rob’s hands. “Annie keeping you fed, I see.” No Sir Robert—or any other nonsense—from Ellis. Rob respected him for it.
“Good to see you, Ellis.” Rob gulped down his bun, wiped his hand on his trousers, and took the man’s calloused hand. Rob had no doubt Ellis worked hard.
The Willow and the Rose boasted only modest stables by coaching inn standards. Their resources were augmented by Corbin’s livery stables. Ed Corbin, Ellis’s father, an excellent farrier and canny businessman, had long partnered with the Bensons.
“How are you keeping?”
“Well enough! With my father gone, the days are too short. I need to get back across the way—horses can’t shoe themselves. Will I see you at dinner? Emma means to have you.”
Rob nodded, making no commitments. “I’ll walk with you a bit,” he said, matching his stride to Ellis’s. Ellis had been a lad of ten when Rob left; he looked too young to be managing the livery, much less to be Matt’s father and Emma’s husband.
“Emma can’t get over seeing you.” Ellis glanced sideways as they walked into the forge to the rear of the livery.
“She avoided me last night.”
Ellis shook his head. “You stayed away too long, Robbie.
Now that she has you, she’s in a state.” He heaped coal into the brazier and picked up the bellows.
“I’m not staying,” Rob blurted, giving honesty for honesty.
“Thought not. I don’t know what faradiddle she told to get you here, but I figured if you wanted to come home, you would ’a. We’ve managed—we all have—without you, so don’t feel obliged, no matter what my wife says to you.” His words had a defensive edge.
“My obligations are in London.” It wasn’t a lie. A new assignment waited for him there, the possibility of advancement.
Ellis stopped to peer at him. “When we saw the dispatches from Waterloo, she hoped you’d come home, but then we heard you were in Paris.”
Rob nodded. “Lord Rockford found a use for me.”
The name meant nothing to Ellis, who waited without asking for more. After a moment, he turned back to his work, and Rob added, “I seem to have a knack for protecting ambassadors.” And uncovering their dirty secrets.
“Bodyguard, are you?”
“More or less.” No point in elaborating on ‘more.’ Rob thought about leaving since Ellis had no idea what notion Emma had in her pretty little head than Rob did, but Ellis turned the subject.
“I saw you left a fine mount in your Da’s stable. A great bay with black markings.”
Rob accepted the change of subject. “The hostler looks a mite young. Is he able?”
Ellis’s face softened. “Alfred. He’ll be well enough eventually. Knows enough to bring his questions to me. I’ll see to it the beast is cared for properly. I mean to have a look later today when I’m done here.”
“I’d be honored to have you look him over, Ellis, but not until later. I’ve a mind for a good gallop.” Before I sink into the megrims. He’d had enough family drama for now.
“Ride over to Willowbrook while you’re at it. Take a good look,” Ellis shot at his retreating back.
Willowbrook? Rob stopped. “Caulfield property, isn’t it? Does the earl still have tenants?” He thought of the woman he saw there. A relative perhaps? I don’t see the earl letting it go. David always admired the place. He didn’t care to think about David.
Something in Ellis’s expression struck Rob as peculiar. After a pause, he said, “Just look it over.”
Rob waved it off and kept walking. I’m not here to inspect the Shire, damn it. I’m just going for a ride along the river.
*
Willowbrook’s fields enjoyed a four-crop rotation at Lucy’s instigation after her reading of agricultural journals convinced her of the importance. The tenants followed her lead, with few objections most years, but this year they balked at her instructions for the third field.
“Turnips? A whole field?” Ezekiel Philpot frowned. “Begging your pardon, Miss Whitaker, but there’ll be more’n Willowbrook can eat.”
“We’ll store some and sell the rest, Zeke. Millard’s pigs will eat them. The roots pull nutrients from deep. Next year we’ll put barley here and have a better yield.”
He looked for a moment as if he would argue. Vincent Thatcher chuckled when Zeke clamped his jaw shut. The two men set themselves to plowing with no further argument. They’d learned to respect “Miss Whitaker’s fancy book ideas,” when they saw results, and Willowbrook had begun to prosper.
Lucy knelt and ran her fingers through the turned earth. What she saw made her hum with satisfaction. She rose, brushing the dirt from her hands, more confident than ever of the value of her methods. The day filled her with joy, and she turned her face to the sun, glorying in a job well done. Marjory, her older sister, would have chastised her for exposing her precious complexion to the spring sunshine; Lucy didn’t care. She had few hopes—and no desire—for the sort of life in which it mattered. She had learned to trust only in herself and in the work she could control.
As she turned to watch the men working the fields, movement on the edge of the woods to the north caught her attention. She had no problem recognizing the huge bay horse with its proud bearing and black mane and tail. The arrogant visitor of yesterday had returned. He sat leaning across his saddle, staring in her direction.
Marjorie’s teachings about a lady’s demeanor came back to her. She would be mortified. What must that man think of me? Bile rose to sour her mouth. Lucy didn’t need the approval of the interloper, not for her femininity or lack of it. She had found men—and their opinion—to be an untrustworthy lot at best.
