The Wayward Son

by Warfield, Caroline

  “Hard to say. If his goal is to coerce the new owner, she’d be an easier target,” Eli mused, oblivious to the turmoil Lucy Whitaker provoked in his brother.

  Rob considered the musket she met him with and chuckled. Lucy Whitaker is no man’s idea of easy.

  A stir among the patrons near the window caught his attention. His heart sped up, and he studied the front entrance. No kitchen door today, he noted.

  The Whitaker woman sailed into the room, graceful but firm of step, chin high and eyes alert. She dressed for the event in a finely tailored morning dress of striped muslin topped with a deep blue spencer. Neither the height of fashion nor some dowdy throwback, she managed to appear both classically well dressed and business-like. In lieu of some frothy flowered bonnet, a small chip straw hat covered her neatly braided crown of hair. She held a set of leather-bound ledgers firmly in both arms.

  When Warner Simmons, the lanky grocer, stood by his table near the window for a better view and two hulking farmers at the bar straightened and turned to watch, her diminutive stature struck Rob for the first time. How does a woman that tiny manage to project such a formidable presence?

  She ignored them all and searched the room until she saw him. Eli started to rise at her approach, but Rob’s hand held him in place. He let her march all the way up to the table before he rose to loom over her and spoke in a voice pitched to fill the room. “Miss Whitaker, thank you for accommodating my request for a meeting.”

  Brown eyes almost as dark as Eli’s glared back at him. “Mr. Benson,” she acknowledged. She gave Rob a trace deeper nod. “Sir Robert. I trust this will not take long. A working estate requires attention, and I have little to spare.”

  Well done, Miss Whitaker. Never show weakness.

  He gestured to a chair and, for a moment, he thought she might not take it, but she sat and placed the leather-bound ledgers on the table, covering them with her hands as if to protect them. She nodded at Eli.

  Rob watched her, distracted by the rise and fall of her chest with each deep breath. She won’t give up her privileges easily. “Before we examine the books, madam, I wish to make it clear that I have elected to take ownership of the property upon which you currently reside.” He turned to his brother. “Eli…”

  Eli took out the papers that would put Willowbrook in Rob’s hands. Pen and ink sat on the table in readiness. “Having examined the bequest and found no legal difficulties, I judge my brother, Sir Robert Benson, the rightful owner of Willowbrook, and am prepared to witness his signature,” he announced, his voice carrying to the room.

  My little brother appears tempted to apologize to the woman, but his solicitor’s heart won’t let him. Rob suppressed his own smile. He took the pen and signed, handing the pen to Eli, who added his own signature.

  She has no way of knowing I mean her no harm, Rob thought. The next gesture feels harsh, but it’s necessary.

  “Miss Whitaker, may we ask you to witness my brother’s signature as well?” Eli asked softly.

  *

  Lucy stiffened. The oaf ordered me here to announce my eviction. She forced herself to stay seated, counting backward in her head to gain control of her temper. One hundred, ninety-nine, ninety-eight… Sir Robert studied her implacably, waiting for her compliance. She couldn’t honestly find insult in Eli Benson’s request or his brother’s coldly businesslike manner, but humiliation warred with dread. What choice do I have? None.

  She took the pen with a shaking hand and signed her witness to the document transferring her home from the Clarion estate to Sir Robert Benson, sick at the reminder it was never hers.

  “Congratulations, sir. Willowbrook is yours,” she said through stiff lips, almost choking on the words. “I am prepared to depart in thirty days, provided my conditions are met.”

  His intense green eyes flew open, and Lucy had the satisfaction of confounding his plan, whatever it might be. But is it my willingness to leave or my “conditions” gambit that took him off guard?

  The blasted man recovered quickly, and his eyes narrowed. Something in his shifting posture let her hope she had gained at least a crumb of respect. “Conditions, Miss Whitaker? What might those be?”

  A sound behind her, people shifting in their seats, reminded Lucy they had an audience. Best get on with it.

  “First, I request a salary for my stewardship of Willowbrook from the reading of the old earl’s will until now,” she said, raising her chin a tick and keeping eye contact.

