by L G Rollins
The words stuck, and instead of forcing the rest of them out he merely closed his mouth and faced the front once more. At least his sentence made sense ending there, though he’d intended to say, “You could sit for a moment if you wish it.” Though saying anything at all was so unlike him, he couldn’t fathom why he’d done it.
Her broom stopped moving. He could feel her staring at him, but he’d already gone so far as to grace her with a few words—that was more than most of the neighborhood could boast. He didn’t intend to grovel.
“Thank you, Your Grace.” Her words came out quite slowly, as though she were still mulling over his offer. “On one condition.”
Oh, so now she was making demands? He glanced at her sideways, jaw tight, and his brow lifted.
“If Mrs. Gale asks, you insisted I sit for a bit, and it’s entirely your fault that the work was not done sooner.”
Huh. Mrs. Gale sounded like a harsh employer. Very well, then, he had nothing to fear from a housekeeper. He shrugged his acceptance and leaned back in the pew, folding his arms.
He was immediately rewarded when the lady all but collapsed onto the pew next to him.
“Thank you.” The words were so different this time. They rushed out of her, sincere and dripping with exhaustion. “I cannot even begin to express how nice it feels to sit.”
And she’d done so quite close to him. Not so close that anyone would consider it improper. Only, no one ever sat closer to Hugh than absolutely necessary. Normally, he could claim at least five solid strides between himself and the next person. This woman had sat so near that he could reach out and touch her without scooting closer if he so wished it.
He fisted his hands together in front of him. Because of course he didn’t wish it. He would never wish for something so foolish as that.
“One time,” the petite woman began, speaking to him while her gaze mirrored his and faced the front of the chapel, “my two little brothers decided to play at being elephants while I was trying to dust the rooms we rent. They’d only just read about the beasts and were enamored. I returned to find all my lovely dried tea leaves nothing but powder. It took me easily five times longer to clean the room than it would have otherwise.”
He grunted while finding he had to fight a smile yet again.
Twice in one day—that had to be some kind of a record.
“Mr. Jakob is such a gentle-hearted, kind vicar,” the woman said next. “I had no notion one such as he would employ such a tyrant for a housekeeper.”
Strange, but this small woman’s voice seemed to relax him, ease a bit of the tension along his shoulders. He couldn’t remember another soul who calmed him simply by talking. No one, that is, since Mother.
There was a creak behind them and faster than Hugh had thought possible the young woman was up on her feet and sweeping. Footsteps announced that someone had entered the chapel and was walking up toward him. His shoulders tightened once more.
The young woman dropped her head, staring at the floor in front of her, even as she dropped a quick curtsy. “I shall return and finish later,” she muttered. With her hand tight around the broom, she hurried out one of the side doors.
“Pembroke.” A deep male voice greeted him.
Hugh didn’t bother looking over his shoulder; he knew his steward’s voice well enough.
“Your Grace, I received a letter from Sir Roberts.”
Hugh’s head came around at the news. His steward’s expression, however, was dour. Hugh’s own features pressed into a tight scowl.
The man held out a bit of paper. “I’m sorry, Your Grace, but it seems he is still refusing to sell.”
Hugh snatched at the letter, not caring that he crumpled half of it and nearly ripped the paper in the process. He scanned over the written contents. Though the imbecile asked forgiveness at his bluntness, several lines still made Hugh’s teeth grind.
“ . . . believe the tenants may need a gentler, more understanding master . . .”
Of all the nodcock notions.
“ . . . am not sure the sum you proposed would be quite enough . . .”
Ridiculous. Hugh crumpled the letter into a ball. The sum he’d offered for the stretch of land was more than fair. Sir Roberts’s pitiful apologies for not selling belonged in a blazing fire. Since there was not one on hand, Hugh settled for throwing it angrily onto the bench beside him.
