Thomas decided to approach him and called out to get his father’s attention.
“Good morning, Tom,” his father responded warmly. “I see old habits are still with you. Did the Italians teach you nothing of beginning a day at your leisure?”
Thomas chuckled. “They tried, Father. But there as here I find it hard to sleep when there are horses to be exercised.” He stopped when he was a pace away from his father. “And I have missed our English gardens and lanes. As beautiful as I found the rest of the world, I longed for our quiet country. It is good to be home.”
His father made a show of looking him up and down and nodded firmly. “It is good to have you back. We have missed you greatly.” He gestured to the path leading to the house. “Are you ready to go in?”
“I think so. I am finally starting to feel the chill.” Thomas fell into step with Mr. Gilbert easily.
Since his eighteenth birthday, now ten years past, Thomas had stood at an even height with his father. Looking at the older man now, Thomas had a greater appreciation for their similarities. They were not overly tall men. They would never tower above others at an assembly. But they both bore broad shoulders and Thomas knew they shared the same high cheekbones and angular jaw. Thomas had managed to break his nose by riding into a branch as a teenager, giving him that bit of a difference between them. His father’s nose was straight and Roman, his own was crooked.
“Cook will have meat pies for breakfast,” his father said, bringing Thomas out of his thoughts. “And I am likely to suffer many meals of all your favorite foods.”
Thomas’s smile broadened. “She does tend to spoil me, doesn’t she? I wonder if she will make my favorite biscuits?”
“She already has a crock filled to the brim with shortbread,” his father assured him with a warm smile.
A cloud passed over the sun and both gentlemen looked to the sky. “It looks like we will have a morning storm,” Thomas murmured. “I had forgotten how changeable the weather can be.”
“It is cold enough now,” his father said, “that we should see snow within the month.”
“That would be an early winter,” Thomas said with a frown. “Are our tenants prepared?"
“Ah. Yes.” The elder Gilbert’s expression became more somber. “Tom, after breakfast, and after your mother has a chance to bid you good morning, I have need of you in the study. Though I do not wish to burden you, I feel it is important you know the affairs of the estate quickly. Much has happened in your absence.”
Thomas raised an eyebrow at his father, taking in the man’s expression, noting the tightness in his eyes. He knew his father and he knew if he asked what the man meant now, before they were settled in the study as requested, his father would put off the subject. It would be best to wait and find out what his father wished to discuss after breakfast.
“Yes, Father.” He inclined his head respectfully. “I am happy to assist you in any way I can.”
“Good man,” his father said, reaching out to squeeze his son’s shoulder. “Now, to the table with you. Your mother will be distressed we’ve been out in the cold air.”
Thomas laughed and held the door leading in from the gardens for his father, happy to be home. Whatever troubled his father, Thomas would do all he could to help in the running of the estate.
∞∞∞
Thomas sat in his father’s study going through the account books. His father stood by a window, staring out at the gardens Thomas’s mother loved. The elder Mr. Gilbert remained silent as his son poured over their records. The way he stared at the gray sky, his countenance heavy, sorrow no longer concealed by his welcome smile from that morning, put a weight on Thomas’s chest.
“I wish you would have told me sooner, Father,” the younger man said at last, running a hand through his hair. He wondered when his near-black hair would begin to sprout more silver. He could not remember a time when his father had not been afflicted by the salty strands amid all the pepper, though certainly there was more gray than black upon his head now.
“I wanted you to enjoy your time in Italy,” his father answered, glancing over his shoulder. “The money for that was already spent. What good would coming home early have done?”
For two years Thomas enjoyed himself, not knowing of his family’s struggles. He learned as much as he could from several of the most successful horse breeders in Europe, eager to have firsthand knowledge of what it took to breed champion racers, hunters, and even those docile little ponies that the gentry preferred for pulling ladies’ carts. The amount of knowledge he amassed was substantial and well worth the time away from home.
Or so he had thought.
While Thomas pursued his dreams with vigor, his family fell on difficult times. They were by no means bankrupt, but their living was far less than it had been.
Thomas’s father, a kind and benevolent landlord, had taken it upon himself to assist his tenant farmers the first year that a horrible blight struck their farms. Their income had been inconsequential, nearly nothing, and Mr. Gilbert turned all the funds he could back into the farms. He hired a botanist to look at their fields. He ordered everything plowed under, new seeds brought in and distributed to the tenants.
“Our tenants must be grateful for all your aid,” Thomas said as he closed the books before him.
“I could not think another action would be prudent,” his father said. “What could I do when they had no funds to pay their rents? It would be folly to cast them out. You know the Jones family has worked the land as long as our family has held it. If the earth itself was blighted, how could I blame them? Or even accept another family in their place to suffer the same fate?”
Thomas agreed that the decision was as logical as it was kind. But the move depleted the family funds a great deal. Then the following year, more disaster struck. A worm of devilish nature invaded and took far longer to eradicate than they liked. Their crops were nearly destroyed, revived, and then flooded out with intense spring storms. The already weak vegetation did not do well with the excess rains. This meant not enough income for the tenants to pay the rents. Economies were taken by tenants and landlord alike.
