None of which went to the enormous expense of repairing roofs, plumbing, and rats in the attic, among the other bills accumulating on his desk. But if he closed the castle, where would his relations go? And then there was the enormous Malcolm library. . .
“I trust you pay yourself a sum for bookkeeping duties?” Since attaining his majority, Gerard had left the household books in Winifred’s competent hands. If his father had approved of her methods, he’d seen no reason to change them.
She looked at him blankly. “Well, no. We all have our little tasks. Grace provides blankets and weaves shawls for us. Simone makes scented candles to keep the air pleasant and advises us on the resident spirits and what they’re telling us. Nan said she would teach the kitchen how to make honeyed candies, and her flower borders keep us in bouquets. We’re mostly healthy, so my healing responsibilities are limited. I do the books, for my share.”
The bees buzzing lazily in the roses outside the window reminded him of his duty to this estate and the people inhabiting it. Gerard felt as if he were cutting his own throat, but the beekeeper had opened his eyes, and he couldn’t go back. “Then essentially, Wystan owes all of you for the cost of your labors. In agricultural terms, you’re paying rent from the sale of your crops, but you’re also providing essential services above and beyond the income you’re recording, right?”
“I’m not sure candies and candles are essential,” she said, but it was obvious she was running numbers through her head, trying to puzzle it out.
Unwilling to reveal Iona’s secret, he continued the use of the name she’d adopted. “Before Nan arrived, did you buy candies? And if you use her wax, doesn’t that save coins? Before you arrived, did we pay a bookkeeper? How would you light and scent the rooms without candles? Would you hire someone to talk to spirits if Simone were not here?” He couldn’t believe he was asking these questions, but he never underestimated his family. “How long does it take Grace to make a blanket?”
These women worked all the time. And what did he do? Examine books once a year and make decisions about crops. For that, he earned more than all these women put together. He winced. Cutting his allowance was not why he’d come here.
“To be fair, Grace doesn’t have to contribute often. It’s not as if her blankets ever wear out. But over the years. . .” Winifred drifted off into a daze—a rarity for her.
“Exactly. Over the years, the estate has benefited even more than I thought from your presence. I assumed everyone paid their own way, but I had not realized you were contributing beyond that. Can you conjure some numbers and let me know what Wystan might owe? I can’t say we have the funds, but I’ll take a look while I’m here.” He lifted his shoulder from the door and trailed off before his aunt emerged from her shock.
Damn and double damn. He’d have to start practicing law just to keep himself in clothes at this rate. An earl practicing law! Society would shake.
He sat down with Avery that afternoon over the estate books. “There hasn’t been a raise in tenant rates in years,” Gerard pointed out, hoping to bring in more income to cover maintenance, at least. “Most of them have been with us long enough to have improved their plots, and the cost of improvements to the cottages are going up. Isn’t it time?”
Avery grimaced. “Their families are growing. We’ll lose our best tenants if we ask them to pay more. I wanted to suggest. . .”
He went off into an old argument of removing the orchard and adding sheep that would put Wystan even deeper into a hole before it could pull out. A bee landed on the desk. Avery started to swat it but Gerard waved it away. His medallion grumbled. Restless, he studied the open window. Roses grew outside it as well. He couldn’t remember roses there in prior years.
Finally, Gerard couldn’t take looking at books any more. He stood up. “I want to have a look at the orchards, visit a few tenants. We’ll not survive long if we’re spending more than we’re earning.”
“We’re breaking even, my lord,” Avery protested. “You’ve seen the books yourself. There’s no need to trouble yourself—”
Buzzing bees and grumbling medallions said there was a need to get out of his head and into the real world. This morning’s experience with Winifred gnawed at him. He wouldn’t find profits looking at books. He wouldn’t find treasure—or danger—sitting on his rump.
He hated the idea of razing the orchards, but if it had to be done. . .
“The beekeeper’s honey is already putting the household books in the black,” Gerard informed his steward, with only a slight exaggeration.
