The Duke of Bedford’s title had been created and rendered extinct several times. Throughout the centuries, their fortunes had risen and fallen depending on the whims of the monarch wielding power. It was not until the seventeenth century, after the Glorious Revolution and its overthrow of the Catholic King James II, that their title was secured. Their support of the protestant William III on the throne had solidified their hold to the title, securing it for successive generations. Securing it for Edmund.
For Edmund to squander.
Or mishandle or whatever the hell he had done to it. “It is strange to be back, but pleasant, too. Being the spare heir, my connection to the land was different from my father and Edmund’s, but I always felt it was strong. My father deeply ingrained his love and respect for the land and our heritage into both of us.” He had neglected to ensure they cared for one another, but he had looked out for the land. “So what has happened over the years with Edmund and his estate? Has he lost that?”
Julia’s blue eyes darkened. “I don’t know too much about the past five years, other than to say that the tenants’ discontent has been vocal enough to reach my father. The first few years, difficulties arose from neglect. After Edmund inherited the title and you sailed for America, Edmund left for London and rarely returned. It was as if he were avoiding home.” Her voice softened. “As you said last night, grief takes its toll. I have witnessed that with both my father and Emily.”
He clenched his jaw so tight, he feared it might crack. Edmund’s mourning of their father had involved a fortnight of drunken revelry. He doubted his own departure had warranted a backward glance.
“A bailiff oversaw the estate, so things weren’t perfect, but they weren’t totally neglected.”
“So he was mourning in London?” He struggled to keep his voice neutral, realized he had failed when Julia shot him a look.
“For the first few years, yes. I think . . . well, I believe that like my father, he was afraid to accept his responsibilities. It is not uncommon—”
“Your father?”
“My mother said my father also escaped to town when he inherited his title. He was a bit of a rake when she first met him, sowing his wild oats before donning the heavy mantle of an earl, so to speak. My mother eventually quite reformed him of his wicked ways.” Pride laced her words.
“I have no doubt she turned him into a veritable saint,” he murmured distractedly, her comment stirring up a wave of old memories. One after another tumbled over each other.
He saw Julia as a young girl, her hair a mop of wild and windblown curls and her cheeks dirt smudged. She was saving a collie, the runt of the litter, from a drowning. In another, she was pleading with him to help her make a nest for a wounded thrush. Later she had wheedled him into freeing a rabbit ensnared in a trap belonging to Weasel, Bedfordshire’s notorious poacher. And Daniel had. How odd. Even as a girl, when she turned those beseeching blue eyes on him, he hadn’t been able to resist her.
Some things never changed.
He studied her profile, noting the wistful smile that curved her lips as if she were lost in nostalgic memories of her parents.
He stilled and it was as if someone had sucked the air from his lungs.
Good God, is Julia planning to save Edmund as her mother had reformed her father?
He drew back on his reins, bringing Chase, the chestnut stallion he had procured from Robbie, to a stop.
Surprised, Julia glanced back at him and slowed her own mount, her expression one of concern. “Daniel?”
They both ignored Emily and Jonathan, who continued on. “Is that what you are hoping to do?”
“Excuse me?” Julia looked at him as if he had spoken in a foreign tongue.
“Do you hope to reform a rake?” He cocked a brow at her, daring her to refute his claim.
Her lips parted and she leaned away. They stared at each other in a silence that lengthened uncomfortably between them. Finally, her chin jutted in a familiar stubborn thrust. “People can and do change.” Her eyes narrowed. “You are an example of that. Are you the same man that left home a decade ago?”
He stifled the urge to press a hand to his chest, for her point had struck its mark. It was painful, for the answer was no. No, he most certainly was not. He was a far cry from the runt who had fled for his life. He did not like to concede that, for it begged the question that if he was a different man from the one who had left, his brother might be, too. Or to acknowledge that with Julia’s help, his brother could change.
For if anyone could save someone, Julia could. She had saved her father, his estate, and Emily, just as she had rescued the wounded animals in her childhood. It took a strong and loyal woman to do that.