Now Thomas came, at the end of the second poor growing season, and looked over the many notes of expenditure, the bills, and the farmers’ reports of the situation.
“Our funds are low, but we are not in the suds yet,” he said as cheerfully as he could, closing another of the books, then rubbed the bump on the bridge of his nose, agitated. “We can still reverse the damages if we have a proper growing season next year. Surely three years of bad luck is unheard of, Father.”
“We lack sufficient means to procure enough seed,” his father said, not turning from the window. “We have enough to meet the needs of the families. And feed ourselves. That is all.”
Thomas froze and stared at his father’s back in disbelief. “If we use that, and make no income, there will be almost nothing for next year.”
“That is the truth of it, Thomas.” He turned slowly and the look in his eyes made Thomas’s heart ache. His father’s shoulders, once squared, now drooped under the weight of his responsibilities. The lines around his mouth and on his forehead stood pronounced, where no wrinkles had previously been seen. Why hadn’t Thomas noticed these things earlier?
His father went on. “We have few options. I do not wish to ask for credit from the banks or from friends. I will not be a debtor.”
Thomas knew and respected this. His grandfather nearly ruined the family with debts before his death, and Thomas’s father saved them, working hard to right the estate and turn a profit from the land.
Land. They had that in abundance.
“We sell parcels of land,” Thomas stated. “Decrease our holdings, sell the house in town.”
The senior Gilbert nodded slowly and said with a quiet, defeated tone, “And the horses, Tom. We needn’t keep so many.”
Thomas drew in a sharp breath and fisted his hands. “The horses? The horses could help
our future. I have six strong breeding mares. The three I brought back from Italy are of the finest pedigree. They could save us.”
“Tom.” His father’s voice was kind, understanding even, as he reasoned with his son. “They would fetch a fine price. And how long would it take to breed them? How would you pay for the rights of a suitable stud?”
“I would offer the payment after the foals are born. It would be an investment.”
“In the meantime, you would need to pay for all the upkeep that comes with so many animals. We cannot do that, Thomas. Not when our tenants need us to be wiser with our funds. We have made many economies. I would have sold the three you left behind, but I wished you to understand the decision and come to terms with it before doing so. We have carriage horses, you and I may keep our personal mounts, but otherwise we must try for our best price. It will save our family, Tom, and the families over whom we bear responsibility.”
Thomas’s hopes shattered. He swallowed and stood, the world moving slowly. He came to his father and put a hand on the man’s shoulder. “I am sorry, Father. Please give me some time. Let me study the situation out further. There may yet be a way without having to sell our land or the horses. Something we have overlooked.”
“We live simply, Thomas. Within our means. Take some time to study the situation if you must. But not too much time. Arrangements must be made soon.” He gave his son a pat on the shoulder and shared a rueful smile. “And don’t forget, your mother has plans of her own for you. She wants to reintroduce you to the neighborhood. Starting this evening.”
Thomas, distracted by the problem at hand, nodded and withdrew into his thoughts, wondering how to achieve his dream with lands that could not even pay for themselves, let alone the beginnings of a horse farm.
Chapter Three
Thomas did not particularly feel like going to a supper party, even if his long absence from home and subsequent return was the reason the party was being given. The Littletons lived on the other side of the village and were considered to be socially important in their little hamlet. Thomas knew that sending his regrets would not only greatly disappoint his hostess but would likely be seen as a slight. Having no wish to hurt anyone’s feelings, he found himself in a carriage with his father, mother, sister, and brother-in-law, trundling down the gravel drive to Littleton Manor.
“As well intentioned as this party is,” he said to the carriage full of his family, “I would like to leave as soon as politely possible.”
His sister, Martha Brody by marriage, nudged him with her shoulder. “Tom, as the guest of honor, you are supposed to be the last to leave.” Older than him by five years, Martha was as apt to tease him as mother him, and the way her eyes twinkled in the darkness made him smile despite himself. He had missed her greatly during his time away.
“We have the perfect excuse to make a short evening of it,” Thomas argued. “Your dear children.”
She paused in adjusting a pin in her raven-black hair. “Whatever have my children to do with anything?” she asked, obviously perplexed.
“You have five of them. Surely, at least one is ill at the moment and requires maternal care.”
George, his good-natured brother-in-law, chuckled. “It is the time of year that one or another of them comes down with a cold or cough.” He might be an ally in helping Thomas make an escape from the party.
“They are all disgustingly healthy at present.” Martha’s superior tone made Thomas smile all the more.
Sighing deeply, Thomas crossed his arms and leaned toward the window. “Regretful.”
“Dear boy,” his mother said, “everyone has missed you. The least you can do is be courteous and even grateful for the special attention being shown to you tonight. Our neighbors wish to hear of your travels.”
“And fill you in on all the latest gossip,” Martha added helpfully.
“And see if you would make good husband material for any of the local misses,” George said, his amusement ill-concealed. Perhaps he was not the ally he appeared to be, Thomas decided. “You have had a taste of the exotic and come back as a potential prize on the marriage mart, Tom.”
Thomas groaned and dropped his head in his hands. “Exactly who else is coming tonight?”
