Regina Scott (7 page)

The minister thanked her, then returned his gaze to Trevor. “I suppose you have questions for me. I’ve a curriculum vitae, recommendations from my tutors at Oxford and a copy of some of my better sermons. You understand, of course, that only the bishop can take me from the living, what with Colonel Umbrey placing me here.” His laugh was once more nervous.

Ah, so that was it. The position of vicar of St. Martin’s must be appointed by the master of the Blackcliff estate. Trevor had heard that some landowners even managed to have prospective ministers pay a sum for the privilege. It seemed that too was denied him.

But he knew what was expected of him. He drew himself up, gazing down at the minister, whose shoulders sagged farther.

“I have no plans to complain to the bishop about your place, Vicar,” Trevor assured him. “Your credentials and standing in this community are impressive. I have heard nothing but praise for your work. I know I speak for the entire village when I say I wish you many productive years here at Blackcliff.”

If only he could say the same about himself.

G
oodness, but Sir Trevor was impressive. Gwen thought if he’d looked at her the way he was regarding David Newton, she might have found a way to fly to the moon and back, if it pleased him. David Newton must have felt the same way, for he seized Sir Trevor’s hand and shook it over and over, while Ruth wiped at her eyes and murmured thanks.

Sir Trevor continued a polite conversation as he strolled toward the door, asking about the number of baptisms, marriages and funerals performed in the past year; evincing interest in a scheme to refinish the pews. Before Gwen knew it, they were out the door and back on the lane into the village. Only then did he turn to her with a raised brow.

“You might have warned me.”

Gwen frowned. “About what? You were wonderful in there.”

He sighed. “Thank you, but it would have helped
to know that the living at St. Martin’s belongs to the Blackcliff estate.”

“Surely they told you,” Gwen protested.

He rubbed the bridge of his nose as if he felt a headache coming on. “No, Miss Allbridge, I assure you. No one told me anything about Blackcliff except its general direction.”

How extraordinary! She certainly wouldn’t have presumed to take up residence halfway across the country without knowing a great deal about the place first. But then, she wouldn’t have left Blackcliff no matter what was promised elsewhere.

“Is there anything else I should know?” he asked as they headed back through the village.

He sounded so weary she almost hated to tell him. “The village elects the constable, the church warden, the surveyor of highways and the overseer of the poor, but as the master of Blackcliff, everyone expects you to voice your support.”

“Let’s get this over with,” he gritted out, and Gwen directed him forward once more.

For the next hour, she led Sir Trevor from place to place in the village. The constable, Mr. Casperson, who owned one of the shops, stood with both his chins held high while he expounded his views regarding vagrancy to Sir Trevor. The church warden, Mr. Williamson, pledged his undying devotion to Blackcliff and assured Sir Trevor that he would take good care of the church and its people. Rob Win
slow’s father, who served as surveyor, saluted the baronet with an iron bar.

And Mr. Agnew grew positively teary-eyed in telling Sir Trevor what an honor it was to oversee the poor.

“And I know we will have fewer on the rolls now that Blackcliff Mine is to be opened,” the wheelwright said with a tremulous smile as they stood before the whitewashed stone building where he made and repaired the village wagons.

Gwen glanced at Sir Trevor, but he merely returned the smile, and with far greater strength. She could not allow this story to continue. False hope, once dashed, was more demoralizing than no hope at all.

“I fear there was a misunderstanding,” she told the gray-haired man. “Blackcliff Mine is too dangerous to be reopened.” She lay a hand on his muscular shoulder, the leather of his apron firm against her palm. “I’m very sorry.”

Mr. Agnew blinked. “But I heard it from Mrs. Dennings.”

Sir Trevor stepped closer, forcing Gwen to drop her hand. “Ah, such a charming woman, Mrs. Dennings. Her husband worked at the mine, I believe.”

How did he know? Gwen hadn’t told him, and she doubted her father’s account had included the names of every miner. He must have pieced together the story from stray facts.

Mr. Agnew nodded, shifting on his booted feet as
if he longed to go back inside his shop and work on something simple like a wagon wheel. “Jack Dennings was a good man. When he was killed during a cave-in, the colonel thought it best to close things up. But Jack Dennings wasn’t the only man put out of work that day.” He frowned up at Sir Trevor.

“I share your assessment on the importance of the mine,” Trevor said. His look to Gwen held a request for silence. “When I spoke this morning, I was unaware of the state of decay. I intend to learn more, and I will do everything I can to keep my promise.”