Could her strength change Edmund? Her loyalty save him?
No. Every bone in his body, once bruised and battered from years under Edmund’s fists, screamed a denial. Cruelty was not an item like clothing that one outgrew, or a trait easily shed like a second skin, but rather an attribute inherent to a person and which grew and matured with them. Or so Daniel believed.
Ten years was a long time, and Daniel could not in good conscience malign his brother until he had determined for himself if Edmund had changed. He had to judge his brother on the man he was today, not the man he had left behind. He did not like it, but for Julia’s sake, he would try to do so.
“Yes. People do change.” He spoke in a curt, clipped tone, as if each word was wrenched from him under torture. “So then, who is there for you?”
“I beg your pardon?” Her smile wavered.
“I was just wondering. Over the years, you have cared for your father, your brother, your father’s estates, and your sister. Postponing your own marriage and life to do so. Now you are going to save Edmund and help him salvage his estates. I was just wondering, who is looking out for you?”
His question appeared to disarm her, for her eyes dropped to her lap, and she tightened her hands on her reins. In protest, Constance irritably tossed her head and whinnied until Julia loosened her grip. She regrouped quickly, straightening in her saddle and responding with a calm that belied her agitation. “As you can see, I am all grown up now, and quite capable of taking care of myself, thank you very much. Now I think we best catch up to Emily and Jonathan.” She nudged Constance into a gentle trot.
He had caught the sheen of moisture blurring her vision before she turned away. Like Achilles, even the strongest warriors had their weak points, and he cursed himself for piercing hers.
Seeking to make amends, he urged Chase abreast of Constance. “I believe your father is right, and my arrival is fortuitous. As your future brother-in-law,” he said, not choking over the words despite their bitter taste, “I will keep an eye out for you.”
“Really, that is not necessary.”
“Nevertheless, it is my pleasure to do so. As you say, we will be family, and that is what brothers do.” He could not resist tossing her own words back at her, particularly when they served his purposes so well. “Look out for their sisters—even if they can save the world on their own. Don Quixote did not conquer his windmills alone. He had his faithful squire what’s-his-name assisting him.”
Julia’s lips curved. “Sancho Panza, who was a simple farmer. Don Quixote was going off to fight ferocious giants, but which were windmills in reality.” She looked dubious. “That’s the best analogy you could come up with?”
“It serves my point.” He waved his hand airily. “Which is, they did it together.”
She looked pensive, as if giving serious consideration to his words, and then nodded. “Fine. You can be the short, squat Sancho Panza if you insist.” She tossed him an arch look, pressed her heels into Constance’s sides, and urged the mare to catch up with Emily and Jonathan, her laughter trailing behind her.
The lyrical cadence of it washed over Daniel in a warm wave, so beguiling him that it took him a few minutes before he realized he sat grinning like an idiot. He nudged Chase into a canter.
Her clever wit delighted him, but she was wrong about his analogy being poor. It was right.
Julia was the idealistic Don Quixote, mistaking a blackguard for a rake. Once again, Daniel was the cynical runt. So much for ten years of change. But like Don Quixote, the brave knight, he would look after his lady. Her momentary falter had told him, as Julia never would, that no one else had thought to do so.
His brave, beautiful warrior had been on her own far too long. It was time someone looked after her, for like poor Cervantes’s illustrious knight, she was in for a painful awakening once her illusions were shattered.
Chapter Seven
SINCE its founding, Bedfordshire had been predominately a county of agriculture. The Dukes of Bedford and their tenant farmers had planted the age-old staple products of wheat, barley, and oats. Sheep and cattle grazed the grounds until the sheep were sheered in May. Drovers then herded the sheep and cattle to sell them off at the market before winter. Being mid-September, the farmers had finished harvesting most of the fields, and those that they had ridden past were in the process of being plowed.
