A Lady without a Lord (The Penningtons Book 3)

by Bliss Bennet

  “Yes, that’s the name. So many others, too, mother wanted to cultivate. If only I could recall their names, or what they looked like, I’d have them planted at every cottage on the estate.”

  The memory of that long-ago day in the hayloft, the day she’d found him crying after his mother’s unexpected death, flooded her mind. What a shock it had been, to find such a laughing, larking boy brought so low by grief. And then, to have her offer of solace taken for something so different, so frightening and forbidden and, to her utter surprise, so unexpectedly sweet—

  The sting in her palm after she’d slapped him, hardly knowing if she’d sent her hand flying out of anger or shame—she could still feel its prick, even now.

  She stepped back and lowered that hand to her side.

  “Do you remember any of your own mother’s favorite flowers?” Theo asked, his eyes alight with eagerness. “I know my mother and yours shared many of the same tastes. Or did you keep any of the plans the two of them worked on, for cultivating cottage gardens all those years ago? I couldn’t find a single one, not with my mother’s letters or her papers.”

  “But she didn’t store them with her letters. She kept them in her memorandum book.”

  His brow wrinkled in confusion, so she added, “The book in which she recorded the work and duties she undertook about the house, and the estate. The one your sister left with me when she departed for town.”

  It was hard to tell which shone more bright, the curls, lit by the midday sun, which fell over his forehead, or the grin which suffused his entire face. “You’re a godsend, Harry Atherton. Race you back?”

  And then he was off, tearing down the stone path, leaping over narrow planting beds, as if they were children once again.

  “Lord Saybrook? Should the gardeners keep digging, or would you have them wait?” she called. But he was already too far ahead to hear her.

  What a capricious, impetuous man. And much too appealing for his—or her own—good.

  Shaking her head but smiling all the same, Harry set off in pursuit.

  “Symmetry, yes, but see how they curve? And look, in this one, all the beds are set in an oval, not a square or a rectangle. Oh, how lovely it would have been!”

  Theo watched as Harry Atherton traced a finger over the arcs of the bedding gardens on the landscape plan she had unrolled on the library desk. If he were with any other woman, in any other house, he would no doubt have offered some easy flirtation in response to her breathy exclamation of pleasure. Compliment her on the high color their mad dash to the house had brought to her cheek, or insist that no mere flower could ever be as lovely as she.

  But Theo’s habitual charm deserted him in the face of these dozens of drawings and plans Harry pulled like the proverbial plum from the Christmas pie of his mother’s memorandum book. Not only the cottage plots his mother had dreamed of creating for the tenants, but also lavish gardens she had hoped to bring to life at Saybrook House. Some were only sketches, true, but others, rendered in the fine watercolors which his mother had adored, as beautiful as any of the paintings she had done of the actual gardens. More beautiful, even, not mere renderings of what was, but delicate, dreamy visions of what she wished they might be.

  Little chance now of creating those now. Not unless Haviland’s audit uncovered even more than the four thousand pounds that had already gone missing.

  “Is this what you had in mind, when you began digging?” Harry asked, sliding a rough drawing of a cottage surrounded by lush roses across the desk.

  “I didn’t have much of anything in mind when I picked up a shovel,” Theo admitted with a shrug. Enough of this blasted melancholy introspection. “But I daresay it wouldn’t take too much more time to dig up enough roses for such a design. Care to lift a spade with me, Miss A?”

  “Lift a spade?” Harry’s eyes stared up at him, blown wide with surprise.

  “What, now that you’re all grown up, do you think it unladylike to play in the dirt?” he asked. “And you, once the best mud pie maker on all the estate?”

  The corners of Harry’s mouth lifted. But the sound of raised voices—tight, angry, male voices—prevented those pretty pink lips from forming a reply.

  “What the devil?” Theo exclaimed as the library door was pushed wide and a man dressed in the clothes of a laborer shoved his way past Harry’s father and into the room.