Mr. Agnew’s wrinkled face beamed. “Well, certainly. And we will all look forward to good news for Blackcliff.”

“And there we quite agree,” Gwen said, but she took Sir Trevor’s arm and nudged him away from the wheelwright. It was like trying to push a stone wall. She was glad he didn’t resist as she led him toward the Hall at last.

“You shouldn’t encourage them,” Gwen said as they headed for the main gates. “Did my father explain the situation?”

“He did, but I have yet to read the surveyor’s report.” His strides were lengthening, as if he couldn’t wait to leave the village behind.

Gwen wrinkled her nose even as she hurried her steps to keep pace. “I have read it. The mine is a ruin.”

As soon as the words left her mouth she wanted to call them back. She sounded as dismal as her
father. She forced a smile and scurried around in front of him.

“But who needs a mine?” she asked as the familiar iron gates loomed. “Blackcliff has always taken care of itself. I’m sure it will be no different with you.”

“Your confidence is inspiring,” he said, but she thought she heard an edge to his otherwise polite voice.

“You were very kind to confirm all those positions,” she replied, trying to remind him of the esteem in which the master of Blackcliff was held. “Everyone will breathe easier now that you’ve shown yourself happy with their appointments.”

“I live to serve.”

Still no warmth underlay that cultured voice. She could not conceive she had tired him. Those long legs looked made for striding about, the dove-gray pantaloons molded to his muscles. She tore her gaze away.

“So, what else would you like to do today?” she asked.

He stopped so suddenly she nearly tripped. His face was still that polite mask, all calm and considerate, but she could not name the emotion that crouched in his green gaze.

“There is nothing else I could want from today, Miss Allbridge,” he said, voice tightly controlled. “I think you have accomplished quite enough. My home is overrun with people I cannot hope to pay.
My boots are scuffed from climbing a mountain I wish I’d never seen. My honor is strained by supporting men in positions I have no idea whether they can fulfill. And by sundown a good portion of the village will think that I lied about opening the mine. All in all, it has been a full day, and the only thing I wish right now is to be left alone.”

He swept her a bow and stalked up the drive for the house.

Gwen stared after his retreating figure. What was wrong with him? She’d shown him that his land contained the top of the world, which ought to make any man feel proud. She’d shown him that he had influence over the lives of other people, which ought to make him humbly grateful or smugly self-satisfied, depending on the type of gentleman he was.

But Sir Trevor didn’t seem proud or grateful or even slightly satisfied. He sounded frustrated beyond all endurance!

He seemed to think she’d terribly inconvenienced him when she’d done everything for his convenience. Would he have preferred to spend the night mopping floors or making beds? Would he have rather spent the day moping at the library window instead of doing something good for himself and the village? What sort of man had been given control of their lives?

She started for the gatehouse, ribbon on her coat swishing from side to side in her agitation.
Talk
to him, Lord. Help him see what You’ve given him here. Help him live up to his new responsibilities.

Immediately a thought came to her, something her father had once said:
Sometimes you have to walk before you can run.
She frowned as she let herself into the gatehouse. Was that Sir Trevor’s dilemma? Was he so new at his role he truly didn’t understand how much he was needed?

The sitting room was empty, but she knew her father must be in the house. A fire glowed in the stone fireplace, shedding light on the square-backed upholstered chairs on either side. An earlier mistress of Blackcliff had been displeased with the basket-of-flowers pattern woven into the emerald fabric and the dark curve of the polished legs. She had consigned the pieces to the gatehouse.

Gwen’s mother had called them the thrones. They were a little grand next to the whitewashed walls and simple half-moon table where Gwen and her father usually ate. But then, Gwen supposed, that was the way of the stewards of Blackcliff: expected to be more than a servant but less than the master.

Her father was in the kitchen, cutting a thick slice of bread for himself at the solid worktable in the center of the room. Dolly lay at his feet, big head on her paws, jowls brushing the stone floor. She looked relaxed, but her eyes followed his every move.

“How did it go in the village?” he asked before taking a big bite.

Gwen made a face. “All the elected positions
have been confirmed, but it seems Sir Trevor did not enjoy the process.” She crossed to where hooks by the back door held her father’s coat and pulled off her own. “What do you know of him, Father?”

He shrugged. “Not much. You were the one who saw his papers.”

