The Rake (8 page)
Authors: Mary Jo Putney
Face set, he cantered forward to investigate. Alys trailed unhappily behind him. The new owner was about to discover one of the odder features of Strickland.
He stopped again on the top of the hill, where he could see the whole manufactory. The round bottle oven with its high, circular chimney was the unmistakable mark of a pottery. In a voice devoid of inflection, he asked, “What the devil is a potbank doing on Strickland land? Didn't this used to be one of the tenant farms?”
“The site is leased from Strickland, and at quite a profitable rate,” she replied, praying that he wouldn't ask more, and knowing that he would.
He gave her an icy glance. “That isn't what I asked. What is a manufactory doing here, and who owns it?”
Choosing her words carefully, Alys said, “It's held in trust for three minors.”
“Oh?” His cold syllable ordered her to continue.
“This was the smallest of the tenant farms, with the least desirable tenants,” she explained. “It was a relief when they sold off their equipment and stock and skipped off without paying the Lady Day rent three years ago. I combined the land with Hill Farm, and Robbie Herald works it with his own property. I leased the buildings to the pottery.”
His sardonic snort made it clear that he knew she was telling less than the whole story.
“The pottery has been an excellent venture,” Alys said defensively. “It provides jobs, pays a fair rent to Strickland, and is a good long-term investment for the owners. I know most landowners loathe any kind of industry on their land, but you can't shut it down even if you want toâthe lease runs for twenty-two more years.”
Before she could offer more arguments, Davenport's hand shot out to catch her mare's bridle. The horse tried to throw its head upward, but his powerful grip held it steady. He turned in his saddle to face her, anger evident in his clipped words. “Yesterday I said I would give you a chance to prove yourself. Will you extend me the same courtesy?”
A fierce wave of embarrassment burned Alys's face and spread down her neck. He was being entirely reasonable, and she was acting like a rabid hedgehog. For the first time she really looked at him, not as Reginald Davenport, notorious rake and disastrous employer, but as an individual. Their gazes held for an endless moment.
With jarring insight, she recognized that her employer was a good deal moreâor lessâthan his reputation. Under the world-weary air were tolerance and intelligence that would be a credit to anyone. And he had the tiredest eyes she had ever seen.
“I'm sorry.” It wasn't enough, so she continued doggedly, “I have often been unfairly judged and condemned. It is unpardonable that I commit the same injustice toward you.”
He released the mare's bridle. “Considering how many years I've spent cultivating an evil reputation, I would be disappointed if you didn't assume the worst about me.”
She smiled. “I am beginning to believe that you are a fraud, Mr. Davenport.”
“Oh?” His dark brows rose in the sardonic expression she was coming to recognize. “In what way?”
“I am beginning to believe that you are not at all the wicked care-for-nobody that your reputation claims.”
“You had best withhold judgment on that point, Miss Weston,” he said dryly. Gathering up his reins, he said, “I think it's time we ate. As I recall, there used to be a tavern on the Shaftesbury road that had good food.”
“It's still there, and the food is still good.” Alys wondered for a moment that he would take her to a common tavern. Then she realized that it would be less scandalous to eat with her at the Silent Woman than to share a private meal at the manor. Despite his stated intention of treating her like a man, he was being careful of the proprieties.
Half an hour later, they were facing each other across a wooden table polished by years of sliding crockery and hard scrubbing. A good number of customers shared the beamed taproom and sent curious glances their way. All of the men were local and knew the eccentric Miss Weston, and they could surely guess who her companion was. They kept a respectful distance from the new master of Strickland.
Davenport polished off the last crumbs of an excellent beef and onion pie, then refilled his tankard with ale from the pewter pitcher. “Will you tell me the whole story of the pottery, or will I have to drag the information out of you a piece at a time?”
Alys finished the last bite of her own meat pie. It was time to tell the whole story, because if he had to dig for the facts, it might ruin his expansive mood. “You know about the problems caused by discharging so many soldiers after the war. There wasn't enough work to begin with. To make matters worse, the new machinery reduces the need for farm laborers.”
When he nodded, she went on, “For example, the estate could never have managed without one of the new threshing machines. There simply weren't enough laborers during the later war years. Now that the machinery has been purchased and is working well, it makes no sense to go back to slower, more cumbersome methods just to create a few ill-paid jobs. Other solutions needed to be found.” She gazed at him earnestly. “Besides the fact that idle men make trouble, it would be wrong to let the soldiers who defeated Napoleon starve. Wrong, and dangerous for Strickland as well.”
He took a draft of ale and prompted, “So ... ?”
“I've encouraged the creation of various businesses to provide work. There's a wood shop in Strickland village that employs eight men, and a brick and tile yard with five workers. Because there are good deposits of clay nearby, it made sense to open a pottery as well. It makes moderately priced ware that the average person can afford. There's quite a market for such things, and now twelve people are employed.”
“Who manages the place?”
She took a deep breath. “I do.”
The dark brows shot up. “In addition to managing Strickland? Where the devil do you find the time?”
“I make all the decisions and keep the accounts, but a foreman supervises the daily work,” she explained. “As you can see from the estate books, I haven't neglected Strickland. I ...”
He held up one hand to stop her words. “Before we go too far afield, who are the three minors who are the actual owners of the pottery? Are they local children?”
Alys poured more ale for both of them before answering. “They are the niece and nephews of Mrs. Spenser, my former employer.”