  “My lord, my farm—”

  “Your farm, Will Croft?” Mr. Atherton scoffed, shifting a large ledger book from one arm to the other. “It is Lord Saybrook’s farm, not yours. And I will not have you running it into the ground a minute longer. Come, you are making no favorable impression, charging in here like a bull on the rampage.”

  Theo took a step toward the arguing pair, ensuring that Harry remained safely behind him. “What seems to be the trouble, Croft?”

  “No trouble, my lord,” Atherton answered, then sent a sharp, admonishing glance in Croft’s direction. “Just a small dispute with a disgruntled tenant. I’ll have him removed at once.”

  “It’s no small dispute to me when you refuse to renew my lease. And for no just cause,” the laborer exclaimed.

  “I’ve cause enough, and well you know it,” Atherton answered with asperity.

  “What cause, Atherton?” Theo asked as he examined the stranger. “The man’s neat, and clean, and appears to have brawn enough to work a smallholding. And I see none of the telltale signs of excessive drink, with which I assure you I am quite familiar. Does he not pay his rent on time? Does he abuse his workers, or his kith and kin?”

  “No, my lord.” Atherton said, frowning. “Croft, here, with all his wealth of experience, why, he’s convinced he knows better than everyone how to run a farm. Has all sorts of newfangled ideas about what to plant where, and when. All of which have only decreased the yields. As his account demonstrates,” he concluded, gesturing with the book in his arms.

  “They’ve only been a bit off. And this year we’ll see an increase, I’m certain of it,” Croft answered.

  Atherton shook his head. “I am sorry to subject you to such foolishness, my lord. As for you,” he continued, turning back to Croft with a frown, “if you do not wish your cousin to lose his position as footman here, you would best not ask him again to allow you entry into a house in which you do not belong.”

  The steward grabbed Croft by the arm, as if he himself might pull the man bodily from the room. But the farmer, who had both the advantage of Atherton in both age and size, shook off the older man’s hand with a scowl. The ledger in Atherton’s arms fell to the floor with a loud thump.

  Theo’s shoulders tensed. But before he could move between the two men, skirts swished past and Harry was placing her own hand firmly on the farmer’s elbow. “Come, Will. You know this is neither the time nor the place to discuss this.”

  “And when will there be a better?” the farmer scoffed.

  “When you have reined in your anger, and can speak with your customary composure and good sense.” Harry bent down to retrieve the fallen ledger. “And when Lord Saybrook and my father are at liberty to receive you. I promise they will send word. Now come, let Parsons walk you out.”

  Harry moved toward the door. To Theo’s surprise, the belligerent farmer followed. Theo was not the only man, it appeared, who found himself soothed by Miss Atherton’s calm, steady manner.

  But not Harry’s own father, alas. “The late Lord Saybrook was content to leave all decisions about leases to me, my lord. Have I given you reason to distrust my judgment?”

  “Certainly not, sir.” Damnation, he’d offended the man, questioning him that way in front of a tenant. But the Atherton he remembered from childhood would never have been so short-tempered with a tenant. “I admit, though, I did feel some pity for the poor fellow. As did Miss Atherton, I’m certain,” he added as Harry returned to the library.

  “Pity doesn’t pay the bills, my lord,” Atherton answered, retrieving the fallen ledger from his daughter’s hands.
“Tenants must work the land in a profitable manner, or they’re of no worth to you.”

  Theo laid a hand on the older man’s shoulder. “When I was a child, though, you always told me that the owner of an estate has a duty not only to the land, but also to the people who work it. Might we grant this Croft an extension, at least until the winter, after the crops are in and we know for sure whether he’s right to think that this year’s yield will be far improved?”

  “You presume to parrot my own words back to me, do you?” Atherton’s hands fisted by his sides. “Why, I should—”

  “Father!” His daughter grabbed his hand, coiling her fingers around his. “Please, there is no need for raised voices.”

  Atherton’s eyes widened, then blinked. “Of course not, Harriot. I apologize, to you and to Lord Saybrook, for my rash words. You must do as you see fit, my lord. I will leave Croft’s account book here with you, so you may examine the details of the case yourself.”

