“Always the optimist, are you?” Colliver gave his gray head a sharp shake and continued down the shady row, leaning heavily on his ornately carved walking stick with each step. “Apples. They’re an unpredictable lot. One bad storm or a bout with disease could ruin the entire season. Financially it would take years to recover from a mishap.”
“That’s true for any crop.” Jac fell into slow steps next to the older man. “Besides, this orchard’s been here for years, well before my uncle died. It’s been neglected, sure enough, but it’s got solid bones. With attention and proper care there’s no reason it shouldn’t flourish.”
“May I ask, what happens if this master plan of yours fails? What will come of Penwythe Hall then?” Colliver seemed determined to uncover fault with Jac’s plan. “Word has it you’ve cleared the grain fields and converted them to orchards. Risky, say I, to put so much effort behind one revenue source.”
Jac touched the blossom on a nearby branch and paused to examine the intricate petals but did not pluck it. The muscles in his shoulders tensed, in spite of himself.
“I’ve always known you to be impulsive.” Colliver’s raspy voice was unpleasant and harsh against the birdsong coming up from the vale. “I remember that fact well enough from when you were a boy. You and your brother would ride like wild things across the moors on those fat little ponies of yours. Be that as it may, I’ve never taken you for a gambling man, willing to risk your livelihood and the livelihood of countless others on a whim.”
Jac bit back the sharp retort itching to be spoken.
Converting his grain field had been a weighty decision. Yes, failure would ruin not only him but also his tenants and all who relied on Penwythe land for a living. It was a gamble in the truest sense, but despite the risk, he needed Colliver to see the strategy in his efforts—and support them.
Jac forced his fingers through his thick, curling hair and brushed it to the side. “Change was necessary. That soil was depleted. Besides, we’ve other resources. This orchard is mature and will be fruitful. The others will be too, in their time.”
“In their time?” Colliver huffed, his bushy brows rising in obvious disapproval. “And how long will that be?”
Jac hesitated, knowing his timeline sounded grim. “It will take at least three years before the newest orchard bears fruit, five years before steady growth. But don’t forget, several other orchards exist on Penwythe’s property, all at different stages of maturity.”
Colliver tapped his walking stick against a nearby trunk. “And what’s this I hear of a cider press? I was at the Harpe and Lute the other day. Your venture was on the tongue of every farmer there.”
Jac was not used to explaining himself, but if he wanted Colliver to see his vision and invest accordingly, transparency was vital. Jac once again fell into step behind Colliver as he traversed down the grassy path between the rows. “The grain barn in the north meadow is to be converted to a cider mill. A granite crusher will arrive in the coming weeks, along with a press, which is currently being built in Devon.”
Colliver clicked his tongue. “That all sounds very expensive.”
“It is, but worth the investment.”
“Worth the investment, eh?” Colliver stopped suddenly. He retrieved a handkerchief from his linen coat, lifted his beaver hat, and wiped the perspiration gathering on his wrinkled brow. When he turned back to Jac, the sarcasm vanished from his expression, and he pressed his lips together before he spoke.
“I have considered your offer to join you financially in this venture. You’re a man of integrity. There’s no doubt about that, so I’ll be frank. Rumors are ripe, Twethewey. I consider myself above the idle prattle of small-minded men, but such talk can’t be ignored. I’ve heard Penwythe is in dire financial straits and falls deeper every day.”
Jac widened his stance. The rumors had started even before his uncle died, and now five years later he could only imagine what Colliver had heard. He chose his words with care. “I’ll not deny we’ve had our fair share to overcome, but that’s why change is necessary. My hand’s been forced.”
The salt-scented air blowing from the sea to the north rustled Colliver’s gray hair and brought the leaves to life on their stems, dancing and twirling in the breeze. “Your uncle was a great man, one of the finest in Cornwall, I’d wager, but he had little concern with preparing for the future. I wasn’t surprised when he left Penwythe to you and not Randall, not in the least, but in doing so he left you with a terrible mess on your hands.” He raised a bushy brow and eyed Jac. “How old are you? Thirty?”
