Chapter One What They Say About Mary Beth Blackthorn #2
The carriage slowed as the horses climbed toward the moors. Rainwater ran silver through the ruts. The lamps illuminated hedges, stone walls, and sudden pieces of wet road before darkness swallowed them again.
Mary Beth lifted the corner of the curtain.
“Has it been this heavy all evening?” she called.
The coachman’s voice came back through rain and wind. “Worse west of the village, ma’am.”
Blackthorn lay west.
Mary Beth let the curtain fall.
She thought of the northern fields.
Then she thought of the retaining wall below the old quarry road.
She sat forward.
The wall had been troubling her steward since March. Not visibly enough, he had said, to justify rebuilding the entire length. The engineer who inspected it in April had recommended repointing, clearing the upper drain, and watching two sections where the stone had begun to bow.
The work had supposedly been completed.
Rain struck harder against the glass.
Mary Beth no longer felt tired.
They reached Blackthorn Manor shortly after midnight.
Even in darkness the house never appeared welcoming.
It stood broad and gray above a shallow valley, built in three different centuries by men who had apparently agreed that comfort encouraged weakness.
The oldest central block rose behind a later Georgian frontage.
Two stone wings reached outward toward gardens hidden now by rain. Chimneys punctured the black sky.
Mary Beth loved it completely.
Tonight lamps burned in the entrance hall and two men waited beneath the covered drive.
Her steward was one of them.
That was enough.
Mary Beth opened the carriage door before the footman could reach it.
“What happened?”
The steward stepped forward. Water shone on the shoulders of his coat.
“The north wall, ma’am.”
“How much?”
“Thirty feet, perhaps more. It gave way just before eleven.”
Mary Beth was already moving toward the doors.
“Anyone hurt?”
“No.”
“Cottages?”
“Safe for now.”
“For now?”
He followed her into the hall. A servant appeared with a towel and Mary Beth handed over her wet gloves instead.
“The collapse blocked the lower drain,” the steward said. “Water is backing toward the tenant road. If the rain continues, we may lose the bank above the east cottages.”
Mary Beth stopped.
“How long?”
“I cannot say.”
“Then find someone who can.”
“We sent a boy to wake the mason. He can shore what remains, perhaps.”
“Perhaps is not an answer.”
“No, ma’am.”
The housekeeper approached with a dry shawl. Mary Beth accepted it without slowing.
“Lantern,” she said.
The steward hesitated.
“Mrs. Blackthorn—”
“Lantern.”
“The ground is unstable.”
“Then I shall avoid standing beneath it.”
“We can inspect at daylight.”
“If thirty-seven families are going to wake beside a flooded road, I would prefer to know before breakfast.”
He knew better than to argue twice.
Ten minutes later Mary Beth stood beneath an oilskin cloak at the edge of the north slope with rain running from the brim of a borrowed hat.
The damage was worse than she expected.
Lanterns moved below like small unsteady stars.
Men from the estate had already begun clearing stone from the culvert, but runoff poured down the hill faster than they could shift debris.
A section of retaining wall had folded outward, taking soil and part of the road edge with it. Water churned brown through the breach.
Mary Beth crouched near the safer end of the wall.
“Do not go closer,” her steward said.
She ignored the irritation in his voice because she had earned it.
The repaired mortar was visible in the lantern light.
It looked fresh.
The stone beneath it did not.
“Did they clear the upper drain?” she asked.
“Yes.”
“When?”
“April.”
Mary Beth pointed toward the slope.
“Then why is water crossing the road?”
The steward lifted his lantern.
A dark stream came over the upper bank where no stream should have been.
His silence answered her. Mary Beth stood.
“Tomorrow I want every invoice from the spring work.”
“Yes, ma’am.”
“And the name of the man who certified it.”
“The mason certified his own work.”
“Of course he did.”
A crash sounded below. One of the men shouted as another section of loose stone slipped into the water. Everyone moved back until the earth settled.
Mary Beth’s pulse struck hard once.
No one was hurt yet. Mary Beth turned to her steward.
“Who do we need?”
“A proper engineer.”
“We had a proper engineer.”
“We had a local surveyor who calls himself one.”
Despite the rain, Mary Beth almost smiled.
“You waited until midnight to become candid?”
“I have been candid for years, ma’am. You generally accuse me of pessimism.”
“Tonight you may enjoy being right.”
“I would rather enjoy a dry bed.”
“So would I. Who do we need?”
He considered the broken wall.
“There is a man in Leeds. Civil works, railway cuttings, bridges, drainage. He rebuilt the embankment near Harrogate after the winter washout.”
“Name?”
“Tavener.”
Mary Beth repeated it once in her mind.
“Send for him.”
“I can telegraph at first light.”
“Do it.”
“He may not come immediately.”
“Then offer him enough money to improve his schedule.”
The steward gave her a sidelong glance.
“That is not how engineers usually describe the process.”
“It is how everyone describes it eventually.”
They remained on the slope another twenty minutes, long enough to confirm that the lower drain had begun moving water again. Men placed temporary timber braces against the safer sections of wall and roped off the road. The rain eased from a downpour to a steady hiss.
Mary Beth returned to the house soaked through from the knees down.
Her housekeeper met her with the expression of a woman who had long ago concluded that employment at Blackthorn Manor required a tolerance for insanity.
“A bath is ready.”
“Bless you.”
“And brandy.”
“I may leave you the estate.”
“You have threatened that before.”
Upstairs, Mary Beth stripped away wet silk, cold stockings, and the remains of her pleasant evening. The bath water was almost too hot. She sank into it until only her shoulders remained above the surface.
For a while she thought of the wall.
Then, against her better judgment, she thought of Benedict.
You need not fight every person who offers you kindness.
Perhaps he was right.
The thought irritated her enough that she poured another finger of brandy.
At two in the morning, Mary Beth went to bed.
At seven, she was in the estate office reading invoices.
By eight, she knew the spring repairs had been cheaper than the estimate by almost a third.
By nine, she knew why.
The upper drain had been cleared only along the visible section nearest the road. The buried stone channel farther west had not been excavated at all. Water had found the old blockage, crossed beneath loose soil, and pressed against a wall repaired cosmetically rather than structurally.
Mary Beth set the final invoice down.
“Send the mason his account,” she said.
Her steward, standing across the desk, frowned. “His account?”
“For what the estate will charge him to remove his useless work.”
“That may be difficult to collect.”
“I am feeling optimistic.”
He almost smiled.
A servant entered carrying a telegram on a silver tray.
Mary Beth opened it.
The message was brief.
TAVENER WILL COME TODAY. EXPECTED FOUR O’CLOCK.
She read it twice.
“Efficient,” she said.
“His reputation.”
“What else is his reputation?”
The steward’s expression changed just enough to interest her.
“What?” Mary Beth asked.
“He is not what some of your neighbors will expect.”
“That improves him already.”