  Atherton set the ledger down on the desk, then stared at it absently, almost if he had forgotten where he was.

  Theo cleared his throat. “Thank you, Atherton.”

  Theo’s words were enough to jog the steward from his momentary absentmindedness. With a shake of his head, he turned on his heel and strode from the room.

  Theo took a deep breath, then pasted on a smile to cover his dismay. “Well, that’s a touch more excitement than I’d been expecting from quiet old Lincolnshire. Almost as explosive as a fireworks night at Vauxhall, wasn’t it?”

  “I’ve never been to Vauxhall,” Harry said, staring after her father. “But if it is anything like this, I dare say I’d prefer to stay away.”

  That tight fist against her chest, the anxious expression shadowing her face—why should they make him feel so unsettled?

  “Indeed,” he said, throwing himself back in his seat with a thump. “And now I’ve yet another ledger to attempt to decipher. Will my troubles never cease?” He added an exaggerated sigh, just for good measure.

  Miss Atherton turned away from the door, duly distracted by his ridiculous theatricality. Yes, better to look the fool in her eyes than have her worry so over her father’s strange behavior.

  “Perhaps, instead of examining the accounts, you might visit Mr. Croft’s farm?” Miss Atherton offered in a diffident voice. “Get a sense of what he is like, hear about his new methods? The people here hold him in respect, I know, and even my father quite admired his ideas at one time. And, if memory serves, you were always a good judge of character.”

  Theo closed his eyes for a moment, taken aback by her unexpected praise. True, he might be a dunce when it came to anything concerning numbers, but he did have other skills, other strengths. If he called on the ones he had, instead of continually berating himself for the ones he lacked, might he prove himself worthy of the responsibilities that had descended upon him after his father’s death?

  And if he could cheer this blooming girl in the process . . .

  “Thank you, Miss Atherton, for that sage bit of advice. You are a woman wise beyond your years.” Theo strode to the passageway. “Parsons? Send to the stables, please, and have a carriage brought round.”

  “And where are you off to?” she asked.

  “Why, to visit Farmer Croft. No time like the present, now, is there?”

  CHAPTER SEVEN

  A warm evening breeze, hinting at the heat of summer to come, caught at Harry’s skirts as she wove between the stalks and stems of her mother’s once vibrant flower beds. After all those years in Brighton living with Great Aunt Lucretia, in a town house without even the smallest of terrace gardens, she’d almost forgotten the simple pleasure of pulling a stray weed, picking a blossom just on the cusp of its blooming. Surely it wouldn’t be too self-indulgent to spend an hour every now and again, watering and weeding and cutting a few blooms for the sideboard?

  But Father cared little for the beauties of nature, and the flower gardens, situated as they were directly behind their stone cottage, could give no pleasure to any neighbors or passers-by. She would be the only one to appreciate their splendors.

  Theo Pennington would enjoy them. Harry smiled as she knelt to brush a palm over the pointed buds of what looked to be some sort of iris, then over the prickly cone of a plant whose name she could not recall. He should have been ridiculous, the new Lord Saybrook, what with all that singing and digging and running about without the least idea of a plan in his head. But he brought such energy, such joy, even to the simplest of tasks. What must it feel like, to take such easy, unthinking pleasure from life?

  And to think he’d actually heeded her advice! Pray Will Croft had calmed himself enough to speak with intelligence to his new landlord, and explain the innovations he had been implementing. Innovations he had told her her father had agreed to, but which Mr. Atherton now denied authorizing.

  Harry frowned. Once, she would have staked her life on the truth of her father’s word. But with him growing so forgetful, and so unwilling to acknowledge it . . .

  The sound of booted footsteps on the path behind her pulled her to her feet. Had Father finally returned from heavens knew where for his supper? She jerked her hems free of the encroaching weeds and hurried back toward the kitchen door.

  “Harriot.” The last rays of sunlight glanced over her father’s head, making his hair appear golden rather than the white it had become. “I wish to speak with you.”

