16. The Countryside Estate
Sixteen
The Countryside Estate
T hornfield Manor rose from the Yorkshire countryside like something from another century, its gray stone walls weathered by generations of wind and rain while ancient oak trees flanked the long drive, their branches creating a canopy that filtered the afternoon light across the gravel.
Despite the damage they’d come to assess, the estate maintained an air of dignified endurance that spoke to centuries of careful stewardship.
The carriage drew to a halt before the main entrance, where a small assembly of servants waited in the formal arrangement that proper households maintained even in the remotest corners of England. Mr. Moore stepped down first, offering his hand to Kate, but she refused his assistance hastily.
“Welcome to Thornfield, sir. I’m Hartwell, the house steward,” said the elderly man who stepped forward to greet Mr. Moore, and then turned toward Kate.
“It’s a delightful pleasure to receive you again, ma’dam,” his weathered face creased with years of Yorkshire winters and the responsibility of maintaining a great house, smiled plainly at her.
“We received word of your arrival yesterday.”
Hartwell appeared to be in his seventies, his silver hair combed in a classic way and his dark suit impeccably maintained despite the remoteness of his post, his bearing that of someone who had been managing Thornfield since before either of his visitors had been born, and that he took considerable pride in that fact.
“Good to see you again after so long, Hartwell,” Kate said politely to him, then added with a nod and a smile, “Mrs. Whitespoon.”
Behind Hartwell, stood Mrs. Whitespoon, the housekeeper—a woman of perhaps fifty or more with gray hair gathered in a bun and a kind gaze that missed nothing.
With her impeccable black dress and her white apron starched to perfection, she had adopted the bearing of one accustomed to running a household where standards never wavered regardless of who was in residence.
“Welcome, sir, ma’am,” she greeted them both with a slight bow.
“Mrs. Whitespoon has prepared chambers in the west wing for you, sir, and Mrs. Moore-Sullivan,” Hartwell continued, “along with a room for the young gentleman. The master suite for Mrs. Moore-Sullivan, naturally, and the adjoining chamber for yourself, sir.”
Mr. Moore’s jaw tightened visibly—something Kate didn’t miss with a sidelong glance. “Actually, I’ll require quarters in the east wing. The master suite and its adjoining chamber may both be prepared for Mrs. Moore-Sullivan’s use.”
Hartwell’s eyebrows rose slightly.
“The east wing, sir?” asked the steward politely. “That’s quite removed from the master suite. Perhaps you’d prefer the blue chamber? It’s adjacent to—”
“The east wing will be perfectly adequate,” Mr. Moore replied firmly, ignoring Kate’s sharp glance.
Mrs. Whitespoon stepped forward smoothly.
“I’ll see that both chambers are properly prepared, sir.
The east wing room has a lovely view of the gardens.
” She gestured to a young woman standing behind her, perhaps twenty, with auburn hair neatly pinned.
“And I’ve assigned Molly to attend Mrs. Moore-Sullivan during your stay. ”
“Thank you,” Kate said, with a warmth in her voice that clearly denoted more affection in towards the servants than she had shown to her husband all day. “That’s very thoughtful.”
“And for yourself, sir?” Hartwell asked. “Shall I assign Henry to assist with your personal needs?”
“No,” Mr. Moore replied perhaps too quickly. “I prefer to manage my own affairs. Henry can assist with other matters.”
Again, Hartwell’s brows arched up for a second, but he simply nodded with the diplomacy of longtime service.
“As you wish, sir. Perhaps you’d like to inspect the storm damage before we lose the light? The barn suffered considerable structural problems, and there’s been some flooding in the east pasture that’s affecting the tenant cottages.”
Vikram, who had been taking in the grandeur of the estate with wide eyes, suddenly straightened with interest. “May I help with the inspection, Mr. Moore-Sullivan?”
“Indeed you may,” Mr. Moore replied, grateful for the boy’s enthusiasm and the excuse it provided to focus on practical matters rather than the tension that seemed to follow him and Kate like a shadow.
The storm damage was extensive but not catastrophic.
The barn’s roof had partially collapsed under the weight of wind and rain, leaving several tenant families without proper storage for their winter feed.
The flooding in the east pasture had created problems with drainage that would need addressing before the next heavy rain made things worse.
