"Has he finished his Latin?" Will demanded.
Mr. Franklin startled. He had not seen Will, and obviously wasn't happy to see him now. The man had avoided every effort Will made to inspect the boy's studies. The toady would rather court the duchess's approval than educate my nephew properly.
"Today's lesson went well," the man replied stiffly, eyes on the duchess.
"Latin!" Sylvia mocked. "Poor boy. Come here, my darling, and comfort your mother." She pulled an obviously reluctant Charles into her arms. When he pulled back, she pushed a book into his hands. "Read to me, my sweet."
Charles looked at it with distaste. Will put an arm around his shoulder. The book contained poetry of the sloppiest, most sentimental kind. "What were you studying?" Will asked the boy.
"We just started the English Civil War, Chadbourn," the boy said sadly, a note of longing clear in his voice.
The earl's lips tipped up. Any red-blooded boy would rather learn about war than read inane poetry. Perhaps there is hope for him yet.
"Uncle Will," he corrected, not for the first time. "When your mother sleeps, come and look for me in the estate office."
"Yes, Uncle Will," the boy said meekly.
"What do you want with my son?" Sylvia demanded.
"Did you know there are two boys close to his age living nearby? I thought Charles might—
"Unthinkable! We do not go there." Sylvia said, chin up. "Emery forbade it. They are not people we wish to know."
'You can't be. They never come here' The one named Freddy said. Will remembered the boy's insistence on it, and the woman—Catherine—reminding him of his manners. Interesting.
"Why did Emery object?" he asked.
"He didn't wish us to see his…" Sylvia paused, glancing at Charles. "It is not to be discussed."
She patted a spot next to her on the chaise and pulled Charles forward. The boy threw one last glance at Will and, with the look of a prisoner going to his fate, began to read.
She may not want to tell me why the neighbors are ignored, but I'll find out sooner or later, Will thought. He left quietly.
***
Charles knocked on the estate office door soon after, as requested. "You wanted to see me, sir?" he asked.
Will exchanged a few words with the boy about his studies, encouraging his interest in history. When he ordered Charles to the stables, however, panic filled the boy's eyes.
"I can't!"
"We've discussed this. A young man of your station must ride. We'll take it in stages. I know you can do this." Will had waited two months since the boy's father's funeral. Enough was enough.
Moments later, Reilly, Eversham Hall's head groom, led out the gentle mare Will had chosen for the boy's lesson. Charles backed away sharply, as soon as the horse came near. He knocked a rail off the fence, and caused the horse to rear up.
Terror gripped Will at the sight of pounding hooves. He dove forward and pulled his nephew out of harm's way. "Think before you act, for God's sake!" he shouted. "That horse could have squashed you like a bug."
"I—"the boy choked out.
"What were you thinking?" Will demanded, gripping the boy's arms with two hands.
"Thinking? The beast did not behave as he ought, Chadbourn," the boy said. His voice quivered.
"Don't blame the horse for your careless behavior."
"They are foul beasts, no matter what you say!" The pale face looked ready to crumple.
He's waiting for me to give him a verbal lashing—or worse, Will thought. He dropped his hands. "I'm not angry with you, Charles," he said, when he had control of his voice. "I'm sorry I shouted. Fear made me cry out."
"Horses don't like me," the boy blurted, in a voice that just missed being a whine.
"Nonsense!" Will squeezed his eyes shut. It isn't his fault. "You lack experience, that's all." And this episode will not help.
"But His Grace, my father, said—"
"He said a great many things that were less than correct, Charles. We've talked about that."
The boy nodded but didn't look convinced. In the end, the lesson was postponed for another day, so horse, rider, and uncle could calm down.
Charles bolted toward the house. The earl ran his hand through his hair and pounded the fence rail in frustration. The sound of a throat being cleared caught his attention.
"Respectfully, my lord, you might be wanting to know about the boy and horses," Reilly said, pulling his forelock.
"Tell me," the earl said curtly. He took a deep breath and tried again. "Tell me, please. I will be grateful for anything that may help."
