by Erica Vetsch
Charles paced the area behind his desk. He always thought better when on his feet, especially when faced with an unpleasant or difficult task.
“Grayson, I will do you the courtesy of not beating about the bush. I have decided to hire another man to take the job of steward here at Gateshead. While you have completed a modicum of work keeping the place together in the absence of leadership, your performance lacked the drive I believe the position requires. I think you will be better suited as a second-in-command, as it were, to a new man. It is my intention to continue with my naval career as soon as a new position opens for me, which will mean I will be away from the estate for long periods of time. The man I select for the job needs to be stern, strict, and a good leader of men. He must have an attention to detail and be accustomed to command. I feel the new steward would be better suited to the job if he came from outside the community, thereby being free of any local ties and loyalties that might prevent him from being evenhanded in his judgments.” He paused his pacing to see how Grayson was taking the news.
Anger flared in the man’s eyes, and then a flicker of … fear? He shifted his weight, staring at the rug.
“This will be a terrible blow to my wife.” He tugged on his collar. “Are you putting us off the place then?” His dark eyes were stark at the possibility. “Please say we can stay on. I’ll do any job. Gamekeeper, groom, even field hand if that’s all you think I’m capable of. But Gateshead is my home. Please don’t send me away.” Desperation wrapped his words, and he mauled his hat in his fists.
What was the man afraid of? His wife’s displeasure? Or possibly disappointing her? Or being jobless? Charles could allay at least some of the man’s anxiety. “No. I will reward your loyalty to the old earl. You did your best, such as it was. If you are willing, you may stay on as the under-steward, assisting the head man with his duties. And you are welcome to lodge in the steward’s cottage for the time being.” He would be gracious. It was the Christian thing to do.
For a moment, a flash of calculation lit Grayson’s eyes, and an eager smile split his face. “I see. Thank you for keeping me on.” He bobbed his head again, this time with more vigor. “When will you be hiring the new man, milord? And when will you be returning to the navy?”
Grayson certainly was taking the news better than Charles had anticipated. Which showed how unsuitable for command he was. He accepted everything too meekly. A true leader would push back, demand explanations, fight for his place at the top.
“I’ll fill the position soon. I’m writing to the Admiralty even now.” He gestured to the stationary before him. “There are many newly retired officers currently seeking employment who have, I believe, the temperament and abilities to be good stewards on a property such as Gateshead.”
“Very good, sir. I’m most obliged. The wife will be as well.” Grayson lifted his shoulders, smoothing the brim of his hat.
“Until the new man arrives, you may continue in your current duties. You are dismissed.”
Grayson sidled out of the study. Charles stared at the door, unsure what to make of the man. He appeared in turns inept, obsequious, calculating, sharp. Which was the real Halbert Grayson? Or was Charles merely addled from his blow to the head and ascribing motives where there were none?
He had barely settled back into writing when a tap sounded on the door. Was it the steward back, realizing the extent of his demotion and wanting to quarrel after all?
The Reverend Dunhill poked his head around the study door. “Good morning, milord. I just ran into Halbert Grayson in the hall. He looked most relieved. I take it you’re keeping him on as steward? Most wise of you. He knows everyone on the estate and how things run here. Not exactly a fireball, but steady.”
“Actually, I will be keeping him on, but not in his current capacity. I think a new man in charge is what the estate needs.”
“A new man? Are you promoting someone from the estate? One of the crofters?” The preacher’s brow furrowed. “I confess, that would be quite a leap in status for a shepherd or farmer. I’m not certain how the other tenants would react to such a move.”
Charles set his pen in its holder. He supposed some curiosity about his plans was normal, but why should the local preacher care about who had charge of the estate?
“You’ll think me a meddling fool.” Dunhill shrugged his narrow shoulders. “It’s just that the estate and the doings here affect the village in subtle and not-so-subtle ways. A good steward here has a positive effect on the outlook of the townspeople, and thus my job is easier.”
