by Cindy Anstey
“In conjunction with Mr. Lynch, sir. It is a joint trusteeship. And I have been authorized to say that there will be no more funds forthcoming—”
“What!”
“Until the misunderstandings have been addressed. That is why I am here. I will be making my recommendations to Mr. Lynch upon my return to Bath.”
“Who do you think you are? Coming in here, telling us what we should or shouldn’t do.”
“As you saw in the letter, sir.” Robert enunciated each syllable as if he were dealing with someone of inferior wit. “I am here under Mr. Lynch’s authority. I am here to understand and then to pass on that understanding to Miss Whitfield’s solicitor as stipulated by Oliver Whitfield’s will.” He glanced at the subject of their discussion, admiring her restraint, and then returned his eyes to Kemble.
“Yes, yes. Fine. Let’s get on with it. I have better things to do.”
“We will wait, Uncle, for Mr. Drury.” Miss Whitfield glanced casually at Robert as she made a task out of choosing a chair close to the nearest fireplace. “He should be here presently.”
No sooner were the words spoken than a lanky man, somewhere in his fifth decade, entered the study with a hurried step. Though his face was narrow, wide, bushy side whiskers balanced the attributes of his face, and while he sported a broad smile, the congeniality did not reach his eyes.
“Hey ho, Shodster thought you were in need of me, Miss Whitfield. And here I see you are occupied with company, so I will take myself off and see you at some other time. Much to do: busy, busy, busy.” Turning, Drury almost made it out of the room before Robert called him back by uttering his name.
“Do I know you?”
Robert noted the lack of the word sir and the upward tilt of Drury’s nose, but he soon had all three seated and silent and waiting.
Robert cleared his throat, hooked his thumbs into his waistcoat pockets, and tried to sound lawyerly. “In the past fortnight, Mr. Lynch has received three heated letters regarding Roseberry Hall and the running of the estate.”
“Three?” Miss Whitfield was clearly surprised.
“Yes, three. These letters included words such as inept, ignorant, and disaster. Mr. Lynch had no choice but to divine the true nature of these complaints.”
“Drury, you didn’t.” Kemble fixed a glare on the land agent.
“You told me to.”
“I did no such thing. Told you I’d take care of it. Yes. No. Never asked you.”
“Indeed, you did … yes, yes, yes. Well, perhaps not in so many words. But, well: Missy won’t let me do this; Missy natters about that; if Lynch knew the half of it, he’d put a stop to Missy an’ all her opinions. Couldn’t be clearer.”
Robert intervened. “Gentlemen, if I could have your attention. Thank you. Now, first we shall address this year’s crop choice. There is a wide disparity: apples, tea, or pineapples.”
“Pineapples?” Drury’s surprise outshouted Miss Whitfield’s.
“Yes.” Kemble nodded with supreme authority and then turned toward Drury. “You made mention of a new strain that would grow in these cooler climes. Just developed, you said. Could fill the Roseberry coffers tenfold. Well, I think it a most estimable idea, but Missy here thinks she knows better.” He studiously didn’t look in Miss Whitfield’s direction.
“Yes,” Drury said with heaps of derision. “Exactly. But I said tea.”
“Gentlemen, be it tea or pineapples, both are experimental and require time to establish.” Miss Whitfield turned back toward Robert. “Digging up the apple orchards and planting them with tea … or pineapples … makes no sense.”
“This is not for you to say, Lydia. You have not been running this estate; I have—”
“I beg to differ, Uncle, but that is not true. Until three months ago, Mr. Pibsbury has been overseeing—”
Kemble stood, knocking his chair over in his haste. “Nonsense. Do not listen to this green girl, Mr. Newton. Tell Mr. Lynch that I have decided to plant pineapples—”
“Tea!” Drury’s tone was heated.
“Yes, right. Tea. It is agreed then. Off you go.” And off Kemble went instead, rushing out the door.
“Well, that won’t do…” Robert started to say, but there was no audience save Miss Whitfield to talk to as Drury had followed on Kemble’s heels. “Hmm.”
“Yes, indeed.” Miss Whitfield sighed. “You see the problem.”
