2. No Crops, No Cash
Chapter Two
No Crops, No Cash
Meanwhile, at Wingfield Manor near Hungerford, Berkshire, England
When the sun emerged from behind a bank of gray clouds pregnant with rain, Matthew glanced up from the book he had been reading and silently cursed.
“Now you decide to make an appearance?” he asked rhetorically, his voice dripping with derision.
“My lord?”
Matthew straightened in his worn leather chair, his attention going to the door of his study to discover his butler bearing a tea tray and a look of surprise.
“Not you, Chessings. The damned sun.” He waved to the room’s only window.
Even as he cursed, a cloud once again hid the mid-autumn sun from view.
Chessings set the tray on the end of the desk and poured a cup of tea. “The post has arrived, sir,” he stated, pulling a separate silver salver from the tray and placing it in front of his master.
“Oh, good. More invoices,” Matthew murmured on a sigh.
He tugged on his right earlobe, a habit he had developed in his younger years when he suffered from earaches during cold, rainy days.
He placed a ribbon marker in his book, Headlong Hall by Anonymous, before setting it aside.
He hoped the interruption would be brief, and he could return to the satirical story of the various philosophies and follies of humans.
Since most of the discussions amongst the characters took place in a dining room, he was happy the tea tray included a few biscuits.
He was hungry.
“Indeed. I, uh, had to give the courier the last of the coins I keep in the entry for such deliveries,” Chessings said by way of a hint.
Not only were invoices and notices of debt incurred by his late father’s gambling addiction the only missives Matthew Higby, Earl of Wingfield, seemed to receive these days, he had to pay for their postage.
Matthew stood and fished a few coins from his waistcoat pocket.
Although he had planned to use them at a nearby pub if the weather cleared later that afternoon, he decided he could forego the trip.
He liked to spend at least one afternoon a week there as a means of meeting with his foreman and greeting those who labored in his fields.
Although he could ask that his porter be added to a tab, he didn’t wish to create yet another invoice.
He handed the coins to the butler, thinking he would indulge in a scavenger hunt to find some blunt stashed in a vase or the bottom of a drawer in one of the bedchambers. His mother—God rest her soul—had been good about hiding money from his father, the cur, and now he knew why.
“Very good, sir.” Chessings nodded and took his leave.
Helping himself to the cup of tea, Matthew glanced at the mail and pulled a few pieces from the pile. Most were invoices, but there was one that appeared to be a letter.
Not recognizing the seal embossed in the dark-red wax on the back, he unfolded the envelope to discover a page of feminine script.
My lord,
When you are next in London, a situation I expect will occur in January for the purpose of attending Parliament, please consider paying a call at the Lyon’s Den.
As you are no doubt aware, the previous Earl of Wingfield frequented my establishment when he was in town. His debt, a sum that is not particularly considerable, is still due in full.
If that is the case, I have a proposition you may find amenable to help in discharging the debt owed me as well as any others Lord Wingfield incurred prior to his death.
As a matchmaker, I specialize in finding wealthy wives for men such as yourself.
I look forward to meeting with you in person.
Sincerely yours,
Mrs. Bessie Dove-Lyon
Proprietress, the Lyon’s Den, and Matchmaker
9 Cleveland Row, St. James’s, Westminster
“As if I need a wife,” Matthew murmured in disgust.
“My lord?”
Straightening in his chair, Matthew’s attention once again went to the door. Chessings was there, and next to him was the foreman, Edward Dixon.
Had the mere thought of the man conjured him into existence?
“Mr. Dixon. I was thinking of meeting you at the pub later this afternoon,” Matthew said by way of greeting.
Dixon bowed as Chessings said, “I’ll see to more tea.”
“Oh, none for me,” Edward said. “I won’t be long.”
Although the man didn’t appear particularly troubled, the words had Matthew on edge. “Do sit down, Mr. Dixon. What brings you to the house on such a gloomy day?”
