Regina Scott (5 page)

T
revor stood at the library window, staring out at the estate. A shelf of green lawn led up to the base of Blackcliff Fell. Rob Winslow walked past, leading Icarus, who dropped his head to nibble at the grass. Clouds floated serenely in the blue sky. It was as bucolic a scene as he might have wished for as the new lord of the manor. But it was a lie.

After his steward’s pessimistic assessment, Trevor had pressed him for details. All had been bleak. Most estates Trevor knew had a thousand acres or more, much of them good pastureland for sheep or cattle, or fields for crops of one kind or another. All those lands needed was a set of tenants with half Miss Allbridge’s energy to bring in a handsome income that allowed their owners to live in luxury, most often in London.

The Blackcliff estate had only a few hundred acres, the vast majority taken up by that hulking
rocky mountain. Blackcliff Fell didn’t offer enough pasture for more than the most hardy of sheep. There were no tenant farmers; there was nowhere for them to farm. As the owner of the land on which the village and church sat, Trevor received rent from each cottage and shop, based on the yearly income. Unfortunately, with the mine closed, there was precious little income to be had.

“But you claim the mine was prosperous,” Trevor had said, trying to keep the frustration from his voice. “Why shut it down?”

“It wore out,” Allbridge had said in his rusty voice. Trevor wasn’t sure if his accompanying sigh was for the situation or Trevor’s question. “We even had a man killed from falling rock. That fall buried the biggest vein of wad.”

Trevor frowned. Why couldn’t it have been gold or silver? “Wad? Is that what we mine?”

“Aye, sir. Was used to cast His Majesty’s cannons, I hear. Now they use it to fill pencils.”

The fellow must mean graphite. Trevor had heard it came principally from Cumberland. “What’s the market?”

“Generally good. The mines at Borrowdale can only produce so much. Seems there’s always more demand.”

A demand he couldn’t meet with a mine too dangerous to work. “Why did the villagers act as if it were my decision to reopen the mine?” he pressed.

“People will do most anything to feed their fami
lies,” his steward had replied. “They didn’t want to believe the surveyors the colonel had in.” He’d cast Trevor a sidelong look that made Trevor think of his daughter. “I suppose the villagers were hoping you were the type of gentleman who was willing to invest in his mine.”

He’d have been more than happy to invest, if he’d had a penny to spare. He had plans for the income this estate should have produced—a house, a carriage, a wife of noble birth and decent marriage settlements, a place among good Society, respected, admired.

“I’d like to read the surveyor’s report,” he’d told his steward, but it had not been among the records Allbridge had brought for Trevor’s perusal. His steward had promised to locate it as soon as possible.

Until then, Gwen’s father had recommended that Trevor look over his estate. Allbridge made it sound as if Trevor might discover something worthwhile, something valuable that would make him wish to stay. What man in his right mind stayed on a lifeless rock?

“You haven’t tasted your tea.”

He turned at the sound of Gwen Allbridge’s warm voice. She was standing in the doorway, her fiery hair the one spot of brightness in the room. She’d taken off her green coat and wore a white apron over her green-checked cotton gown. She looked industrious and competent. He felt neither.
His feelings must have shown on his face, despite his best intentions, for her brows rose, and she hurried into the room.

“What’s wrong?” she demanded. “Was the tea not to your liking? Mrs. Bentley thought you’d favor the souchong but that smoky smell isn’t for everyone. Or did we miss a spot when we were cleaning?”

Trevor forced a smile for her sake. “I wasn’t thirsty, after all, and the house seems immaculate. You almost make me believe in miracles.”

“Almost?” she teased, cocking her head and endangering the pile of curls on top.

He felt his smile slipping and returned his gaze to the black, unforgiving mountain. “I had hoped for better news from your father.”

He heard her suck in a breath, then the rustle of skirts as she hurried around in front of him.

Her brown eyes were imploring. “He hasn’t had to give a report in months. I’m sure if you allow him a little time, he’ll do better.”

She seemed to take it personally that anything might not be to his liking. “You mistake me,” he assured her. “I find no fault in your father. He came straight to the point, a trait I admire.”