Hugh could make more of that land than a weak-willed man like Sir Roberts ever could. It was just sitting there, wild and wasted. He’d only been in company with Sir Roberts a couple of times, and he’d left with the impression the man was reasonable, if not particularly ambitious. After more than a dozen letters between them, Hugh thought significantly less of the man.
“Do you wish me to pen a response, Your Grace?”
Hugh’s lips pressed into a tight line. He had half a notion to pen a response personally—see to it the insipid man understood just how slothful he was being with his land.
He, who had the gall to accuse Hugh of being a surly and hardhearted master, was nothing more than a gudgeon, a shake bag.
Hugh stood and pushed his way past his steward. Taking a moment, he composed himself. He always struggled most to speak when angry.
“I need to think,” he said, striding purposefully toward his greatcoat and jacket. He picked them up and then turned on his heel and headed for the main chapel doors. He passed by his steward on his way out, but the man was wisely silent and allowed Hugh space.
Hugh had first set his sights on Sir Roberts’s westernmost fields over four years ago. He had finally approached the man more than a year and a half past. But, no matter what he offered, Sir Roberts inevitably hesitated. He never once outright refused to sell the land. Indeed, his letters rather made it sound as though, should the right offer be made, he would readily let the land go. It was no secret he had not the funds necessary to turn the land into something profitable.
But Hugh was never the right buyer, it seemed. He didn’t offer enough. He wasn’t in London, and Sir Roberts was disinclined to leave. The man wanted to know the particulars on how Hugh wanted to use the land, supposedly to be sure it wouldn’t adversely affect the adjoining farms Sir Roberts was profiting from.
And now Hugh was benumbed? Unfeeling?
He stepped through the massive doors and out into the cold. It nipped at his face, but Hugh’s frustration burned hot enough in his chest to ward off any dire cold.
What did it matter that he managed his tenants with a firm hand? He’d rather be dragged by a horse than be labeled white-livered or cowardly.
Hugh kicked at a protruding rock in the road. It skittered across the snow and smacked into a young sapling. The little tree shook, and snow fell from its branches, leaving pocks in the white powder on the ground beneath it. This—this—is why he hated people. They were forever complaining. Forever bemoaning that life wasn’t as it should be, and then expecting him to fix it.
Why shouldn’t he pay three times what a piece of land was worth? As a duke, wasn’t it his responsibility to blindly give away all his money?
Why shouldn’t he dance with every debutante pushed his way? Or offer for every contriving matron’s daughter?
Come spring, he had half a mind to take himself to London, propose to every lady of the ton, marry the half too stupid to realize what he was up to, and then give away every ounce of wealth he owned and subject himself, all his new wives, and every one of his many tenants, to poverty. He’d drag down the entire county in the process, too.
That would teach them all a lesson.
A snowball sailed through the air and caught him across the right cheek. Snow sprayed over half his face and down his shirtsleeves.
Hugh stopped.
The bitter sting of ice and snow burned against his cheek and neck. He could feel it slowly melting where it met his skin, changing to frigid water, dripping down his back and chest.
He turned toward the direction the ball had come from. He could see n
o one, but boyish snickers bounced about the trees.
Devil take him, but he hated people.
Hugh wiped a gloved hand over his face, pulling off most of the snow. Turning back the direction he’d been walking, he started once more.
The sound of another snowball colliding with his left shoulder was immediately followed by an icy wet sensation. Hugh whirled around, searching the opposite side of the road. Again, no one could be seen, but the chortles of boys rang clear.
A third snowball, coming from behind, hit his right thigh. That was it. Hugh whirled back around, yelling one swear word after another, making sure that all involved could hear him plain and clear.
Obscenities had always been far easier to utter than other words. It was ironic in the most twisted way; the very words society never wished to hear him speak were the only ones he could say without stumbling and stuttering.
Finally finished with his rant, Hugh stood in the center of the road, heaving. No laughter came this time.
Good.