  Harry’s hands grew warm. After so many years away, she’d almost forgotten the spirit-dampening weight of Father’s displeased “I wish to speak with you.” But he would not take out his frustration with Lord Saybrook on her.

  “Yes, Father,” she answered, clasping her hands tight against her waist.

  But for long moments he said not a word, only paced to and fro before her on the garden path, almost as if he had forgotten she was even there. Only after the rippling wistfulness of a robin’s song broke the still air did he jerk to a stop, then turn back to her with a scowl.

  “Who is the steward of this estate, Harriot?” he asked, arms crossing his chest.

  “You are, sir.”

  “Am I? I did begin to wonder if the position had, in fact, been ceded to you. Why else would you encourage that fool Croft to pursue his misguided experiments? And take his side against me in front of Lord Saybrook?”

  She fought against the urge to cringe. She should be inured to reprimands after all those years with sharp-tongued Aunt Lucretia. But still, his words stung.

  “I am sorry, Father.” It took true effort, making sure her voice remained calm and steady. Even in the waning light, Harry could make out the throb of a vein in her father’s temple.

  “Sorry? Sorry for what?”

  “For casting any doubt upon your authority, sir. You must know it was not my intention. But everyone was so angry, and I wished to avoid a scene—”

  “No, you never could bear raised voices, not even as a child. Just like your mother.” For a moment, his face softened with memory. But after a shake and a scowl, sternness returned. “Is that why you also never told me you’ve been meddling with the account books? Because you wished to avoid a scene?”

  “Meddling, father? But did you not ask me to transcribe them for—”

  “Transcribe, yes,” he interrupted. “But set aside all of my work, and substitute your own? No, Harriot, I do not recall asking you to do any such thing.”

  Harry held out a hand, palm up. “But Father, you’ve had so little time to spend with the ledgers, what with meeting with the architect about the cottages, and overseeing the new drains, and trying to persuade Reverend Strickland to stop his ridiculous campaign against the village feast. I only wished to ease your burden.”

  “Ease it by introducing errors into the accounting? Errors so egregious they have forced even our idle do-nothing of a lord to take an interest?”

  Her head jerked. To hear father utter such insulting words, when he had always insisted that every member of the Saybrook family b
e spoken of with all due respect—why, it was almost as shocking as if he had struck her.

  “Lord Saybrook did say some funds had gone astray,” she managed to squeeze out between trembling lips. “But the fault cannot be ours. I’ve looked and looked, and cannot find a single mistake in the accounting.”

  “Of course you cannot!” her father cried, hands waving in his agitation. “Mistakes are easy to catch when you keep a simple record of each day’s receipts and payments all in one place. But here you’ve gone and created an incomprehensible tangle of separate accounts. And without even consulting me!”

  “But that is how Aunt Lucretia taught me to keep track of her finances—”

  “Harriot,” Father interrupted, his voice sharp with scorn. “Do you truly believe keeping the household accounts for an old woman with two servants and one dependent adequate preparation for tracking the income and expenses of an estate of over ten thousand acres? Come, even you could not be such a simpleton.”

  “But father, you need me—“

  “What I need,” he snapped, “is for ignorant young women to keep their bloody damned oars to their own boats, and stop shoving them in mine. Your aunt assured me if I sent you to Brighton, she would have you married off in a trice. But with such a misguided penchant for meddling, is it any wonder you have not managed to snare a man of your own?”

  The sun had set, but the flames in her cheeks felt as if they burned just as bright. She had only been trying to help.

  Her father took a step toward her, stretching out a conciliating hand. “Come now, Harriot. I did not mean—”

  Harry jerked away, then ran, the wind whipping at her falling tears.

  A soft, sweet humming drifting down from the stable hayloft brought Theo up short. He knew that tune, though he hadn’t heard it sung in a long, long while. Not since his younger siblings had been babes in arms, and he a clumsy toddler, still clinging to his mother’s skirts. A lullaby, wasn’t it? Now, what were the words?