"Th' boy took a bad spill when he were a wee lad."
"Go on."
"T'ain't my place to say, but the mount His Grace chose may have been a bit too large and spirited for one that small."
"How small was he?"
"It were his third summer, my lord."
"What did His Grace do when he fell?" Will asked, with a sinking heart.
The groom looked uneasy. He rubbed a line in the dirt with his toe.
"Don't hold back now. I need to know. His Grace is gone."
"Shouted at the boy. Told him a duke's son did not fall. Told him—"
"I see," the earl said through clenched teeth. "Did he try again?"
"Once more that summer, but the lad raised a fuss. Terrified, he was. His Grace had him…" The groom looked away.
"Flogged?"
"I heard caned, but I don't know myself."
"Did he try again?"
"Every summer."
"No success?"
"Got him around the stable yard once or twice. Boy's fear made the horses skittish. Horses made the boy worse."
"Let me guess, the horses were not well chosen, and the duke blamed the boy."
The groom looked down. "I'll be getting back to work," he said.
Will felt sick. He had failed Charles, too. It had taken him too long to realize that Emery kept his family isolated, and why. The duke and duchess attended Will and Sylvia's father's funeral, but left quickly afterward. Her responses to Will's letters were stiff and infrequent. Overwhelmed by his new title and responsibilities, Will had bowed to his brother-in-law's wishes.
He should have known better. Abusers cover their crimes in secrecy. Eventually, he suspected Emery censored Sylvia's mail, but the man died before he could investigate. Only then did the full measure of damage become clear.
His mind went to Songbird Cottage and the boys there. Young Freddy approached Mercury, a huge, spirited stallion, with confidence, skill, and no fear. Once again, the idea arose that the boys at Songbird Cottage might be good for Charles.
Still, Sylvia's veiled comments about those who lived there stood in the way. It would be like Emery to establish a mistress next door. That's what Sylvia hinted. He certainly had more than one in town. The woman, Catherine, didn't look the part, however. Could those boys be hers? She would have been awfully young, but then, Emery always did like them young.
He walked back to the hall. Perhaps I should investigate. If the boys are Emery's, the estate bears some responsibility for them. A thought made his heart stutter. The boys could be Charles's brothers! The thought of investigating cheered him. Songbird Cottage would certainly be more entertaining than the rest of the messes he had to clean up.
Besides, I have to find a decent steward, he thought. Better than decent. My own land is calling me home, and Sylvia can't oversee this mess. He could ask about local candidates at Songbird Cottage. It was reason enough to visit. That thought was enough to get him up early with a smile on his face the next day. Perhaps I can see how the animal nativity has progressed, he thought with a grin.
Chapter Three
Catherine hummed to herself as she walked around the barn from the chicken coop. She looked over the numbers on her notes as she did. If production continued at this pace, the egg money alone might provide sufficient cash to see them through winter. If the hens stay healthy. If the foxes stay away. If—
>
A big bay hunter trotted down the lane, slowed to a walk, and stopped. The curious earl is back.
A flash of vanity made her wonder if she might pop up the rear stairs and change from her work clothes before she was noticed. The earl looked up and nodded in greeting. He glanced at the door and back at Catherine, as if deciding whether to greet her or knock.
Too late. He can take me as I am.
She strode over and curtseyed to their guest. "What may I do for you, my lord?"
"I thought to pay a call on your father, Miss—" he said.
"Welcome, then. Excuse our informality." She opened the door and brought him in. In a well-run household, a servant would meet him at the door, she thought. She wouldn't apologize that their one cook/housekeeper had gone into the village this day. He'll have to take all of us as we are.
As if in response to her thoughts, footsteps pounded down from the upper story.
"There's a horse out front, Cath. The earl is back!" Freddy shouted, before he noticed their guest and skidded to a stop. The look on Catherine's face was enough to make him recall his manners.
"Oh, sorry, Lord Chadbourn," he said, sketching a tolerably correct bow. Randy, who followed behind him, did the same.
"Welcome, my lord," Randy said, just before his brother burst out with, "May I see to your horse?"