That made sense, Charles supposed. “You may put your mind at ease that I will take care in my selection.”
Dunhill pursed his lips. “I see.” There was a long pause as the man appeared to digest this information.
“I will choose a man of good reputation who will not lead your parishioners astray or provide a negative impact upon the village.” The man seemed overly cautious when it came to his flock.
The reverend jerked slightly, as if coming out of deep thought. “Of course. I would expect nothing less from a man of your character. How are you feeling? You look to be dealing with your injuries well. No lingering ill effects?”
“Other than the fact that it seems as if someone is driving pilings behind my eyes?” Charles held out his hand. “Have a seat.” Though he really didn’t have time for a lengthy conversation, it would be churlish to expect the reverend to leave too soon.
Shipboard protocols would dictate sending for coffee or tea, and he assumed the same held for manor houses. He started for the door to summon one of the girls to ask Mrs. Chapman if she could prepare some, but Dunhill stopped him.
“I hope you don’t mind. I’ve brought someone with me. He’s waiting in the hall.” He held the door open. “Come along, Miles. Don’t be nervous. The earl is quite kind, as I told you.”
A young man stepped into the study, tensed as if to run. He wore a loose tan shirt of some course material and dark-brown breeches tucked into heavy boots. His sandy-brown hair needed a trim, and his eyes were a strange, yellowish gold that reminded Charles of the owl in the boathouse.
Perhaps seventeen or eighteen years? Stocky and keen eyed, like many a midshipman he’d commanded. “Miles? You’re the young man who cares for the Shearwater?”
“Y-yes, sir.”
“Who taught you about boats?” Nobody kept a craft in good trim by accident.
“My granddad, sir.”
“And where is he?”
“Dead.”
The boy wasn’t exactly loquacious.
“What’s your last name?”
“Enys.”
“Was your grandfather a navy man?”
“No.”
Reverend Dunhill elbowed Miles Enys. “Explain yourself, and stop being short with the earl. If you want to keep your position, show some respect.”
The young man glowered and shrugged. “My granddad had a boatyard near Falmouth. I lived with him until he died. The boatyard got sold to pay his debts, and the new owner didn’t want me hanging about. So I headed along the coast looking for work. I saw the Shearwater down by the dock, looking like it had been in a battle. I came up to the house and asked Grayson if he needed someone to repair the boat. Grayson asked the old earl, and they gave me the job. I fixed up the Shearwater, and they kept me on to sail her for the old earl.” He shifted his weight, flicking his chin so his hair tossed back off his forehead.
Charles considered his story. It made sense. The Pembroke girls’ father had charge of the boat before his death, and the girls reported that while the Shearwater had been wrecked, it had been salvaged. “I didn’t find your name on the employee list in the ledger. What are your wages?”
“Not being paid as such. I have a place to sleep in one of the sheep sheds. Grayson lets me fish in the cove, and I sell the catch in the village. The crofters trade me fish for bread sometimes.” His lips flattened in a look of sheer independence. “I look after myself.”
&nbs
p; “And the boat.” Charles stood, clasping his hands behind his back and measured the area behind the desk with his strides. Miles Enys had the type of self-reliance Charles was looking for in a new steward. Too bad he was so young and lacking in experience. “The current arrangement is not satisfactory.”
“You’re not going to make him leave Gateshead, are you?” The vicar put his hand on Miles’s shoulder. “I assure you, he’s a good worker.”
Miles sent an alarmed look at Dunhill and then at Charles.
Why must everyone assume he was some ogre, determined to clear the property of its inhabitants? “I have no plans to dismiss him.” He pivoted on the rug. “What I find unsatisfactory is you working on the estate for no pay. Subsistence living is not something for which I want Gateshead to be known. From today, you will have regular duties with regular pay if that is agreeable to you?”
Miles Enys looked as if he’d been struck on the head with an oar. “You want to hire me for actual wages?” He put his hand on his chest.