“Then what?” she begged.

He could not stop looking at that mountain. It dwarfed the house; it blighted his hopes. “I simply could not like the truth.”

She angled her head to look up into his eyes. “The truth? That the village is overjoyed you’re
here? That you have a venerable home you can be proud of? That you will make an excellent master for Blackcliff? How can you not like those truths?”

“They were not truths I expected,” he replied. In the face of her optimism he was beginning to feel like a spoiled child. Yet she could not know how important wealth and consequence were in his world. “There is nothing for me here.”

Her eyes widened as if in shock, and she drew herself up, once more all righteousness. “Nothing? What nonsense! You, sir, are coming with me.” She strode for the door, and he turned to watch her, surprised by the sudden change.

“I’ll ask Mrs. Bentley to fetch your coat,” she threw back over her shoulder. “We’re going for a walk, and then, sir, we will see about this nothing!”

She was out the door before he could argue. But then, he doubted she’d have listened if he’d tried.

Nothing? How could he call Blackcliff nothing? Blackcliff was her home; Blackcliff was her world. More, it was the world of every man, woman and child in the village, and it had been for generations. He should be happy to be welcomed, stranger that he was. He should be overjoyed to learn what he’d been given here.

“But wasn’t he pleased?” Mrs. Bentley asked, following Gwen back to the library with Sir Trevor’s coat bundled in her arms. Gwen had found her in the butler’s pantry, a small room just off the dining
room that held the china and silver service and served as a place to keep the food warm after it had been carried from the kitchen in the outbuilding. “Does he approve of what we’ve done with the house?”

“He will,” Gwen promised, pulling on her own green coat and cinching the ribbon under her breast. “Just give me a day.”

“I’ll be happy to give you all the time you need, dearie,” the little housekeeper replied with a sad smile. “I really have nowhere else to go.”

Neither did Gwen and her father. She’d lived her entire life in that gatehouse. Her mother had married, given birth and died there. Her father was only now beginning to find himself again after her death. Blackcliff Hall, Blackcliff village, St. Martin’s Church—they were all Gwen had ever known. Leaving was unthinkable. The very idea robbed her of speech, set her stomach to cramping.

Oh, but Sir Trevor had to be made to see reason! This house was their last chance to keep the village together in the coming years. A great house had hunting parties in the autumn, Christmas parties in the winter and house parties in the spring and summer. Visitors toured the area, ordered food from the George, bought laces and writing paper and gloves from the village shops, left money to thank the servants.

A great house had gardens that needed tending, horses to care for, carriages to manage. It needed
maids and footmen and cooks, perhaps even a governess and nursemaid if the master’s family was increasing. Blackcliff would keep them all together.

But only if Sir Trevor was happy enough with the place to make it his home.

Why had her father emphasized the negative? A shame she couldn’t have stayed while he had made his report. She could have corrected mistakes, shown Blackcliff in a better light. She knew how to manage the estate; she’d followed her father about his duties since she was a child, taking on more of a role each year as her father and Colonel Umbrey aged.

But even if she had stayed with her father this morning, she knew she had to be careful how much she helped him. He needed to feel useful; he needed to take back his place in the community. Surely that would get him over this depression he continued to fight. Right now, though, she just had to make sure his dismal report didn’t affect her plans for Blackcliff.

She marched into the library, prepared to counter any argument Sir Trevor might mount, but he came around the desk to meet her and Mrs. Bentley with a polite smile. He even bent over backward to allow the little housekeeper to shrug him into his greatcoat.

“Is there something special I can cook you for dinner, then, sir?” she asked as he straightened, her big brown eyes looking up into his.

He adjusted his coat across his broad shoulders. “I’m sure whatever you have will be fine, Mrs. Bentley.”

She nodded, then leaned toward Gwen. “The salmon, I think,” she whispered. “And pudding. I don’t know a man who doesn’t like pudding.”

Gwen could only hope the housekeeper was right. At the moment, it seemed that Sir Trevor liked little about Blackcliff. But she was about to change all that.

Please, Lord, let me change all that!

“If you’d be so kind as to follow me, Sir Trevor,” she said, then held her breath.