Hugh returned to crunching through the snow on his way back to Stonewell Castle. Quiet settled in around him, but Hugh felt no peace. It would serve Sir Roberts right if he simply recanted any and all previous offers. Hugh crossed by the large oak tree which denoted entering his own land.
Let the man struggle to see to all his house repairs on his own. If he were too foolish to see a sound and profitable business deal when it was set to him—
The sound of tiny feet behind him grabbed at Hugh’s attention. Apparently, the whelps hadn’t learned their lesson after all; and now they were trespassing. It would seem they needed to see the Silent Duke up close to realize just how utterly foolish crossing him was.
Hugh spun around; he wasn’t about to get another snowball down his shirt. As he turned, his greatcoat and jacket, still hanging over his arm, caught the boy across the chest and sent him tumbling. Hugh looked down at the scrawny boy, splayed out across the ice and snow. A thick stick rested beside him; he must have been intending to either trip Hugh with it, or possibly try hitting him over the head.
He wouldn’t have done a very good job of either, though, for he was clearly quite the weakling. What else could explain the boy being bowled over by only a greatcoat and jacket?
The boy looked up at him with wide eyes. Hugh narrowed his gaze and stepped forward until he was towering over the boy.
“Get out,” Hugh said, his words taut and his tone threatening.
The boy nodded vigorously.
Hugh didn’t bother waiting to see his order obeyed. He turned and continued his path toward home. When he reached his front door, the church house’s spire caught the corner of his eye, drawing Hugh’s gaze that direction. He knew a moment of sharp guilt—the lad had seemed quite a scrawny boy.
The butler opened the door to him, and Hugh shook the feeling off. The sooner the young whelps of the neighborhood learned that Hugh didn’t put up with destructive pranks, the better. People were, inevitably, as horrid as they could get away with.
Hugh moved inside, all too ready to turn his back toward the mischievous boys, short-sighted Sir Roberts, and every other narrow-minded, self-serving individual in all of England.
Chapter Six
Martha picked up the bit of bread, a dull ache pulling at the back of her hand as it wrapped around the food. At least the cracked skin wasn’t as painful now as it had been that first week of work, though a bit of dried blood still showed. She dropped the bread into the basket and then lifted her hand to inspect it.
The cracks were growing quite unseemly. Still, they were starting to heal over a bit. It was a blessing that Mrs. Gale had assigned her fewer jobs that involved dunking one’s hand in icy water these past three days. That five minutes sitting beside the Silent Duke that morning had been an unexpected blessing as well. Unexpected and puzzling. But who could guess what a duke was thinking?
She shook the thought from her head. Nonetheless, so long as she worked at the vicarage, she would have to be careful never to remove her gloves among society or show the true nature of her hands. Unfortunately, she only had one pair left now, thanks to the uncouth Lord Comerford. If he considered the glove he had stolen from her worn, he would consider the ones she still had threadbare.
Well, it wasn’t as though she was among society much anymore. It had been ages since one of their family friends invited any of them to dinner or for a night of cards. She used to have such wonderful times.
Martha shoved her hands inside her gloves. Parties and invitations, all such things were in her past now, and there was no reason to believe they would ever be part of her future.
Picking up the basket of food, she spoke to Peter over her shoulder. “You keep a close watch on that fire. Don’t give it more wood, but don’t let it go out either.”
“All right,” Peter responded, not bothering to look up from his book.
“Tim should be home any minute. Be sure he changes out of any wet clothing.” He’d taken to walking about town, down one lane and then another, frequently crossing by the church while Martha was working. For one who struggled to walk, he seemed to enjoy the activity surprisingly well.
“If I must.”
Martha opened her mouth to demand he at least look up at her before she leave but then hesitated. As Tim had grown more apt to be out walking, Peter had grown more focused. He’d always had a good head for numbers. As of late, the skill had begun to develop into the beginnings of a passion. He would make a good man of business one day, of that, Martha had no doubt.
