by D. L. Carter
Trenton Manor was a decent-sized, two-story building in the shape of a horseshoe, with narrow enclosed passageways running to the stables and other outbuildings. No doubt, given the winter weather in Wales, such a thing was necessary. Millicent's wanderings took her to the stables where she found her hired driver and outriders had been given the hayrick for their beds. Looking at the soft fragrant straw Millicent suspected they would have a better bed of it than she, trying to sleep on a short lumpy couch or the carpeted floor of the parlor.
She accepted their assurances that they'd been promised a good meal and were warm and well tended, and returned to the main house leaving them to small beer and a dice game.
From the uproar she walked in on it seemed that Shoffer's status as a titled gentleman had been revealed. Millicent followed the noise to the kitchen.
“A duke! A duke!” shrieked Mrs. Prichart. Her position in the center of the kitchen ensured that no work could be done around her. “Oh, what are we to…”
The woman froze seeing Millicent enter, then fell silent and pale into the nearest chair. Everyone in the room, gathered to witness her histrionics, turned to stare.
“Yes, he is a duke,” said Millicent softly.
“But what are we to feed him?” demanded Mrs. Prichart.
“Food, I imagine,” said Millicent, “since it is only a rumor that they live on moonbeams and starlight.”
“We cannot have him sleep in the parlor!”
“You have already moved all the boys into the same room to clear a room for Mr. North,” said her husband, “and the ladies have taken that one. The girls already share a room. We have none other to offer beyond our own bed.”
“Oh. Oh. Oh.” whimpered his lady. “What are we to do?”
This time Millicent was convinced Mrs. Prichart's distress was real. Stalking down the corridor, Millicent flung open the door into the front parlor to find Shoffer stretched out on a couch, his arm flung over his eyes, asleep. Leaving the door open Millicent tiptoed back to where Mrs. Prichart sat and pulled her to her feet. Millicent pressed a shushing finger to the woman's lips and led the way to the parlor.
“See,” whispered Millicent, pointing toward the sleeping peer. “All is well. All the scones gone from the tea tray and he is fast asleep. Your hospitality can be judged a success. Keep your bed. His Grace and I shall sleep here quite happily.”
Then she turned the woman over into her husband’s keeping.
“When shall we gather for supper?” asked Millicent.
“In an hour, Mr. North, in the other parlor,” replied the housekeeper. “The ladies have requested trays in their room.”
Millicent nodded and tiptoed into the parlor, closing the door softly behind her. The next hour she spent trying to read and not to watch the steady rise and fall of the duke's linen covered chest. When the hour was almost up she woke the duke with the simple expedience of kicking his couch. The man came awake in an instant and blinked at her.
“Good God, I did not expect to sleep.”
“It is well that you did to fortify you for what is to come.” At Shoffer's questioning look, she continued. “Someone told Mrs. Prichart your rank.”
“Dear God. But it was not me.”
“Quite likely one of the ladies,” said Millicent, pointing to the ceiling. “Though to be honest, I think she would still be in a taking if you were a mere baronet.”
“True.” Shoffer rose and retied his cravat. “Well, since it is too late for me to be a vicar, shall we go and face the mob?”
“Be careful of the food. Mrs. Prichart was trying to think of a dish worthy of your eminence.”
Shoffer pulled himself up and regarded her with stony ducal dignity.
“My dear sir, I survived the food at Eton. I can survive anything.”
* * *
Dinner itself went fairly well with the younger children of the house fed early and it being too late for any strange dish to be added to the menu. There was at table only Millicent, Shoffer, Mr. and Mrs. Prichart and two daughters of marriageable age – Eilowen and Gweneth. Since from their manners and features Millicent could tell the girls would age to resemble their mother, she felt some pity for Shoffer when the girls fluttered and giggled at every word he uttered – until she realized that she too was under siege.
