A Fine Passion

by Stephanie Laurens

  She continued to meet his aggravated hazel gaze. Irritation—very male, highly charged—poured from him.

  “And now, after an entire day of hearing just how busy you’ve been over the years I’ve been away, I discover you consulting over structural alterations to the inn.”

  He paused, his gaze pinning her. “It may interest you to know that I own the inn.” His tone was cutting. “No changes should be made without my express approval—”

  “Indeed.” She kept her tone even; if they both lost their tempers, there would be hell to pay. “And if you had let me finish what I was saying to Jed, you would have heard me tell him that as the manor owned the inn, before he made any alterations to the fabric he should seek the estate’s permission, and as you were now home, he should approach you directly.”

  He shut his lips. But there was no taking back what he’d already said. Already revealed. They both knew it.

  She wondered what he would do. Their gazes remained locked, but she couldn’t read what passed behind the hard agate of his eyes.

  Eventually, he drew in a huge breath; his chest swelled, his long fingers uncurled, releasing her hand, but the dangerous tension riding him abated not one jot.

  “Lady Clarice.” His accents were still clipped, his tone still cutting. “I would greatly appreciate it if henceforth, should any of my people approach you for assistance on any subject that falls within Avening Manor’s purlieu, you would refer them directly to me.”

  Before he could add anything further, she nodded, as abrupt and curt as he. “As you wish, Lord Warnefleet.”

  He blinked. Lifting her head, she grasped the moment to add, “I’m sorry that my advising your people has discomposed you. In my defence, their need was real, you weren’t here, but I was. For seven years, that was the case—asking me has become their habit. It will, necessarily, take some time for them to realize that you are now here for them to approach. I fear I cannot pretend to any regret that I helped them, however, I can assure you that I will from now on refer all their requests to you.”

  With her most regal nod, she turned away. “I bid you good day, Lord Warnefleet.”

  She took two steps, then stopped. Head rising, she asked without turning, “Incidentally, did you discover any instance in which my advice to your people caused any detriment of any kind to them or to the estate?”

  After a moment, he replied, “No.”

  She nodded, lips twisting. “Just so.”

  Without glancing back, she walked calmly to the lane, and then around the inn.

  Jack stood in the orchard, under the blasted apple blossom, and watched her go. Watched her walk away, her spine stiff, her movements gracefully controlled, yet somehow screaming of injury.

  But he’d done the right thing. He was home now, there for his people to consult. Their dependency on her had to stop, and there was realistically only one way to achieve that….

  He exhaled; hands rising to his hips, he looked up at the clouds of pink and white blossoms, and inwardly swore. Perhaps he should have been more tactful. Perhaps he shouldn’t have lost…he wasn’t even sure it was his temper that had driven him, rather than something more primitive, some form of territorial imperative.

  Regardless, he’d been within his rights, yet…he was sorry to see the back of her like that, walking away from him.

  Sorry to have her faintly contemptuous, definitely cold “Lord Warnefleet” ringing in his ears.

  He’d definitely done the right thing. Jack repeated that refrain as, after breakfast the next day, he settled in his study to go over the projected accounts. He was adding figures when Howlett tapped on the door.

  Jack looked up as Howlett entered, carefully closing the door behind him.

  “My lord.” Howlett looked confused. “Mrs. Swithins is here—she wishes to discuss the roster for supplying the church flowers.”

  Jack looked blank.

  Howlett hurried on, “Lady Clarice usually—”

  “No, no.” Jack laid down his pen. “Show Mrs. Swithins in.”

  Howlett looked uncertain, but did. Mrs. Swithins proved to be a large, regrettably hatchet-faced lady dressed in a style both more severe and more formal than generally favored by country ladies of her station. Her woollen coat had a fur collar; her poke bonnet was anchored by a wide ribbon tied in a large bow beneath her second chin.

  Rising, Jack smiled his charming smile, rapidly revising his guess of who Mrs. Swithins was. He’d heard James’s new curate, whom he’d yet to meet, was a Mr. Swithins; Jack had assumed Mrs. Swithins to be the curate’s wife. This woman, however, had to be Swithins’s mother.

