For another, it provided a modicum of protection from those who might hope to profit from the return of the prodigal son. Charlotte Blake might insist she was not on the make, but he did not know her well enough to trust her. A feigned marriage to plain Edward Cary seemed to suit her just fine, but if she knew he was in fact the son of an earl, she would likely alter her expectations.
Given those uncertainties, he was determined to reveal as little as possible about himself to anyone.
But what if, somehow, Charlotte had already begun to suspect the truth?
Chapter 5
Based on Garrick’s description, Edward had pictured Matthew Markham as a man well past his youth, a farmer with a long-standing connection to this land, someone who would remember the old days and be able to help Edward understand what had led to the present condition of Ravenswood. So when he met a tanned, sandy-haired man, a few years younger than he, crossing the field with a sturdy stride, he hesitated.
“Mr. Markham?”
A slight narrowing of dark eyes. “Who’s asking?”
“I’m Edward Cary,” he said, stepping forward. “The new steward.”
“Cary, eh?” Markham echoed. “Some relation to the family, then.”
“Distant,” Edward lied. Or perhaps it wasn’t really a lie. Twenty-two years and four thousand miles had certainly strained the connection. “Your father is Lord Beckley’s tenant?”
“He was. He died three years ago.”
“My condolences.” He paused, considering. “If he’s been gone for three years, then you must be the man Garrick told me I’d find. Matthew Markham.”
Markham studied Edward for a long moment before giving a single jerk of his chin. “Aye.”
While Edward considered what to ask next, the other man turned slightly out of the path he’d been on and kept walking. Edward followed. “You are alone? No brothers?”
His steps did not falter. “Nay.”
“How do you manage?”
“I work hard, Mr. Cary,” he said, stopping again and sizing Edward up. “And I’d appreciate it if someone would convey as much to his lordship.”
“You’ve been bearing an unfair burden, Markham. For how long?”
“My pa was Lord Beckley’s tenant for almost forty years. I worked beside him from a lad. Old Feasby, your predecessor, made over the lease in my name, though it wasn’t strictly legal, I suppose, as I wasn’t yet of age. Now, I work mostly alone. Hire in a lad or two from the village during harvest, when I can.”
Edward scanned the landscape as they passed. To eyes accustomed to sugarcane and the lush greens of the tropics, the alternating strips of field and fallow, both still mostly brown and awaiting the new growth of spring, looked desolate. “How much land have you under cultivation?”
“Not enough.”
“What of the rest of Lord Beckley’s tenants?”
“There’s too few of us, and that’s certain. Some died. Others were driven off when they couldn’t make the rent. And of course, most of them left when everyone else did.”
“When was that?”
“Twenty years ago or so.”
“Oh?” Edward tried to mask his curiosity, though his heart knocked in his chest. “What happened then?”
“Outbreak of smallpox. Lady Beckley died of it.”
In the damp, heavy soil, Edward stumbled and narrowly kept himself from falling. Long ago, he had forced himself to acknowledge that his running away had probably not been enough to save his mother. But a part of him had always held out hope.
Though they were little more than confirmation of what he had long suspected, Markham’s words ripped that fragment of hope right from his chest, leaving something worse than a wound.
Emptiness.
His mother was gone.
“They say his lordship wrecked the house and swore never to return,” Markham continued. “’Course, that’s just rumor. I never saw the inside of Ravenswood Manor, and I don’t know that my pa did either. The servants scurried away like rats from a burning barn, and when folks in the village got word, those who could, left. Naught but a handful of souls there now.”
“And the steward—Feasby, was it?” The name was unfamiliar to Edward. “What of him?”
“Not much to keep him here after that. He spent his time on some other property he managed. Up in Derbyshire, as I heard it. Don’t think he much cared about this one. He always came quarterly to collect the rents, though. Last quarter day, he didn’t bother to do even that.”
It was all too much at once. His mother’s death, his father’s indifference. “To whom did you pay your rent, then?” he asked numbly.
