Chapter Three
James
James rose before dawn, unable to sleep for the second night running. The cot in his father’s chamber was too small for his large frame, but it wasn’t discomfort that kept him wakeful. It was the weight of what lay ahead.
Mrs. Fairfax and her sister would arrive in a few hours, ready to begin the monumental task of restoration. Ample time to take a ride around the countryside and into the village. He’d not had much time to explore the community he’d been forced to leave behind and it felt important that he do so.
He saddled his stallion in the pre-dawn darkness and set out toward the village as the first pale light crept across the horizon. The gravel drive gave way to a rutted country lane bordered by hedgerows heavy with winter’s grip. The horse’s hooves fell into a steady rhythm against the packed earth.
To his right, fields that should have been prepared for spring planting lay neglected, the soil hard and unworked.
The Barton farm had always produced the finest grain in Sussex, but now the farmhouse windows stared blindly at the morning, no smoke rising from the chimney to signal the early stirrings of a working household.
The abandoned mill came into view, its great wheel motionless and green with moss where water once flowed. Before his father’s hanging, it had churned day and night, the heartbeat of their little community. Now silence ruled where industry had once thrived.
James slowed his mount as they approached the Widow Collins’s cottage.
The garden, once famous throughout the county for its herbs and vegetables, had grown wild with neglect.
A thin trail of smoke rose from the chimney.
At least someone still lived there. But the cottage looked smaller somehow, as if poverty had compressed it.
The lane widened as it curved down toward the village, revealing more signs of decline with each passing furlong.
Fences sagged where once they stood straight.
A cart with a broken wheel lay abandoned beside a field where two old men labored to do the work of ten.
Without the Ashford estate’s employment and custom, everything was slowly coming undone.
James’s grip tightened on the reins. The false accusation that had sent his father to the gallows had torn more than one family apart—it had unraveled an entire community. The weight of that responsibility settled heavier on his shoulders with each passing yard.
The road widened as James guided his horse into Ashford-on-Wey proper.
The village green, once immaculately maintained by estate groundskeepers, now sprouted weeds between the cobblestones.
An ancient oak stood at its center, the wooden benches beneath it weathered and empty where once they had hosted gossiping housewives and resting laborers.
The inn and tavern where he’d dined the previous evening looked different in the harsh morning light.
What had seemed atmospheric by candlelight now revealed itself as simply worn.
The sign hung askew, paint peeling from the once-fierce beast. Beside it, Perkins’s Bakery stood with shuttered windows.
A faded notice hung on the door. Closed until further circumstances allow.
He remembered Mrs. Perkins’s currant buns from childhood visits, how they’d filled the morning air with their sweet fragrance.
Now only emptiness remained behind those dark windows.
The butcher’s shop displayed a meager selection behind cloudy glass. Through the window, he could see Mullins arranging what little stock he had. The man had served his family for decades, but now operated on scraps where once he’d sold the finest cuts in the county.
The chandler’s shop remained open, though the display looked thin. Next door, the seamstress had converted half her establishment to mending. A practical pivot when few could afford new garments. A hand-lettered sign advertised darning and patches at fair prices.
Where Cooper’s workshop had stood, crafting barrels for the estate’s ale and preserves, only a vacant building remained, its windows boarded against weather and vandals alike.
The blacksmith’s forge still operated. Horses needed shoeing regardless of fortune, yet the rhythmic ping of hammer on anvil sounded sporadic, hesitant.
James dismounted near the village well, his boots crunching on the frost-covered cobblestones. A woman drawing water straightened warily as he approached, but it was the thin man emerging from the tailor’s shop who caught his attention.
“Mr. Drayton?” The name came to him suddenly. The man had been young when James was a boy, apprenticed to his father who had measured the Ashford children for their Sunday clothes.
The tailor paused in sweeping his threshold, recognition flickering across his gaunt features. His clothes, James noticed with a pang, were impeccably mended but showed the telltale signs of a craftsman who could no longer afford new fabric for himself.
“Master James.” Drayton straightened, setting aside his broom. “We heard you’d returned to us.”
“How do you fare?” James kept his voice gentle, remembering how the young man had always taken such pride in his work, even as an apprentice.
Drayton’s laugh held no humor. “I manage, my lord. Mending and patching mostly now. Not much call for new garments when folks can barely afford to keep their old ones whole.” He gestured toward his shop window, where James could see the sparse display of thread and simple notions.
“My eldest is apprenticed to a tailor in Brighton now. More opportunity there, you understand.”
That hurt him to hear. The Drayton family had served the estate faithfully, and now the next generation had been forced to seek fortune elsewhere.
“Your father made fine clothes for us when we were children,” James said. “I remember how carefully he measured my first proper jacket.”
“Aye, he’d be pleased to know it. Though I doubt he’d recognize what his shop’s become.” Drayton’s voice carried the weight of a man watching his legacy crumble. “Still, we endure. As we must.”