  “Mrs. Swithins.” He waved her to a chair.

  “Lord Warnefleet.” She bobbed a curtsy and swept forward to perch, spine rigid, on the edge of the chair. “I’m exceedingly glad to see you returned, sir, hale and whole and prepared to take up the duties that are rightfully yours.”

  She smiled up at him, but the gesture failed to soften her stony eyes. Jack wondered why hearing her declare his state perfectly accurately made him want to deny it, or at least equivocate.

  “I understand you have some questions about some roster for the church.” Resuming his seat, Jack assumed a wryly apologetic expression guaranteed to gain the sympathy of the most hard-hearted. “I’m afraid you have the advantage of me. Having just returned, I’m unaware of just what roster you’re referring to.”

  “Well!” Mrs. Swithins’s bosom swelled impressively. “I can assist you there. It’s the supply of the flowers for the Sunday and Wednesday services.”

  Jack sat back and listened as Mrs. Swithins described the roster that Clarice had set in train, which had Mrs. Swithins supplying the flowers for every second Sunday, and the alternate Wednesdays.

  “It would simplify matters considerably, my lord, if the roster was reorganized so that I supplied the floral arrangements for each Sunday, and the others between them took care of every Wednesday.” Mrs. Swithins paused, eyeing him, then added, “So much easier for all of us not to have to try and remember which week is which.”

  Jack raised his brows. “That seems reasonable enough.” A tiny voice whispered that Clarice wouldn’t have instituted a complicated roster if a simple one would have sufficed; he ignored it and leaned forward. “I see no reason not to re-vamp the roster as you suggest. Now.” He drew a sheet of paper to him. “Who are the other ladies involved?”

  Mrs. Swithins beamed. “Oh, you don’t need to bother informing them, my lord.” She all but preened as she stood. “I’ll be happy to spread the word.”

  Instinct flared, combining with that tiny voice to niggle; rising to see Mrs. Swithins out, Jack quashed both. It was only the church flowers, for heaven’s sake, hardly a matter of life and death.

  With Mrs. Swithins gone, clearly delighted with her first encounter with the new Lord Warnefleet, he settled into his chair once more and returned to his projections.

  He was still wrestling with his crop returns—there was some element contributing to the past years’ progressively increasing totals that he couldn’t identify—when Howlett looked in to announce luncheon.

  Jack rose and stretched, inwardly savoring the sense of sinking back into the deeply familiar but long-denied regimen of country life. Following Howlett from the study, he reached the front hall just as the doorbell pealed.

  And pealed.

  Howlett hurried to open the front door. Curious, Jack followed.

  “I want to see his lordship!” an agitated female voice demanded. “It’s important, Howlett!”

  Jack hung back, screened by the door. There was an incipient catch in the young woman’s voice that sent a shudder through him. Tearful scenes had never been his forte.

  “What’s it about, Betsy?” Howlett sounded concerned, kindly and soothing.

  “The church flowers!” Betsy wailed. “That old bat Swithins said as how his lordship had ‘quite agreed with her’ that she should do all the Sundays! It’s not fair—how co
uld he give them all to her?”

  Jack blinked. Howlett slid him a sidelong, questioning—clearly lost—glance.

  Jack reminded himself he was a battle-hardened warrior. Mentally girding his loins, he stepped around Howlett, into the doorway.

  Betsy saw him. She bobbed a quick curtsy. “My lord, I—”

  “Come inside, Betsy.” Jack smiled his practiced smile and hoped charming the innkeeper’s wife would work. “I understand there’s some problem about the church flowers. I don’t quite follow—why don’t you come in and explain it to me?”

  Betsy eyed him rather warily, but nodded and followed him in. Jack showed her into the study, where she sat perched, rather more nervously, in the same chair Mrs. Swithins had earlier occupied.

  Jack had just resumed his seat behind the desk when Howlett tapped and looked in again. “Mrs. Candlewick and Martha Skegs are coming up the drive, my lord.”

  Mrs. Candlewick was the cooper’s wife, and Martha helped in the inn.