Only after Markham had looked askance at the question did Edward consider he ought to have known the answer if he were who he claimed to be. “An office in London. Leadenhall Street. But I suppose that’s about to change?”
“Of course,” Edward said, masking his uncertainty with firmness. The last thing he needed was to be the cause of this man’s eviction if his rent failed to arrive at the appointed place on the appointed date. But Lady Day was almost a month off. By then, he would have confronted his father and would have matters well in hand here.
As they walked, midmorning sun beat down on their shoulders, but Edward still felt a nip in the air—or perhaps that was just more evidence of his thin blood. He would have called it a late spring, but what did he know anymore? “Between you and me and Garrick, and perhaps some of those lads from the village,” he ventured, “is there time to put more land under cultivation yet this season?”
Markham stopped short. “With what, sir? Have you money to pay for seeds, equipment, labor?”
“I have some resources at my disposal, yes,” Edward reassured him. Unlike Charlotte, he was far from penniless.
“It’s late. Any other year, too late,” he said, with another doubtful glance at Edward. A real English steward would know as much. “But it’s been a cold, wet spring. Folks who moved too quick lost their seed. We might do to put a bit of wheat or barley in the ground yet.”
They were standing now beside the farmer’s house, a small neat building, clapboard rather than stone, but in need of whitewashing. Like everything, it was a stark reminder of the work that had gone undone. Markham made no move to invite him in. “Are you a married man, Mr. Markham?”
The other man gave a humorless laugh. “Haven’t got much to offer a wife, sir. It’s no time to marry, unless you’re a rich man—or a man lucky enough to find himself a rich woman. In any case, there’s no vicar at the church anymore to do the deed. The living was sold years ago, and I don’t believe I’ve ever seen the man who holds it. His curate is meant to fill the gap, but he’s spread mighty thin.”
“It would seem you all are.” Edward held out a hand for a conciliatory shake. “I hope you’ll believe I intend to improve things.”
Markham looked down at the outstretched hand, up at Edward, then reluctantly took Edward’s hand. “I’ll settle for your not making them worse.”
It was hardly a vote of confidence, but Edward was in no position to reject it.
“And what of you, sir?” Markham asked after he had released Edward’s grip. “Is there a Mrs. Cary?”
Before he could catch himself, he began to shake his head, then tried at the last minute to make it seem as if he had merely been trying to ward off a fly. “Yes. There is. My wife and I are . . . recently wed. She came to Gloucestershire with me, but the Rookery is in such poor repair that I have installed her in the manor. With his lordship’s permission, of course.”
The farmer managed to look at once skeptical and indifferent. “You sure about puttin’ in another crop? Seems like a newly married man wouldn’t want to be leavin’ his wife’s side at sunrise to dig in the dirt.”
With an effort, Edward dispelled the unwelcome image of Charlotte Blake, warm and drowsy, in his bed. “As I said, Mr. Markham, I’m here to work.”
* * *
“Well, Mari,” said Charlo
tte with a smile, having changed into what had once been her very best sprigged muslin, “this is the last clean dress I have to my name. What manner of trouble do you suppose I can get into now?”
Mari lifted the muddy dress from her hands. “Are you English?”
Charlotte recalled what Edward had said about the woman’s perceptiveness. Had she fled from one spy straight to another? Well, she would just have to be careful not to change her story. No more inventing. “My father was. I was raised in France, however.”
Whether Mari found the answer satisfactory or not, Charlotte was unable to determine. The woman turned and left the room without speaking. Charlotte followed her into the kitchen, where it looked for all the world as if the servants must have fled in the middle of preparing dinner—many years ago. The food itself had long since disappeared, molded into dust or eaten by something, but a kettle still hung over the hearth and pots and pans lay scattered over tables.
Mari nodded toward a scraggly broom. “You begin to set things to rights in here. I’m off to the well, and I’ll make sure Garrick’s cleared the chimney, too. We’ll hope this”—she tapped the side of a rusty cistern near the sink—“will hold water.”
