The Wayward Son

by Warfield, Caroline

“The surveyor?” Eli suggested.

  “Aye. Was it a ruse to hint at coal when he wanted me to sign? Or something else?”

  “Maybe like a woman who measures the windows for curtains when she hasn’t quite inherited? Checking the boundaries of what he thinks ought to be his?”

  The older Robert Benson pursed his lips, weighing his own words. “Doesn’t seem right, though, but then nothing about Spangler feels quite right.”

  “What’s the other thing?” Eli asked.

  “The imposters,” Rob said. “One or two attempts after the will when I didn’t turn up make sense, but Emma says they’ve been coming fast and furious, some of them aggressive. As if someone wants to drive Lucy Whitaker out.”

  “She didn’t exaggerate,” the old man said. “We’ve been worried about Lucy, but she insisted she could handle them.”

  “And did,” Rob said with a wry smile. He looked at his erstwhile father pointedly. “What do you make of it? Why would Spangler want her gone, and if not him, who?”

  “He might have wanted to install an imposter and then ‘buy’ the estate from him,” Eli suggested.

  “Maybe. He’s stupid enough to try,” Rob agreed.

  “All of Ashmead knew who the real heir was. You’ve been gone fifteen years, but folks have long memories. Most of the pretenders came nowhere close to being mistaken for you,” the old man mused. “It’s a puzzle.”

  “Aye. Da is right,” Eli said.

  Da. The longer he stayed, the more comfortable the name sounded. Sitting with the old man, talking through problems, sorting through the issues, felt right, Rob realized. He had missed this. He had missed family. He had missed his father—at least he had missed the man he had believed to be his father.

  Eli got up to leave. Rob stared across at the old man. Why did you lie to me? Why let me believe you were my father? The cry lodged deep in his heart. Maybe if he said the words, he’d have peace. His heart lurched.

  Eli made it as far as the door before Emma burst through, pushing Eli back. “Just the men I wish to see. Da, you’re needed in the taproom.” She glanced at Rob’s friend. “And take Mr. Morgan with you. He could use a pint.” She folded her arms across her chest and stared the old man down.

  Her father rose slowly, the aches of age obvious in his movement, but the humor just as apparent in his bright eyes. “Never argue with a woman, boys. Not when she has a full head of steam on a subject. You best listen and do as you’re told. Come along, Morgan. A man can always use a pint of good ale.”

  Emma spun to face her brothers as soon as the door closed. “You two. Do you know Da will be sixty in one week? We are going to celebrate, and you are going to help.”

  Words to confront his foster father had been on the tip of Rob’s tongue before Emma interrupted, but he lost his chance. He listened to his sister’s plans, her list of assignments, and Eli’s attempts to protest with one ear. Da—sixty? From the vantage of Rob’s thirty-one years, it seemed ancient, and a realization filled him. If you want to make peace, you best do it. You won’t have him forever.

  “Robbie, are you listening?” his sister demanded.

  “Tell me again, Emma, what do you expect me to do?”

  Chapter Fourteen

  “If you want to look in on that pretty little steward of yours, you don’t need me.”

  Glowering at the man’s sly grin, Rob regretting asking Morgan to accompany him. “She isn’t my steward,” he said through clenched teeth.

  “Well then, if it’s a chaperone you need while you court the wench, that sister of yours would be a better choice.”

  “I’m not courting—and Miss Whitaker is no man’s wench! I asked you along for your opinion about the place’s state of repair. You did grow up on a farm, did you not?”

  Rob kept his eyes forward, determined not to let Morgan know his needling made Rob’s blood boil. He suspected Morgan’s home was rather grander than a farm, but his friend had always been tight-lipped about his origins.

  “That I did. I already told you Willowbrook’s a fine piece of property. You might build a more pretentious house, but—”

  “I don’t need a pretentious country house. I just put a deposit down on a townhouse in London.”

  “Mayfair, is it? Stuffy butler? Two feet of grass out back to call a garden? Proper English lady—one with high insteps—to fill it?”