Jac swallowed. He didn’t like the direction this conversation was taking. “Two and thirty.”
A deep chuckle rumbled from Colliver’s throat. “Such a young man still. God willing, you’ve many years ahead. I suppose you’ve time for risks and gambling with outcomes.”
Heat crept up the back of Jac’s neck. His jaw twitched. His defenses were rising, as they always did when this topic surfaced.
“I like you, Twethewey. I always have. But my tolerance for such ventures is much lower than it would have been when I was your age.”
A thousand retorts darted through Jac’s mind, but he pressed his lips shut. He wanted Colliver’s approval. Nay, he needed it.
Colliver replaced his hat and adjusted the brim. “And what if you change your mind next summer, when the apples do not bear quickly enough and you’ve not enough harvest? What then? Like I said, it’s the impulsiveness of your nature that makes me skittish. You can’t control the growing of things any more than you can control the clouds in the heavens or the tides of the sea. And if your plan fails, well, I’ve seen too many well-intentioned plans fall by the wayside—and great sums of money with them.”
“The orchard and plans for the cider barn were calculated decisions. It isn’t as much of a gamble as you suggest. We—Andrews and I—examined the numbers numerous times. We even engaged the assistance of an expert from Devon. Penwythe is in my blood. I’d do nothing to jeopardize it, nor the livelihood of those who depend upon it.”
“Be that as it may, I can only respond to what I know and what I can see with my own eyes, and right now, all I see is row after row of fruitless trees.” He stared at Jac for several moments, and then he shook his head with a little chuckle.
The pretentious sound grated on Jac’s nerves. He did not see this—any of this—as a laughing matter. “Just a few months and I’ll prove to you that the orchards will be profitable.”
Colliver nodded and tilted his head to the side. “Prove that the orchards here can turn a profit. Then, and only then, will I consider coming alongside you and supporting this endeavor financially—for a portion of the proceeds, obviously.”
Colliver plucked another blossom, studied it intently, then tossed it to the ground. He stepped backward and examined Jac down the bridge of his pudgy nose. “Come to dinner tonight. I know my family would like to see you. Bring your aunt as well. My wife fancies her company. I’ll be watching you—and your little project—with interest.”
He turned to leave but paused. The corner of his lip twitched. “But if you and I are ever to venture into business together, I suggest you give a care to your appearance. I’ll not invest my money with a man who appears like a common vagabond, regardless of how earnest you are.”
Jac chuckled at the conversation’s amiable turn. He’d been laboring alongside his workers all day, and as a result, mud spattered his boots and buckskin breeches. No, he didn’t look the part of a landowner, but perhaps he appeared like a man who was doing whatever necessary to meet his goals. “Never could just stand by and watch another man work. I hate being idle.”
“You come by that honestly, I say.” Colliver’s broad mouth cracked into a smile. Gone was the talk of facts and figures. “Your uncle would spend hours in that garden of his, never content to be still, refusing to let anyone else—not even the servants—tend it.”
Without another word Colliver leaned on his walking stick
and lumbered back down the petal-covered path toward Penwythe Hall.
Jac ran his hand down his linen waistcoat and brushed off a piece of grass that clung to his side. He couldn’t remember where he’d shed his coat earlier, and now dirt and dust darkened the once-fine fabric, and his shirtsleeves clung to his arms, dampened with perspiration.
Refocusing his attention, he rubbed the back of his neck and stared down the orchard row. The scent of apple blossoms intermingled with that of the sea—an intoxicating blend, one that felt like the past and future colliding. He lifted his gaze to the sapphire sky, searching its wispy clouds as if the answer to his problem were hidden within.
Oh yes, his plans were grand: Orchards. Much-needed repairs to Penwythe Hall. Expansion to the south. Impatience for it all to fall into place surged within him.
He knelt and dragged his fingers over a section of damp, freshly turned soil where a new tree replaced one that had died. He lifted a handful and sifted it through his fingers before he stood to his full height once again. The stones had already been cast, and every last farthing he possessed had been committed to these orchards.
