Laura Kinsale (34 page)

Arden stood in the estate office, trying not to gaze out the window at the gray sky. His father was leaning over a map spread across the desk, his forefinger pointing at each field in turn. “This was a part of the Lyburn Abbey place, but your grandfather bought it when old gentleman Cole had a stroke. There used to be a tenant, a Mr.—I don’t recall his name at the moment. We’ll look it up. That red volume, there. No, the green calf. Here.” The earl walked impatiently to the bookcase and pulled a ledger down. He opened it on the desk.

Arden flipped the pages. There were endless entries and transactions, all dated forty years before—he had no idea how he could find the name of a tenant from his grandfather’s day, or why he was doing it. “Is this man still farming the piece?” he asked.

“Good God, no, he must have passed on a decade ago.”

“Need we look him up, then?”

“You must start from the ground, Winter.” His father sat down behind the desk again. “This is the sort of thing you must learn if you wish to be a responsible landlord. Help him out, Mr. Pinkney.”

“The tenant was Samuel Brown, your lordship,” the bailiff said. He was a silent man with a full white beard and a sizable paunch for his five-and-a-half feet of height. Arden was informed that he farmed a large portion of the estate himself, but Mr. Pinkney was not forthcoming on this or any other topic.

“No, no,” the earl said. “I meant you must help him out in looking it up. He needs to learn—well, never mind that for the moment. What was in the Abbey field last year, Mr. Pinkney?”

“Wheat, your lordship.”

“And what are we to put in this winter?”
 

“Wheat, your lordship.”

“And I suppose that the rough plowing will begin soon?”
 

“The field is already plowed and harrowed, your lordship.”

“Excellent.” The earl nodded toward Arden. “You see that a good mild winter has us well ahead. No frozen ground to put us behind this year.”

“Yes, sir,” Arden said. He thought of taking Beth for walks through the winter woods, showing her the holes in the trees and the animal tracks, and caught his gaze stealing toward the window again.

“Are we plowing anywhere at the moment, Mr. Pinkney?” the earl asked.

“The clay bottoms, your lordship.”

“Ah! We haven’t talked about the bottoms. The drainage— very necessary to keep the ditches in repair. Take him down this afternoon, Mr. Pinkney, and let him look at the ditches. He can watch the plowing. If you change into something suitable, Winter, you can put your own hand to a row. I daresay you won’t find it as easy as it looks. Good lesson for you.”

“Yes, sir,” Arden said, feeling his jaw tighten. He exhaled and deliberately relaxed it.

“Mr. Pinkney, I trust you to take care that he doesn’t get in a tangle with the oxen. They’re not like horses, Winter. Quite the opposite—walk right over you if you don’t watch yourself. Perhaps you’d best let the boys do the plowing after all. I wouldn’t like to see you get hurt by a damn foolish pair of bullocks.”

“No, sir,” Arden said.

“Now, what’s next? Here, put this volume back. The miller’s field. You’ll want to have Mr. Pinkney show you the bounds and corners.”

“Why?” Arden asked.

The earl paused. “Do you know them?”

“No.”

“Then learn them. You must know the bounds and corners.”

Arden’s gaze wandered to the window again. He leaned against the sill. “Yes, sir.”

‘The miller’s field is always in hay,” his father said. “And the piece by the dairy. Where else?”

The question was sudden. Arden realized, belatedly, that he was being quizzed. “Where else?” he repeated.

“What else have I said is in hay?”

“Nowhere that you’ve mentioned.”

“I believe I mentioned the second half of the Abbey place—did I not, Mr. Pinkney?”

“You did speak of the Abbey place, your lordship.”

“I thought I had. You should be writing this down, Winter. Pull up that chair. Mr. Pinkney, get him a pen and paper.”

Mr. Pinkney opened a plain deal cabinet and handed Arden a book and fountain pen. Arden sat down. He made a note.
Miller’s, dairy, 2nd part Abbey—always in hay. Learn the bounds and corners.
He was perfectly sure that no one had said anything at all about hay on the second half of the Abbey place.

His father leaned over the map again. “Now, the old dairy—what have we done about replacing that poor fellow, Mr. Pinkney?”

“Mr. Fenton is grazing there until your lordship pleases to make a change.”

“Yes, the bloody fence. I really don’t see the need. What do you think, Winter?”

“I have no idea what you’re speaking of.”

“Should we enclose the west wood?” his father said, with a vague, impatient wave of his hand over the map. “I really don’t see the need.”

“Oh, neither do I,” Arden agreed blandly.

“Mr. Fenton seems content,” the bailiff said.

The earl nodded. “Good. We’re all in agreement, then. I suggest you make a note about the tenant.”

