Chapter 2
Chapter Two
The refreshments were just the right kind of filling. I’d have to thank Mrs. Chipping myself soon. But for now, I has highly curious about how much of the manor I recalled accurately from visits as a young girl.
I had intended only to wander about the place.
The house begged to be known—its corridors called softly, and the scent of polished wood, old books, and lavender wax beckoned me like a gentle hand at the elbow.
I passed a long gallery of ancestral portraits, each face solemn, as though they knew the precise weight of legacy. I did not meet their gaze.
Beyond the library—where I paused to admire a globe of astonishing size—I found a set of double doors left ajar. Voices had once echoed here, perhaps still did, in their own fashion.
It was a study, but not the kind left to dust and disuse.
The fire was well-stoked, the curtains drawn open, and the great desk of deep dark wood was covered in documents, folders, ledgers, correspondence tied in twine.
A brass telescope stood proudly at the far window, angled toward the rolling Somerset hills.
And seated behind the desk with one hand braced on a stack of papers and the other wrapped around a steaming cup, sat Mr. Brooks.
He looked up at once.
“If I were less rational, I might believe you’ve come to haunt this house.”
I arched a brow. “Did I frighten you?” I fought the grin that begged to be amused.
He smiled faintly, set his cup aside, and rose to his full height. He was broader in the shoulders than I had noted earlier, and the firelight caught the darker strands of his hair as he moved.
“If you’d arrived a couple days hence, there would be the housekeeper for your tour and all of this paperwork completed. By your presence, I assume you have rested sufficiently from your journey.”
When I nodded in response, he gestured to the desk and around at the walls. “This room will be one in which you should become quite intimate,” he said. “It is yours, of course. Though I have made free use of it in the meantime.”
I stepped closer, examining the sprawl of correspondence. “And what precisely occupies you here, Mr. Brooks? Estate accounts? Tenant disputes? Plans to turn the stables into a ballroom?”
He chuckled, low and unforced. “Nothing so dramatic. Merely the daily humdrum of managing a small empire of sheep, farm land, and people with opinions.”
He gestured toward the nearest stack. “You’ve twenty-three tenants on your land. Eight pay quarterly, ten bi-annually, and the remainder through barter and assorted arrangements made with your aunt. I’ve done my best to keep the ledgers clear, but your signature will be required soon enough.”
I blinked. “Twenty-three?”
“Indeed.”
He reached for a ledger and flipped it open with practiced ease, then turned it toward me. “If you have a mind for numbers, I can give you a thorough review.”
“I’ve been known to keep a household ledger.”
His eyes warmed slightly. “You strike me as someone who learns quickly.”
I acknowledged his compliment, warmed by it more than if he’d admired my complexion or some other such typical compliment.
I approached the desk fully now, gaze falling on another, messier stack—envelopes, invitations, and what looked to be an unopened parcel tied with blue string.
I ran my finger along the rough edges of the paper.
“Ah.” He lifted the bundle. “Correspondence addressed to your aunt, and now by proxy to you. Invitations to house parties, luncheons, lectures in Bath. Offers of patronage. Charities seeking funds. The occasional marriage proposal, though those are usually directed to me, under the mistaken assumption that I screen them.”
I laughed—truly laughed, for the first time in longer than I could recall. “People still hoping to wed my dear Aunt?”
“Oh certainly. She has left you a comfortable living which is desirable I’m sure you understand.” His eyes sparkled. “And she was still quite lovely even in her later years.”
“I’m happy to hear that. I guess she never found anyone worth giving up her independence?”
“I guess not. And she spoke often and fondly of your uncle, said her heart only loved once.” He looked pleased by that assessment. Interesting.
“How romantic. I’ve always admired her. And now of course will be grateful to her forever. You can’t imagine the miraculous timing of her bequeathment.”
“She always spoke very highly of you as well.”
“You sound as though you were close.”
“We were. She knew me as a young boy. It is my honor to help her out with the books.” He cleared his throat. “I thought you might prefer to sift through these at your leisure,” he said. “But if you’d rather I sort the urgent from the tedious—”
“No,” I sighed. “You are correct. It’s time I begin.”
He inclined his head. “Very well. At the top of the stack is one particular correspondence you might find useful. Somerset is home to a rather imperious group of women.”
“Oh?” Already amused, I waited for more.
“Yes, A Lady Joanna has directed a letter to you, your first in your name at Wyndham Hall. They call themselves, the Secret Society of Young Widows.”
“Oh, I see.” I found that slightly odd, but my curiosity was piqued.
He acted as though he hadn’t noticed my discomfiture and continued on. “You shall find Wyndham Hall has a rhythm. It is not Bath, nor is it London, but it is alive. And it will respond to you if you give it half a mind.”
He handed me the parcel. “These came yesterday, addressed to your aunt from a bookseller in Bristol.”
I accepted it carefully. The string had been tied with surprising care, and beneath the brown paper was a small note, addressed in a spidery hand.
I glanced up. “How do you know what to open and not?”
“I do not open what is not mine or would have no need of my services.”
I studied him again—this man with sleeves rolled back, fingers ink-stained, commanding the room as though it had always belonged to him. And perhaps, in some way, it had.
“Thank you,”
He returned to his chair. “You’ll find the map of the estate in the left drawer, if you wish to begin there.”
I stood a moment longer, parcel in hand, then turned for the door.
“And Mrs. Tynsdale?”
I paused.
He gestured to an alcove surrounded by windows with a small table and two chairs. A chess game in some stage of being played set up on the table. “I don’t suppose you play chess?”
I smiled without turning. “Only when I wish to be humbled.”
“Hmm. Perhaps you and I shall play this evening? I’ve found it’s an excellent way to pass the time and learn a bit of someone’s mind.”
“I daresay mine may surprise you.”
“I hope it does.”