Freddy looked desperately eager. The earl looked disconcerted.
Of course he doesn't want boys handling his cattle. It isn't as if we have stables.
"His Lordship has come to visit Papa. You young men are meant to be at your numbers. Off with you."
Randy smiled at the earl and started up the stairs, watching over his shoulder. Freddy looked as if he meant to argue.
"Perhaps another time," Chadbourn said. "I will be in the neighborhood at least until the New Year."
Freddy looked thoughtful. Before he could wheedle, the earl went on, "Of course, that assumes your studies are as they should be."
"Yes, sir," Freddy said. He plodded after his brother.
"Charming boys."
Catherine tipped her head. Did he mean that as a compliment? She couldn't tell. "This way, my lord."
When they turned in the narrow hallway, the earl's arm brushed hers, sending a jolt of electricity through her. She prayed he didn't notice and focused on the door to the sunny room her father had appropriated for his studies.
She knocked softly but didn't wait for an answer. The door opened to the south-facing breakfast room, lined with windows, their drapery pulled back for maximum light. It was, she noticed, as cluttered as ever. She leaned over with a sigh and picked up papers that had fallen off the wide worktable in the center of the room.
"Papa, we have a visitor." "She looked at the papers in her hand and restored them to the correct pile.
Her father sat hunched over the table, pen in hand. He bobbed his head up. "Visitor? It's Thursday, Catherine."
"The Earl of Chadbourn, Papa. Your Lordship, may I make known to you Lord Arthur Wheatly."
***
Wheatly? Good Lord!
The old man rose to his feet, cast a cautious eye at Will, and bowed. "Chadbourn. Of course. You were at the funeral."
Manners failed the earl. Who is this man? "Lord Arthur" would make him the younger son of a marquess at least—or a duke. Good Lord! Charles's estate might bear some responsibility for this family, but I'm damned if I know what it is.
"I—" The earl couldn't articulate a single question from the dozen in his head. He turned to Catherine.
"And you are?"
"She's m'daughter," Wheatly snapped. Of course she is.
"Miss Wheatly," the earl said, bowing, "We met before, but I missed your surname during our encounter with the pigs."
"Pigs, Catherine?" Wheatly sputtered. "What nonsense is that?"
Catherine colored deeply. Will followed the rosy glow from her cheek down her neck with his eyes, and imagined how far down that blush might go. He forced that unproductive line of thought from his mind. There was a mystery here, and he meant to solve it.
"The funeral, Wheatly? What do you mean?"
"Emery's, o'course. I saw you there with the boy and his mother."
"You went to the duke's funeral, Father?" Catherine looked astonished.
"Slipped in the back when everyone's attention was up front. Hadn't spoken to the bast—uh, the duke, in twenty years, but it seemed right."
Will's head spun. He called the duke by his given name. "I can't help but notice the family name. May I ask your relationship to the duke?"
"None I want to claim, and none you need to know," the old man growled. "Is there a purpose to this call?" The set of his jaw made it clear the subject was closed.
"The earl admired our fences, Father. I believe he came to pay his respects." Catherine's voice took on a soothing tone, while Will tried to recall his excuse for calling.
"Fences?" Lord Arthur waved his hand dismissively. "MacLeish takes care of that. Far too busy with my studies to be bothered by such nonsense."
"MacLeish?" Will asked.
"Our man-of-all-work," Catherine explained. She looked jittery. "Why don't you show your work to the earl, Father." She looked desperate to change the subject.
Wheatly launched easily into his obsession.
"Birds, Chadbourn. England is blessed with 'em." He held up a stack of drawings. The subject had been neatly changed, and good manners prevented Will from probing. "I'm finishing the text for my next work. Birds of the English Farm and Fields this time."
"This time?"
Catherine smiled and showed him a shelf next to the mantelpiece. Five well-bound volumes in brown leather, a foot high each, had pride of place. Will could see Birds of English Marsh and Wetlands and Birds of English Woods and Brush neatly lettered on two of them.
"Impressive, sir."