Charlotte was used to taking orders. “All right,” she agreed and set to work. The tasks themselves—sweeping, stacking, straightening—were largely mindless, but they raised any number of questions. What could have happened here to allow things to deteriorate to such a state? The earl was in London, Garrick had said, and had been for years. While there was nothing unusual about a nobleman residing in Town, especially at certain seasons, she could not imagine why he would have left his estate entirely untended. No servants left behind to care for the place, every sign that the family’s departure had been hurried and unplanned.
And Edward—was this what he had expected to find? She had not seen his face when they arrived, was not privy to his first reaction. His overheard words to Mari, however, suggested that things were worse than he had been led to believe. If there were no tenants, no farmers, then the estate had no income. On what did this Lord Beckley live? He must be very rich, or very foolish, if he could afford to let Ravenswood go to rack and ruin. If she were Edward, she might be tempted to refuse a post offered by such a reckless man.
But the edge in Edward’s voice conveyed quite clearly that this was more than a post to him. What was his connection to this place, so far from the world he had left?
Two things succeeded in tamping down her inquisitiveness: her hands, sore from sweeping and polishing and scrubbing; and hunger. Once Garrick’s approval had been secured, Mari built a fire and set water to boil. Soon, Charlotte’s muddy dresses were soaking in a tub in one corner, most of the dishes had been washed, and the kitchen was beginning to look like a place where food could be prepared. If there was any food to be had.
Just as her stomach gave a particularly demanding growl, Garrick entered with a sack of something slung over his shoulder and thumped it down on the table. “You ready for these things now, missus?”
“Ready enough,” answered Mari.
To Charlotte’s amazement, Garrick and Dobbs, the driver of Edward’s baggage coach, brought in sacks of flour and potatoes, dried peas, a haunch of beef, and other supplies. “Mr. Cary must have suspected how things were here,” she said as she watched.
Mari made a derisive sound. “Men think of meals, not what goes into making them. Mrs. Corrvan bade me take these things and help him set up his household. But the kitchen in that little cottage? Bah! I say if he’s going to eat, he must come here to do it.”
He didn’t, though. At least not then. Mari prepared a hearty beef pie with astonishing speed, and Charlotte ate with the first real hunger she had experienced in a long time. Though that would have been sauce enough for whatever food was placed before her, she could not deny that Edward had been honest about Mari’s abilities. What Charlotte had always considered a plain, dull, English dish had been spiced and seasoned into something almost unrecognizable.
“This is delicious,” she said around a mouthful.
Mari accepted the garbled compliment with a nod. “Thank you, Mrs. Cary.”
She might have spared the trouble of tacking on that deceptive address, however, as Garrick and Dobbs were eating too noisily to hear her.
“I wonder,” asked Charlotte, more hesitantly, “if you would be willing to look at this scratch on my neck? Mr. Cary said you have a healing touch.”
“Did he, now?” Mari rose and inspected the injury without further comment, then fetched a wet cloth and laid it across the back of Charlotte’s neck. She could not contain the yelp that rose to her lips as the hot water came in contact with the wound. But after a moment, the sting began to ease. Leaving the cloth in place, Mari next retrieved a small wooden box and opened it to reveal neat rows of folded papers and small corked vials. She traced one fingertip over them, settled on a little tub, and withdrew it. “How’s that?” she asked as she applied some sweet-smelling unguent to the abraded skin.
Remarkably, the pain faded. “Better. Thank you.”
“Hands,” Mari demanded, holding out her own, palm upward. Obediently, Charlotte laid her hands across the other woman’s, feeling—almost envying—their calluses. Charlotte’s skin was red and rough. “Just as I suspected. You’re a lady.”
Charlotte knew a compliment when she heard one. This was no compliment. “No,” she demurred with a glance toward the men. “I’m not. It has been some time since I did this sort of work, but I assure you I’m more than capable.”