Millicent found her pose as a foolish rattle served her well for deflecting the flirtation directed toward her by the second eldest daughter. Millicent was on her best form directing outrageous remarks to everyone at the table be they male or female. By the end of the evening everyone declared they could not remember laughing so much in their lives, and neither of the girls behaved as if they were in expectation of an offer.
When Millicent shut the door behind her hosts leaving just herself and Shoffer and a pile of bedding in the parlor, she rested her head against the wooden panels and gave a heartfelt groan. Shoffer laughed.
“Oh, come now, dear fellow. You were excellent and you know it. The ladies of the household are entirely yours to command.” Shoffer struggled for a moment with his fashionably tight jacket then surrendered. “Come over and help me with this damnable jacket.”
Millicent walked slowly across the room and took hold of the collar as Shoffer wiggled this way and that. Her fingers brushed against the warmth of his neck and the fine, soft hairs and she could feel the tingle all the way to her toes. Shoffer, of course, did not notice her blush or any fumbling in her assistance. In a few minutes, he was freed and the jacket hung on the back of a chair.
“So fine a line to walk,” continued Shoffer, unwrapping his cravat, “between flirtation and interest. I have never seen so direct a look between a man and a woman as you gave Gweneth mean nothing more than intelligent attention. If I were to try to imitate you I would find myself facing a demand for a betrothal.”
“I may yet,” said Millicent. “I must take care. No doubt that calculating look on Mrs. Prichart's face was meant for both you and me.”
“And yet you diverted it. My admiration, sir. Of course, it increases my determination that you should try to work with my sister.”
“I am supposed to be here to work with my tenant, Your Grace. Mr. Prichart intends to take me over the property tomorrow, rain or not.”
“There are still the evening hours.”
“When we will be obliged to spend time with our hosts.”
The duke, it appeared, could be stubborn.
“Beth shall see you in conversation with others which will aid her immeasurably, I am certain.”
“Perhaps.”
Millicent doused the candles, leaving firelight only to light the room and shrugged out of her own loosely fitted jacket. She shifted her pile of blankets to the other side of the room and sat on the floor with the back of her chair between herself and Shoffer before stripping off her shirt and loosening the band of cravats around her breasts. Tugging her nightshirt over her head she climbed under the blankets before removing her trousers. The carpet under her pallet smelt of years of heavy boots, dogs, and dust but, after the strenuous events of the day, an exhausted Millicent was asleep within minutes.
* * *
They knew morning had arrived when heavy footsteps echoed through the house. Millicent opened one eye, grunted, and stared at the ceiling as feet crossed back and forth over her head. She lifted herself enough to peer through the nearest shuttered window. It was still pitch dark outside. She fell back onto her pallet with a groan.
“Farmers,” came a muffled voice on the other side of the room, “have no respect for sleep.”
Millicent grinned to herself and rubbed sleep from her eyes. There was a hard knocking on the door; one of the younger sons entered bearing a pitcher of steaming water, a bowl, and two rough towels.
“Pa says how he will be taking yourself around the property this morning, Mr. North,” said the boy in a voice that he probably intended as a whisper. “Breakfast in the kitchen, if you do not mind, soon as you are ready.”
; “If I must, I must,” groaned Millicent, testing the air outside her cocoon of blankets and finding it not at all to her liking. “And His Grace?”
“Oh, toffs like him sleep 'til noon. Ma will find something for him and the ladies will keep him company ’til you and Pa are finished.”
There was a thud from the other side of the room. Millicent rose to her knees to see over the couch she had chosen as her protection, blankets still wrapped around her torso. Wearing only his smallclothes, the duke tossed his blanket aside and strode across the room to where the boy had placed the shaving water.
“Be damned to that,” swore Shoffer as goose pimples spread over his bare skin. “Be a good lad and tell my groom to saddle my horse. I will view the property with Mr. North.”
“Language,” said Millicent mildly, settling her blankets tent-like about her body and climbing from the floor to collapse into a sagging armchair.
