by Kelly Bowen
At least Edith and her daughter would be safe and dry. Maeve glanced back in the direction Edith had disappeared and froze. Emerging from the trees was a man she had never seen before riding a horse she didn’t recognize. Her brows knitted as she studied the approaching rider. They didn’t get many strangers riding through the village, and more often than not, the ones who did arrive at Greybourne had simply taken a wrong turn on their way to Gerald Newton’s property. This man must be one of them.
He was dressed plainly and soberly, an unremarkable brown coat topping buff breeches and dusty black boots. His head was bare, his coffee-colored hair slightly wind-mussed and falling over his forehead. He had dark eyes that were scanning his surroundings as if searching for something, a frown stamped on his otherwise handsome face. Perhaps he was one of Newton’s acquaintances. Perhaps Newton needed his farming implements back and had sent someone else to reclaim them on his behalf.
Maeve bristled as her mood plummeted once again.
The stranger finally caught sight of Maeve perched on the roof and reined his big bay to a stop. “Good day,” he said rather stiffly, peering up.
“Good day to you.” Maeve looked away, already preparing arguments in her head why Gerald couldn’t have his plough back quite yet. “Can I help you with something?”
“Yes. I’m looking for…” He trailed off into silence.
Maeve stole a peek below and saw the man pull a folded paper from the inside of his coat and consult it.
“M. Murray,” he announced.
“Guilty as charged.” Dammit. The man sitting on his horse like he had a stick up his arse must be here about the plough. Maeve deliberately kept her attention to the roof and yanked the twine of her new bundle tight. Gerald had agreed that she’d have use of the blade for a sennight, so for him to—
“No, I’m looking for the steward of Greybourne,” the stranger said with clear irritation.
“I heard you.” Maeve shifted, reaching for another bundle. He wouldn’t be able to see her clearly up on the roof, and it seemed that he was either mistaking her as too young or too female to be the steward. Nothing that was new to her, but at this moment she did not have the patience or proclivity to prove her competence and ability. Especially if this stranger had come to take back the plough.
“I need to speak with the steward. Of Greybourne.” The stranger was now enunciating each syllable carefully as though he believed her to be a half-wit.
Maeve bit back a sharp retort. She was hot and sweaty and feeling more and more cantankerous with each passing minute.
She concentrated on setting the bundle of thatch against the frame, cursing softly under her breath as the binding broke. She tried to gather the loose thatch back into a bunch but only succeeded in knocking them through the gaping hole in the roof. Reeds cascaded over the edge and scattered across the dirt floor of the interior.
She dropped her head and fought for composure.
Somewhere below, she heard the rustle of more papers. “I’m looking for Michael Murray.”
“My father,” she blurted. Good Lord. Her father hadn’t been steward of Greybourne since his death seven years ago. “Were you a friend?” she asked.
“No.” The stranger’s answer was abrupt. “I just need to know where I can find him. Sometime today would be preferable if you think you could manage it.” Now his tone bordered on rude.
Maeve looked up at the sky, a pang of grief splitting through her already frayed patience. The grief still caught at her at unexpected times. Times just like this when she missed her father terribly. She closed her eyes, wishing with all her heart that he was still here — to help her fix this roof, or find a plough, or make her laugh — or to make this odious man go away.
Without warning, a smile tugged at the corner of her mouth. She knew exactly how Michael Murray would have answered this man if he were standing in her shoes. With his devilish sense of humour, her father wouldn’t have been able to resist.
“You’ll find Mr. Murray at the church,” Maeve called down.
“Thank you. You could have just said so at the beginning.”
He was right. She could have. She should have. “Apologies,” she called down without a jot of sincerity.
The man muttered something under his breath and departed in the direction of the church.
Smiling broadly now, Maeve reached for a new bundle of thatch.
The lad up on the rotting cottage roof had been needlessly difficult.
In fact, everything about this damn place seemed needlessly difficult. Henry had arrived at Greybourne an hour ago, armed with only a partial list of tenants and staff who still resided on the estate. That, and a nauseating tightness in his chest that had started the second he’d ridden onto Greybourne land and had only become worse with every passing minute.
Henry had ridden right past the manor, unwilling to stop and go inside. Though he’d recognized the cowardice of that, he’d rationalized his actions by telling himself that he needed to find the steward of the property immediately. He’d also recognized that if he was going to be able to effectively use this opportunity to achieve his ambitions, he would need to start acting like a man full of ambition and intelligence and not an adolescent full of regret and grief.
But for now, he just needed to find Michael Murray.
Henry had been to the little church perched at the edge of the tiny village once as a child. He remembered a small square building with a modest spire and a small graveyard beside it. The spire was still there, though it looked like the stone was badly in need of repair. In fact, everything about the church looked like it was in dire need of repair. There had clearly not been a sermon given in this building for a long time.
The graveyard was still exactly where he remembered it, the overgrown rows between the headstones teeming with colors of the wildflowers, brilliant against the bruised sky. He tied his horse outside and started up the wide stone steps, admiring the Tudor era craftmanship of the heavy, carved door despite himself. He wrenched the door open, the hinges resisting at first and then shrieking in protest.