Content to leave him to his book of ciphers, Martha slipped out of their small rented rooms and into the cold air. She made her way quickly toward Dunwell. If Grandfather had not yet come home, it most likely meant his employer, Mr. Scrooge, was bent on keeping him late once more. While still not a regular occurrence, it was happening far more often recently.
If only she could demand Mr. Scrooge treat Grandfather better. It was cruel and unfeeling to keep such an elderly man at work late into the night while also refusing to up his pay. It was unchristian, to say the least.
She arrived sooner than she’d expected. Her frustration must have driven her to walk quicker than normal. Martha didn’t bother knocking on the fragile door. One of these days, someone would come knocking and the whole door would collapse in a heap of rotten, hole-ridden wood.
Martha stepped inside, not the least bit surprised to find it as cold in Mr. Scrooge’s place of business as it was outside.
“Grandfather,” she called out. “I’ve brought your dinner.” Which she wouldn’t have had to do if Mr. Scrooge would only allow him to retire at a reasonable time each day.
She moved into the room off to her right, but no one was there. Neither was there anyone to her left. Strange. Perhaps they were in one of the back rooms. Though, since Mr. Scrooge’s partner had left, the only thing that had been kept back there were the man’s old records. Martha didn’t know anything about Mr. Scrooge’s previous partner—he’d left before Grandfather had been hired—but even not knowing a bit about who he had been or how he’d been inclined, she didn’t fault him one bit for leaving. Mr. Scrooge was horrid company no matter the day.
“Grandfather?” she called down the hall.
The door opened behind her, and Martha took a couple of quick steps to get out of the way.
“Well, well, my dear, imagine us meeting yet again.”
Martha’s stomach clenched. “Lord Comerford,” she said, struggling to keep her voice even as she curtsied. What was he doing here? The way his eyes roamed over her sent sharp pricks of dread running over her skin. “I had not thought to see you today.”
“No doubt.” He smirked. “But when I saw you walking down the street, I felt it my duty to follow after. Just to bid you good day, of course.”
Martha didn’t know what to say to that. She wished she could bid him the requisite good day and then shove him back out the door. But of a surety, she could not.
Blessed fo
otsteps came from down the hall and Mr. Scrooge appeared. “Blasted waste of time, that was,” he grumbled to himself as he moved back over to his usual desk, not once acknowledging Martha or Lord Comerford.
Grandfather appeared next. “Ah, Martha. What brings you by?”
Martha held up the basket, fully aware of Lord Comerford staring at her the whole time. “I have brought you dinner.”
Mr. Scrooge responded for Grandfather, however. “He hasn’t the time just now. I expect my employees to work during business hours, no matter the inconvenience.” He placed a heavy book atop his desk; it landed with an echoing thump.
Of all the inconsiderate . . . Martha’s hands started to throb once more—apparently she’d begun squeezing the basket handle most tightly.
Grandfather patted Martha’s arm. “Never you worry. Just leave it here, and I’ll eat as soon as we sort this out.” Though he was no doubt exhausted and most probably starving, he looked at her with a bit of joy in his eyes. “We had a most interesting visit this afternoon from one Mr. Radcliff. We are now going through Mr. Marley’s old records one by one to see if we might help him further.”
“Is the man trying to escape debtor’s prison?” Lord Comerford asked. It was rather a skill, Martha supposed, to be able to portray oneself as pompous in a single, short sentence.
Grandfather, however, only appeared to be amused. “Hardly,” he said with a soft laugh. At least Martha knew that her Grandfather found some aspects of his work enjoyable. He had always loved helping people, and he did appreciate the varied society he got to meet while here.
“All conversations with clients are strictly confidential,” Mr. Scrooge ordered. “We will not, either of us, discuss it further.”
Lord Comerford let out a dissatisfied grunt.
Couldn’t the man just take himself off? He only set her teeth on edge. He had no business here, besides. At least, none that she knew of.
Or rather, none that she wished to dwell on. She was getting the distinct impression that he was rather making her his business, and that was one prospect she very much dreaded.