Robert nodded—family politics were always complicated. “I’ll have to talk to the gentlemen separately, I suppose.”
“That is a wise idea. I’ll tell Mrs. Buttle to set another plate.… Well, I mean to say—would you care to join us for dinner, Mr. Newton?”
“Why, thank you, Miss Whitfield. I would be honored.” There was no helping it. Robert knew it would be dinner and an overnighter. Ferreting out the reason behind Kemble’s irascible and belittling attitude—toward his fellow trustee and his niece—would take more than an afternoon.
It could be that Kemble truly did not see that Miss Whitfield was interested in more than gewgaws. While Robert had been in Miss Whitfield’s company long enough to know that she possessed a large helping of common sense, it was possible that her uncle had not noticed the transformation of child to young woman.
Glancing at the figure bending over to right her uncle’s chair, Robert made a pleasant observation. Miss Lydia Whitfield had definitely grown up.
Chapter 3
In which an important discussion takes place in the garden and Lord Aldershot refuses to be pushed around
Finding no excuse to remain in his company, Lydia reluctantly left Mr. Newton seated comfortably at her father’s desk scribbling out a few notes; his description, not hers. Deep in thought and distraction, she wandered into the morning room at the far side of the manor, where she could be alone. With a sigh, she worried at her bottom lip.
There seemed to be some urgency to Uncle’s manner and choices that Lydia did not understand. Was it all too much for him—the burden of the estate—too much weight for him to bear? To buckle after such a short duration, well, it smacked of weakness. It was a most abhorrent condition to her father, and one that he must not have foreseen or Uncle Arthur would never have been named as a trustee. The whole situation was beyond perplexing.
If only Mr. Pibsbury were still there. He would call Uncle a ninny, quietly under his breath, and toss Mr. Drury out on his ear. Tea would get short shrift, and pineapples wouldn’t even merit a comment—a smirk, perhaps, but no more than that.
Yes, a wonderful, competent man, Mr. Pibsbury. He was a font of information, kindness, and chuckles—a bonhomie sort. His pensioning-off had come as a complete surprise to all. Thirty-five years of knowledge swept away in one fell swoop.
This whole state of affairs was nothing short of a disaster.
Frowning, Lydia plopped—very unladylike—onto the firm morning room settee.
Disaster. Her father would not appreciate the word’s use—too much emotion, smacked of an indecent amount of sensibility. Histrionics at its worst. Perhaps farce would be a better word. Yes, digging up a productive orchard to plant tea … in Somerset, no less … could be nothing but a farce.
Still, there was little Lydia could do—farce or disaster—at this point other than appeal to Mr. Lynch, which she had already done. Rubbing at her forehead—completely mussing her carefully placed curls—Lydia considered one more option … one more person to whom she could turn. Yes, despite a qualm or two, she considered involving her neighbor, Lord Aldershot, in this tug-of-war of authority.
Indeed, Manfred Barley, Lord Aldershot, had authority in spades simply for being who he was—Lord Aldershot: friend of her father (or, rather, the son of her father’s friend), member of the peerage, and the gentleman to whom Lydia was unofficially engaged.
Yes, that might do the trick.
Barley would be like-minded—he always agreed with her. No reason to think he would have his own opinion in regard to crops; it would be uncharacteristic
, for he was a compliant and easily led individual. And while he knew nothing of running an estate the size of Roseberry, which was three times larger than Wilder Hill Manor, he had a vested interest.
All and sundry knew that their engagement was not official—no contract had been signed, none of the larger issues settled. Yet, had their betrothal not been generally bandied about, Barley would have had to retrench, so deep were his debts. Forced into Bath or, worse, Bristol—to live a quiet life off a rented Wilder Hill Manor. It was a horrifying thought to any who knew him. Barley was a country gentleman: horses, hounds, and high living were his lifeblood … and his financial drain.
It stood to reason that Barley would not wish his future jeopardized.
Jumping up, Lydia exchanged her seat on the settee for the chair at her escritoire. She stared at the rosewood grain for some minutes as she composed the missive in her head and then dashed off the carefully worded note. Then, after giving the sealed letter to Shodster, she adjourned to the first-floor drawing room to await Barley’s arrival.