“More and more interesting. Where do they live now?”
With an inward sigh, Alys recognized that it was time to confess what he would surely learn soon. “They live with me.”
“You're their guardian?” he asked with surprise.
She took another swig from the tankard, her eyes cast down. “There were no close relatives whom Mrs. Spenser trusted. One reason she helped me get the Strickland position was so that I could keep the children with me.”
“I see why they call you Lady Alys,” he said with a mocking humor. “Managing an estate, several businesses, and children as well. You are an extraordinary woman.”
“Most women are extraordinary. It compensates for the fact that most men aren't,” Alys snapped, then immediately bit her tongue. With his talent for getting under her skin, Davenport made her forget how dependent she was on his goodwill. She, who had always prided herself on her control, was continually skirting explosion with him.
He laughed, his extraordinary charm visible again. “I suppose your next project is to advance beyond needing the male half of the species? As a stock breeder, you must know that will be difficult, at least if there is to be a next generation.”
Alys had no doubt that his supply of suggestive remarks could easily outlast her belligerence. With as much dignity as she could muster, she reached for the ale pitcher. “I have never denied that men have their uses, Mr. Davenport.”
“Oh? And what might they be?”
His hand brushed hers casually when they both reached for the handle of the pitcher at the same time. Her nerves jumped, and she dropped her eyes to avoid his gaze. His hands were quite beautiful, long-fingered and elegant, the only refined thing about him. A seductive current flowed from him that made her want to yield, so melt and mold herself, to discover the other ways he could touch, to touch him back... .
In a voice that seemed to come from someone else, she said, “We're out of ale. Shall we order another pitcher, or are you ready to see more of the estate?”
“More ale,” he said, apparently quite unaffected by the fleeting contact between them. “I still have a number of questions. For example, the sixty pounds a year for schoolmasters, books, and other teaching supplies.”
He signaled for another pitcher, refilling his tankard when it arrived. Alys was four rounds behind him, and knew better than to try keeping up. She didn't doubt that in a drinking contest he could put her under the table.
And what would he do with you there? a mocking little voice asked. Nothing, of course. More's the pity.
Trying to ignore the lewd asides of her lower mind, Alys said, “The teachers are a married couple. He teaches the boys, she teaches the girls. I require all the children on the estate to go to school until at least the age of twelve.”
“Don't the parents resent that their children can't start earning wages earlier?”
“Yes, but I have insisted,” she replied. “In the short run, it's better for the children. In the long run, the estate will have better workers.”
“Miss Weston, did some Quaker or reforming Evangelical get hold of your tender mind when you were growing up?” Davenport asked, his dark brows arching ironically.
She blinked. “As a matter of fact, yes.”
“Wonderful,” he muttered into his ale. “A fanatic.” Grabbing hold of her frayed temper, Alys said with hard-won composure, “Not a fanatic, a practical reformer. You have seen the results at Strickland over the last four years. I would be hard-pressed to say precisely which reforms have produced what results, but the total effect has been more than satisfactory. The estate is prospering, and so are the people who work on it. The evidence speaks for itself.”
“I keep reminding myself of that, Miss Weston,” he said dourly. “I trust you appreciate that you are being treated to a display of open-mindedness and tolerance that none of my friends would believe.” He shook his head. “A female steward, and a reformer to boot.”
“It's your income, Mr. Davenport,” Alys pointed out in an icy voice. “If you make sweeping changes, there might be a drop in the profits.”
“I remind myself of that, too.” He poured the last of the ale in his tankard. He'd drunk most of two pitchers himself. “What about the money given to help emigration?”
She sighed and traced circles on the table in a few drops of spilled ale. It had been a vain hope that he would overlook her cryptic notes in the account books. The blasted man missed nothing. “Three of the veterans who returned from Wellington's army wanted to take their families to America, but didn't have adequate savings to pay their passages and start over.”
“So you gave them the money?” He slouched casually against the back of the oak settle, relaxed but watchful.
“Theoretically the money was loaned, but it was understood that they might never be able to repay,” Alys admitted.
“And the chances of collecting from another country are nil. So you just gave it away,” he mused. “Are you running a business or a charity here?”
“If you saw the books, you know that less than two hundred pounds were lent,” she said, defensive again. “All of the families had served Strickland with great loyalty. One man's wife worked on the harvest crew until an hour before her first baby was born.”
Under his sardonic eye she realized how foolish that must sound to a man of the world. She added more practically, “Helping them leave also reduced the strain on Strickland's resourcesâfewer jobs to find and mouths to feed.”
“If every worker on the estate wanted to emigrate, would you have given money to them all?” he inquired with interest.
She turned one palm up dismissively. “Few people want to leave their homes for a strange country. Most of the Strickland tenants were born here, and they can imagine no other end than to die here.”
She thought, with sudden piercing sorrow, of where she herself had been born, the home to which she could never return. Alys had exiled herself as surely as the three families who had gone to America. Then she wondered how much her expression had revealed, for Davenport was watching her keenly.
“Somehow, I doubt that the old earl knew about your odd little charities,” he said, a flicker of amusement in his light eyes.
Relieved that Davenport was enjoying the thought of his uncle's ignorance, she assured him, “The old earl never had any idea. His man of business must have known at least some of what I was doing, but he didn't interfere since the overall profits were up.”
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