  The baronet’s gaze glittered, and she hoped it wasn’t amusement. Mockery would destroy her courage. “A housekeeper’s salary, I presume,” he said.

  “Hardly. A steward’s salary,” she insisted. She paused, but when he didn’t immediately question her, she rushed on. “I’ve had the care of Willowbrook since my sister fell ill, and the earl turned his attention elsewhere. I oversee planting and the dairy. I see to the rents and the needs of the tenants.”

  “And manage the bee yard?” he put in.

  “Correct. And cheese production. If you examine the ledgers, you will see that we’ve had a tidy profit these past few years.” She drew breath for courage. No mockery had come, and his expression had shifted to actual interest. She glanced at Eli Benson and got to the meat of her message. “You will also see that I put aside every year an amount I considered a fair wage for my work.”

  That startled both men. Eli Benson cleared his throat. “That would explain Spangler’s assertion that you’ve been skimming money from the estate,” he said. From the look on Sir Robert’s face, he hadn’t heard that libelous accusation.

  “The funds sit in escrow in the Ashmead Bank.”

  “Rather than the earl’s bank in Nottingham?” Sir Robert asked.

  “Correct. All proceeds, with the exception of the bit I put aside, were sent to Mr. Spangler at the earl’s request. Mr. Spangler has an account for the heirs in a bank in Nottingham. I thought it wise to keep the wages separate, pending your decision. You will find the account numbers in the ledgers.” Her hands tightened over the smooth leather binding. This time she was certain she saw respect when he nodded. “You will find I haven’t touched the money. I’m asking for it now.”

  “As your wages for stewardship,” Sir Robert murmured. He reached over and pulled the ledgers across the table. She clenched her teeth against the temptation to grab them back. “I will examine your figures,” he went on. “I’m certain we can come to a fair settlement. Are you determined to leave if your conditions are met?”

  “I—” She knew her mouth gaped. It was the last question she expected. “I assume you will wish to take up residence.” She studied his face. What a puzzling man.

  “Hardly. My life is in London, Miss Whitaker. I have yet to decide how to dispose of Willowbrook.”

  Dispose? He spoke of Willowbrook as if it were an unwanted puppy, not Lucy’s entire life.

  “In the meantime, I would prefer to have a steward in place. It is unfortunate that you were thrust into that role. I can hire one, of course, whether you choose to stay or leave, but I hope you will consider staying until I do so. If you prefer to stay in residence permanently, I will, of course, expect you to pay rent until such time as I decide to sell the place.”

  Lucy began to squirm under his scrutiny. He expected a reaction, but she couldn’t decide what he wanted. It didn’t matter. She knew her own mind. She swallowed hard. “If you find after your examination that my service is adequate, I would prefer to remain as steward as long as you have need of one.”

  “A woman steward is unheard of,” Eli Benson muttered, peering at his brother.

  Sir Robert didn’t respond; his gaze remained on Lucy. “I will take a careful look at your figures, Miss Whitaker, and consider my options, and we’ll speak again. You said conditions, plural. Are there other concerns?”

  In for a penny… “My companion, Agnes, receives the housekeeper’s salary.” When she doesn’t refuse it in bad quarters. “I would like her to receive a quarter’
s wages and references.”

  “I’ll consider that as well,” he nodded, patting the ledgers. “Anything else?”

  “Not exactly a condition. More of a warning.”

  His right eyebrow rose in sardonic mockery now, “warning” finally pushing him to it. “A warning, Miss Whitaker?”

  “The man you sent to survey Willowbrook did not go unnoticed. Two young boys watched him work. It has caused much speculation among my—that is, your—tenants and some resentment. I told the boys—and their fathers come to that—not to interfere.”

  His face darkened. “They should stay far away from strangers on the estate,” he agreed. “You as well.”

  “I’ll do my best to keep them away, but if any harm comes to John and Andy, you will have much to answer for.”

  He pressed his lips together. “Your warning is duly noted. The tenants object to surveying?”

  “They object to mining on Willowbrook land they’ve farmed for generations,” she replied, glaring back at him, the words sour in her mouth. She had seen the impact of the mines in other parts of the county.