“Hello?” he called into the cavernous interior.
Only his words echoed back at him, the air musty and thick with damp and disuse.
Henry pushed the door shut and headed back around the side of the building toward the churchyard. “Hello?” he called again but only the droning bees drifting between the blooms answered him. He tried to ignore his rising frustration as the first few drops of rain fell from the sky.
A row of small sheds in varying states of disrepair were lined up like crooked soldiers at the rear of the churchyard. Perhaps Henry would find the steward there. He passed through the wrought iron gate that was hanging drunkenly from broken hinges and wandered down the rows of headstones. Most of them looked as ancient as the church, many leaning to their sides in the soft ground amid the overgrown grass. Closer to the sheds, a newer stone sat, remarkable if only because the grass around it had been neatly trimmed, a bouquet of wildflowers bursting from a water-filled wine bottle at its base.
At least one of the souls in the abandoned churchyard hadn’t been forgotten. He glanced at the name carved across the stone and stumbled to a stop.
Michael Murray, beloved husband and father, 1762- 1812.
More rain started to fall, the leaves of the wildflowers dancing under the onslaught. Michael Murray was indeed at the church. The lad had not been lying. Henry just hadn’t been listening very carefully.
He glanced around the churchyard but there was no one in sight and for that, Henry was grateful. He didn’t need a witness to watch his retreat. He already felt foolish enough as it was, and he wasn’t entirely sure if he was angry at the lad up on the roof for sending him on this chase or if he was angry at himself because he had deserved it.
Henry retraced his steps back to his horse. Back down the lane to the village where Michael Murray’s son, the apparent steward of Greybourne, was patching a roof.
By t
he time the dilapidated cottage came into sight, it was raining in earnest, but the lad was still working with single-minded diligence. Henry slid from his horse and squinted up, raindrops making him blink. As before, he had the impression of baggy trousers tucked into a pair of battered boots with patched soles. He still couldn’t see the lad’s face under the brim of his cap, but his dark, curly hair now hung in soaked, bedraggled coils to the shoulders of his loose coat.
Henry knew he should say something but he didn’t know where to start. I’m sorry about your father? Are you really the steward of Greybourne? Or maybe Why are you wasting your time on a roof beyond salvage? In the rain, no less?
“You can’t have the plough back.” The lad on the roof spoke first, not turning around but tying off another row of binding.
“I beg your pardon?”
“Did Newton send you?”
“Newton? Who is Newton?”
The young man’s hands paused before he trimmed the last edge of thatch and then jammed his knife back into a sheath at his waist. In quick movements, he tossed down a skein of tarred twine, slid across the edge of the roof, and shimmied down the ladder.
The lad’s boots hit the ground, and he bent to collect the twine from where it had fallen before straightening. “Who are you?” he asked without preamble.
And Henry would have answered him except it had become blindingly clear that he was not a he but a she. Dark ringlets dripped over her shoulders, strands plastered across her forehead under the brim of her sodden cap. Wide grey eyes that were almost green in the leaden light were ringed with dark lashes, raindrops clinging to their ends. She had sharp cheekbones, softened by a blush of color that suggested she spent a great deal of time outdoors. Her shirt and coat, like her trousers, were soaked through, and up close, did nothing to hide the subtle swell of her breasts or the curve of her hips.
“You are?” she prompted again, watching him warily.
“Henry.” His voice finally worked even if his wits hadn’t caught up. “Henry Blackmore.”
Her eyes went wide and she goggled at him for a moment before all the wariness disappeared, and a smile split her face. The wits that Henry thought he’d recovered scattered again under the radiance of that smile.
“You received my letters,” she said, her hands clasped in front of her.
“Your letters?”
“Well, my letters to your father,” she continued, almost breathless. “My apologies, my lord, I had no idea who you were. You should have said something earlier, my lord—”
“You can stop calling me my lord. Mr. Blackmore is fine.”
She blinked.
Henry stared back.
“Right. Of course.” She unclasped her hands and pulled off her cap, attempting to smooth her hair from her forehead. “We didn’t know you were coming.”
Of course no one knew he was coming. Until recently, Henry had thought never to return. “I did not send word ahead, Miss…” He let it dangle.
“I beg your pardon, my lo— Mr. Blackmore. Maeve Murray. Steward of Greybourne.” She was still smiling, and Henry was a little surprised that the clouds simply didn’t part in the face of all that luminosity.
“You’re the steward?”
“Yes.” Her smile slipped fractionally and wariness crept back in. She jammed her cap back on her head. “After the death of my father, I took the position. It was simplest for everyone. Though I may have been…less than forthcoming in my correspondence and for that I apologize. My father and I share the same initial, after all.”
Henry was quite certain the duke had no idea who Greybourne’s steward was, nor would he care. As for himself — Henry wasn’t quite sure what to make of it. This was the most unorthodox introduction to a woman Henry had ever had in his life.
“I also apologize for ah…sending you to the church,” Miss Murray said, flushing. “I thought you were someone else here for a different reason. If I had known who you were—”
“Do not trouble yourself,” Henry muttered, unable to look away.