* * *
The drawing room was a pleasant apartment: of a good size, lately redecorated in floral pink and green with a bank of windows overlooking the formal gardens. As expected, the room contained six ladies, and did so daily—Lydia, being the seventh female of the household, was somewhat inconstant.
Lydia had a deep affection for all members of the Whitfield family circle. Cora Shipley, the governess of Cousin Tessa and Lydia’s sister, Ivy, was included under that umbrella, for they were, in fact, close friends. However, the family was not without flaws. Cousin Elaine, almost three full years Lydia’s senior, could be annoying at times—prone to exaggeration or melodrama. Mama was … Mama. And Aunt Freya, Uncle Arthur’s beleaguered wife, well, the poor woman fancied herself a gifted but unfulfilled artist and constantly regaled them with anecdotes of flower arranging or matching ribbons or choosing wallpaper.
Walking sedately into the room, Lydia allowed the bubbling conversation and laughter to distract her from her worries … her uncertainties. Ivy joined her on the couch with an embroidery sampler, asking how best to correct a stitching error. Once Lydia had fixed her sister’s needlework, Cousin Tessa traded places with Ivy for no particular purpose. Tessa lolled against Lydia, as only a worshipping nine-year-old could. The scene was so untouched by the tea-and-pineapple hostilities that Lydia’s abating tension was soon no longer a pretense but truly realized.
Even Mama’s pointed remarks did not nettle.
“How is dear Shelley, Lydia? Have you heard from her lately?” Mama turned to look at Aunt Freya, who was seated next to her on the couch by the fire. “Shelley is a fast friend of Lydia’s from Miss Melvina’s Finishing School for Young Ladies—”
“And of Cora’s, Mama.” Lydia glanced toward the window seat, where her friend sat sideways with a book on her lap; she was lost in her own world, staring out at the trees. The picture of a demure governess, Cora wore an unembellished dove-gray gown, a serene expression with a hint of melancholy in her pretty blue eyes, and a sensible upsweep of her dark blond hair. It was quite disturbing, for Cora was of a flamboyant nature in dress and character, normally tending toward laughter and spirited discourse.
When Lydia had offered her the position of governess six or so months earlier, Cora had been extremely grateful. Cora had been at wit’s end as her brother’s wife had made it plain that Cora’s presence was tiresome and that she was no longer welcome at the Shipley manor.
Lydia had offered her friend a home at Roseberry Hall with no obligations, but Cora called it charity and would not agree. It was then decided that a girl well versed in elocution, deportment, and dancing could provide the two youngest girls of the Whitfield-Kemble menagerie with a worthwhile education. And so, Cora Shipley acquiesced.
Now, not for the first time, Lydia observed that her friend had become withdrawn this past month. Quiet afternoons were spent staring out the window with an ever-growing expression of sadness. Even the mention of her name had not distracted Cora from the complicated process of staring at nothing.
With a sigh, Lydia returned her attention to her mother’s conversation.
“Yes, Shelley is newly married,” Mama continued. “Shelley Dunbar-Ross, as she is known now.”
There was a hint of satisfaction in her mother’s voice that Lydia didn’t quite understand … after all, Mama had nothing to do with it.
“It was a love match.” Mama stressed the word love as she turned her eyes to her elder daughter. “Is she back from her bridal tour?”
“Yes, indeed. I received a letter from her not two days ago. I had written to her while she was away to verify the timing of her return; I did so hope she would be back by the beginning of May.”
In a little less than two months, Lydia was going to celebrate her eighteenth birthday at a private ball in Bath, with two hundred of her closest friends: well, her mama’s closest friends. Over two dozen would be Lydia’s nearest and dearest, including Shelley and her new husband, Edward Dunbar-Ross.
Shelley, who had—as her mother had just mentioned—fallen instantly in love with her eligible bachelor, had surprised the whole of their society by marching up the aisle after knowing Mr. Dunbar-Ross for a mere four months. It was surprising that her parents did not object as Shelley was not yet nineteen and might not know her own mind. But Shelley was adamant and would not let anyone dissuade her.