With renewed determination he returned to the road. There was work to be done, and plenty of it. Now there was even less margin for error. There could be no turning back.
Chapter 3
A steady rain pattered against the tall leaded windows in the study, and Delia tightened the black mourning shawl about her shoulders to ward off the bitter chill. A headache throbbed, and she pressed the back of her hand to her lips to stifle a yawn.
Neither she, nor anyone else at Easten Park, had slept in the time since Mr. Twethewey’s death two days prior, but even as exhaustion threatened to take hold, she deliberately straightened her shoulders. Her distraught charges deserved to know what would happen in the coming days. Mr. Steerhead had been quiet on the matter, and she needed answers.
Next to her, Mr. Simon occupied the wingback chair. His foot tapped an even beat against the chair’s leg, and he leaned heavily with his elbow on the chair’s arm, staring at an indeterminate point on the wall. His clean-shaven jaw twitched. The twinkle that normally glimmered in his dark-brown eyes was absent.
The sudden jerking of the door snapped them both to attention.
Mr. Steerhead stormed in, accompanied by the sharp scents of brandy and tobacco. His wrinkled white cravat hung loose, and his hair, the color of which blurred somewhere between brown and gray, escaped his queue in frizzed locks. As a frequent guest at Easten House, he easily made himself at home in the room, and he dropped to the late Mr. Twethewey’s chair behind the desk with a huff.
“That undertaker is a greedy snake.” Mr. Steerhead pointed at them as he spoke through gritted teeth, jabbing his finger forward with every syllable. “If he thinks he is going to play on our grief to get one more farthing over our agreed-upon amount, he’s got another thing coming.”
Muttering, Mr. Steerhead forced his focus to the desktop and shuffled through the stack of papers, his motions frantic, as if searching for something of great import. “If there had been any other undertaker within a reasonable distance, I should throw this one from the premises. That’s what I’d do.”
Delia and Mr. Simon exchanged glances.
With no other family members in the vicinity, the arrangements for Mr. Twethewey’s funeral had been assumed by Mr. Steerhead—a task the man clearly loathed.
Delia, ignoring his boisterous bluster, leaned forward, determined to address the job at hand. “Have the burial arrangements been made?”
“The burial?” Mr. Steerhead jerked his head up and stilled his hands, almost as if he had forgotten her presence. “The funeral will be the day after tomorrow. Of course I’d prefer to wait until Sunday, but the coffin has been purchased, the hearse and horses have been arranged, and the bearers have all been notified. I see no cause for delay, especially with the distress the children are under. Mr. Twethewey had very few relations in the area, and his business associates won’t want to make the journey north from London, especially with the dreadful weather. This insufferable rain has made the roads nigh impassable.”
After the onslaught of words, an abrupt silence prevailed. Mr. Steerhead removed his wire spectacles from the bridge of his hawkish nose and rubbed his forehead with his bony fingers for several moments. “It’s dreadful business to arrange a funeral for a friend in such a manner.”
Delia smoothed the black muslin of her skirt, ignoring the pinch in her stomach. She could relate to the emotion—the oppressive sensation of loss and dread, of sorrow and numbness. She forced the unwanted thoughts away. “Will Mr. Jac Twethewey be attending?”
Mr. Steerhead shrugged an angular shoulder. “I wrote to him, but I doubt he’s received the missive. At any rate, the brothers weren’t on the best of terms. I doubt he’ll be pleased with Mr. Twethewey’s decision to send the children to Penwythe Hall.”
Delia’s posture slackened. She’d hoped the children would be able to see their uncle prior to traveling to Cornwall, if for no other reason than to ease their minds.
But it was not to be.
Mr. Steerhead cleared his throat. “Of course, the young ladies will not attend the burial, but the undertaker has arranged for new black coats and gloves for the boys. At least that is one thing that mouse of a man has done efficiently. Mr. Simon, you will speak with him and see the boys are adequately prepared.”
Mr. Simon nodded.