But he nodded, motioning her out the door ahead of him.

Emboldened, Gwen led him through the manor and onto the lawn before the fell.

How could he fail to appreciate the view? Gwen loved autumn at Blackcliff. The cool air was moist and tangy. The black rock made the fiery rowans and oaks and the russet ash stand out in sharp relief. With so much color, the ugly charcoal-colored piles of wad tailings around the mouth of the mine halfway up the slope were barely noticeable.

She paused, turning to him. “You like to ride, don’t you?”

He raised a brow as if he hadn’t expected the question. “Indeed.”

She pointed along the foot of the fell. “There’s an excellent path along there. If you head west, it will
take you to the top of the dale. East will lead you down the dale into the Lockhart estate. The squire and his son are bruising riders, too. I’m sure they wouldn’t mind you jumping a few fences.”

“At least they have fences,” he replied.

So much for riding.
Lord, guide my words! Show me what he’d find good here!

Then a verse came to her mind:
Come, and let us go up to the mountain of the Lord.

The mountain! Of course. “And you have Blackcliff,” she replied, turning to head for the well-worn footpath up the fell. “This way.”

“This isn’t necessary,” he said, though she felt him behind her.

“It is entirely necessary,” she insisted, lifting her skirts to clamber up the rocky path. Behind her came a thud and a grunt, and she turned to find him on one knee, sliding backward on the rocks. She reached out a hand and grabbed his coat, slowing him. Oh, but he was a solid fellow! She teetered on the rock, perilously close to falling herself.
Lord, help me!

Her gaze met his and, for a moment, she thought her panic had infected him, as well. Then his eyes narrowed as if in determination, and he surged upward, caught her and pulled her into the safety of his arms. Gwen stood, wrapped in his embrace, her chest against his ribs, blinking up at him.

“I can see why you thought this would improve
my perception of Blackcliff,” he said, gazing down at her. His mouth curved up in a smile.

Heat flushed up her, and she disengaged from him. “Actually, you’ll find the view from the top is much better.”

His smile turned sad. “You’re wasting your time, I fear.”

“Then I shall apologize sweetly for taking you out of your way,” Gwen replied. But she started resolutely upward once more and heard the rocks rattle under his boots as he followed.

They climbed in silence for a while, the sounds of their footfalls quieted by the still air. The brambles along the path were turning a peachy orange, their berries almost as dark as the ground. Did he appreciate the show? A falcon soared by, nearly eye level with them. Did he see its majesty?

Apparently not, for he asked, “Why do you stay? Why do any of you stay?”

A simple enough question, for Gwen. “It’s home,” she told him, breath starting to come in pants. “My father’s here. My friends are here. But there’s more to it than that. You’ll see in a moment.”

With a last push, she reached the top. Sharp slabs of shale lay piled on the ground like dirty dishes on a footman’s tray. The air was cool and just as sharp, stinging her cheeks, tugging at her curls, whistling as it passed. Trevor drew up beside her, standing tall into the blue, blue sky.

Gwen spread her arms and turned in a circle.
“Look around you, Sir Trevor. Everything you see is yours.”

He turned slowly, eyes widening. The crimson of autumn gave way to the white of new snow on the upper peaks in the distance. They had only a dusting now, like sugar on cinnamon loaves, but they’d be all white before winter’s end. Their forested sides ran down to clear brooks and wide fields. Gwen linked one arm with his and pointed with the other.

“Your land extends to the top of the next peak. See that stream in the valley between the two? It’s filled with salmon. You’ll have some for dinner tonight.”

He nodded as if the idea had merit.

Encouraged, she tugged him to the north. “See that copse of trees? That’s yours, too. You’ll find deer and fox and ermine and plenty of wood for your fire.”

One corner of his mouth curved upward. Ah, perhaps he liked to hunt. She could use that to her advantage.

She turned him east, and the whole of the Evendale Valley spread out, the village a set of small white squares against the green. “You see those cottages, those shops? Those are your people, your neighbors. They rely on you to provide opportunities for income and advancement. You can rely on them for friendship and service in good times and comfort in bad.”

His half smile disappeared.