Chapter Four #2
"It is about an oak tree," Garrett interrupted, apparently deciding that if the duke's sister wished to know the nature of the dispute, he might as well explain it.
"An oak that has stood at the boundary of my land and Hobbs's land for longer than any of us can remember.
It came down in the storm, and now we cannot agree on who owns the strip of land beneath it. "
Miss Whitcombe, who had been in the process of ushering Rosanne out of the room, paused.
"The tree marked the boundary?" she asked.
"So my family has always believed, miss."
"And Mr. Hobbs believes otherwise?"
"Hobbs believes the tree was on his land, and that the true boundary lies some distance on my side of where the oak stood."
Miss Whitcombe was quiet for a moment, her brow furrowed in thought.
Daniel watched her with a mixture of irritation and unwilling curiosity.
He should dismiss her, politely but firmly, and return to the matter at hand.
This was estate business, not a parlor discussion, and Miss Whitcombe had no standing to involve herself in the affairs of his tenants.
And yet, there was something about her expression, that calm, focused attention, that made him want to know what she was thinking.
"May I ask a question?" she said, addressing Garrett rather than Daniel. "You need not answer if it is impertinent."
"Ask, miss."
"The oak; was it planted, or did it grow naturally?"
The question hung in the air for a moment. Daniel felt his brow furrow. It was not a question he would have thought to ask, and yet now that she had voiced it, he could see its relevance.
Garrett's weathered face creased in thought. "Planted," he said slowly. "My grandfather planted it, or so my father always told me. As a windbreak, to protect the crops in the western field."
"Your grandfather planted it," Miss Whitcombe repeated. "On his own land, presumably. To protect his own crops."
"That's right, miss."
"Then the land beneath it would have been his land at the time of planting.
The tree was not a boundary marker at all; it was a windbreak.
A feature of the Garrett plot, like a fence or a well.
" She paused, her gaze shifting to Hobbs.
"If Mr. Hobbs's family had owned that strip of land, they would have been the ones to plant the windbreak.
Or they would have objected to Mr. Garrett's grandfather planting trees on their property. "
Silence fell over the room.
Daniel stared at Miss Whitcombe, his mind racing to follow the implications of her reasoning.
She was right. She was entirely, undeniably right.
If Garrett's grandfather had planted the oak as a windbreak for his own fields, then the land beneath it must have belonged to the Garrett family at the time of planting.
The tree was not a neutral boundary marker; it was a feature of the Garrett tenancy, as much as any barn or hedgerow.
Why had he not seen it himself?
"But..." Hobbs began.
"Did your family ever object to the planting of the tree, Mr. Hobbs?" Miss Whitcombe asked, her voice gentle but inexorable. "Did they ever claim that it was on their land?"
"Not that I know of," Hobbs admitted, his shoulders slumping slightly. "But the surveyor..."
"The surveyor's records were lost in a fire, by your own account.
And memories, asI heard His Grace observed, are unreliable after forty years.
" She smiled; a small, sympathetic expression that softened the blow of her logic.
"I do not mean to suggest that you are mistaken, Mr. Hobbs.
Only that the planting of the tree suggests a history that supports Mr. Garrett's claim. "
Hobbs opened his mouth, closed it, and then turned to look at Daniel with the expression of a man who has been outmaneuvered and is not entirely sure how it happened.
"Your Grace?" he said. "Is this... Is this your judgment?"
Daniel forced himself to speak past the peculiar tightness in his throat.
"Miss Whitcombe's reasoning is sound," he said.
"If the oak was planted by Mr. Garrett's grandfather as a windbreak for the Garrett fields, then the land beneath it was Garrett land at the time of planting.
In the absence of any evidence to the contrary, a formal objection, a surveyor's record, a documented dispute, I must conclude that the strip in question belongs to the Garrett tenancy. "
Garrett's face broke into a relieved smile. "Thank you, Your Grace. Thank you, miss."
Hobbs's expression was less sanguine, but he nodded slowly. "I... I suppose I can see the logic," he said. "I still believe my father about the surveyor, but…...Well, you have made a fair ruling, Your Grace."
Daniel inclined his head. "I trust this matter is now resolved?"
"It is, Your Grace."
