Emily Greenwood (3 page)

Pushing away thoughts of Charles, he arrived at the front door. After turning the key in the lock, he took hold of the battered, chalky doorknob and pulled. It promptly came off in his hand. He looked at it in surprise, then shrugged. A doorknob was easily fixed. He mentally added it to the list with the rusty front gate.

A quick inspection of the rooms revealed water damage in several places, two chimneys that, to judge from the stains around the fireplaces, smoked when lit, and a host of other maintenance chores. All the rooms were surprisingly bare of furnishings, rather as if someone had decided to keep only those things that were truly needed. The library, however, was well stocked with neat volumes. A handsome pair of large windows spanned the room’s back wall, but the view they offered of a rose garden beyond was obscured by pieces of brown paper standing in for missing panes. Several large curls of wallpaper hung from the walls.

With a sigh, James reached into an interior coat pocket and removed the small, folded sheaf of blank paper he always carried with him. He took it over to the library desk, where he found a quill and a thickened store of ink. He made notes about the rusty front gate, the doorknob, the windows, and the wallpaper, and then went out of the library to survey the rest of this house that Jonathan Beresford had assured him was in “perfect” condition.

The end of his ramble found him in the drawing room, which had an unusual but handsome balcony with high, decorative sides that ran the entire span of the room. He stood on the well-worn carpet and calculated. With several weeks’ effort, the manor could be fixed up into something very nice indeed. A modest investment in repairs would yield a large return when he sold the house—large enough so that, combined with the proceeds from the pending sale of the bodega’s first batch of sherry, he would be able to pay the debt. He would contact his interested buyer, Mr. Dover, and begin making arrangements.

Fulton was finishing unpacking his master’s personal effects as James entered what was to be his bedchamber. Dust motes wafted freely in tiny beams of sunlight that were coming in through holes in the conical ceiling above one window, where the roof of one of the decorative turrets was obviously in need of repair. More notes to make.

The manservant looked up from a pile of folded stockings and raised a wry eyebrow at his master. James grinned. He really did feel very optimistic about this undertaking.

“It’s charming, isn’t it, Fulton!”

Fulton’s other eyebrow went up. “Indeed, sir,” he said, casting his eyes up at the water stains radiating from the ceiling holes, “though one would probably be more protected in a tent.”

“Nonsense, you old hen,” James said good-naturedly. “This is a wonderfully strong old house. It has great bones. I love it.”

James walked over to the front window, which had a view down the lawn to the dower house. He could see Miss Wilcox scampering around the front of the cottage, running in a low crouch, apparently chasing a chicken. Despite everything, he couldn’t help but chuckle. She was a very attractive woman, regardless of her tart tongue and her inability to corner a fowl.

“Take heart, Fulton,” he said without turning. “We won’t be here long. If all goes according to plan, at the end of two months I’ll have this place fixed up and sold and we’ll be moving back into Granton Hall for good.”

Fulton, who was well acquainted with his master’s business affairs, merely grunted.

James pondered the eccentric appearance of Mr. Wilcox and his daughter. Her gown had no doubt once been all the crack—at the time of Marie Antoinette. She had obviously abandoned whatever huge underclothes the dress must originally have been worn with. Her very appealing figure, while perhaps a shade slender, was nonetheless rounded in all the right places, as he knew all too well from having held her against his chest.

She was quite a beauty. He closed his eyes and recalled carrying her out of the stream, the spread of her lashes dark against her delicate cheek. She had been charming then, light and free as the summer day, and he’d very much wanted to kiss her. That was out of the question now. Even if she weren’t a gentleman’s daughter, she was doubtless well on the way to hating him by now.

They were of very minor gentry, of course, and they gave new meaning to the phrase “genteel poverty.” Losing the estate would have been a terrible blow to their standing in the community, never mind the changes it must have brought to their daily life. Miss Wilcox’s appeal to his honor had stung. He’d been forced to make so many compromises these last few years since he acquired the debt—it had changed his life. Taking the estate of another family, however legally it belonged to him, was, he hoped, the very last compromise he’d have to make.

He and Aunt Miranda would enjoy living here while he fixed it up. He was glad, anyway, of a chance to get her away from London. He’d come back from Spain to find that she’d used a large portion of her small income on charitable enterprises for the poor. And while that was laudable, if she didn’t stop, she’d soon be one of them. He cocked his head, pondering an idea.

