Sitting at a wobbly table, two older men, obviously farmers, watched him as he entered the room. A very large bartender wiped down one of the tables. Seeing the new customer, the large man made his way to the tap and asked, “What will it be Sir?”
“I’ll take ale, my good man, in fact, one for yourself and the two gentlemen,” Thomas said, placing a silver coin on the bar.
The bar tender’s eyes grew big in surprise. Obviously people weren’t in the habit of buying him drinks, especially people he didn’t know. But that didn’t stop him from quickly drawing four pints, placing one before the gentleman, then delivering the others.
Thomas raised his ale, acknowledging their thanks.
“To whom do we address our thanks, sir?” One of the old men asked?
“Bathurst, the new Duke,” he answered.
Both of the men froze in place, their mouths open in shock; you could have knocked them over with a feather. The old Duke wouldn’t have been found dead in this place and had never bought a drink for another man in his life.
The Inn Keeper was the first to recover; raising his mug he said, “Welcome home, Your Grace.” The others joined him in the toast.
“Thank you,” The new Duke said finishing his ale and then put another silver coin on the bar, more than ten times what he owed. He knew the story would quickly spread that the new Duke was back and had blunt to spare. He turned to leave, then stopped and pulled out a packet of letters.
“Can these be put on a mail coach?” He asked.
“Yes Your Grace, Of course.”
Placing the letters on the bar, he laid another silver coin on top.
“Thank you, gentleman, Good day to you,” he said, nodded, and left.
The village buildings were made of flat field stone and topped by either wood or in a few cases by thatch. They lined either side of the single road, and each seemed to have a small garden or chicken coop behind.
The butcher shop was apparent from the hanging signboard that said simply “Butcher.”
The Duke of Bathurst was overwhelmed by the smell of blood and smoked meat as he entered the small shop. Scenes from a Spanish battlefield flashed into his mind along with the explosions of cannon and the screams of men.
The gore and stink made his inside rumble with rebellion. One of the benefits of being a Duke he thought as he pulled himself back to reality would be avoiding this place in the future.
“Are you the butcher?” he asked the small man wrestling a boars head to the table.
The man looked at his new customer. “Yes,” he answered hesitantly.
“I wish to take care of the bill for Brookshire.”
The butcher was obviously surprised but quick to recover. Wiping his hands on his bloody apron; he grabbed a large book off a shelf.
“I see the new Duke finally decided to take care of his responsibilities.”
The sanctimonious attitude bothered Thomas. Taking out two gold crowns from his pocket he tossed them onto the book.
“I assume that’ll cover the bill? With enough left over to cover anything that Cook will need.”
The look of incredulity on the butcher’s face was priceless.
“Please send up some hams and sausages to the Lion’s Den and put them into my wagon.” He turned to leave.
“Who should I said paid,” the butcher said, “For the book you know.”
“Bathurst,” he said with disdain as he left. He didn’t even bother to see the shocked face of the butcher.
Visiting each of the merchants he ensured all bills were taken care of and enough left to cover future needs. At least until he could get a business agent and or secretary to handle these types of things.
Once the merchants were done, he stopped at the church and introduced himself to the vicar. Surprised to find someone so young and intelligent. His experience with vicars, while not extensive, had run to the old and stern variety. Not someone who looked like he should still be in school.
Seeing his reaction, the vicar held out his hand, “Mr. Moore, Your Grace. And yes I am the vicar and not a choir boy” he said with a smile.
“Mr. Moore, I see the news of my arrival to Brookshire has spread.”
“Yes, Your Grace. Tom Hollis is our version of the town crier. You had no sooner left the ‘Lion’s Den’ than the word spread quicker than the plague. I can only wish I had such a rapt audience on Sunday. Your arrival is probably the biggest news since the old Duke passed. I must say, you have created quite a stir. It is not every day that we see a Duke driving his own wagon into town.”
Thomas laughed. “It seems that I have found the Brookshire staff a little short at the moment. “
The two men spent a few minutes getting acquainted. Liking the man, he invited the Vicar to dinner on the coming Saturday. That would give his diminished staff enough time to get things into working order.
Mr. Moore said that he looked forward to seeing him in church on Sunday. Thomas cringed inside. Church was a waste of time, something he no longer had. A man was going to either Heaven or Hell based upon his actions throughout the week, not because he attended a meeting on Sunday.
He knew the importance of appearances, however. So he reluctantly confirmed he’d be there on Sunday, knowing it would give everyone in the village an opportunity to see the new Duke.
Most of these people had never traveled out of the district. Their entire lives revolved around this village, their families and Brookshire were forever entangled.
To a large extent, the congregation would be made up of either his tenants or merchants whose livelihood relied upon him and his tenants. They’d want to see him and try to determine what impact he’d be having upon their village. Another of those responsibilities that were beginning to feel like an anvil tied around his neck.
He bade the Vicar farewell and made his way back through the village retrieving the loaded wagon from the inn and pulling out onto the road back to Brookshire. He’d made sure to purchase something from each of the merchants, including some dress fabric from the milliner. What he was going to do with dress fabric he had no idea, but it was important that each of the shops had benefited from his arrival.