“What you mean to say”—the reverend spoke around the side of his hand to hide his smile—“is ‘yes, sir’ and ‘thank you.’”
“Yes, sir. Thank you. What is it you want me to do? Can I still look after the boat?”
“For the time being, your duties will involve keeping the Shearwater seaworthy and filling in as help here in the house until I can hire more staff. Keep in mind I will be hiring a new steward to run the estate in my absence, and you will answer to him.”
“Yes, sir. I’ve never worked in a house though. I don’t know the job.”
“Don’t worry. There are several ladies present who have taken it upon themselves to tidy up the place, and I’m certain they could make use of both your height and your strength. Report to the kitchens to Mrs. Chapman, and inform her that you are here to make yourself useful.”
When he’d gone, the reverend indicated the chair in front of the desk. “May I?”
“Of course.” Charles took his seat, lacing his fingers on the blotter.
The reverend arranged his long limbs, crossing one leg over the other. “That’s a good thing you did. I had no idea his grandfather had died or that he’d come from Cornwall, though with a name like Enys, it seemed likely. You got more information out of him in those few minutes than I have managed in months. Not that he gave much opportunity. He prefers to be alone, and I think he has a habit of sneaking off when he spots me on the horizon.” Dunhill ran his fingers along the arms of the chair. “How soon do you anticipate bringing in your new steward?”
“Hard to say. Ideally, I’d have a new man here within a fortnight, but that might be pushing things. I could be called away at any moment, and I want things on an even keel here.”
“Called away?” He uncrossed his legs and leaned forward. “For how long? Or do you anticipate having your headquarters in London?”
The man certainly was curious. Small village, probably prone to gossip. The comings and goings of the landed gentry would always be of interest.
“I am a naval officer. I will resume my career at the first possible moment. The new steward will look after the estate and report to me.”
“I see.” Dunhill steepled his fingers. “Please forgive my inquisitiveness. The villagers tend to take their cues from the occupant of this house, and I’m sad to say that your predecessor was not one to darken the doors of the church with any regularity. I hoped you would be a frequent attender, for your own soul’s sake, but also as an example to your tenants and the villagers. You are a God-fearing man, are you not?”
Charles supposed it was in a preacher’s handbook somewhere that they must ask that question of every new parishioner. “I am. I shall certainly attend when I am in residence, but I hope not to be here often. The title and the estate were thrust upon me, and between inheriting the earldom, recovering from wounds suffered in battle, and the cessation of the war, my naval career is in a bit of disarray.”
“Of course. Perhaps I can suggest a good man from the village to act as your steward? I confess that while I am a friend of Halbert Grayson’s, and I like him very much, I have always wondered why the old earl appointed him steward in the first place. Grayson isn’t known for his decisiveness, nor—I hope you’ll forgive me saying so—his stewardship nous. But a new steward, someone already familiar to the tenants and the villagers, might be the most seamless transition rather than bringing in someone from the outside who won’t know our ways.”
“Do you have a suitable candidate in mind?” He had his own ideas, but it wouldn’t hurt to hear what the preacher had to say.
“Will Owens might be a good choice. He’s a solicitor, but there isn’t much call for that sort of work this far from a city. He came home a few months ago to care for his ailing mother, and he’s been scraping for clients. He’s a good man with a keen mind.”
A solicitor. Charles mulled the idea.
“I’ll give it some thought.” He glanced at the half-finished letter on his desk, and it must have signaled to the preacher that he had work to do and was being kept from it. The lean man unfolded himself from the chair, and Charles rose as well.
“Perhaps I could send Will Owens along for an audience?”
“I’ll let you know tomorrow after church.” Charles shook Dunhill’s hand, trying to ignore his satisfied smile. He certainly seemed pleased that Charles would be in attendance at church on the morrow. Charles supposed it was important to the clergy that as many people attended as possible, but surely his presence at the services wouldn’t make that much difference?