  “My work is there, Morgan. If I don’t return soon—”

  “You think Rockford will find someone else? The French Ambassador’s wife specifically demanded that Major Sir Ben-seen oversee their safety. After that piece of heroism you managed with the attack on the Prussian delegation in Paris, they couldn’t get enough of you. Rockford loves you, lad. The job is yours. Though, why you want it when you can have this, I don’t pretend to know,” Morgan said, grinning up at the trees along the road. They crossed the little wood bridge and turned toward the manor.

  “What are you doing in London, then, Morgan? Why haven’t you fled hot-foot back to the paradise that is the Welsh mountains.” To Rob’s knowledge, Morgan hadn’t resigned his commission; he lived on half-pay and waited for an assignment. A colonel, he outranked Rob, though it never factored into their friendship.

  Morgan rode on in silence. Yes, the man can be tight-lipped. “Fathers can be the very devil,” Rob murmured, but Morgan didn’t take that bait either.

  “Perhaps Miss Whitaker yearns for a house in Mayfair,” Morgan said instead.

  “Miss Whitaker believes her feet are joined to Willowbrook, like roots anchoring her deep in the soil,” Rob replied.

  “Are you sure you don’t have some Welsh in you, Benson? That bit of poetry would do a bard proud.”

  “I wish it were poetry. The wretched woman will never want to leave this place.”

  *

  Lucy hovered near the Willowbrook stable block’s far end and frowned at Vincent Thatcher. They stared at a collapsed wall and fallen roof. “But how can a wall simply cave in?”

  “Beg your pardon, Miss Whitaker, but this end of the stable has had dry rot for a while. Some animal tunneled under, dislodged the stone foundation, and down she went.”

  Lucy frowned at the shambles of her stable. One corner had caved in, and the roof dangled over the damage. The narrow row of stones that underpinned the wooden walls had been dislodged. Doubts about whether an animal could have moved them nipped at the edge of her thoughts. We don’t need this. Not now with the heir—no, owner—hovering about the place.

  “We don’t have time to rebuild this, not until planting finishes,” she murmured.

  “No, we do not. I can set John and Andy at it, but not for a week.”

  “Buttercup and my trap will keep well enough at the other end.” The placid horse needed little.

  “Provided it don’t rain hard. Ought to look at those walls, too. Can we bring on some’un from town to work on it?” Vincent looked dubious. When she simply cast a raised eyebrow his way, he muttered on. “I ’spose not. Perhaps the major…”

  “No.” The word came out before she thought clearly. The last thing she wanted was to ask Sir Robert Benson for help, not when she was doing everything she could to prove her competence. I won’t go hat in hand to that man!

  “It looks like we have a problem.” The major’s voice, the last thing she wished to hear, rumbled through her, driving Lucy’s heart to a frantic pace. She gulped air to calm it before she turned to face him, forcing a smile she hoped appeared strong and in control.

  “Good afternoon, sir. We’ve had a minor problem—nothing we can’t handle. The unused portion of the stable has weakened with age. It gave when an animal of some sort burrowed under it.” She peered directly into his face and tried to hold his eyes, but the arrogant pest looked to Vincent and then the damage.

  “All this from an animal burrow?” he asked.

  His friend Morgan dismounted and went down on his haunches to look at the damage. “No sign of badger or rabbit burrow,” he murmured. He
glanced up at Sir Robert.

  “Perhaps a fox,” Lucy suggested, chin high. The men looked dubious, and she waved a dismissive hand. “But it doesn’t matter. It’s gone, and we’ll…”

  Morgan continued to examine the fallen timbers. “Dry rot?” He looked to Vincent Thatcher for an answer.

  “Aye, Sir. Been there a while,” Vincent turned to Sir Robert. “We thought we had time to let it go a few months. We didn’t expect this.”

  Morgan looked up at Rob. “There’s dry rot on those boards, but not enough to collapse the wall, and no rabbit could have dislodged those stones. I see no sign of badger. It doesn’t make sense.”

  “Miss Whitaker,” Sir Robert said with exaggerated patience, “I don’t think an animal did this.” He turned to Morgan and Vincent. “Do you see any trace of sabotage?”