“You know, Fulton, I think I will have a small house party here in a few days when Aunt Miranda arrives. It will put the fire in our efforts to make this place more habitable.”

Fulton coughed at this announcement. There was a pause before he said, “Very good, sir.”

James decided to go down to the dower house, to see if the Wilcoxes might recommend a housekeeper for him, and perhaps someone for the orchard. The first thing he needed was more staff. As he walked down the hill to their cottage, he resolved that he would be especially patient and polite with them to try to smooth things along. After all, they were to be neighbors for the summer.

As she rushed about the yard after the wily Spots, trying to encourage an entirely free-roaming hen into a new pen, Felicity brooded angrily on Mr. Collington. How could she have smiled and flirted with the man who was even now installing himself in her house, possibly even napping in one of her family’s beds?

Despite her father’s untroubled stance, she knew that they had to find a way to get the smooth, infuriating Mr. Collington out of Tethering Hall. She had been wracking her mind this last hour, trying to find a way to get rid of him—or more to the point, make him want to give up Tethering for good. The less happy he was with his new property, the less likely he was to make any trouble about keeping it when the time came. She hoped the family lawyer would not be long in responding to her letter, because though Mr. Collington was currently just up the hill from them, what she wanted was to never see the man again.

At least she knew the enemy a little. He was confident, quick-acting—hadn’t he hopped into the stream without a second thought for his fine clothing?—and no fool. Getting him to relinquish Tethering would require some focused thought. Or rather, crafty plotting, and very likely sneakiness. She felt a martial thrill.

Spots put on a burst of speed and headed for the trees at the back of the yard, near the wall. But just that morning Felicity had finished making a pen out of old crates for Spots, and it was time for the hen to try it. She set her chin in determination and, holding her skirts wide, made a rush and caught the bird up in them. Spots was outraged but trapped.

Satisfied with her triumph, she turned around, ready to bring the now squawking, writhing hen over to the pen some dozen feet away. She froze. Mr. Collington was standing behind her with an expression of wicked amusement on his face. She blinked at him, her skirts bundled up at her waist with their squirming burden and the late-afternoon breeze teasing at her now exposed, stocking-clad calves. His amused regard took in her legs, and she lifted her chin. He smirked.

She moved past him without a word on her way to the pen, where she deposited the enraged hen. Straightening up from her labors, she ignored Mr. Collington and brushed out her skirts. She had not changed her clothes yet, and now the already rumpled, muddied gown had dirty chicken claw prints on it.

He approached and cleared his throat. “Hello again, Miss Wilcox,” he said in that warm, deep voice that had made her want to melt not a few hours earlier and, drat it all, still made her want to melt. She pushed the awareness away.

“Well?” she said.

He started at her greeting, but almost instantly his features assumed a pleasant expression.

“I was hoping,” he said, “that you might give me the recommendation of a woman to be housekeeper.”

“At Tethering?” She was almost speechless at his brazenness. “You want me to help you hire someone to keep house for you in
my
house? Mr. Collington, my father may be reconciled to your presence here, but I assuredly am not.”

He absorbed her words and pressed his lips together, as if keeping himself from speaking. Bringing a glossily booted foot up to rest on one of the crates, he leaned an elbow across his thigh and peered into Spots’s pen. She didn’t care for his skeptical expression, which suggested this was a feeble-looking pen, though it certainly was.

“We must agree to disagree, then, on my presence here,” he said. “And as to my household staff, I simply thought you might prefer to choose the person,” he said in a reasonable tone. “Consider it an olive branch.”

“Nonsense.” She folded her arms in front of herself. “You simply don’t know anyone else around here to ask.”

He laughed, white teeth flashing in his sun-bronzed face and amusement dancing in his brown eyes. “All right, that is also true.”

He was clearly hoping to win her over with his charm, and she’d have to watch out that he didn’t. Already she could not ignore his now-familiar, long, well-muscled legs, displayed almost right below her chin. That unusual reddish-brown coat—the coat she’d been lying on not long ago—hugged his broad shoulders. Her heart skipped a beat.

She drew herself up straighter and tried not to notice the chicken prints on her skirt. Time to get started on her efforts to drive him away. Fortunately, his request had given her an idea: she could harass him through his household! She just needed someone she could rely on to be unsuitable.