  Some of Betsy’s confidence returned. “They’ll be here ’bout the flowers, same as me. Swithins must have been real quick to find them to gloat.”

  Jack inwardly sighed; he looked at Howlett. “Show the good ladies in.”

  Howlett did, but rather than aiding in clarifying the situation, listening to three females simultaneously bewail the forwardness—the most complimentary term they used for what they saw as Mrs. Swithins’s encroaching on their rights and privileges—of the curate’s mother left Jack ready to pull out his hair.

  His head was throbbing when he held up a hand, silencing the diatribe. “Ladies, I fear my decision on the roster earlier today was based on insufficient information.” His jaw set as he recalled how Mrs. Swithins had presented her case without any mention of the wishes of others. “I’ll revisit that decision, but first I want to consult with others to make sure that what I decide is fair to all.” To make sure he didn’t commit some other unwitting faux pas.

  All three women appeared mollified by his pronouncement. They nodded in acceptance, their color still high but their agitation subsiding.

  Rapidly canvassing his options, he asked, “Under the previous roster, who would do the flowers this coming Sunday?”

  The three exchanged glances. “Her,” Betsy said. “Swithins.”

  Jack nodded. “So there’s no real change, regardless of which roster we’re following, until next week. I’ll revise the roster and have it to you all, and Mrs. Swithins, before Monday. Will that suit?”

  “Yes, thank you, my lord,” they chorused.

  “Just so long as Swithins doesn’t get more than the Sundays she’s due.” The light of battle still glowed in Mrs. Candlewick’s eyes.

  Jack rose as they did. “I’ll ensure the final roster is a fair and equitable one.”

  They all accepted that assurance; Betsy even smiled as she shyly shook his hand and with the two older women took her leave.

  Jack watched them retreat down the drive, then finally headed for his waiting lunch.

  He suspected they thought he’d consult with Clarice, even if he hadn’t mentioned her name. However, there had to be others who could advise him as well.

  Connimore blinked at him when he sought her out after lunch. “I’m sure I couldn’t say, my lord.” Then she grimaced. “Well, truth is, I wouldn’t like to say. That Mrs. Swithins is a right old stick, but she is the poor curate’s mother, after all, and what else does she have to do? But then Betsy and June Candlewick and Martha do get their noses out of joint—well, I’m glad I’m not in your shoes having to weigh up the rights and wrongs of it.”

  Jack wasn’t sure he wanted to be in his shoes either, not over this, but…there were three days yet to Sunday. He’d work something out by then.

  The young gentleman had yet to regain his wits. Connimore told him Willis would call later in the day. “And no doubt Lady Clarice will drop by.”

  Jack sincerely doubted it. He wondered whether he should disabuse Connimore of her expectation. Instead, he left her counting pillowcases and headed back to his study.

  To the profits from his crops that, it seemed, ought somehow to be higher than he could reasonably predict. That was the only way the figures from previous years would align with his projections for the current year. There had to be some positive something he was missing.

  He considered asking Griggs, but he couldn’t put his finger on what question to ask, short of going through the profits from the whole estate, segment by segment. Head in his hands, vainly trying to suppress the thudding between his temples, he was, once again, totting up figures when Howlett looked in.

  Jack looked up, grateful for the interruption.

  “It’s Wallace, my lord. He’d like a word.”

  One of his tenant farmers, Wallace was a slow, steady country type Jack had known all his life. He sat back with a smile. “Show him in.”

  Wallace lumbered in. Jack rose, still smiling, and shook hands.

  “Does my heart good to see you again, my lord, and looking so hearty.” Wallace nodded at Jack as he sat. “And just as it should be, to see you behind your father’s desk and all.”

  Jack relaxed. Wallace sat in the chair before the desk, his bulk filling it, his slow country humor pure balm after Jack’s difficult morning.

  Once they’d indulged in the customary exchanges, bringing him up to date with Wallace’s family and his acres, Jack asked, “You seem to have everything running as smoothly as ever—what can I help you with?”