  Their eyes held for a long moment, and she thought he would argue or ask a question. “You’ve given me enough to consider for one day, Miss Whitaker. I’ll let you know when I’ve finished my investigation.”

  The sudden taste of bile burned down her throat as she rose, forcing him to do so as well. “In that case, I’ll bid you good day.”

  What will I tell Agnes? We’ve had a reprieve, and he even dangled hope we might stay on, but a slim hope at that. If he opens a mine, though, I will have to leave. I won’t be able to bear it.

  Chapter Ten

  Rob watched Lucy’s graceful progress across the taproom, his eyes fixated on her enticing derriere and the sway of her skirts. “Remarkable woman,” he murmured.

  “Terrifying,” Eli shuddered. Their audience began to shuffle away in the woman’s wake, but he pitched his voice low.

  Magnificent, more like. Steward, indeed! Rob thought. “I rode out across the land yesterday. If she is responsible for the improvements that I saw at Willowbrook versus the state of tenants on Caulfield land, I ought to keep her.”

  “Hire her?” Eli hissed. “I thought the goal of this drama was to fortify her reputation—and yours.”

  “Formidable and wise,” Rob went on, ignoring the comment.

  “Putting funds in a bank different from the one Spangler manages for the heirs? Yes. Shrewd. Of course, I’ll have to confirm what she told us,” Eli said.

  “Is the Ashmead Bank sound?” Rob asked.

  Eli nodded. “Small, but well managed. Attached with the post office to Pratt’s print shop. It partners with a bank in Derby, clever move on Pratt’s part.”

  Rob tapped the ledgers. “We’ll go over these carefully. If they are in order—and I expect they will be—you can compare the balances on both accounts to the records at both banks.”

  “Will you give her the steward’s wages?” Old Robert asked, sauntering over to the table.

  Rob studied Eli and could almost see the lad’s mind working over the novelty of the idea. He began to understand why his brother had chosen his profession.

  “Is it legal?” Eli’s father asked.

  “No. Yes. Maybe, but—” Eli’s face lit with concentration and curiosity. “Generally, a woman’s guardian would manage her funds,” he said as if to clarify the issues in his own mind. “If she were married, the money would go to her husband, of course. Does Miss Whitaker have a guardian? Do we know her age?”

  “Those are questions for the Earl of Clarion,” Rob said.

  “I’ll ask him when I ask to see the original deeds and will,” Eli nodded.

  “What happened to a worker being entitled to wages…?’” Rob mused, looking up at the old man.

  “His wages. The bible says ‘the worker is worthy of his wages,’” Eli said. “Though it is silent on the subject of women’s work.”

  Rob snorted. “The book is easily manipulated to mean what people want it to, to affirm what they choose to believe.”

  “True enough,” the older Robert said cheerfully. “The money is yours to do with as you see fit. Even Lucy Whitaker made that clear. She’s a good one and probably deserves the wages.”

  Make it clear, she did. Rob had little doubt he’d be able to deal fairly with the woman and her housekeeper. The responsibility hung like an anchor around his neck, tying him to Ashmead, the place he never planned to see again.

  Eli stood, putting both ledgers and documents carefully into his valise. “Shall we use Da’s office for this?” He glanced up at the old man, who nodded in return.

  “I’ll meet you there in an hour or so. I have some letters to write.” One to Rockford, telling him I’ll be delayed a month or two and one to Brynn Morgan. “I’m inviting a friend to look at that land.”

  “A surveyor?” the old man asked.

  “Morgan is an engineer.” And a friend. I need an impartial ally.

  Eli’s brows shot up. “Did you send surveyors to Willowbrook?”

  “No, and I’d damned sure like to know who did,” Rob replied.

  “You have another letter to write, Robbie,” Eli told him. “I have to get to the original will and the deeds. I can’t do that without the earl. Your friend Morgan is all well and good, but we need the earl.”

  Rob glared down at a glass of Robert Benson’s best brandy. That his little brother was correct didn’t help. He would have to deal with—my other brother, he realized, and swallowed his drink. He slammed down the glass and leaned forward. “You write it,” he said. “A letter from my solicitor on my behalf.”