The two men rose, shook hands with the slightly awkward formality of neighbors who had come closer to enmity than either had expected, and departed with murmured thanks and farewells.
The door closed behind them.
And then there was silence.
Daniel turned to face Miss Whitcombe, who was still standing near the doorway with Rosanne hovering at her shoulder like an eager shadow.
"That was..." he began.
"I apologise, Your Grace." She met his gaze steadily, without a trace of the triumph she had every right to feel. "I should not have spoken. It was not my place to interfere in estate matters."
"No. It was not."
She nodded, accepting the reproof with the same calm equanimity she brought to everything else. It should have been satisfying; an acknowledgment that she had overstepped, that he was the authority here, that his judgment was the only one that mattered.
However, it was not satisfying.
It was, in fact, deeply unsettling, because some treacherous part of him did not want her to apologize.
Some treacherous part of him wanted to tell her that her observation had been brilliant; that she had seen what he had failed to see, asked the question he had failed to ask, and resolved in thirty seconds a dispute that might otherwise have festered for months.
He said none of this.
"In future," he said instead, "I would ask that you refrain from involving yourself in matters that do not concern you."
"Of course, Your Grace."
She curtsied, correctly, as always, and turned to leave. Rosanne shot him a look of profound disappointment before following.
"Miss Whitcombe."
She paused at the door, turning back. "Your Grace?"
Daniel's jaw was tight enough to ache. The words came out stiff, reluctant, forced past his defenses by something stronger than his pride.
"Your reasoning was correct. The question you asked, about the planting of the tree, I should have thought of it myself. I did not."
Her expression shifted; a flicker of surprise, quickly smoothed away. "Thank you, Your Grace."
"I am not thanking you. I am just acknowledging."
"Then I acknowledge your acknowledgment."
Was that amusement in her voice? That slight curve at the corner of her mouth….Was she laughing at him?
He could not tell. He could never tell, with her. She was too composed, too controlled, her emotions held behind a serene facade that rivaled his own.
It was maddening.
"Good afternoon, Miss Whitcombe," he said, with pointed finality.
"Good afternoon, Your Grace."
She left, Rosanne trailing behind her, and Daniel was alone once more in his study.
He stood for a long moment, staring at the closed door, his mind replaying the scene over and over.
The question she had asked was so simple, so obvious in retrospect.
The way both farmers had listened to her, a young woman of no particular standing, as though her words carried the weight of authority.
The look in her eyes when she had apologized was calm, untroubled, entirely unrepentant beneath her polite words.
She was right, and she knew she was right, and she was not sorry at all.
He should be annoyed and he was annoyed. She had interfered in his affairs, overstepped her bounds, and demonstrated a competence that bordered on the presumptuous.
But beneath the annoyance, there was something else. Something that felt uncomfortably like admiration.
He pushed the feeling away, returning to his desk with determined focus. The drainage report awaited. The estate accounts required review. There was work to be done; real, tangible work that did not involve analyzing the expressions of young women who asked inconvenient questions.
He would not think about Miss Lillian Whitcombe.
He would absolutely not think about the way she had looked at him when he acknowledged her reasoning; that flash of something warm in her eyes before she smoothed it away.
He would absolutely not.
***
Lillian walked beside Rosanne through the corridors of Wynthorpe Hall, and she did not think about the Duke of Wyntham at all.
She did not think about the stiffness in his shoulders when she had offered her reasoning, or the reluctant acknowledgment that had been forced from his lips like a tooth being extracted.
She did not think about the way his jaw had tightened when she apologized, or the flicker of something, which seemed like irritation or respect or something else entirely, that had passed through his dark eyes.
She thought about the weather instead. The weather was very fine today.
"That was magnificent," Rosanne breathed, once they were safely out of earshot. "Did you see his face? I do not think anyone has ever solved one of his problems before he could."
"I did not solve anything. I merely asked a question."
"A question that resolved a dispute that might have gone on for months. A question that neither Daniel nor his steward thought to ask." Rosanne's eyes were shining. "You are wasted as a gentleman's daughter, Lillian. You should be running an estate of your own."
Lillian laughed despite herself. "I fear the world is not quite ready for a female estate manager."
"The world is foolish. That is well established."