“Not if you count the cost of new hives and fences and slowing down the apple harvest with those ridiculous borders.” Avery stomped out after him. “Mark my word, my lord, those hives will be more trouble than they’re worth. They should be removed with the orchard.”
“Why do the sales of our cider continue to decline?” Gerard strode for the stable. “I thought the improvements we budgeted should have turned sales around.”
He should have spoken with the old man in charge of the orchards yesterday, but he’d done his usual cursory ride in his hurry to leave. The whole point of paying an estate agent was for the agent to talk to the labor.
But then, he’d thought he had Winifred to do the same for the household. He was the friggin’ earl. He was supposed to know more than Avery and Winifred. He did know, but he could only use what he’d been told, and they hadn’t known what to tell him.
And he hadn’t asked. He’d simply skimmed the surface, let everyone continue as they’d always done, and never once questioned.
Riding in front to avoid replying, Avery cursed at a sight Gerard couldn’t see yet, and spurred his mount ahead.
His educated land agent seldom behaved as less than a gentleman. Gerard scanned the orchard for what had Avery agitated. A fox? A poacher?
All he could find was Iona talking to the wizened old orchardist.
* * *
Iona had known they were coming—the bees had warned her.
But after last night, she had to learn how far she could trust the Earl of Ives and Wystan. A landowner who only visited once a year didn’t rate high on her trustworthy scale, but for now, she gave him benefit of the doubt. She’d deliberately detained the orchardist until the earl arrived.
“What are you doing here?” Avery snarled as he rode up in a flurry of dust. “We don’t need you slowing down the harvest.”
“I don’t think Nan and Barkley are interfering with the pickers,” Gerard said with unconcern, riding up behind his agent. “How do you do, Barkley? And how do our apples fare this year?”
Iona had learned the old orchardist had given charge of the picking to his eldest son years ago, but he still knew his trees. She waited for Barkley to speak what he’d told her.
Instead, the old man gave Avery a wary look and merely said, “I’m right fine, my lord.”
Angered by his need for reticence, Iona defiantly answered the rest of the earl’s question. “The orchard is aging, my lord. The oldest part should have been replaced a decade ago. One bad winter is likely to take half your ancient trees.”
The earl frowned. “I thought we had a rotation plan in place, Avery?”
“The trees are fine,” the steward growled. “Females don’t know anything.”
Avery reeked of a liar’s rancid sweat. He knew what was wrong.
“Barkley knows trees better than anyone,” Iona retorted, glaring at earl and steward. “Tell him he’ll keep his position if he answers truthfully.”
“Of course you’ll keep your position, Barkley,” the earl responded with unusual snappishness. “You’ve worked for us long enough to retire with pension and cottage, if you wish.”
“He’s an old fart, set in his ways,” Avery protested. “He should have been put out to pasture long ago. As you saw yourself, the profits from the orchards have been in decline for years.”
“Because you won’t let me improve them!” Summoning up his courage, Barkley fina
lly spoke up. “I been telling you that you can’t make money without spending it. The trees need replacing regular like.”
“The orchard is a significant part of our income. I know the budget isn’t large, but we had a plan.” The earl waited for his agent to explain.
Iona was still furious at his carelessness, but she tamped down her temper at this evidence that the earl was guilty only of expecting loyalty from his employees.
“Tell Lord Ives what this year’s budget was spent on,” Iona suggested, using the pleasant voice she’d learned from her mother—just before she swatted someone, literally or metaphorically.
“A prettier cottage for Bess,” Blakely spit out.
He’d been a little cruder when telling Iona where the money had gone. Beekeepers didn’t rank with earls. It was amazing what one could learn from this side of the class divide.
“Bess? In the village?” The earl didn’t raise his voice, but the question demanded answer. “Have we purchased her lot?”
“It’s a good property, my lord,” Avery replied defensively. “Brings in a decent rent.”