She had, but she hadn’t noticed anything odd. “I originally assumed this was only one of his many properties,” she said, taking down her apron and wrapping it about her gown. “That he was used to overseeing the lives of his tenants. But his papers said he’d been given the estate for services to the Crown. What if he’s never owned property before? What if he has no idea what he’s doing?”

Her father tore off another bite of the bread. Dolly sighed heavily. “Seems like a smart fellow,” he said. “Likely he could learn.”

The master of Blackcliff, learning how to lead? She ought to panic. They needed someone who was stronger. Colonel Umbrey had come from a long line of masters of Blackcliff and look at the damage he’d done: shutting down the mine with no thought of the consequences, his callous treatment of his staff, his incessant fears at the end, sure someone was out to harm him. Was having someone who knew nothing any better?

It had to be!

She walked to the pantry that ran under the stairs and opened the door. The light from the kitchen window spilled over bottles and jars of pure white,
deep purple and fiery crimson: her mother’s treasures, neatly lined up on the shelves, waiting for her to return. But she wouldn’t be returning. Gwen couldn’t make herself step inside.

“He’ll need help,” she tossed back to her father over her shoulder instead. “We’ll need to show him what it means to be the master of Blackcliff and the leader of the upper valley.”

Her father swallowed the last of the bread, and Dolly closed her eyes as if giving up on him. “Only if he decides to stay.”

Gwen faced the pantry. “He has to stay.”

Her father followed her to the door and glanced inside with a sigh. “What do you need, daughter?”

“The horehound syrup. Tim Wheaton is ailing again.”

Her father stepped inside and drew down the clear bottle. “Last one,” he said, handing it to Gwen with gentle fingers. “She left you the recipe, you know. Likely you could make some before frost comes.”

“Perhaps,” Gwen said, backing away from the room and the memories it held with the bottles of preserves and cures.

Her father sighed as he closed the door behind him. “You like him, then, this Sir Trevor? You want him to stay?”

She felt her face heating and busied herself finding a cloth and wrapping the bottle. “Of course I want him to stay. You’ll have your old position back. The village will have a source of income.”

“He’s a handsome fellow,” her father said, leaning against the doorjamb between the kitchen and the sitting room. “I’ve no doubt you wouldn’t be the first to notice.”

Gwen smiled as she turned to him. “Ruth Newton turned positively crimson, the poor dear.”

“More likely the other girls will turn green knowing you’ve already set your cap for him.”

“I’ve done no such thing,” Gwen said primly, setting the wrapped bottle in her work basket. “I’ve no interest in a man with leanings outside this valley. I’m needed here.”

He grimaced as he straightened. “I haven’t had more than my share of the cups in three months, and you know it.”

She crossed to his side and kissed him on the cheek. “And is that the only reason you need me, to keep the gin out of reach?”

He glanced at her out of the corners of his blue eyes. “You know I dote on you. But there’s a whole world outside this village. Perhaps it’s time we saw it.”

Fear wrapped around her, drew her tight. Leave Blackcliff? Leave everything she’d ever known? Go somewhere she had no control over her own life? How could he even suggest it? “No, thank you, Father. This is my home. I have no wish to live anywhere else, not even to marry as fine a fellow as Sir Trevor.”

Trevor regretted snapping at Gwen the moment she had turned and stomped off for the gatehouse. She was only trying to help him settle in. It was clear she wanted him to feel a part of the village.

But it was equally clear to Trevor that he would never fit in. A happy sinner like Trevor approve of the vicar’s position like some pompous archbishop? His acquaintances in London would laugh themselves sick if they knew.

His temporary gardeners were busy hacking his garden into submission, he saw as he approached the house. They paused to remove their caps and nod as he passed. His temporary maid was dusting the withdrawing room when he entered; she scurried out of his sight so as not to give offense. His temporary housekeeper helped him off with his coat, her smile warm and welcoming. They expected him to hire, to lead. They wanted a savior.

Trevor was no one’s savior.

He took the stairs for his bedchamber two at a time. It was a fine room, with dark furnishings that may not have been fashionable but were well made and sturdy. In the tall wardrobe along one paneled wall, he located the bag he had brought with him on the saddle like one of the green-bag travelers who flocked to the mountains to rhapsodize over the scenery.

His meager belongings could be returned to the bag easily enough. By nightfall, Icarus could reach
Carlisle. Another four days easy riding could get Trevor to London. He could stay with friends. A few conversations should put him onto a problem or two that could line his pockets for the quarter.