Shoffer snorted as he bathed his face in the steaming water and began working up lather in his shaving cup. Millicent watched the efficient movements, a slow heat climbing in her belly. While he applied a brush load of foam to his face, Shoffer shot a glance toward Millicent.
Millicent flinched and ducked back down to her hiding place. It took a few minutes of struggling to tighten her breast bands without drawing attention to her activities or removing her nightshirt. Finally, she was able to pull on her clothing and wrap her cravat loosely around her neck before rising to her feet.
“You are a lucky fellow,” said Shoffer, as he scraped lather from his face. “Your hair is so pale your night's growth barely shows. Or are you younger than I have guessed?”
Millicent halted in her tracks, confused for a moment, then she raised her hand to her hairless cheeks. Fortunately, aside from the candle next to Shoffer's shaving mirror and the glow from the banked fireplace, there was little enough light in the room for her to be seen.
“Well, sir?” said Shoffer. “Are you twenty at least?”
“Really, such a thought,” said Millicent, as her heart began to beat again. “I am four and twenty and have been shaving for a decade. I shall tend to my whiskers once you have cleared the field.”
Shoffer blinked at her, then down at the jug of hot water.
“Oh. I do apologize. This was sent for you.”
“Rank hath its privileges, Your Grace,” she said with a wave and hurried from the room.
By the time Millicent returned from the privy, Shoffer was gone. Even though she did not shave, she kept a kit in her travel bag. Using the left over water from Shoffer’s shave, she ran the shaving brush over her soap and left enough foam in the cup to create the illusion of having shaved. After a quick breakfast in the kitchen, Millicent found herself in the forecourt shivering in her greatcoat as the sun struggled to make itself visible through a thick mist.
“Wet Wales,” muttered Shoffer, as he wound a scarf over his face and pulled his hat down securely against the wind. He glanced toward the sky. “It will rain again within the hour.”
“Not today,” said Mr. Prichart. “The wind is picking up. The clouds will stay, but there will be nothing more than water in the air.”
“In other counties we call that ‘rain,’ Mr. Prichart,” quipped Shoffer, settling himself on a magnificent grey mare.
Millicent, offered her choice of one of Shoffer's outriders’ mounts or one of Mr. Prichart's farm horses, requested the most placid mount available. The gathered men smirked at each other when an aged pony was brought out.
“Will this do?” inquired Mr. Prichart innocently.
Millicent examined the creature closely. “Have you nothing smaller?”
“Oh, do get up, Mr. North,” said Shoffer, as the farmer and his workers chuckled. “The sooner we have viewed the property the sooner we can return to the fireside.”
“Truly, I am not skilled with riding,” said Millicent, as she hauled herself into the masculine saddle. “I hope we do not have far to go.”
“Unfortunately, no,” said Mr. Prichart.
And so it proved. It was not necessary to ride more than a mile to find the reason Mr. Prichart had written to his landlord. Winter snow and rain, worse than any in living memory, had caused a nearby stream to break its banks, spilling freezing water over the low lying fields. Mr. Prichart, Shoffer, and Millicent sat their horses on a hill overlooking the flooded area while still more precipitation fell to cling to clothing, skin, and hair.
“How much land is affected?” inquired Shoffer.
“All told, sixty acres.”
“Truly?” asked Millicent, rising up in her stirrups and pointing. “I thought I could see grassy land over there.”
“Aye, you can see the top of the grass, but there be two or three inches of water underneath. Cannot graze sheep on such lands.”
Uncertain as to the truth of it, Millicent said nothing.
“He is right, you know,” said Shoffer in a soft voice. “Sheep are funny things. They eat grass down to the nub in dry weather. They eat wet grass with no ill. But if you put them out on pasturage like this, and do it too soon after the water has retreated, they get a cough from it and become poor goers. Their feet will rot. Some will die of it.”