“For whom?” Ives demanded. “I’m fairly certain I didn’t notice the rents on the books. Perhaps we should go back so you can show them to me. I trust the income is more than the lost cider profits?”
“Perhaps you should speak with your tenants more often, my lord,” Iona said evenly, unable to resist digging in the knife just a little. “People can tell you more than books.”
She walked away. What the earl did next would tell her if she could trust him with her future and that of her sister.
She didn’t need the bees rising protectively around her to tell her he was furious. She could smell it. She reassured her workers and sent them back to the hive.
When she returned to the house to wash hours later, the ladies were all abuzz.
“He threatened to horsewhip him!” Grace said, scandalized.
“I heard he flung him out on his ear,” Simone murmured in wonder. “I’ve never seen the earl angry. He’s always been such an even-tempered, polite boy.”
Iona hesitated on the bottom stair. “What happened?”
“Avery!” Winifred said, obviously disgruntled. “My nephew has gone mad and thrown out his estate agent. I know Avery is an arrogant toady, but he’s all we have. Who will be in charge of the harvest now? I certainly don’t have time or knowledge.”
“The earl let Avery go?” Iona asked in astonishment. She hadn’t thought he’d go that far in dealing with a gentleman who had evidently worked here for years.
“He was stealing,” Grace whispered. “He had such a good position too. It doesn’t make sense.”
“Of course, it makes sense,” Mary Mike said callously. “The earl took charge of the estate when he was barely out of school. Avery thought he knew better than an Oxford scholar. I daresay he’s been fudging the books all along, but he got greedy.”
Avery had done more than pad his mistress’s cottage?
Lord Ives had given Avery the boot. What would he do now?
But mostly, he’d proved he could be trusted. Holding hope in her heart, Iona hurried up the stairs to wash for dinner. If she could trust him. . .
She could leave her hive and head for Edinburgh. Maybe she could borrow a pistol.
Unlike Mr. Winter, she’d learned to shoot to protect what little was hers.
Ten
Lowell snipped at a loose thread, straightened Gerard’s cravat, and stepped back to eye him critically. “You’ll be needing a trim shortly, but you’ll pass for these parts. Your wardrobe, however, is in severe need of replenishing.”
Gerard resisted rubbing his newly-shaved jaw and gritted his teeth. It had been a long rotten day, and he was in no temper for debating the cost of a new wardrobe for riding herd on sheep.
Booting Avery had been necessary. He couldn’t have thieves working for him. But it left him seriously in the lurch.
“Clothes are my least concern. My bank account needs severe replenishing first,” he admonished. “And if I’m surrounded by scoundrels, I may have to examine the damned bank as well.”
Worse yet, he had to go down to dinner and reassure a roomful of rattled ladies worrying about their future. An estate with no steward or land agent would slide into penury soon enough.
This is what he got for listening to a damned beekeeper—correction, a countess! Avery had been right about one thing. Iona was a troublemaker.
The medieval paneled hall grew silent the instant he walked in. Gerard amused himself imagining a roomful of lords falling silent in awe as they awaited his majestic oratory.
Little old ladies with fake hair propping up their white curls simply didn’t convey the desired reverence and respect.
His great-aunt waited expectantly on her throne, however. The women were actually waiting for him to speak first. He’d savor the moment while he could. Gerard poured himself a glass of good Scots malt and donned his practiced nonchalance.
“I will begin a search for a new agent immediately,” he reassured them. “If you wish to write your relations and make inquiries as well, I would appreciate that.”
There, that sounded practical and not like he wasn’t mentally lambasting himself for dismissing one of his father’s hires. What in hell did he know about finding agents? Nothing. Blithering nothing. But he’d spent his life learning diplomacy. He knew how to communicate for the desired result.
“Why did you dismiss Avery?” Winifred asked, unable to hold her tongue longer. “He was a good agent and has worked here as long as I can remember.”