Ploughboys dotted the carpet of brown fields, laboring to drive the plough in straight lines and break up the ground in preparation to be harrowed. Straw hats protected their heads from the sun, but its blinding rays stretched like long talons, plastering their shirts to their bent frames. Streaks of sweat drenched their backs and transformed white cotton shirts to a brownish-gray.
Daniel’s father had directed servants to the fields with water and treats to alleviate the monotony of the tedious task. Daniel squinted down the dirt road curving like a beige ribbon between the fields and up the hill toward Bedford Hall. He frowned at the emptiness meeting the eye all the way to the horizon line.
“It’s awfully warm, and I do not see any water barrels,” Julia said. “I packed some parcels that include bread and cheese, but I believe thirst would be their priority.” Julia echoed his thoughts.
“Let us continue on. See if we can determine if anyone is bringing something out, or if they are due to take a break soon.”
“Are you sure we shouldn’t speak to Edmund’s bailiff? Shouldn’t he view the grounds with us?”
There was a good reason Edmund’s bailiff was not accompanying them. Depending on his size, or more important, his awareness of Daniel and Edmund’s relationship, Daniel could not risk being tossed off the estate. His departure might not be feetfirst or in one piece. Riding would be difficult with broken bones.
He decided against sharing his dilemma with Julia. “The bailiff, like Edmund, might hinder the tenants from speaking freely, particularly if the aim of our visit is to encourage them to voice their concerns without fear of repercussion.”
Julia considered his words and nodded. “They might not be willing to speak to us either, which is why I packed some of Cook’s treats.” She grinned. “Bribery does wonders to loosen one’s tongue, as do Cook’s sugar biscuits.”
Seeing the mischievous glint in her eyes, he smiled. He was not the only one who understood the need for subterfuge and guile to gain the tenants’ trust. Combining their talents might be more successful than he had anticipated. “I remember those biscuits. One bite should dissolve any misgivings about our visit. Nothing says ‘we come in peace’ better than sugar biscuits.”
“Let us hope they are as easily bribed as you. You always had a sweet tooth as a boy. Last night, I learned that has not changed.”
“Some things aren’t worth changing.” He smiled, unrepentant.
“Eating four slices of Cook’s cheesecake for example?” Julia looked dubious.
“Most definitely,” Daniel agreed, pleased she had noticed his overindulgence. That she had noticed him, period. Which wasn’t right. He had no need of her noticing anything about him. That was not the future of their friendship. He would be wise to remember that.
They rode on, bypassing the fields. Eventually they turned onto the lane of small, rustic houses leased to Bedford’s tenants.
The color had been bleached out of the area, leaving the somber earth tones of beige, sandy wheat, and brown umber. The ubiquitous wildflowers, spilling over the grounds of most English homes, were absent. The houses sat in a row like square-box sentries, bleak, weather-beaten, and enshrouded in a stillness and silence so complete it deafened.
He frowned, recalling from his childhood the cries of children, laundry flapping on clotheslines, dogs barking, and chickens squawking as they dodged the horses’ powerful hooves. It was as if another scene had been painted over the one he remembered, the transformation so complete.
On medieval English maps, mapmakers marked those areas that reach beyond the perimeters of their known world, “here be dragons.” He had an urge to peer around for those dragons, but he wouldn’t find them here. The beast was hunting in Kent.
Disturbed, he drew back on the reins and eased Chase to a stop. “Let us continue on foot.”
Dismounting, he led Chase over to a split rail fence, tying him securely. He assisted the others to dismount, careful not to linger with his hands around Julia’s waist.
Despite his intentions, he could not resist inhaling her fresh and clean scent before forcing himself to step back. He directed her to tie her horse with Emily’s and Jonathan’s to a birch tree away from Chase and downwind from his scent.
They had finished securing the horses, when Jonathan’s cry rang out. “Something hit me!” He clutched his back.
Daniel whirled, his body tense, his senses alert. Catching sight of an apple rolling along the ground, he relaxed. He searched for the source of the apple’s launch, and caught a flash of movement in a nearby tree.
“This means war.” Jonathan bellowed and dashed toward the offender.
