Chapter 13 #2
He kept talking and I just let him. His face lit and the light from the morning sun brought out different shades in his eyes. What would be the harm in entertaining thoughts about the steward? At the moment I could think of no harm.
He leaned back slightly, studying me with an expression I couldn't quite read. "I think it depends on one's tolerance for calculated risk. Some opportunities are worth pursuing even if they require stepping outside established comfort zones."
I nearly choked on my next breath. Were my thoughts so visible? Something in his tone suggested we were no longer discussing grain prices, and I felt heat rise in my cheeks.
"Calculated risk," I repeated, trying to keep my voice steady.
He leaned his face in closer to mine, his eyes now studying mine, his gaze moving slowly over my features like a caress.
"The key word being calculated. Risk for its own sake is foolishness.
But risk based on careful analysis and clear understanding of potential consequences—that can lead to remarkable rewards. "
Our eyes met and held, and I felt that strange pull again, the sense that we were having two conversations simultaneously—one about estate management, and another …
"I…that is…I’m not averse to risks, necessarily.”
His lips turned up in a slow delicious smile. I couldn’t help but stare. “What about this?" I asked, forcing myself to look away and indicating another section of the ledger.
"Household expenses," he said, his voice returning to its professional tone. "Though these figures may change substantially with your sisters' improvements."
"Oh dear. How substantially?"
"The designer and modiste alone will likely cost more than the estate typically spends on furnishings in three years."
I groaned. "I was afraid of that." I tapped my fingers. “She did say she wanted to cover the costs. Should I let her?”
He tilted his head. "The estate can certainly afford such expenses, but you might want to consider whether extensive redecoration aligns with your own priorities. And you can certainly let her gift you décor that she herself is choosing."
"My sisters seem convinced that my social success depends on having fashionable surroundings."
"And what do you think?"
I considered the question seriously. "I think my social standing will be fine. I'd rather invest in tenant improvements than new wallpaper."
"That speaks well of your priorities." He reached for other papers. “However, it really is important to continue updates in the home, the barns, the living areas. All of that is important and I’m afraid something I’ve never given much thought to. Your sisters are correct in their thinking even though I do suspect they are having more fun with things than you perhaps would.”
“They mean well and they really are thinking of me and what I would like. At least, they are trying to.”
I found myself studying his hands as he turned pages in the ledger—capable hands that showed signs of outdoor work despite his position as steward. There was something reassuring about their competence, the confident way they moved across the papers.
"How do you manage it?" I asked. "Balancing all these competing demands and interests?"
"Experience helps. Understanding that most problems have solutions if you're willing to think creatively and work patiently toward them."
"And when experience isn't enough?" I ran my fingers absently along the wood grain of the desk. “I have very little.”
He looked at me directly. "Then you rely on judgment, seek counsel from people you trust, and make the best decisions you can with the information available.
" He reached for my hand but stopped short.
“I will be here to help in whatever way you need.” His eyes were so sincere and I knew in that moment I could trust him.
“Thank you.” I glanced away. “I want to make the best choices, but I also want this to feel like it’s mine, you know? And until I know what I’m doing, I might not know how to make it feel that way.”
He smiled, and there was something almost tender in the expression. "Sometimes the only way to discover what we want is to pay attention to what makes us feel most ourselves."
"And what makes you feel most yourself?" I asked, then immediately wished I could recall the question. It was far too personal, too intimate for our professional relationship.
But he didn't seem offended. Instead, he considered the question with the same serious attention he gave estate matters.
"Work that feels meaningful. Conversations with people I respect. Moments when I can see that my efforts have made a genuine difference in someone's life."
"That's a beautiful answer."
"What about you? What makes Mrs. Tynsdale feel most herself?"
I thought about the morning in the garden, the satisfaction of our conversation with the staff, the pleasure I found in understanding estate management.
"Learning new things. Feeling useful rather than decorative. Being trusted with responsibility rather than protected from it."
"Then you understand the appeal of estate management."
"I'm beginning to, yes."
We worked in comfortable silence for several minutes, reviewing tenant records and discussing minor maintenance issues. I found myself increasingly aware of the easy rhythm we'd developed, the way he anticipated my questions, the comfortable pauses in our conversation.
"There's something I should—" he began, then stopped abruptly.
"Yes?"
He seemed to struggle with his words, his usual confidence replaced by something that looked like uncertainty. "I should mention that there may be changes ahead. Circumstances that could affect my position here."
"What sort of changes?"
He cleared his throat. "There are obligations, expectations that I may not be able to indefinitely—"
"Eliza!" The drawing room door burst open, and Georgiana swept in with Victoria close behind. "There you are! We've been looking everywhere for you."
Mr. Brooks immediately stood, his expression resuming its professional neutrality so quickly that I wondered if I had imagined the moment of vulnerability.
"We need your opinion about the dining room," Victoria announced, apparently oblivious to the fact that she'd interrupted something. "Mr. Boucher has three different proposals, and we simply cannot decide without your input."
"I'm rather busy at the moment," I said, reluctant to leave our conversation unfinished.
"This cannot wait," Georgiana insisted. "Mr. Boucher’s time is valuable, and he needs decisions before he can proceed with ordering materials."
I glanced at Mr. Brooks, hoping he might suggest continuing our discussion later, but his attention seemed focused on organizing the papers on the desk.
"Perhaps we could resume this afternoon?" I suggested.
"Of course," he said, though his tone had returned to the careful politeness of our earliest interactions. "I have correspondence to attend to in any case."
As my sisters ushered me toward the door, I couldn't shake the feeling that whatever he had been about to tell me was important—possibly more important than wallpaper selections or furnishing arrangements.
But the moment had passed, and I could only hope there would be another opportunity to discover what he had wanted to say.
Though something in his expression as I left the room suggested that such opportunities might be more limited than I realized.
*A detailed list of all finances for the estate and the budgeting processes can be found in the appendix at the end of the book.