“I already told you,” his mother reminded him, sounding as though her patience was being tried by the attitude of her son. “The Littletons invited our family, the Whitsons, the Devons, and the vicar’s family.”
Martha’s teasing followed quickly. “In terms that will make much more sense to you, that means there will be several eligible young ladies present tonight.”
“If you sounded any more gleeful about this, Martha, I would suspect you had a hand in arranging the guest list.” Thomas wouldn’t put it past her to meddle in such things.
“She is very good friends with Lady Littleton,” George pointed out most unhelpfully, then yelped as his wife likely pinched him for revealing too much to her brother.
Thomas reached up and rubbed both temples to ward off a swiftly developing headache. After all his work on the estate books today, and writing several letters to parties which might have better ideas for him to save his family’s future, being put up as husband material by the local matchmakers did little to ease the weight he felt upon his shoulders.
If only he’d never left Italy, working with horses, and staying very much out of the way of English society.
∞∞∞
The party lived up to Thomas’s low expectations for a time. He spent the supper portion of the evening wedged between the vicar’s elder daughter, a Miss Ames, and the Littletons’ youngest daughter, Miss Hannah. While both young ladies conversed well on topics pertaining to the weather, his health, and his time in Italy, he found himself terribly bored and impatient to get on with the evening. The sooner the meal was over, the sooner they could begin and end the entertainment, and the sooner he would be home where he could pace his father’s study in relative peace.
Across from Thomas sat the vicar, one of the two Devon sisters present, and a Whitson lady. Although, technically, he should have paid more attention to those seated at either side of him, Thomas listened more often to the conversation taking place across the table.
He remembered Miss Christine as a child, though he had not seen her since her mother’s death. She had still been in the schoolroom, he thought, when that event occurred. When the tragedy befell the Devons, Thomas mourned Mrs. Devon as though the woman had been family. Mrs. Devon had been from a family of horse-breeders and she made many of his introductions to the Italians possible. Indeed, she’d been his earliest instructor in the importance of a horse’s bloodlines. This daughter, he recalled, had often been at her mother’s elbow when he was about.
She must miss her mother terribly, he thought, given how often she spent time in the woman’s company.
The vicar, Mr. Ames, kept attempting to discuss a passage in the Bible with Miss Whitson while Christine Devon continually interrupted with questions. He did recall, somewhat, a handful of times she interrupted his conversation with Mrs. Devon with inquisitive motives. She clearly was in possession of a curious mind.
“You see, dear ladies,” Mr. Ames said with his eyes on Miss Hannah and his shoulders stiff. “King Saul was a complete despot. Though chosen by God, he abused his authority and was therefore removed from power.”
“Isn’t that what the American colonists claimed about our king?” The Devon girl looked highly interested in the conversation and remained unaware of the frustration her questions caused Mr. Ames, if her wide-eyed stare was any indication. “They said he abused authority and they could not, in clear conscience, follow his governance any more. I believe that many of them justified their actions of rebellion using various religious texts. Kings have long claimed Divine Authority to rule, but it is obvious from Saul’s story that such authority can be revoked.”
“By God alone,” the vicar said with an air of censure, not even turning to look at her. “A group of upsta
rts can hardly decide for themselves—"
Miss Christine had the audacity to interrupt his explanation. “A large group of upstarts who are men of faith might perceive things about their rulers being unjust, might they not?”
The vicar’s chest puffed up, reminding Thomas of a rooster attempting to bluster another out of the barnyard. “The King is the Supreme Head of the Church—"
“The Church of England,” Miss Christine agreed with a brisk nod, her brown eyes alight with interest. “There are many churches. I believe that while many profess to be Christian, there are different branches within that belief. It was a king who formed the Church of England, to end Papist rule over the throne, is that not true?”
The vicar turned at last and looked down his nose at the young woman, his hand clutching at his napkin. “Of which creed are you, Miss Christine?”
“Church of England.” She smiled, and it appeared to be an expression without any malice Thomas could detect. Could she be so guileless? “Am I not in your congregation every Sunday, Mr. Ames?” Thomas tried not to choke on his wine, surprised and amused by her challenging a man of the cloth, yet this innocent sounding question made him realize she was completely unaware of the inappropriate nature of the conversation.
“Indeed. I wonder whether or not you give sufficient heed to the sermons.” The vicar’s icy tone would have been enough to stop Thomas from saying another word, but not so the young lady.
“Of course I do.” The young woman waved a hand dismissively, apparently oblivious to the man’s rising ire. The tilt to her chin reminded him at once of Mrs. Devon. She often raised her head up in such a manner when making a point to him about her animals. “That is why I find it so delightful to finally speak to you. I have many questions about your last discourse. Especially in regards to the rumors about our king’s stability and how that might relate to his right to rule both Church and State.”
The vicar’s other supper partner alternately blushed and paled as she listened to the discourse and finally broke in with a little giggle. “Oh, Miss Christine, you are quite amusing. Anyone listening would think that you are questioning our vicar’s religious teachings. Pray, Mr. Ames, won’t you tell me of your recent visits about the parish? I would greatly enjoy hearing of your good works.”
The Social Tutor Page 2