Of course, the fact that the cloth was the same color as Miss Harding’s eyes had no impact on his decision. None what so ever.
Retrieving the wagon, he started the horse back up the long hill to Brookshire. He’d only traveled a few hundred yards when he saw the woman filling his thoughts walking down the middle of the road, carrying an empty basket and looking at the dusty path lost in thought. He pulled up the horse and waited for her to notice his presence.
“Hello Miss Harding”
She looked up surprised. “Your Grace,” she said and curtsied. Her eyes had grown big as a pretty flush touched her cheeks.
“What are you doing here? Running away already?” he teased.
“Hoping to talk the butcher into providing your dinner,” she answered, and then remembering who she was talking too, blushed.
He smiled and pointed to the back of the wagon, “I believe this will take care of dinner, and much more.” He studied her for a moment; she was so innocent, purity in motion. The walk had placed a tantalizing rosy glow to her cheeks, and those striking eyes were alight. Lighter in color today, almost mirroring the crisp blue sky above.
“Would you like a ride back to Brookshire?”
The gentlemanly thing to do would be to jump down and help her into the wagon. His leg cringed in anticipation of the effort of getting down and then back up into the wagon.
Before he could act she was up on the vehicle, smoothing out her dress as she sat on the bench seat of the wagon. She looked over at him with a raised eyebrow as if asking what? You expected a helpless female, didn’t you?
Shaking his head, he flicked the reins. How does a Duke talk to a woman like her he wondered? A servant but so much more. Why even bother. Because you want to impress her you idiot. While that was definitely true, it was also very true tha
t he’d just scare her away.
A woman like this had probably been fighting against unwanted advances from her employers for years. The last thing she needed was to be bothered by another boorish oaf pestering her with attention. But God, it was hard not to.
Has there ever been such a beautiful, innocent woman, someone so full of life? Just looking at her made him want to smile. Thoughts of bloody battlefields and Ducal responsibilities melted away.
A strong desire to know everything about her washed through him. What is she doing here, where’d she come from, and what did she think of Brookshire? What did she think of him?
“Nice weather isn’t it,” he said, God, how inane.
“Yes, Your Grace. It is very pleasant.”
Why is it, when one of his young soldiers called him sir, it affirmed that he was in charge. However, when this pretty young woman called him Your Grace, it just made him feel old and decrepit.
This is preposterous. He’d faced canons and bayonet charges. He’d led tough, grizzled veterans against an experienced and terrifying enemy. Nothing should trouble him, yet he felt out of place. He didn’t know the rules, didn’t know what was expected of him.
Let’s be honest, he thought, he knew what was expected, and he knew the rules, he just didn’t like them.
Focus on making Brookshire and all of his holding successful he thought. Remember you have thousands of tenants and hundreds of retainers depending upon your actions.
The silence between them returned, not as tense or unnerving as before, but still there between them like a dead fish on the parlor floor.
The horse slowly made its way up the narrow path. Normally Thomas would have been getting impatient with the plodding pace. There were too many things that needed to get done, too many problems that needed to be solved. He shouldn’t be wasting time like this. But he smiled to himself, he was enjoying the drive, there was something about sitting next to a pretty girl who smelled of lilacs and roses. It just seemed to comfort him.
“I need to stop at a tenant’s farm, I believe we turn to the left up ahead, and they are just down a short way,” he said. “It shouldn’t be more than a few minutes. I do hope that won’t be a problem.” Again, why was he explaining himself to a servant! But then you don’t see her as a servant, do you Thomas.
He turned down the road and a few minutes later brought the wagon to a halt in front of a small cottage. He steeled himself for what he must do.
It was important to be strict he reminded himself. He couldn’t afford people thinking they could get one over on the new Duke, and the Rifes had been getting one over for years. It was better for everyone to know that he had high standards. He could always relax later, but under no circumstances could people ignore their rents, the whole system was dependent upon them.
If they didn’t pay their rents then merchants and taxes went unpaid. The whole country would fall apart.
He quickly observed some problems with the small farm. The fields should have been planted by now. He didn’t know a lot about farming, but there should have been a crop in the ground, wheat, oats, something.
Where were the farm animals, pigs, chickens, those types of things? The small cottage looked lived in, the shutters were open, and a curtain moved in the breeze. A young woman opened the cottage door and tentatively stepped out, followed by a boy of eight or nine and finally by an older girl of twelve. They were all rather thin with sharp, frightened looks about them.
“Mrs. Rife?” he asked.
“Yes, Sir.”
“Is Mr. Rife about,” he said as he scanned the distant fields. She looks older than she should, he thought. Appearing to be about twenty-eight, maybe thirty with deep wrinkles about the eyes, worn hands and a hard set to her pale lips.
“My Billy was killed at the Battle of Sourauren three years ago” She said, as she pulled her children closer. “Are you from Brookshire? If you are, I ain’t got your rent. And if you be kicking us out we don’t be having anywhere to go.” Looking him square in the eye, she dared him to ruin her life and all those she held dear.