“Perhaps the local murderess would do,” she mused aloud as she considered candidates.

He guffawed. “Come, come, Miss Wilcox. I highly doubt that you would know the local murderess, if there even is such a person.”

“Oh, there must be three or four, at least. Longwillow is a very rough village, you know, and there is quite a bit of crime in this area.”

He raised an eyebrow. “Funny. It seemed such a charming place. Flowers everywhere.”

“Yes, well, you don’t want to go there after dark.”

“I’ll keep that in mind,” he said with laughter in his voice.

Just
you
wait
, she thought, having finally determined the perfect housekeeper for someone who looked as neat and efficient as Mr. James Collington.

“All right then,” she said in a tone of surrender that she hoped sounded genuine, “it happens that I do know a housekeeper who is available. And I can recommend a cook, too.”

“Thank you, Miss Wilcox. That is most gracious.”

She indulged in silent feelings of satisfaction, pleased with the idea of him suffering. This might even be a bit fun. “You can send over to the village. Mrs. Withers for housekeeper and Mrs. Bailey for cook.”

He then gave her such a heart-stopping smile in thanks that she almost regretted what she was setting him up for. Almost.

“There’s just one more thing,” he said. “Can you tell me who has had the care of the orchard?”

“I have.”

“You? But surely your father…?”

She crossed her arms. “My mother grew up on this estate, Mr. Collington. She taught me everything I needed to know, and I have cared for it the last three years.”

“I see.” He did not look pleased by this information. “Then it seems that you are the person I am seeking. Would you consider continuing to oversee the orchard for a stipend?”

Ah. She should have seen that coming, since he was obviously determined to settle himself in on the estate. Well. She loved that orchard almost more than any other part of the estate. The chance to get back to it—to spend some of this blackguard’s money returning it to its proper state—was so, so tempting. But that would be helping him.

“No,” she said.

His eyebrows went up. “No? I’m surprised that you would not want to see it well tended.” When she said nothing to this he said, “Well, if you should change your mind, let me know. The stipend will be twenty pounds for the summer.”

She swallowed hard. Twenty pounds! Money like that could make a difference for the Wilcoxes. It would eliminate, for one thing, the burden of worrying about how they would pay for her brother Simon’s school fees.

Her father appeared just then, coming out the back door.

“Oh, good morning, Mr. Collington,” he said warmly, coming to stand next to Felicity. “I thought I heard voices.”

Mr. Collington greeted her father politely.

“Perhaps you might like to come inside for a sherry, sir?” her father said.

“Sherry?” Mr. Collington said, looking as if her father had just said something amusing.

“Father,” Felicity broke in, “excuse me, but you haven’t forgotten that the church garden party is today? Crispin will be expecting us. I thought we might leave right after luncheon.”

“Oh,” her father said slowly. “Er, no, not exactly. That is, I thought that you might go without me, dear. You know I am not much for that sort of thing.”

She tried not to feel exasperated at what she knew was coming. Her father disliked social events. When her mother had been alive, her father had gone gamely along to parties and functions. But since her mother’s death three years earlier, he’d declined any invitation. However, this was an event they could not in good conscience miss. And she really wanted her father’s company today, in case this first meeting with Crispin was awkward.

“Father, I’m sure he will want to see you, and so will all our old friends. We have yet to welcome him back, and this is his first church social as our vicar.”

Mr. Wilcox turned to their visitor. “The Reverend Mr. Markham, our newly installed vicar, is a local young man and a family friend.” A light came on in her father’s eyes. “I have it! What would be better than for Mr. Collington to go in my place? Everyone will want to meet our new neighbor.”

Argh. What a terrible idea.

Apparently Mr. Collington didn’t agree. He looked pleased. “Well, if you don’t think anyone would be unhappy with the substitution, Wilcox, I would welcome the opportunity to meet some of the neighbors.”

“No, no, not at all.” Her father was almost gleeful at the escape he was arranging for himself. “It will be an improvement—new blood, you know.”

“Why don’t I pick you up in the carriage, then, Miss Wilcox?” Mr. Collington regarded her with what looked suspiciously like amused triumph. “When were you planning to leave?”

“In about an hour and a half,” she grumbled.