She set off with a stride that would have given her sister apoplexy. As she approached the man, she had the perplexing thought that she would prefer his approval for her farming methods rather than her appearance, but that seemed even less likely.
He didn’t move, and as she came near, his intense study of her appearance rankled. She raised her chin and stood, feet planted firmly apart, arms akimbo. She stopped short of demanding to know his business. “May I help you, Sir Robert?”
“You remembered my name.” He leaned one elbow on a muscular thigh and peered down at her.
“We’re busy, as you can see. Turnips don’t plant themselves.”
Laughter exploded from him. “Turnips? Good Lord, how many can you eat?”
“This isn’t a kitchen garden, Sir Robert. It is an agricultural enterprise. What do you know of crop rotation?” The question obviously took him aback.
When he hesitated to respond, she plunged on, giving him a rather more extensive overview of her plans than she had Zeke Philpot, until his eyes glazed over, and he raised a hand to stem the flow of words.
“Enough. I see your point. I’m sorry I intruded on your work.” His brows lowered as if something puzzled him. “You said ‘my’ plans. Am I to believe you oversee this work?”
“You will believe what you will, but yes. I oversee all of Willowbrook’s enterprises.” She glared back, daring him to criticize. No criticism came.
When he sat straighter and nodded, she had to shake off the wishful notion that she had actually impressed him. She chided herself for that nonsense, even as she chided herself for noticing the way his trousers fit taut across his thighs.
You aren’t so desperate that you have to imagine this man’s approval, much less ogle his attributes!
“In that case, you had better get back to your planting. Forgive my intrusion. Good day, ma’am.”
Lucy watched him ride off in the direction of Caulfield Hall. She could have warned him no one would be home except the children, but she didn’t.
Perhaps he hadn’t come to inspect what he believed is his after all. Perhaps he merely wishes to enjoy the afternoon.
She walked back to the laborers, the sun warm on her back. Perhaps pigs will fly.
*
The ride left Rob invigorated and hungry for dinner, and the unexpected encounter with the remarkable woman at Willowbrook left him intrigued. He couldn’t shake her from his mind.
Emma must know her.
That thought reminded him that his sister still hadn’t told him why she summoned him. He took the steps to his room at the Willow to prepare for a dinner that had begun to sound more and more interesting.
The old man surprised Rob when he joined him in the walk to the Corbins’ snug little house on the meadow side of Tom’s Lane. His presence drove Willowbrook and its unusual overseer out of his thoughts.
“Do you usually eat at Emma’s or the inn?” Rob asked the man at his side.
“Both. Food at the inn can be monotonous after the first twenty years or so.” Laugh lines crinkled up around the brown eyes that sparkled with good humor. “Your sister’s cooking can be an adventure, but it is always a change.”
Forewarned then, about the food at least. He had no warning about the pandemonium that greeted him inside the door. Two boys wrestling in the center of the floor ignored the new arrivals, so intent were they on their competition. Rob recognized Matt from the stableyard. The smaller boy appeared to have the same hair and eyes, insofar as Rob could see.
“Mam, Grandda is here!” The little gir
l who shouted gazed up at Rob with deep brown eyes. “Are you the uncle, then? I’m Audrey. I’m five. Matt and Lenny won’t listen to me.” Before Rob could respond, a toddler waddled up to them and reached her arms up for her grandfather, who responded by picking her up.
“This one is Roberta,” the old man said, giving the girl a great smacking kiss.
“I am, indeed, the uncle.” Rob put out his hand. Audrey eyed it warily, but she took it and accepted the shake. “It’s always good to get relationships straight, isn’t it?”
The little girl nodded soberly; her grandfather walked to the kitchen, still carrying Roberta.
“Matt, the uncle is here,” Audrey shouted in the boy’s ear as he thrashed around with his brother.
Matt rolled to his feet effortlessly, grabbed the smaller boy, who looked no worse for wear, by the shirt, and pulled him up. “Come meet our uncle, Lenny. He’s a soldier. He was at Waterloo.”
Lenny’s slack-jawed awe left Rob speechless. He had no idea what to say to children. Ellis’s timely arrival rescued him.
“Leave your uncle in peace, you three. Audrey, find him a seat in the kitchen. Matt and Lenny, see if your mam needs help with the table.” The boys scurried to the kitchen with only one tiny peek over their shoulders at their new hero. Audrey took Rob by the hand.
“Welcome to the circus, Robbie. Give me time to clean up out back, and I’ll join you in the kitchen.” Ellis went through to the back door.
The Corbin house boasted no fancy dining room. It had, instead, a spacious kitchen, warm and fragrant, with a large wooden table set for both adults and children. Rob wondered fleetingly what the Comtesse de Lanaudière—whose elegant and sumptuous table attracted the most glittering company in Paris—would make of two little boys in simple linen shirts laying out spoons and serviettes.
The Wayward Son Page 2