  Soon the three men were on their knees examining the ruined wall in detail. Lucy couldn’t stop them; she could only stomp her foot in frustration. “That’s ridiculous. Why would someone sabotage the old stables?

  Sir Robert rose, brushing the dirt from his hands. “Good question. Why, indeed.”

  “We have only my horse and trap to house. The building is the least valuable on the property.”

  “Perhaps its disuse made it an easy target.”

  Lucy had to admit the sense of that. But why? She bit her lip, lost in thought.

  “Disgruntled tenant?”

  “Of course not!” Her outrage heated her cheeks. “Willowbrook tenants would never—”

  “Miss Whitaker tells the truth. Folks on Willowbrook land have it better than much of the county—Caulfield Hall tenants for sure, begging your pardon.” Vincent’s stout defense warmed her heart.

  “Who then?” Benson asked.

  Morgan sank back on his heels and peered up at his friend. “Someone did. The wood may have had rot, but someone dislodged the stone beneath it. There are a few axe cuts in the wood, too.” He stood then, waiting patiently.

  “Does anyone bear you a grudge, Miss Whitaker?” Benson asked.

  The question deserved an answer, but Lucy couldn’t verbalize one. She shook her head.

  “Thatcher?” Benson turned to her tenant.

  The man breathed deeply. “Miss Whitaker is well-liked in Ashmead. She drives a hard bargain on market day in Nottingham, though, and at the sheep auctions. There are those that take a woman with sharp skills amiss.”

  “Can you think of one who resents her expertise enough to hurt her?” Sir Robert asked Vincent.

  Lucy glanced up sharply. Expertise? Does he truly see me that way?

  “No, Sir. None in the valley. Except—” Vincent waved the thought away with a hand.

  “Except who?” Sir Robert demanded.

  “The old countess doesn’t like Miss Whitaker a whit, but that don’t make sense. The old woman stays in London and can’t be bothered with us.”

  Sir Robert brushed that aside.

  Quite right, Lucy thought. The dowager countess would never bestir herself to give me so much as a thought.

  “With no evidence—” Sir Robert gestured to the pile of rubble. “—and fewer leads, we can only keep watch. Can you spare someone to keep watch?”

  “We need all hands in the fields during the day, but the barn loft is dry. My boys could sleep there.”

  “No!” Lucy exploded. “I’ll not put Andy and John in danger for a decrepit stable. Besides, I’m in the bee yard every day. I can watch for trouble.”

  “And what will you do if you find some?” the major asked, brows high. “Keep your musket at hand?”

  “I will do that. But really, Sir Robert, we have no reason to expect further damage. May I suggest we leave it for now?”

  He looked as if he meant to argue but backed down in the face of Lucy’s stubborn stance; at least she hoped that’s why he didn’t argue.

  “There is still your pony and trap to house. I’ll hire a crew in Ashmead to make repairs.”

  The arrogant oaf simply asserted his right to order it without consulting her. Lucy swallowed resentment. Willowbrook, after all, belonged to the oaf. I should find my own place. She had already begun scanning newspapers for opportunities.

  Without waiting for her response, he turned to Morgan and asked him to evaluate the rest of the buildings, and her resentment threatened to explode. She spun on her heels to set out for the fields. “We’ll leave you to it. Vincent and I have planting to oversee.”

  Chapter Fifteen

  David Caulfield, 7th Earl of Clarion, returned to his London townhouse after three week’s respite at the country estate of the Marquess of Downingtown, as weary at heart as he had left. What had been promised as a working retreat had proven to be an exasperating mix of politics and party.

  He had garnered less support than he hoped for a relief bill before his committee and had spent every day dodging two husband-hunting ladies and their mothers. His host hadn’t warned him they would be there, and he’d been forced to take refuge in his quarters more days than not, and to station his valet in his room in the evening to repel enterprising debutants from compromising him. Even the countryside, rain-drenched as it had been most days, failed to lift his spirits.

  He arose early the next morning, as was his custom, to meet Jenkins, his secretary, in his study, eager to get back about his business.

  A flicker of disappointment followed the young man’s brief inspection of his person. Probably looking for cheer or some such nonsense. Clarion ignored it. “Did you receive my response to Viscount Rockford?”