“That will change,” James said quietly. “There will be work again—proper work. The manor will need furnishing, and I mean to employ local craftsmen wherever possible.”
Drayton studied his face for a long moment, as if assessing whether he spoke the truth. “There’s been talk around here. Hopeful talk. First time in a long time.”
“There’s reason for hope,” James said. “You mark my words.”
“I certainly will,” Drayton said.
“I’ll need a whole new wardrobe, so we’ll get started on that soon, if it suits you?”
Drayton’s face lit up. “It surely does. Just let me know when and I’ll be ready for you.”
James urged his horse toward the eastern edge of the village, where St. Michael’s church maintained its dignity despite the surrounding decline. The Saxon tower stood as a reminder of permanence amid change, though even the vicarage garden had grown wild without proper tending.
A handful of children played listlessly near the village pump, their clothes more patched than whole. They paused to stare as he passed, their thin faces curious but wary. They all knew who he was. For whatever reason, it hadn’t occurred to him that he would be the talk of the village.
He was lost in thought as he guided his horse back through the village, Drayton’s words echoing in his mind.
The morning mist was beginning to lift, revealing clearer details of the decay around him.
He was so absorbed in his observations that he nearly missed the solitary figure walking purposefully along the lane ahead.
A woman in a dark blue cloak, her step brisk despite the early hour. Something about her bearing made him look twice, and recognition dawned with a start of surprise.
“Mrs. Fairfax?”
She turned at his call, and he saw her face brighten with what looked like relief. “Lord Ashford. I wondered if I might encounter you.”
He dismounted, leading his horse as he fell into step beside her. “You’re abroad early. I trust you slept better than I did?”
A faint smile played at her lips. “I’m afraid sleep proved rather elusive. I found myself too restless to remain abed, so I thought a walk might soothe my nerves.”
“Have you found anything of interest?” He found himself genuinely curious about her perspective on the village. Would she see what he did?
She was quiet for a moment, her gaze moving thoughtfully over the landscape. “I feel our work extends far beyond the manor walls. This community is like a body that’s been weakened by illness—every part of it suffers when the heart fails to beat properly.”
Her insight struck him immediately. “You see it too, then. The connection between the estate and everything else.”
“How could I not? Architecture isn’t merely about buildings, my lord. It’s about the lives that shelter within them, the communities that surround them. A house without purpose is merely stone and timber. Your father’s legacy will be restored in more ways than one.”
“It was my thought exactly.”
They walked in comfortable silence for a few moments, and James stole glances at her profile in the growing light.
She seemed less guarded this morning, more relaxed in his presence.
The early hour and chance encounter had stripped away some of the formality that had marked their previous interactions.
“I spoke with Mr. Drayton just now,” James said. “The tailor. His eldest son has gone to Brighton seeking work. A family that served mine for generations, now scattered to the winds.”
Georgiana’s step faltered slightly. “How many such stories are there, do you suppose?”
“Too many.” The admission felt good to say out loud to someone who clearly understood.
“Every empty shop, every abandoned cottage represents a family suffering because of the injustice done to my father. All these years, I didn’t think much about what effect it would have on the people who live and work here.
I feel ashamed to admit it, but it’s true enough. ”
She looked at him then, and he caught something in her expression that made his pulse quicken. “One must look out for themselves before they can look out after others.”
They had reached the turnoff to the manor, and James realized he was reluctant to end this unexpected intimacy. There was something about encountering her here, in the quiet morning light, that felt more honest than their formal discussions of contracts and timelines.
“Are you returning to the inn this morning?” James asked.
“No, I left a note for Cecily to come out after she’s had her breakfast. Since I’m up, I might as well get started.”
“I wish I had breakfast to offer you but without a cook, I have only a loaf of bread and a chunk of cheese.”
“I had something easier, so please don’t trouble yourself,” Georgiana said.
The manor house came into view as they crested the hill together, its damaged walls glowing pale gold in the strengthening light.
He wished they could keep walking. The realization caught him off guard—he wanted to remain by the side of this woman who saw that rebuilding was as much about mending souls as restoring structures.
Well, they would spend the day together, regardless. He looked forward to it.
How strange.
The restoration of Ashford Manor wasn’t merely about reclaiming his family’s legacy.
It was about breathing life back into an entire community that had withered in their absence.
Every stone they repaired, every room they restored, every servant they employed would send ripples of prosperity through those empty shops and struggling farms.
Mrs. Fairfax had asked about finding laborers for their project.
Now he understood that the question wasn’t whether they could find willing workers, but whether they could hire enough of them to make a real difference to the local economy.
The village was full of strong backs and willing hands.
They simply needed honest work at fair wages.
The weight of that responsibility should have daunted him. Instead, his vow to bring prosperity back to the good, hard-working people of the farms and shops was a fire in his belly. He would bring it all back. No matter how long it took.
And perhaps, he thought, glancing at the woman walking beside him, he wouldn’t have to shoulder that burden alone.