Mari’s only answer was to apply another hot cloth to the tender skin of her palms, followed by the soothing balm.
As he shoved his plate away, Garrick gave a hearty belch and patted his stomach. “That’ll do. Best get back to sharpening that ol’ plow.”
“Where’s Mr. Cary?” Charlotte ventured to ask as Mari returned the ointment to the box.
“I saw him strike out for the home farm about midmorning. Musta found Markham, I’d say.”
“Markham?”
“’is lordship’s chief tenant—almos’ ’is only tenant.”
“Only? But who takes care of all this land?”
“Most of it lies fallow, missus. Guessin’ it’s yer man’s job to change that.”
“But . . . Why, that’s—”
“That’s exactly the sort of work at which Mr. Cary excels,” Mari interjected smoothly, shooing Garrick and Dobbs out of the kitchen. Charlotte could have sworn she heard the woman mutter something about achieving the impossible under her breath. “And Mr. Garrick?” she called after them. “When you’ve got that plow ready, turn over the kitchen garden first.”
“Have we seeds?” Charlotte asked.
The corners of Mari’s mouth lifted. “Not yet. But there will be a way to get some. I think I’ll take a little walk,” she said, cutting a wedge of the pie, laying it on a plate, and covering it with a cloth.
Bound for the Rookery, Charlotte supposed. “Let me go for you,” she offered, although part of her argued that she could surely put her time to better use than having another circuitous conversation with Edward Cary. “It cannot be easy for you to walk so far.” All expression seemed to slide from Mari’s face. “I only meant—your leg.” She stumbled over an explanation. “Is it a recent injury?”
“No.”
The single word fell like a slap to the face, setting Charlotte back on her heels and leaving her cheeks flaming. Without sparing her so much as a glance, Mari left with the food in a basket carried over her arm, the only sound the scrape of her lame foot across the floor.
Was there anyone at Ravenswood who didn’t have a secret to keep?
Chapter 6
Alone in the house for the first time since their midnight arrival, Charlotte left the kitchen and servants’ wing to explore. Perhaps because she suspected Edward would not approve if he knew she was snooping through his employer’s home, the grate of the heavy oak door against flagstone sent a thrill of
trepidation down her spine.
Retracing the path along which Garrick had led them last night, she entered a long gallery, seeing clearly for the first time what darkness had then hidden. Filthy windows overlooked an empty terrace and dense woodland beyond. On the opposite wall hung a row of mirrors, a few cracked, all mottled with age, reflecting the hazy view. To her right, another door opened onto a dark-paneled dining room, awaiting service of the meal whose remains they had found in the kitchen. Someone, or something—then, or in the years since—had toppled a few chairs, and delicate china and crystal lay in shards on the flagstone, crunching beneath her feet as her hems traced feathery patterns in the dust on the floor.
Back in the gallery, her footsteps echoed in the emptiness. At the midpoint, she crossed the back of the wide central hall and glanced up the staircase, which rose to upper floors cloaked in obscurity. Later, she promised herself.
At the far end of the gallery, a second curved door stood ajar, and she slipped into the dimly lit room beyond. The gasp that rose to her lips seemed loud in the high-ceilinged room. Here, too, everything was in disarray. Formerly elegant furniture had been overturned, scattered, and broken. A musty miasma of old paper and books, the odors of a decaying library, settled into her lungs and made her cough. Sun-rotted draperies partially covered a tall bank of windows that once must have offered a spectacular view of the formal gardens, now overgrown and gone to seed. Beyond this receiving room and slightly offset from it, clearly added at some later date, an empty ballroom awaited dancers who seemed unlikely to grace Ravenswood ever again.
Perhaps every creaky old house exuded a bit of mystery, but it was impossible for Charlotte not to wonder what had happened here. What sort of nobleman decided on a whim to quit his estate and, apparently, never return? Even though she had no particular attachment to the place, she felt a certain grief at its abandonment. How could someone simply leave this once lovely old place to rot? Did he imagine a home was easy to come by?
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