  “Aye, well.” Wallace rubbed his stubbled chin. “Somethings one can order, others…” He drew breath and went on, “It’s my daughter, Mary. She’s been walking out with John Hawkins’s boy, Roger. They’re thinking of tying the knot, and I was wondering what would be right to make over as Mary’s portion. I don’t want to be miserly, and John’s an old friend, so we’re all pleased with the match, but I do have two other girls and, of course, there’s my lad, Joe, who’ll get most.”

  Wallace met Jack’s gaze. “I wondered if you had any advice as to how much Mary’s portion should be?”

  Jack blinked. He had absolutely no idea what amount would be a suitable marriage portion for Mary Wallace. Not an inkling, not a clue. But Wallace was looking at him as if he should know. “Ah…leave it with me.” There had to be someone he could ask, someone other than a certain lady who, he was perfectly sure, would know the answer. “I’ll ask around quietly. You’ll be at church on Sunday—I’ll let you know what I come up with then.”

  Wallace beamed. “Any help would be greatly appreciated, my lord.”

  Transparently relieved, Wallace departed.

  Jack sank back in his chair, wondering how the devil to live up to Wallace’s expectations.

  He’d barely refocused on the sheet of figures still taunting him with his inability to make sense of them when the doorbell pealed once more. Jack sat back and waited. Howlett eventually appeared, closing the door behind him—a telling sign.

  “A Mr. Jones, my lord. He’s an apple merchant from Bristol—he supplies the cider makers.”

  Jack’s brows rose. The apple crop from the valley traditionally went to the Gloucester merchants. “Show Mr. Jones in—let’s hear what he has to say.”

  The gentleman Howlett ushered in was, at first glance, short, rotund, and jovial, very like an apple himself. But as Jack lazily rose and extended his hand, he noted the hardness in Jones’s eyes and the tight, rather mean line of his mouth. “Mr. Jones. I understand you’re interested in our apples?”

  Jones shook his hand. “Indeed, my lord. Just so.”

  “Please be seated.” Jack waved to the chair before the desk and resumed his own. “Now, how can I help you?”

  “Ah, well, my lord, I rather fancy the shoe’s on the other foot. If you’ve a moment, I’d like to explain how I believe I can help you.”

  Jack inclined his head, with a gesture indicated Jones should proceed, and withheld judgment. Jones’s glib patter prodded his instincts—cert
ainly not, judging by his too-genial smile, what Jones intended.

  Jones settled in the chair. “I have to say, my lord, that I’m delighted you’re back in the saddle here.”

  Jack suppressed a blink. “You’ve dealt with the estate before?”

  Jones grimaced. “Tried to. I’ve called for the past five years. The first two years I met with some old gentleman—a Mr. Grigg, I think it was. Then the last three years, there was this…lady.”

  Jack was certain Jones had been about to say “female,” but had changed his mind.

  Jones looked inquiringly at him. “Your sister, would that be?”

  Jack met his eyes. “As you say, the reins are now in my hands. I take it you have a proposition to make?”

  Jones looked slightly taken aback at the abrupt focus on business, but quickly rallied. “It’s quite simple, my lord. I can take your entire crop for a shilling more per bushel than you’ll get from anyone else.”

  “I see.” Jack was certain he didn’t—not all, not yet. “We usually supply the merchants in Gloucester.”

  Jones opened his eyes wide. “But this is business, my lord. You have a crop to sell, and I’m offering the best terms. No reason you should feel obliged to settle for a lower price because of the past. The Gloucester merchants will manage, no doubt. There are plenty of other orchards, but my clients are most fussy about the quality of the apples that go into their vats.”

  A glimmer of a suspicion crossed Jack’s mind; the figures he’d been wrestling with all day…if a premium was built into the apple crop, that would balance his projections with the previous returns.

  He refocused on Jones, waiting, expectant. “Your offer is tempting, Mr. Jones, but I’ll need to consider carefully.” Aside from all else, the manor negotiated for the entire valley; his decision would commit not just the manor crop but those from his tenant farmers and from the few freeholders in the area. “Have you been up Nailsworth way yet?”

  “No, no—just starting in this neck of the woods. Avening ranks high on our list for quality crops, so I always start filling my quota here.”