“You have seen this before?” asked Mr. Prichart.
“I have an interest in sheep farming in Scotland,” replied the duke.
“How much of your land do you expect to be able to farm this year?” Millicent asked Pritchart.
“Depends how long it takes for the water to retreat. It’s not stopped raining yet so we might have half our usual pasturage for a good part of the year. I do not want to go replacing drowned stock if I got nowhere to put 'em. They will overgraze the land and starve.”
“Can you do anything to direct the water back to its previous path?”
One of the farm workers snorted at that, but Mr. Prichart answered Millicent's question in a serious manner.
“We do not know, lad. See over yonder? The stream bed itself is under all that water. And with the lower lands flooded, the water has nowhere to go.”
“Oh.” Feeling very foolish Millicent rode alongside the men as they traveled. Shoffer and Mr. Prichart discussed various breeds of sheep, alternative feeds, and other such matters while Millicent stared into the distance and tried to think of some intelligent seeming comment she could put into the conversation. It was not until near luncheon when they had turned and headed toward the manor that Millicent again spoke.
“It seems to me that I am limited in the aid I can give you, Mr. Prichart, since I must expect other farmers to whom I rent in the neighborhood will be making similar requests. We must take the long view in the matter. If I recall your letter correctly, you request the rent be reduced by a third. I think I can accommodate you. You will contact me if your other interests cannot be encouraged to make up the shortfall. Next year, the first two quarters will be reduced again on the understanding that you will use the money to purchase new stock. From what His Grace is saying, you might consider speaking to his man in Scotland and seeing if you can improve your stock with an infusion of his sheep.”
Mr. Prichart and the duke regarded her with matching shocked expressions.
“Well, well. That be generous of you, Mr. North. Thank you,” said Mr. Prichart.
Millicent flushed, worried that she had yielded too fast or reduced the rent too far. Behind the farmer's back Shoffer dropped a wink to Millicent which confused her further.
She waited until he guided his mount to ride alongside her.
“Was it too much? Too little?” she whispered. “I cannot calculate his income from an acre of land. I could but guess.”
“I must say, from the state of the roads and fields hereabouts, your offer is a good one. It is a difficult balance to maintain — your needs for your rents versus the needs of your tenants.”
Mr. Prichart paused to speak to one of his workers who stood watching the waters with a sour look on his face. Shoffer nudged his horse a little closer.
“If you had but waited until we could have spoken privately, I would have advised you thusly…” he paused, then smiled, “to do exactly as you have done.”
Without thinking, Millicent slapped him across the back of his arm. Then flushed and withdrew her hand. That move, in an assembly room with fan in hand, would have been judged flirtatious. Man to man, she was uncertain if the gesture was acceptable. Truly, she should pay more attention to her manners. She cast her eyes down as Shoffer roared with laughter and slapped her hard across the back, nearly knocking her from her saddle.
“My dear Mr. North, you are too uncertain of your own skills. Have you but recently come into your responsibilities?”
It took a few moments of searching her memory for Millicent to find the answer. It would not do for some chance remark of Mr. Prichart's to reveal an inconsistency.
“Ah, it has been some six years since my father's death. But this is the first serious matter to come to my attention since then.”
“In that case you have been much blessed. I find I must deal with a disaster somewhere at least once in every year.”
“Rather, perhaps, you have been cursed.”
“Or you have been negligent.”
Millicent paused, blushed, and looked away. Shoffer leaned closer still.
“I am sorry, my friend. Please do not take offense. I am not as skilled a rattle as you and only wished to match your humor.”
“No, Your Grace, you have not offended. Instead, you have reminded me of my indolence. Once granted my inheritance, I retreated to one of the smaller estates to the north and did not venture out again for several years. My only excuse…” she paused and considered believable lies to explain the years the real Mr. North spent closeted up in his Yorkshire estates. Saying she had been a practicing miser and misogynist would not do.