He looked around the farm yard, confirming his earlier impression, then looking at the woman and her children. Another soldier lost; each death had impacted so much.
The next time you want to whine and complain about doing the books or all the correspondence you have to finish, remember this woman. Trying desperately to keep her family together, unable to properly feed them, let alone make enough for the rents.
So much for being strict about these matters.
“My good lady,” he said with a smile. “Please allow me to introduce myself, I am Bathurst, the new Duke, and no, we are not here for the rents, at least not today.”
A change in plans but a soldier must always be ready to improvise. Her shoulders slumped in relief as a small tear glistening at the corner of her eye.
“It seems the old Duke left instructions in his will that certain of his tenants be given a bag of flour and a smoked ham.”
Her face turned to shock and elation and then looked at him a little skeptically. She knew the old Duke had never given anyone anything. Obviously deciding not to question it, she let him continue with the charade.
He gingerly climbed down, retrieving a twenty-pound bag of flour, he threw it onto his left shoulder trying to avoid the extra weight on his right knee. He then reached in and grabbed the ham. “Should I put them inside?” He asked.
Still in shock, she didn’t seem to hear his question. The young boy, however, being more nimble, and very afraid of losing this food, quickly jumped forward.
“This way Sir, I mean Your Grace,” he said as he led him into the farmhouse. They were followed by the family and Miss Harding, who had jumped down without assistance and introduced herself to the widow Rife.
Looking around the one-room farmhouse he saw a bed on the far side, an old table in the middle of the room, a small fireplace and crude chimney on the opposite side. A stone floor and wood roof, one door and two glassless windows with roughhewn wood shutters to keep out the cold. Is this typical of his tenants he wondered? He tried to remember if he’d ever visited a tenant farmer before.
His stomach tightened as he realized that in a few days the ham would be gone, and these people would be back to scraping by.
As the Lord of the Manor, it was his responsibility to make sure these people could ‘make it’. That they didn’t starve, that they were taken care of. But how do you do that he wondered. It was obvious that to make a farm work, you needed a man for the heavy work; the boy just wasn’t old enough.
They didn’t even have a pony for the plow. Could he have someone else over to prepare the fields he wondered? Who could he get? This is why he needed an agent. Someone to handle these details, someone who knew what was possible.
Were problems like this occurring on all his lands? What was he not dealing with because he wasn’t aware?
Taking one last look around, he realized that he’d gathered all the information he needed.
“Mrs. Rife, it was a pleasure meeting you and your family, but we must be going. You could do me a favor though and spread the word. We are looking to take on additional staff at Brookshire. I know Cook needs a scullery maid, and my stable master could use a strong lad,” he said, looking at the two children and regretting that they would have to start working at such a young age.
“Additionally we will need household maids and footmen, if you know of anyone who might be interested, please send them up to see Miss Harding here.”
The boy’s eyes got very big; he looked pleadingly at his momma but kept quiet.
“Thank you, Your Grace, I will spread the word,” Mrs. Rife said as she curtsied.
Later, sitting in the wagon, Mrs. Harding asked with a slight smile, “Are there any other tenants the old Duke mentioned in his will?”
His Grace just grunted and focused on the road.
Chapter Four
Gwen spent the morning organizing the five new maids
that had applied for positions, all of them from the village or neighboring farms. Cook had two new assistants, Mrs. Rife and her daughter, helping in the kitchen. Young Billy was now working in the stables. The huge house was becoming a beehive of activity again, drapes being taken down for cleaning, floors being scrubbed, and brass being polished.
Gwen was so busy that she didn’t see the Duke all day. A little bit of her soul missed it. She wished with all of her heart that they could go for another wagon ride.
She was upstairs counting linen when a young maid informed her that a visitor had arrived, and Freddy didn’t know what to do.
Gwen’s heart dropped, were they here for her, had they found her? Her heart began to race, and her breath grew short. Taking a moment, she gathered herself as she wondered if she’d always react this way when someone unknown visited Brookshire.
Mumbling under her breath, she walked downstairs, stopping on the second landing to peek over the railing to get a look.
A large barrel chested man stared down at poor Freddy like he was an ugly bug in need of squashing. The man was completely bald with a large bushy mustache. His black coat was stretched too tightly across wide shoulders and a very stiff back. He looked out of place. Put a fur cap on him and he could be a Cossack, she thought.
Gwen approached and asked if she may be of assistance.
“He keeps asking for the Major, and I keep telling him there ain’t no Major here,” Freddy said.
“Isn’t here,” Gwen corrected absently while looking at the strange man. “Who may I say is calling?” She asked, attempting to sound officious while desperately trying to remember how Mr. Evans did it on those rare occasions they had visitors.
The stranger seemed to relax, finally someone who knew what was what. Drawing himself up, he said, “My apologies, please inform the Ma… I’m sorry, His Grace the Duke, that Sergeant Major Bowen desires an audience.”
Gwen’s finger unclenched from the fists she’d buried in the folds of her dress.
The Reluctant Duke (Love's Pride Book 1) Page 3