“Oh, I cannot believe I almost forgot. There were letters for you delivered to the coaching inn.” Dunhill withdrew two envelopes from inside his coat.
This close up, Charles noted the fine cloth and tailoring of the reverend’s clothes. Preaching must pay well in these parts for him to have such fine attire. Perhaps the fellow was vain about his appearance and put most of his salary toward his wardrobe. Charles had known naval officers like that, impoverishing themselves when it came to buying new uniforms.
“Thank you.” He glanced at the letters, and a jolt of excitement shot through him. The top one was from the Admiralty.
He saw Dunhill to the door before tearing into the letter in the front hall. Quickly he took in the words. “Yes!” He pumped his fist in the air. “Finally.” Rereading from the beginning, he allowed satisfaction and hope to build in his chest.
Charles felt someone watching him and anticipated spying one of the little girls on the landing. Though they had only been at Gateshead a few days, they tended to pop up where he least expected them. But it wasn’t Penny or Thea or Betsy. Halfway up the stairs, Sophie stared down. She wore a blue frock, and color rode her cheeks. Sunshine from the fanlight over the door bathed her in golden rays.
His heart knocked against his chest, but he wasn’t certain if it was because of the contents of the letter or because she looked so fresh and pretty. Of all the people he knew, she was the one with whom he most wanted to share the news.
“Did you receive a nice message?”
Charles composed himself. He was supposed to be a crusty old sea captain, not a raw schoolboy. He knew now to control his emotions.
“I did. A letter from Admiral Barrington. With Napoleon exiled to Elba, there is talk of placing a blockade about the island, and they will need ships. Ships need captains. The Dogged has been proposed to join the expedition, and Barrington will recommend I be given my old command should the blockade be approved.”
Her lower lip disappeared for a moment. “No wonder you are celebrating. How soon would this happen?”
“Difficult to say. Bureaucracy moves slowly, but to have any effect, the blockade should be formed sooner rather than later. We might be under sail quickly.” He could almost feel the deck beneath his feet, hear a breeze snapping canvas as it unfurled. The ship would need to be provisioned and inspected. She’d suffered some damage in the last battle, but that should have been repaired by now. How
many of his old crew would be available and willing? Hopefully, there would be no need of press-gangs. Not with so many sailors without ships.
Sophie came down the stairs, her fingers light on the banister. “So you could be leaving us soon?” Her hand came up to touch the hollow of her collarbone, and he followed the motion. The wistfulness in her voice struck him and made his skin prickle. Dare he imagine she might regret their parting as much as he?
A hint of lemon and beeswax clung to her, testament to the cleaning endeavors underway in the manor house. Here she was, the daughter of a duke, dusting and mopping and scrubbing. What was he doing allowing her to act like a maid in his house? He needed to see about hiring domestic help. The place needed a proper housekeeper and maids and such.
He didn’t even know what positions needed to be filled. If Gateshead had been a frigate, he would know the personnel from the cabin boy to the captain, but a country house? Yet another area in which he would have to rely upon Sophie for help.
There was so much to do, not least of which was to get Lady Sophia and Lady Richardson into a suitable cottage. He absorbed the pang that hit his chest. Would it be proper to ask her to write to him?
The parlor door opened, and Penny emerged, looking over her shoulder. “Bring it through here. We can take it out the back and hang it on the terrace railing to beat it.” Her voice sounded high and fast. “It isn’t too heavy, is it?”
Miles Enys followed, a rolled rug on his shoulder. “No.” He bounced it higher in his grip, his biceps flexing.
“We sure are glad you came. Having someone as strong as you will make the work so much easier.” Penny pressed against the wall as Miles passed.
Miles nodded to both Charles and Sophie, but Penny seemed not to know they were even in the house.
Was the child actually batting her eyes? For a moment, Charles thought Thea’s imitation of Penny flirting with a boy wasn’t far off.