Gerard swirled his whisky in his glass, weighing his words. “I promised him a decent reference if he returned what didn’t belong to him. Let us not malign his reputation further with gossip. I’d rather the subject not go any further than this room.”
Personally, he’d have wrung Avery’s neck and thrown him to the wolves. But letting his temper rule wasn’t necessarily what was best for all—a hard lesson learned over his father’s knee.
Instead, he’d had Avery sign over the property that he’d bought for his mistress and improved with estate funds. In return, Gerard had given him a reference stating that Avery knew his profession but couldn’t be trusted as an agent who handled contracts and funds. Still, he was educated and experienced and could easily fulfill the management duties of a steward. It would be a waste to throw him into the street because he let his cock rule his brain. Avery’s next position might entail dealing only with the laborers, but he wouldn’t starve.
The ladies peppered him with more questions he was either reluctant to answer or couldn’t. Over his glass, Gerard searched the shadows for the little countess. She had a bad habit of hiding, but he found her in a wing chair that nearly engulfed her. She was pensively studying the fire.
Tonight, she wore a lacy adornment on her cropped hair and not the false chignon. The only difference between her dumpy morning gown and the dinner gown she wore tonight was the fabric and color—a light gold crepe versus her usual drab gray wool. She’d draped a blue-and-gold shawl over her shoulders so he couldn’t see the neckline, but he ventured it wasn’t as daring as last night’s. She had a dreadful seamstress.
As if making a decision, she set aside her untouched glass of sherry and interrupted the pestering questions. “Ladies, the earl is a gentleman. You’ll not pry gossip from him. The question becomes, what can we do to help until he is able to locate a new agent or steward. The apple harvest is under way, the fields need plowing, and the wheat needs threshing. It’s an important time of year. Does anyone know anyone who can help?”
That nicely summed up the situation and diverted the conversation. Did she really think his eccentric tenants would thresh wheat? Or even know how?
“Will you be staying until someone is found?” the countess asked, making him pay for the diversion. She rose from her hiding place and fixed her long-lashed, golden-brown eyes on him.
Well-practiced in detachment, Gerard resis
ted tugging his cravat. “I need to find a buyer for some property in the village. Once I start receiving replies to my inquiries on both the property and the position, I may have to consult with solicitors and interview references. I’ll be away a good deal.”
He’d wanted to be in London this week. He wanted to find funds, not spend them. He didn’t want these women to start relying on his presence. But he knew his duty. Orchards had to be improved, and at minimum, a steward must be hired. He had to stay—for now.
“Your workers aren’t likely to listen to women.” Iona added one more concern, while overriding all the other ladies without raising her voice.
Or maybe he was more attuned to her than the others. She was completely correct in her assessment. His workers weren’t bees. They wouldn’t work for women, not even a queen bee. Of course, from her tale, he gathered she knew the difficulty from experience.
“I have a few trusted tenants who can take charge of their particular endeavors.” He wished the interfering countess to the devil even while understanding the ladies needed to hear this. “Barkley and his son can handle the orchard. I’ll let the shepherds know Wilson is in charge of the herd until I say otherwise, and so forth.”
“If a situation rises requiring a decision only you can make, would these men listen to a woman?” Iona asked, drifting closer, the light of interest in her eyes.
Where the hell was she going with this? Gerard gritted his teeth. He didn’t care who she was or what title she wore. He wasn’t putting a delicate young lady in charge of large, crude men. His workers weren’t that enlightened.
“It’s doubtful,” he said flatly, hoping that would discourage her.
“What about Mary Mike?” she asked.
That knocked him for a loop. He was pretty certain the entire room fell silent, except for the ringing of doom in his ears.
He didn’t want to embarrass his cousin, but he couldn’t help studying her. Mary Mike was tall, just under six feet, broad at the shoulders but neither stout or slender. If she had a chest, she hid it under double-breasted coats similar to a riding habit. For dinner, she usually wore a straight skirt, but he knew she preferred split ones so she could ride astride. She was a formidable horsewoman—and had a way with animals.
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