Mr. Moore surveyed the damage with Vikram beside him, the boy proving surprisingly helpful in noting details and asking practical questions.
The physical work of assessment, measuring, calculating, determining priorities, provided blessed relief from the emotional turmoil of the past twenty-four hours.
“The roof timbers here will need complete replacement,” he told Hartwell, pointing with his hand to a beam that had cracked under the strain. “And we’ll need to dig proper drainage channels in the east field before the autumn rains begin.”
“Aye, sir,” agreed Hartwell. “I’ve already spoken with the carpenter in the village about timber, and there are men available for the drainage work.”
“Where will families store their grain meantime?” Vikram asked, looking toward the tenants’ houses with a worried face.
Mr. Moore nodded approvingly. “That’s precisely the first question we should be asking. The tenants depend on us.” He turned to Hartwell. “Do you have a solution?”
“The north barn, sir. There’s enough room if we move a few things around. It won’t be comfortable, but it’ll do until we’re finished here.”
“Well thought out,” Mr. Moore said, then looked at Vikram. “You see? We must always consider those who depend on us first.” He paused, surveying the damage once more. “Although Mrs. Moore-Sullivan will want a full accounting of the costs and the time it will take.”
As if summoned by the mention of her name, Kate appeared at the barn entrance, having changed into a more practical dress suitable for walking the grounds. Despite the coldness between them, her face displayed a reassuring serenity, proving that business always comes before personal feelings.
“How extensive is the damage?” she asked without preamble.
“Significant but manageable,” Mr. Moore replied, slipping into the safer professional tone. “The barn roof needs rebuilding, and the drainage issues will require immediate attention.”
Kate didn’t wait for any further explanation. She entered the barn already scanning the space—first the collapsed roof, then the cracked beams, then the pools of stagnant water. She stopped in front of the sacks of grain stacked against the back wall.
She knelt beside one, untied the string that closed it, and reached inside. She scooped out a handful of grain and examined it between her fingers, rubbed it, smelled it, and pressed a few grains between her thumb and forefinger.
Her face tightened for a moment.
“It’s damp,” she said, dropping the grain back into the sack. She stood up and looked at Hartwell. “How many sacks are in here?”
“About forty, ma’am. Provisions for six families for the winter.”
Kate turned to Mr. Moore. “We need to check every sack. Now. Let’s separate what’s still dry from what’s already spoiled.” Her voice brooked no argument. “If we don’t move it immediately, it’ll start to rot, and we’ll lose everything. The roof can wait another day—the grain can’t.”
Mr. Moore blinked, astonished by the firmness of her decision, and nodded. “You’re right. Hartwell, gather the available men. We’ll start with the grain.”
“Yes, sir.” Hartwell hurried out of the barn.
Kate was already checking another sack. “We’ll need a dry place to store what we salvage. The north barn, if it has room.”
“It does,” Mr. Moore confirmed, watching her from a safe distance; he hesitated for a second before daring to say anything more. “Kate…”
She looked up, and then their eyes met. The chill of the previous night was still evident in the gaze they shared, but in that moment—working together—it faded into the background.
“Do you have any paper?” she asked, returning to the practical matter. “We’ll need to document the losses. These families depend on these supplies.”
Vikram took a notebook and pencil from his pocket, items Mr. Moore had given him precisely for that purpose. “Should I note down the damaged sacks as we find them?”
“Exactly,” Kate said, nodding approvingly at the boy.
Hartwell returned with four men from the estate, all robust and ready. “Here they are, ma’am. What do you need them to do?”
Kate stood up, addressing them. “Check every sack. Those that are dry, move them to the north barn immediately. Those that are damp but still usable, separate them here—we’ll have to dry them.
Those that are already spoiled, set them aside for disposal.
” She paused, making sure everyone understood.
“Vikram will record everything. Work quickly but carefully.”
The men immediately set to work, opening sacks and assessing the contents while Vikram moved among them with his notebook.
Mr. Moore watched Kate coordinate the work, impressed by how she had taken charge of the situation without hesitation.
She moved among the men—checking their work, asking questions, making quick decisions—with the same skill with which she managed the offices of Sullivan Shipping.
Something that made him admire her more and more every day.
After what felt like a good while of intense work, one of the men approached Kate, sweat running down his temples. “Ma’am, we found twenty-seven good sacks, five to be dried, and eight lost,” he reported.