  “Yes, my lord. And your comments on the veteran’s relief bill, which I delivered as you ordered.”

  Clarion moved to his desk, nodding absently. Jenkins cleared his throat nervously. “Was there something else?” the earl asked.

  “You left instructions to forward only the most pressing Parliamentary material,” his secretary said.

  The man’s odd tone caused Clarion to peer at him more closely. “What is it? Trouble?”

  “Probably not, but you received an unusual influx of mail from Caulfield Hall,” the man went on. “And Ashmead.”

  Odd that. We had Maddy’s monthly note before I left. Lucy never writes. Who then? Jenkins handed him a silver salver containing four unopened letters.

  Ten minutes after reading them, the earl had tucked all four into his coat, dispatched a footman with a message to Rockford, packed reports needing attention into a case, and ordered his traveling coach brought around. He pinned his secretary with a somber glare. “Kindly tell my lady mother I will return in a week. Remind her again that I have rescinded her credit at her favorite modiste.”

  “And several other establishments,” the young man said morosely.

  “I ought to bring her with me just to keep her out of mischief, but I don’t have time.” And I could use a respite. “Do your best.”

  A half-hour later, the earl, dressed in traveling clothes, met Jenkins in the foyer.

  “One more message, my lord. This arrived from Lord Rockford moments ago,” the secretary told him.

  Clarion frowned at the missive, tucked it in his shirt, and climbed into his carriage.

  Within an hour, he was on the road to Ashmead on Afon.

  Chapter Sixteen

  In Ashmead, the possibility of work brought a line of laborers to The Willow and the Rose. All appeared willing and seemed needy. A few had some experience with a hammer. Rob hired as many of those as he could. One applicant stood out.

  Aaron Miller claimed considerable experience as a builder. He’d come to Ashmead looking for work recently from, he said, a village to the west. His description of lost work for “people of the land” after a mine opened in Roverton, tugged at the heartstrings.

  Martin Abbott, one of the newly hired workers, shook his head. “Bad business, mining.”

  Rob found Miller’s story too perfect and the effort to garner sympathy too obvious. No one in Ashmead could vouch for the man, but Morgan thought his knowledge sound. Ro
b hired him, ordered him to acquire lumber for the work, and put him in charge.

  “If it goes well, there may be more work,” Rob told him, folding up his notes. He immediately regretted it. How do I know what work is to be had? I won’t be here. If Lucy approves Miller’s work, I’ll see what she thinks. She’d become Lucy to him after the stable fiasco, though he couldn’t say why other than he admired the way she stood up to him.

  “Needs watching, that one” Da didn’t speak until the last of them filtered out.

  “Miller? Aye. But the rest of the crew are Ashmead men. They’ll notice if he’s up to funny business.”

  “It’s hard to hide on a work crew,” Morgan said.

  “Like the army?” Rob asked.

  “Yes, and more so for the sort of skills and devilment you’re looking for.”

  Rob wondered what Morgan knew about work crews. He studied his friend thoughtfully. “Thanks for your help. Will you be returning to London soon?”

  Morgan tipped his chair back and beamed at the older Robert Benson. “The comforts of The Willow and the Rose may keep me here a while. Clean beds, warm room, good food, a sunny bower to read in. What else could a man want?”

  The old man called for Clara to bring Morgan ale. “What else indeed. One for you, too, Robbie?”

  “I can’t resist the Willow’s ale. That’s for certain,” Rob said. He still hadn’t confronted his father. When they sat in accord like this, he struggled to remember why he wanted to.

  After a few moments of quiet fellowship over their pints, Morgan grinned at Rob. “Besides, Benson. There’s to be a party next week. Your sister insists I stay.”

  *

  The whirlwind that was Emma kept the inn and all those in it in an uproar for the next week. Rob had no opportunity to get his foster father alone for the much-delayed conversation, no time to consider the state of Willowbrook’s actual finances, and no idea what to do about Lucy Whitaker’s future.

  Eli rode over on Tuesday, skillfully evading his sister’s efforts to dragoon him into hanging bunting on the windows of the inn, and pulled Rob out to the bower by the river.