Chapter 4
Chapter Four
Will leapt up the steps to Eversham Hall and walked with purpose to the butler's pantry.
Stowe jumped up from the desk, where he had been enjoying a surreptitious nip, probably of His Grace's brandy.
He ought to look guilty. Instead, his pursed lips all too eloquently showed his opinion of an earl who stormed into his refuge dirty from road and horse.
The old man quickly shifted his gaze past the earl's left shoulder. "May I assist you, my lord?" he oozed.
"You have been butler at Eversham many years, have you not, Stowe?"
"I had the honor of serving His Grace's grandfather, the seventh duke," Stowe told him.
Will considered Stowe's likely loyalty to Emery, his ingrained belief in Eversham's routines, even the ones Will abhorred, and knew a moment of doubt. Impulse drove him anyway.
"Can you tell me what lies between Eversham and its neighbors at Songbird Cottage?"
"Lies between, my lord?"
"Why, for example, does the kitchen of this house not obtain its eggs from Songbird?" That should be a safe enough start.
"His Grace so ordered it, my lord." Stowe clamped his lips closed.
"But why?"
"It isn't my place, my lord, but…" he hesitated.
Will nodded. "Go on, go on."
"The seventh duke knew the vicar's daughter was no better than she ought to be. He went so far as to step aside when he saw her in the village."
"What about his son?"
"The seventh duke forbade his son to see her," the old man said as if it explained everything. "Will that be all?" He looked ready to escape.
"The seventh duke? You mean the current duke's grandfather?"
Stowe found it unnecessary to reply while Will stood looking at an equestrian print on the butler's wall, reasoning it out.
Charles's grandfather forbade Emery "the vicar's daughter," and so Songbird Cottage.
Why should that apply to Charles? Is Catherine the vicar's daughter?
She can't be. He tried to remember when the seventh duke died. After Sylvia's wedding, but when?
He seized on the one solid piece of information he had. "Who is Lord Arthur Wheatly?"
Stowe looked pained.
"Come, come, man. Speak up."
"Master Arthur didn't know his place," the old man said through tight lips.
"His place?" He called Wheatly "Master Arthur," as if he knew him as a child.
"The duke forbade his sons to go near the vicar's daughter, that is what I know." Stowe clamped his jaw shut.
Will no longer doubted that Lord Arthur was Emery's brother. Their father had forbidden both his sons to go near the vicar's daughter. One, or both, failed to respect their father's wishes.
I see no sign of vice at Songbird, but what if Emery, for once, had good reason to keep his son away?
More than one aristocrat kept his bastards away from his legitimate family. Will needed more information, and he needed it quickly.
An hour later, he sealed a carefully worded message with the Chadbourn signet ring.
Private messenger would get it to London faster than the post, and more securely.
If anyone could unravel Wheatly family secrets, it was the Marquess of Glenaire, Will's boyhood friend.
Glenaire's discretion could be counted on.
A groom left for London moments later. Will dispatched a footman carrying a request for an interview to Squire Archer soon after that.
Now what? Will had met few men and no women who had as much passion for the land as he.
Catherine Wheatly seemed to be the exception.
It would be interesting to press her knowledge.
It would be interesting to watch her eyes light up when he did.
It would be interesting to watch those eyes if he bent to kiss her.
He shook his head to clear that thought.
Slow down, Will!
His more immediate task was to invite the Wheatlys, father and daughter, to dinner. He wondered who would object the loudest, Wheatly or Sylvia? He found out soon enough.
"You wish to do what?" Sylvia exploded when he asked her an hour later.
"They are gentry. They are neighbors. It is merely a thought."
Sylvia sank back on her chaise longue. "I cannot entertain. I am in mourning. I am ill."
Even in mourning, a family dinner is unexceptional. He didn't dare say that out loud.
"Emery would not permit it. He refused even mention of them in this house. They are not received."
"Emery is dead." God be praised, he thought without shame. "Who is Lord Arthur Wheatly?"
Sylvia laid an arm dramatically across her eyes. "The old duke forbade that name in this house. We do not receive them."
"Squire Archer receives them," Will said. The squire had responded with an enthusiastic invitation, all admiration for Catherine Wheatly.
"A country squire is not society, William Chadbourn, you know that," Sylvia said wearily. "I can bear no more about Songbird Cottage."
Will sighed to himself. At least I've planted a seed, he thought. "You best be prepared to entertain, however. I've invited Richard Hayden for the holidays."