"Mr. Porter will be wanting this one soon enough," Wheatly said.
"You have until after Christmas, Father," Catherine put in. "At least six weeks."
The old man suddenly pulled one sketch from the pile Catherine had laid on his desk. "This one isn't right," he murmured.
Will looked at the watercolor of a black-and-white bird perched on a leafy branch. He didn't know birds, but the painting looked exquisite to his untrained eye. "It's lovely work," he said.
"Wagtail wing bars aren't so wide. And look. Catherine painted his head cocked downward. They don't sit that way. Point their beaks up like some snooty duchess. Has to be right for Porter."
Catherine took the painting with a sigh. "I'll redo it. Mr. Porter wouldn't know the difference or care, but you will. I'll get to it tonight after supper."
Chadbourn frowned. Miss Wheatley looks weary. Does nothing happen here without her competent touch? She is nervous, too. My presence makes her jumpy. I need to cut this strange visit short.
"If I may interrupt, Wheatly, the reason I came was to ask for advice."
Two pairs of wide eyes turned to him.
"Eversham Hall is without a steward. I fired the man for incompetence."
"Excellent!" Catherine exclaimed. "Barker about ruined the land."
"Nasty, too," Wheatly scowled. "Th'duke's creature."
Will wondered what dealings Songbird Cottage had with the rotten steward, but didn't voice the question. "However, that leaves my nephew's estate without a steward. I need someone trustworthy and skilled enough to oversee the restoration of the estate, someone whom I can trust. I can't stay here forever. I hoped you might know someone, Wheatly. It would be best if the man knew local conditions."
The old man looked baffled and confused. Will realized his mistake. He had asked the wrong Wheatly. He looked at Catherine, who appeared lost in thought.
"Have you spoken with Squire Archer?" she asked. "He owns a small estate several miles above Wheatton. His nephew, John Archer, manages it. He's young, and Eversham would be a challenge, but he has the skills. He understands the land. You would do well to speak to him. The Squire wo
uldn't stand in the way of John improving himself."
Her comments confirmed Will's suspicions about the source of Songbird Cottage's order and well-managed operation. His other suspicions about the estate's obligations toward this household would have to wait until he had more information. Clearly, that wouldn't come from Lord Arthur.
"Thank you, Miss Wheatly. I will call on Squire Adams as soon as I am able. Can you see me out?"
He took his leave of Lord Arthur Wheatly, convinced that he looked relieved to have him gone, and followed his hostess to the door.
"Your sketches and watercolors are superb."
His words must have startled her. When she stumbled on the carpet in the hall, Will reached out to steady her, with one hand to her waist and the other to her wrist. He could feel the rapid beat of her pulse under his hand. Ah, Miss Wheatly. Your heartbeat is as rapid as mine. He smiled down at her.
A man could get lost in Catherine Wheatly's eyes. Will realized he was grinning like a fool and tried to rein himself in.
"Does your John Archer have a passion for the land?" he asked. It occurred to him belatedly that she might have a sweetheart.
"Johnny? I would say so, yes. He took his uncle's fields in hand when he reached seventeen, and now they are among the most productive in the county. Soon, they may be almost as productive as mine."
Mine. Any doubt Will may have harbored about her farm management disappeared. She had recommended the second-best land steward in the county to him. What would she say if he offered her the position?
"What's so funny?" she asked, gesturing him to the open door.
"I was thinking about the boys," he lied. "Your brothers are a delight."
"Do you think so?" She sounded relieved, as if she had feared otherwise.
"High spirited, as boys ought to be, but respectful and disciplined. They are fine youngsters. I am hoping you will allow them to visit Charles."
"The duke? At Eversham Hall?" She said the words as speaking the name of Hell itself.
"Why not?"
"We're not welcome there."
"My dear Miss Wheatly, the old regime is gone. The less said about the former steward the better, and my brother-in-law. . ." He let his words trail off. Had she been afraid of Emery? The thought that the late duke may have forced himself on this woman brought bile to his throat.
A Dangerous Nativity Page 2