Cursing under his breath, Daniel bolted after the boy. Catching up to him, he hooked his arm around Jonathan’s waist and hoisted him onto his hip. “Hold up there, Captain. We are trespassing on someone else’s property, and they have a right to protect it.”
“They fired without warning.” Like an entrapped snake, Jonathan protested and wiggled in Daniel’s grip.
Daniel cursed the legacy of a war-weary country. Despite being at peace for over five years, fighting a war on two fronts had left its brand on past generations and clearly had made inroads into future ones as well.
“Go away! We don’t want no more bloomin’ foreigners stealing our jobs. And we ain’t payin’ no more higher rents.”
“We come in peace.” Daniel called out, keeping his tone conciliatory. “And we bear gifts.” He arched his hand over his eyes to protect it from the sun’s glare as he peered up into the dark web of branches.
“You sound American, for isn’t that how the Pilgrims greeted the Indians?” Julia murmured.
“If so, they were soon feasting together.” He spoke as quietly as she. “That tree is laden with apples, so there’s hope for us. Unless our loose cannon gets free,” he hissed under his breath, shifting Jonathan onto his shoulders. “See anyone from that vantage point?”
“No sign of the enemy yet,” Jonathan yelled back.
Julia covered her mouth to stifle her laughter. Daniel was about to ask her if she planned to enjoy the show or assist in diffusing the war, when a pair of spindly legs in beat-up boots dangled from the tree and dropped to the ground.
A young girl sprawled in the dirt. Springing to her feet, she tugged down her skirts and her dust-covered apron. She straightened her mobcap, two black braids swinging beneath it. She appeared to be around seven or eight years old. “You sure you ain’t no good for nothin’, grotty Irish eejits here to nick our jobs and the food out of our bellies?” Her eyes blazed in dark fury, her small fists raised.
“Cor, she needs a tongue washing,” Jonathan giggled.
“Shh.” He squeezed Jonathan’s calf. The girl’s anger had been stoked by a parent’s bitter ire, voiced without censure.
Something was rotten in the state of Denmark. If the girl’s words were to be believed, it involved ra
ised rents and the hiring of Irish laborers. Before he had left America, there were signs of Irish immigrants moving into the mills populating New England. Undoubtedly, they sought a warmer welcome across the Atlantic, for the roots of the animosity between the Irish and English were planted centuries ago and dug deep.
Julia stepped forward. “I assure you we are as English as you, and as Lord Bryant says, we come bearing food. I am Lady Julia Chandler, and you are?”
The girl gaped at Julia, her eyes midnight black and enormous. They roamed over them, until they pinned Jonathan in an accusatory glare.
“He is harmless. But should he get out of hand, I will tie him up with the horses,” Daniel promised, his expression solemn.
“Will not,” Jonathan squealed, kicking out.
“Will, too,” Daniel shot back, trapping his legs with a gloved hand and winking at the girl.
A giggle escaped. “Blimey, you don’t sound like no Irish eejits. You be a lord, like yonder damn duke?”
Jonathan hooted. “Now she’s done it! She’ll be swallowing soapsuds for sure.”
“Beatrice. Beatrice Alice Mabry!” a voice thundered, causing the girl to freeze and hunch her shoulders.
The deep baritone belonged to a large man with lined, weatherworn features, who hastened over. His hair and eyes were as black as his daughter’s and just as cold as they leveled on their group. He carried a large spade and wore dirt-stained overalls. He planted a protective hand over the girl’s shoulders.
“Your Grace.” A tic vibrated in his cheek, a telltale sign he struggled to cap the anger the young girl could not. “I apologize for my daughter. Beatrice can be outspoken.” He cleared his throat, but forged on. “Can I assist you with anything? Your bailiff was down here last week and spoke to us about the vacant houses.” He jerked his head down the street.
While curious to hear what the man had to say, Daniel had learned from Julia that people did not like to be deceived. “I am sorry, I am His Grace’s twin, Lord Bryant, and I have recently returned after years abroad.”
The Heart of a Duke Page 7