She popped upright. "The Marquess of Glenaire, here? You can't be serious. His mother, the duchess, is the highest of high sticklers. I can't entertain; I can't." The last came out in a long wail.
"I didn't invite the duchess. I invited Richard, my friend.
" Glenaire might be more than a bit stuffy, but he would not scoff at Sylvia.
The more Will thought about it, the more sure he was that the invitation was just the thing to get Sylvia out of this suffocating room.
"It will be a small, informal visit, but you will entertain him, Sylvia.
I demand it," he said, forcing his voice to sound firm.
"As you wish, Chadbourn," she sniffed.
“It's for your own good. And call me Will, damn it. I'm your brother.”
***Two weeks later, the earl smiled with satisfaction at his likely new steward. Archer, seeing the state of the fields, running soil between his hands and sniffing it carefully, looked thoughtful. He stood with the earl by a rotting fencerow, next to a bedraggled wheat field.
The man rubbed his hands enthusiastically, even as he pronounced Eversham land a "sad muddle."
"It can be fixed," Will said with more hope than conviction. He didn't dare think otherwise.
"Certainly, my lord, but it'll take a few years, four at least, better in eight.
In ten to twelve years, there won't be finer fields in England.
Four-field rotation, that's the ticket: wheat, barley, turnips, and clover.
We can manage a smaller herd of sheep on the fallow fields.
Songbird, now, they use three-field rotation.
Haven't the livestock to take advantage of the clover, but Miss Wheatly believes doing a bean crop in rotation with wheat and barley does the trick, as well. "
Will decided to hire him. He had the knowledge, he had the passion, and he was too young for Catherine Wheatly. That last shouldn't matter, but it did.
"Perhaps we can invite Miss Wheatly over for a meeting, seek her advice in planning," he suggested hopefully.
"Brilliant, my lord. She is the best there is." The young man cleared his throat as if uncomfortable with his own outburst. "Some don't see it, but she is," he murmured more quietly. "For all she's a woman."
Interesting, Will thought. The county doesn't hold Catherine's origins or behavior against her, but they doubt her unfeminine skills. More fools they.
The two men walked back toward the stables and barns.
"What of the buildings, Archer? Can you take that on?"
"Buildings, fences, tenant roofs. They all want repair. If I can hire the workers, we can fix it. Folks will be glad of the work."
Will thought for a moment. He could picture this man, young as he was, overseeing the work. The man’s enthusiasm alone will carry them along.
"Hire what you need, Archer. You have the position. Can you start a week from Monday?"
"I can start this hour, my lord. The need is great."
"It is that, but we'll expect you to live in. The steward's cottage needs airing, and your uncle will want you to take your leave."
"He will," Archer said, slightly crestfallen. "I'll speak to Miss Wheatly and see if she can join us then."
The two men walked toward the stable yard to find Eversham stables entertaining guests.
"These two came to visit Mercury, my lord," Reilly the head groom said, with a worried look.
The two Wheatly boys looked at him with cautious hope.
"We just wanted to see the horse, my lord," the one called Freddy said. "You said maybe another time, but you haven't been back."
"Hey, John," Randy peered around the earl to beam up at Archer.
"That's Mr. Archer to you, young sir," the earl said. "Mr. Archer is Eversham Hall's new land steward."
"Brilliant!" Randy exclaimed. "He'll be so much better than—" He hung his head. "Sorry, my lord," he whispered.
Archer suppressed a smile. "I'll see you in a week, my lord," he said. He ruffled Randy's hair. "My best to your papa and sister, Randy." He walked away with a long-limbed stride, and a new sense of purpose.
Freddy looked back and forth between the earl and his brother. He sighed deeply and turned his attention to the interior of the stables. "Do you have many horses, my lord?" he asked.
The contrast between Freddy's obsession and Charles's fear cut the earl like a knife to the belly. The boy's words twisted it. A decision firmed and planted itself in his mind.
"Reilly," he said to the groom. "Perhaps His Grace would like to join us in the stable yard."
The man grinned. "He might, my lord, or he might not, but it'll do 'im good."
* * *
"There's the noble one!" Freddy exclaimed, looking up at Mercury's great height. "He has fire in his eye, too." He raised a tentative hand and let the animal sniff at him.
"He's a great horrid beast," came a voice from the door. Charles stood with his feet planted outside the stable, a footman at his side.
"He's a beauty," Freddy disagreed, spinning on his heels. "How can you say that?"