The circumstances of Shelley’s marital bliss circled once again through Lydia’s mind. Yes, Shelley was eighteen, and she was married two months ago.… And other than a few uncharitable remarks about counting the months, the marriage was generally celebrated as a great coup. Everyone enjoyed a love match.…
Yes, Shelley was only six months older than Lydia. She had been—
“Is she going to be able to come?”
“Hmm?” Lydia looked up from the midway point of the floor and her thoughts, confused momentarily by the question.
“Shelley. Is she going to be able to join us at your ball? You know, travel into Bath … in two months’ time.”
“Of course. There is nothing to prevent her from attending.” Lydia ignored the implication of her mama’s words—one, the girls were present, and two, she would not dignify such a suggestion. As far as Lydia knew, Shelley was not in the family way; and if she were, then there should be congratulations, not snickering behind raised fans.
Just as she was about to fix her mother with a decided glare, the door to the drawing room opened, and Shodster announced the arrival of Lord Aldershot. All seven females jumped to their feet to bob their greetings. Only Lydia was not surprised by his visit.
Manfred Barley was not a tall man—standing only two or three inches above Lydia. Neither was he handsome, although he was considered presentable. He dressed well but not too stylishly, and, other than a pointed nose, his face was unremarkable for a man of three and twenty. His character was somewhat bland, and his manner was pliable.
Lydia was not particularly fond of the baron, but then neither did she find him offensive, and in this she was content. Marrying Barley would allow her to remain close to Roseberry Hall—something that factored high in her mind. The title was a nice additive but not as important to her as it had been to her father.
Not of a romantic nature, Lydia was well satisfied with her matrimonial future. She saw no need for sleepless nights and anxieties over a hopeful attraction. She had only to look at Elaine, who at the advanced age of twenty threw herself at any and every bachelor in the neighborhood. Her cousin could talk of little else; it was not something Lydia ever wished to emulate.
Barley was twitching with visible impatience as he spoke pleasantries to her mother and aunt—about their health and the weather. While they reciprocated in kind, Lydia wondered if she had been too forceful in the language of her note. She remembered using the words problem, lawyer, and help. Was he worried? Was that why he had arrived so promptly? If that were the case, Lydia was prepared to be impressed
and to take her assessment of him up a notch.
After everyone had decided that it was not likely to rain, Lydia took advantage of that pronouncement and suggested a stroll through the garden. There was no possibility for privacy in a room full of women, no matter how large it was or how much they pretended disinterest. Barley readily agreed, and soon they were arm in arm, wending their way through the boxwoods.
Conversation was frivolous until they were sure their discussion would not be overheard. They had not seen each other for a few months and had to catch up on the latest litter of pups, Barley’s new stallion, and an author of whom Lydia was quite enthused. Eventually, the reason for his visit was approached—with far less gallantry than Lydia had hoped for.
“It was not a great inconvenience, Lydia. I was heading into Spelding anyway when your note arrived.” Then he sighed as if he were encumbered by a significant burden. “So tell me what great woe has befallen you, and why I should be involved? I am a busy man. Places to go, people to see.”
“Really, Barley. I did not expect you to drop everything and rush over.… Though I will say this whole situation is, or at least should be, of as much concern to you as it is to me.” And with that, she proceeded to tell him all about the impending tea fiasco.
“And what do you expect of me? I’d just as soon have the pineapples.”
“You missed the point entirely; pineapples will not grow here any more than tea will. If Drury and Uncle are not stopped, Roseberry Hall will not make any money this year—at all.” Frowning at the vehemence of her statement, Lydia shifted her gaze lest Barley see the depth of her anxiety … and irritation. She rested her eyes on the wall of the conservatory and was startled from her pique by a strange shadow. It reminded her of the one on the front lawn a few hours ago.
“Well, be that as it may, anything I say will be considered interference, and since everyone knows that my agricultural knowledge is limited at best, they will know that I am merely spouting your words. I will not be your marionette, Lydia; I am my own man, you know.”