“In the meantime, you both must prepare the children to depart for Penwythe the morning following the funeral.”
“The morning after?” Delia’s posture straightened once again. “So quickly? It seems almost cruel to uproot them so soon.”
“On the contrary.” Mr. Steerhead absently retrieved his pocket watch from his waistcoat, popped it open, squinted as he lifted the face to the light, then snapped it shut. “The sooner they settle in a new environment, the better. Besides, I’ve had the good fortune to find a tenant to lease Easten Park, but they require immediate occupancy. Such an arrangement will provide income during this time, which is always desirable in circumstances such as these. You only need pack what the children will require for the next several weeks. The staff will remain behind and can pack the remaining items and send them forthwith.”
Delia’s head swam with the details she’d just received.
Income? He was really concerned about income at a time like this?
She opened her mouth to speak, but Mr. Steerhead retrieved a portfolio from the top drawer of the desk, pulled two large packets from it, and extended one toward her and the other toward Mr. Simon.
Without awaiting instruction Mr. Simon accepted and opened his missive. Curious, Delia lifted her head to see over his arm and spied bank notes folded inside the paper. Mr. Simon’s eyes widened. “What’s this?”
“Mr. Twethewey instructed me to give these to you. He intended it as incentive that you’d make good on your word to accompany the children to Penwythe. He feared you’d not be willing to travel so far.”
Mr. Simon cleared his throat and glanced toward Delia.
She did not open her letter but lowered it to her lap and leaned forward, eager for as much information as she could glean. “What can you tell us about Penwythe Hall, Mr. Steerhead?”
He rested his elbows on the arms of his chair and folded his hands over his midsection. “Penwythe Hall is the seat of an estate on the north coast of Cornwall, quite close to the sea and north of the moors. It’s an ancient place—been there for hundreds of years, I’d guess—but sadly it’s fallen into disrepair over the last couple of decades.”
“So you’ve been there?” she clarified.
“Ah, yes.” He lifted his pointed chin. “A number of times. At one point our Mr. Twethewey was set to inherit the place, so I accompanied him there on many visits in anticipation of that.”
“I remember that.” Mr. Simon brushed a wayward piece of lint from his trousers, as if only paying half attention to the details. “C
aused quite a stir, if I recall correctly.”
“You do.” Mr. Steerhead turned his full attention to Delia. “This all happened before you arrived, but Mr. Simon was here. Mr. Twethewey and his brother, Jac, were raised by their uncle, William Angrove, at Penwythe Hall after the death of their parents. When their uncle died, it was expected that he would will the estate and all the associated holdings to Randall. When the will was read, however, Mr. Angrove left the estate in its entirety to Jac, the younger brother. It caused quite a rift between the two.”
Delia frowned. “But if the property was not entailed, would Mr. Angrove not be free to leave the property to whomever he chose?”
“Indeed, but for years Mr. Angrove assured Randall that the property would come to him. Randall, in turn, endeavored to establish his business to ensure a financial future for the property. But in the end, it was not to be. Randall believed Jac influenced the uncle in his last days to change the will. Of course, his brother denied such accusations. To my knowledge, after the will was read they never again spoke.”
Mr. Simon shifted in his chair, as if finally taking interest. “If there was such bad blood between them, why did Mr. Twethewey name him as guardian?”
Mr. Steerhead stood, moved to the side table, and lifted the brandy decanter. “Mrs. Twethewey’s sister, Mrs. Lambourne, is an exemplary woman, but her husband has made questionable investments, especially as of late. Randall was a wealthy man, and now his children are wealthy. At least Liam is. The world would love nothing more than to take advantage of young people in such a state.”
“And he thought Mrs. Lambourne would do that?”
“Not so much Mrs. Lambourne, but her husband. Randall said he believed Jac to be the lesser of two evils. He went so far as to revise the trust so Jac could not access the children’s funds. He’ll receive an annuity to see to the children’s necessities and comforts, but the girls’ dowry and Liam’s fortune cannot be touched without my approval and consent.”
The Governess of Penwythe Hall Page 2