“Perfect.” He cocked his head at her father. “Say, you’re not Wilcox the poet, are you?”

Mr. Collington read enough poetry to be familiar with her father? Felicity thought her father’s work was brilliant. But his name was hardly on everyone’s lips.

Her father smiled broadly, a sight she had not seen in some time. “The very same. Are you a poetry reader, Mr. Collington?”

“I am, sir. I must compliment you on your last collection. It was a masterwork.”

“You are most kind. I admit I am happiest among books. That’s the only thing I have missed—” He stopped abruptly and the cheer faded from his face. He took off his glasses, which seemed suddenly to need a speck of dirt wiped off.

Their visitor watched him, his dark brown eyes unreadable. “You must come up to the manor tomorrow, sir,” he said, “or at your earliest convenience, and make use of the Tethering library. Indeed, I insist you regard it as at your disposal.”

What was Mr. Collington doing, Felicity thought, making overtures to her father? And what kind of hospitality was this, anyway, offering her father the use of a library that was rightfully theirs?

Mr. Wilcox put his glasses back on, an expression of cautious delight on his face. “My good sir, that is a very generous offer.”

“And a sincere one,” Mr. Collington replied. “You must make as free with it as you always have.” All affable pleasantness, he was the embodiment of an admirable gentleman. Felicity could hardly expect her father not to be charmed by him. And then, before she could bat an eye, he and her father had arranged for the Wilcoxes to dine with him at Tethering the following night.

Mr. Collington took his leave of them.
Enjoy
your
peace
now, sir
, Felicity thought as she watched his tall, muscular form stride confidently out of the garden. And then she savored some delicious thoughts as to just how helpful his new cook and housekeeper would be. Mrs. Withers had never worked more than half a day put together in her life, although she was known to have an amazing talent for always looking as if she were busy. And Mrs. Bailey really was reputed to be a fine cook, but no one had tasted anything good from her hands since she had taken up with the bottle some ten years earlier. Tee hee.

The Wilcoxes’ midday meal consisted of the watercress bouquet, which Felicity consumed while refusing to allow it to remind her of how she had come to have it, plus two eggs each and some now very hard three-day-old bread.

“A fine meal, my dear,” her father said, wiping his mouth after taking a final sip of water. They had in the interest of saving for Simon’s school fees and clothes decided to forego ale and wine. “You do very well with what we have.”

“I wish it were more,” she replied with feeling.

Her father regarded her from across the small, round table. Blossom Cottage had a pleasant dining room of cozy proportions, with large windows that looked out on mature lilac bushes.

“I’ve had a letter from Simon,” he said. “Brief, such as boys of fourteen are wont to write.” He cleared his throat. “I’m afraid he’s gotten into a scrape. He and some friends borrowed a horse from a local farmer as a prank. Apparently,” he continued, squinting in bemusement, “they were going to dye its coat and return it a different color, to confuse the farmer.” He shook his head. “But in the process, they managed to lame the horse.”

“But that’s terrible!”

“Yes, I am afraid it’s rather serious. I received a letter from the headmaster as well. The farmer has been paid for the horse, but each of the boys will have to contribute ten pounds to its replacement.”

“Oh,” she said, “so much.”

Her father looked uncomfortable. “Is it too much to hope that our economies will have yielded such an amount?”

“I’m afraid so,” she said, unable to keep the dismay out of her voice. This was a blow. Ten pounds! For a stupid prank. “I could wring Simon’s neck.”

Her father gave a wry, halfhearted smile. “Yes, I could too, but I’m afraid that won’t help. For what it’s worth, his letter was abject. He’ll not do something like this again.”

“Well,” she said, “this puts a different light on Mr. Collington’s offer.”

“Offer?”

“He has offered me a stipend of twenty pounds to oversee the care of the orchard.”

“I see,” her father said, surprised. “That is a generous amount. But would you feel comfortable doing such a thing?” he asked. “Surely something else could be arranged.” He stared off into space as if a solution would come to him.

As the person who kept track of household finances, Felicity knew there was no other way they would get such a sum. And really, she didn’t want anyone else looking after her orchard.

“I don’t mind. And this way, if we get Tethering back, the orchard will still be in good condition.”

“Get it back?” Mr. Wilcox sighed. “My dear, life is good here in Blossom Cottage.”