A drop of water had slid down her cheek and was clinging to her upper lip and Henry had the nearly uncontrollable urge to reach out and brush it away.
“You have no idea how long I’ve waited for this,” she told him. “For you.”
Henry’s eyes flew back to hers. He had no idea what this referred to but his imagination had suddenly absconded into deliciously sensual places it had no business going. Maeve Murray, for all her peculiar clothing and bedraggled curls, was a beautiful woman.
“I already have prioritized plans drawn up for the rebuilding required, as well as lists of implements that we cannot wait to replace,” she told him. “Would you like a tour of the village first? Or perhaps the crop land, then the grazing land? I’ll show you what we’ve managed for drainage. And I’d also like you to see the ewes that we’ve bred that produce wool of the finest quality. At the moment, we have no way to process or weave it and are left with selling raw bales for far less than what finished cloth would fetch. I have a solution to that I think you’ll want to look at. And then we most certainly need to address the condition of the mill—”
Henry frowned and held up his hand. He’d missed something here. “Miss Murray, I’m not sure what it is that you believe I’m doing here but I have no interest in the mill. Or the ewes. Or the crop lands.”
Her smile vanished to be replaced with a look of bafflement. “So you didn’t read my letters?”
“What? No.”
“Well, someone read my letters if you are here. My lists? My requests?”
“I still have no idea what you’re talking about.”
“Then what are you doing here?”
“I’ve come about the manor.”
“The manor?”
“I’ll be surveying and planning the restoration of Greybourne House starting immediately. I was hoping that I could count on your assistance—”
“The manor?” she repeated again. “The manor house?”
“There is only one manor house, Miss Murray. And it is in a deplorable condition. I am tasked with rectifying that.”
Bafflement had given way to what Henry didn’t mistake as anything other than anger. Her generous lips were pressed in a tight line. “You came from London to Greybourne so that you could repair and refurbish the hall?”
Henry wiped the rain out of his eyes, frowning. She made it sound frivolous. But there was nothing frivolous about this renovation. There was nothing frivolous about the key to everything he had ever wanted. “It will be included in the repairs, yes.”
“The morning room? Drawing room?” An end had come loose from the twine she held, and she was wrapping it around her fingers.
“Yes.”
“How about the music room?” She untwisted the twine from her fingers, angry red marks striping her skin.
“If its condition warrants it, yes. Miss Murray, I am an architect. This is what I do.” That wasn’t entirely true given that this was his first restoration project. But it was certainly what he was going to do. “I will also see to the repair of the roof, the exterior stonework, the arches, the windows, the fountains and gardens, and any other features that have been allowed to deteriorate.”
“I see.” She shoved the skein under her arm. “And you have the money required for these repairs?”
“I do.” He couldn’t share the details of that with her. Not that he’d want to share the bizarre circumstances behind this entire project with anyone anyway. “I am hoping that perhaps you will be able to provide me with names that may provide local labour. Additionally, my foreman and his crew of masons and builders will be arriving shortly to start work on the stonework. They will need to be lodged appropriately, and I’m hoping you can suggest—”
“Is this a jest?” She was edging away from him. “Or a test of some sort? Does this have something do to with Mr. Newton wanting the property?”
Henry shifted, a rivulet of rain running down the back of his neck and
making him shiver. “This is not a jest. And who is this Mr. Newton you keep referring to?”
“Your neighbour to the north.” Maeve yanked the rickety ladder away from the side of the house and set it down, leaning it against the cottage wall. Water dripped from the edge of the roof to splash on the back of her coat. Behind him, his horse pawed the ground.
“Perhaps we could get out of the rain to discuss this further, Miss Murray. I know my arrival was not expected but—”
“By all means,” she snapped, straightening. “Please do get out of the rain. You know your way back to the manor house?”
“Yes, but—”
“Good. I will attend to you this evening. In the meantime, I have work to do.”
“In the rain?”
“We’re in England, Mr. Blackmore,” she replied acidly. “If one refused to work in the rain, we’d all starve by August.”
Henry scowled. “But I will need your assistance—”
“That’s just the problem, Mr. Blackmore. As the steward of Greybourne it is my job to prioritize the list of needs and wants of the people here. Presently, you are at the bottom of that list.” Miss Murray pulled her cap from her head, wrung it out, and replaced it with jerky movements. “Mrs. Thorpe is the housekeeper at the manor house. Present yourself to her and she will ensure that you get anything you need in way of accommodations. Though I warn you that the pantries will not support a lavish welcome feast, so please temper your expectations. Good day, Mr. Blackmore.” Miss Murray nodded and made to leave.
“Wait,” he said.
Miss Murray stopped, her jaw tightening and her posture rigid.
Henry strode forward, drawing even with her. “Where are you going?”
“To the north fields. They won’t plant themselves.”
“May I join you?”
A single dark eyebrow rose under the brim of her cap. She gazed at him for a long time before asking, “Why would you want to do that?”
Henry would not admit that he was doing everything in his power to avoid the manor. He shrugged. “I could help.” Which was a lie. He knew almost nothing about farming.