  *

  Lucy pulled her pony trap off the road and tied her old draft horse to a tree at the edge of her property. She glared at it and mentally corrected herself—Sir Robert Benson’s property. Her long stride took her swiftly along the stone fence that marked the boundary between Willowbrook and Caulfield Hall, as it had for decades. She walked until the Limestone ridge—a great gray outcrop, stretching skyward and dotted with scrubby bushes—came into view.

  Nothing has changed. It all looks the same. And yet… Everything has. She dropped to the ground, her back to the stone wall, her head on her knees. He has taken my ledgers; he has taken my world. She gave in to an overwhelming temptation to cry, here where no one would see her.

  Moments later, she wiped her tears on her shawl and stood, brushed off her skirts, and tipped her head back to let the sun warm her face, the moment of weakness gone. She had work to do, tenants that depended on her, and a letter to write. She had battles to fight—for the money due her, for Agnes, and for the tenants who would depend on their new landlord.

  By the time she had walked back to her rig, her emotions were under tight control, and she had a plan in place, at least for the day.

  Soon after, Agnes followed her to the study, peppering her with questions.

  “Are you sure he doesn’t plan to take up residence?”

  “He says not.” Lucy didn’t pause.

  “Do you think he’ll let us stay?”

  “If I pay rent.” Which I will never do. She wondered if a steward’s wage and rent were opposing options. She stopped in the doorway and blocked Agnes from entering. “I have work to do.”

  “That’s good, though. The baronet won’t evict us on our arses?”

  “Language, Agnes! You know as much as I do.” Except that Robert Benson didn’t send the surveyors. I’d bet next month’s honey harvest on it. “Now I have some things to attend to.”

  She shut the door on her friend, quietly but firmly, and turned to face her desk denuded of her precious ledgers. She ran a hand across the surface and took a deep breath, shaking off the emotion it caused.

  Lucy learned when her father died that she should never rely on a man, and she made up her mind when Marjory died that she would never whine to her brother-in-law, never demand help. He had children to raise, a bankrupted estate to cope with, and a horror
of a mother to deal with. He seemed happy to ignore her most of the time, but they had gone past time when he needed to hear some things.

  She took out her best vellum and trimmed a pen.

  Dear David… she began and then stared at the page. She picked up the pen and added carefully over the top, The Right Honorable David Caulfield, the Earl of Clarion. She intended to merely ask him if he had hired a surveyor, but if he had not, it might alarm him. She nibbled her lip and considered what bits to tell him but realized, in the end, she had no choice. Everything. He needs to know everything.

  Dear David,

  Major Sir Robert Benson returned to Ashmead some days ago and has spoken with Spangler about the will…

  Chapter Eleven

  “It’s my property. I ought to inspect it.” Khalija bobbed his head as if to say, “Of course it is, you damned fool…” So, Rob wondered as he turned up the lane to Willowbrook, why do I feel like an intruder?

  The manor itself lay in the middle of the property, and the approach meandered through pleasant fields and woodland. He dismounted at the bend where the lane crossed a bridge spanning a brook. “I may as well start here,” he muttered. The steam tumbled over jutting stones and a rocky bed in a deep gully, making the bridge indispensable.

  His inspection revealed a recent repair to one of the struts. The bridge, like all of Willowbrook, showed every sign of care and attention, the work of its would-be steward. Rob sat back on his heels thinking of Lucy Whitaker’s ledgers.

  He would return them if he could, but his little brother turned out to be a careful man. “Copies won’t do, Robbie, I need her originals to compare.” Eli had already verified that the amounts she claimed she set aside as her fair wages had indeed been placed in the Ashmead Bank, left untouched, and remained there, earning interest.

  Remounting, he considered the Whitaker woman’s requests. The amount she asked for wages seemed fair to Rob, but he had already sent four quick notes to his growing pile of correspondence, each to landed gentlemen, ones he knew well enough to ask such questions, soliciting advice about the fair wage for a land steward. For all he knew her request was too low.