Dixon nodded to the window before he took the chair in front of Matthew’s desk. “The gloomy day,” he replied. “Or months of it, rather.”
“I take it the harvest was bad?” Matthew guessed, his teeth clenched against whatever news his foreman was about to share. What crops had survived in the rain-flooded fields had finally been collected in a much-later-than-usual harvest only a few weeks earlier.
“I would ask ‘what harvest?’, but it’s not all bad,” Dixon hedged. “Everything in the greenhouses is edible, although the tomatoes are taking their dear sweet time in ripening. The wheat crop drowned and never recovered. Beans… there might be enough for a few meals for your tenants,” he said.
“The corn?” Matthew prompted hopefully.
Dixon shook his head. “It’s too poor to sell at market, but we can use it to feed the animals. It will get us through until the spring.”
“Well, aren’t you the harbinger of good news?” Matthew asked rhetorically.
The foreman managed to appear sorrowful. “Apologies, my lord. I know it does no good to remind you, but you are in good company. The neighboring estates are all reporting the same results. The entire county suffered terribly.”
Matthew nodded his understanding. After the horrid winter—one of the coldest he could remember—and the rainy spring and summer, it would have been a miracle for any crops to survive.
“I know I usually pay you and the farmers after the crops are sold, but if there are no crops to sell…” He tugged on his earlobe and winced.
“If I may, my lord, perhaps you do need a wife.”
Giving a start, Matthew furrowed his brows. “What?”
Dixon shifted uncomfortably in his chair. “Apologies, my lord, but I overheard what you said when your butler brought me in here.”
“As if I need a wife,” Matthew murmured, understanding the man’s reference.
He nodded. “Permission to speak freely, my lord?”
For a moment, the earl thought to deny his foreman. How much more bad news could one man take in a day?
“Permission granted,” he finally said on a sigh.
Dixon leaned forward and lowered his voice. “You’ve got no heir, and we all know the last earl left you with his gambling debts.”
“Which is why I haven’t taken on the extra expenses of a wife,” Matthew reasoned.
“You could solve two problems by marrying a woman in possession of a sizable marriage portion,” Dixon stated. “Pay all your creditors and start your nursery. You can set aside funds for her and the children after the next good harvest.”
Matthew rolled his eyes, but he knew his foreman’s suggestion was reasonable. He glanced over at the letter he had received from the matchmaker in London. “I suppose I could,” he agreed on a huff. “But what do I have to offer a woman with blunt?”
Dixon’s eyes rounded. “A title, my lord. The Countess of Wingfield.” He waved a hand in the air. “A beautiful house in the country. A place in London. And… you, of course.”
Matthew blinked. “I’m flattered. I think,” he replied, his lips quirking with his first hint of humor. “I’m due in London in January for Parliament. I expect there will be a few entertainments I can attend where a wife might be found.”
In reality, he preferred to spend his spare time in the bookshops, collecting the latest new releases as well as acquiring some older titles to add to his library of novels.
Had this year’s harvest gone as planned, he would be spending his winter doing nothing but reading books.
Enjoying the escape they provided from the vagaries of everyday life.
Perhaps taking a wife would allow him the time to read more.
“Mayhap you’ll wish to go to London sooner, my lord. The competition for young ladies won’t be so… competitive.”
Matthew furrowed his brows. “I’ll consider it,” he replied, although he didn’t sound convincing even to his ears.
“Thank you, my lord. I’ll see myself out,” Edward said, before he bowed and took his leave of the study.
Finishing the last of the biscuits, Matthew watched his foreman depart. His attention, once again, went to the letter the matchmaker had sent, his brows furrowing when he realized at no point in the missive had Mrs. Dove-Lyon mentioned the exact amount of money she was owed.
Not particularly considerable.
“What the hell does that mean?” he wondered aloud, his attention darting to the door to be sure no one overheard his query. This time.
He wanted to return his attentions to his book.