While his father watched him, Arden wrote
Old dairy— tenant content.

“In fact, Winter, why don’t you manage that yourself?”

“Manage what?” Arden asked.

“Putting in the new tenant,” his father said in a tone of slightly strained patience. “Replace the old fellow who died.”

“I suggest that Farmer Dingle would be the best choice, your lordship,” Mr. Pinkney said. “He will take it for two and a half.”

“Good. Good. That will do.”

“But doesn’t Fenton have it?” Arden asked.

“No, no, we don’t want Fenton to continue grazing there,” his father said. “Not at all. He complains of the fence.”

“I thought he was content with the fence.”

“Arden,” his father said, “I’m afraid lack of attention has always been one of your besetting faults.”

Arden turned his face down to the book. He set his teeth hard together.
Fence,
he wrote.
Pay attention.

“Shall we have some coffee, gentlemen?” Lord Belmaine asked expansively as he tilted back his chair. “Ring the bell if you please, Winter. What a pleasant morning. A bit damp—I advise you to take your greatcoat this afternoon.”

“Yes, sir,” Arden said. He stood up and pulled the bell rope.

The earl looked at him, smiling warmly. “It’s very fine to have you working here. It does me good to see it.”
 

“Yes, sir,” Arden said.

His father looked out the window. “What a pleasant morning!” he said in a glad voice.

Arden wasn’t allowed to visit Beth at midday. She was conveniently sleeping, he was notified by the nurse posted at the bottom of the stairs. He could hear Beth shrieking, but he didn’t press the poor woman, who looked so guilty and harassed that he took pity on her. He was feeling rather suffocated by authority himself.

“I’ll come back later,” he said, “Mrs.—?”

She curtsied. “I’m called Sutton, my lord.”

“All my nurses were Sutton, and the governesses too,” he said with a wry smile. “What is your real name?”

“Henrietta Lamb, sir.”

“I’ll come back later, Mrs. Lamb. When do you think would be best?”

She lifted her face. She had a worried look, her straight brown hair pulled back tight under her cap. “I’m not certain what would be best, my lord. My lady feels that—Miss Elizabeth’s health requires complete peace and quiet, without visitors.”

Arden felt a rush of anger. But he said, in a dead level voice, “That is very well, but since I am her father, and not a visitor, you may inform Lady Winter that I will come for Miss Elizabeth’s daily walk at four. I expect both of them to be ready to accompany me.”

“Yes, my lord.”

“Thank you, Mrs. Lamb.”

She dipped a curtsy and hurried up the stairs as he turned away.

He said nothing at all when he came, promptly at four, as he had warned. Zenia was ready. She was exhausted, Beth was exhausted, they had spent the morning and afternoon in a series of tantrums about everything from putting on socks to eating carrots to changing napkins. Elizabeth had cried when Zenia had left her with the nurse and cried when she stayed.
      

Zenia had been determined that she would not give in to the fits. She tried soft words and teasing, she tried to be firm, she tried pulling Elizabeth in her wagon—she even spanked when Elizabeth bit her hand. But she had found that her daughter’s will far outpaced her own. By four o’clock, for the first time in Elizabeth’s life, Zenia was willing to relinquish her to someone else.

But she wanted to weep when her daughter’s face lit at the sight of him. Zenia started to lift her from the crib, but Elizabeth pushed her away, reaching with a happy squeal for her father.

Zenia sat down by the window, looking out, chewing her lip hard.

“Please do not take her outside,” she said, without turning.

“It isn’t very chill—”

“Do
not.
She isn’t dressed for it.”

“Yes. All right.”

There was a silence. She waited for the sound of his footsteps to carry Elizabeth away.

“Are you not coming with us?” he asked.

“She does not wish for me to go, I assure you.”

There was another long and awkward pause. Zenia pulled the handkerchief from her sleeve and wrapped it around her fingers and hoped that he would leave before her composure broke.

“Well,” he said, “I wish it.”

He was scowling when she looked at him. She turned her face down at her lap, just for a moment, just to govern the threatening tremble of her lip;

‘Then don’t,” he said shortly, angrily. And he walked out of the room, and she lost her chance.

CHAPTER NINETEEN

“It’s been a week,” Lord Winter said. His voice held a barely perceptible, unfamiliar slur. “Have you heard nothing yet from Mr. Bruce?”

He was handsomely dressed, having just come up from the Christmas dinner for the tenants. It had gone on all afternoon and deep into the evening, the long tables lining the marble hall, the rumble of conversation drifting up the stairs. Elizabeth had missed her daily walk about the house with him—she was moody but quiet, not even pleased with her father at the moment. She kicked her feet and turned away when he bent over the crib to kiss her.