Once the dowager departed for Ackerslea Farm, life was calmer, less complicated at Guillemot. Clarence had never quite appreciated what his father had contended with all those years. Or perhaps his mother had grown more scatterbrained, less sensible with advancing age. How old... Great God, she cannot be fifty yet.
Lisanor was restful. Under her direction, he came to realize, the servants accomplished more with less effort, particularly now that his mother was no longer issuing conflicting instructions upon the slightest whim. When he asked her how she had managed such an improvement, she said, "Very simply, my lord. First I created a schedule of who was to do what when. Once everyone mastered that--I am shocked that some of your underservants are unable to read, something I intend to remedy when immediate concerns are less urgent--I had them close off all the rooms we are not using. When you are more ambulatory, perhaps we will have to open one or two, but no more than that." She stacked the papers he had left in disarray on the lap desk he'd been using. "I also directed that only occupied rooms will be heated and lit."
"Do you mean that we've been having fires in empty rooms?"
"Well, only those on the first floor and in the small drawing room next to the entrance hall. But since we are not receiving, I saw no reason to heat any but the breakfast room, the morning room and the library. I did direct that the fire in the servant's dining room should be maintained. It seems a small expense, compared to the total expenditure for coal."
"Very wise." This seemingly insignificant episode, added to what he had learned during their conversations about a strategy for the restoration of Guillemot's fortunes, gave him much food for thought. He was certainly seeing his bride in a new light. She was not the simple farm girl he had anticipated, but a wise and thoughtful manager. No wonder her grandfather had trusted her with the management of Ackerslea.
"My dear?"
"Yes my lord?" She sounded distracted and he looked across to the writing desk where she sat, poring over a ledger.
"Never mind. Go on with your task. I merely had an observation to share."
"I shan't be long." She bent to her work.
He knew he should resume his correspondence, but found himself watching his wife instead. Her pencil moved slowly down the page and her lips moved as she read what was written there. No, not just reading. He'd wager she was totting up figures; his suspicion was borne out when she paused to write something at the bottom on the page before sliding the hand holding the pencil back to the top. With her other hand, she tugged at the hair just behind her left ear. How long, he wondered, before she completely destroyed her already untidy coiffure.
At last she sat back. "I have good news, my lord."
"We could use some." Just this morning the post had brought a depressing letter from his solicitor. Yet more bills had been found in his father's desk in the London house. They had to be for wine and viands long since consumed, for the pantry was all but bare. The merchants were demanding their compensation, as they had already waited the better part of a year.
"I've looked into selling Grandfather's hunting dogs. As you may know, the pack is much regarded. Unless you wish to--"
"Great God, no! I've seen what damage a pack of hunt-mad idiots can do to the countryside. By all means, sell the hounds."
"I shall. And it if suits you, I think the profit from that sale should be invested in seed for the fields in three-year rotation. We have ample set aside for this summer at Ackerslea, but I find no record of the same here."
"Doesn't surprise me. Fa did not think of himself as a farmer." Still thinking about hunting packs, he took a moment before attending to what she'd said. "Three-field rotation? What is that?"
For the first time since he'd met his wife, she appeared caught with nothing to say. Her stare was eloquent though.
At last she said, "That may explain why it has been necessary to purchase grain and hay. Excuse me. I must investigate..." She closed the ledger and rose.
"Wait. Where are you going?"
"To the muniment room. I must examine the crop records."
"I doubt you'll find anything. Unless someone other than my father's bailiff kept them. From all evidence, he cared for little besides the stable. And as I recall, we've never raised crops other than grain for the stables. Oh, and what was planted at the home farm. Most of Guillemot's land is in pasture. As far as I know, we always purchased hay and grain."
Clarence could tell that she was keeping herself in check when she returned, carrying two heavy ledgers. Whether the emotion she contained was anger or amazement, he did not know, but it has something to do with crops. And I know damn little about farming, by my own choice.
He'd been mildly interested in the stables as a lad, and had shared his father's pride in their fame, but he'd paid little attention to the oats and corn that fed the stables. All he remembered about farming was that, from the age of twelve, he'd been forced to help with the harvest. How he'd hated the dust and the itch from chaff under his clothing. Even then he'd been mad for the army, and had resented the fact that Fa had refused to purchase his commission until his eighteenth birthday.
Even six years in India had not dampened his enthusiasm for military life, and he'd been sorry to leave when orders came transferring his regiment to Spain. Just in time for Vimeiro.
Some considerable time later, his wife cleared her throat.
He looked up. "Yes?"
"I have one more question." For the first time since he had met her, she appeared unsure of herself.
"Yes, my dear?"
"The stable. It seems...overpopulated."
"The Guillemot Stables are esteemed throughout England."
"Ahh." She turned back to the ledgers, opened the thinner one and leafed through until she reached the middle.
Clarence watched her for a few moments, before he realized she had stopped perusing the ledger page. Her fingers were clenched around a pencil and, if he wasn't mistaken, she was chewing on her lower lip. As if to contain words unspoken.
"You brought up the stables. Why?"
For a long time she sat unmoving. At last she turned just her head. "The sale of the horses would net enough to pay the most pressing obligations, including those newly discovered bills."
"We will not sell the horses." The very notion appalled him. Three generations of Lambertons had built the Guillemot stables into the finest in England. No, Fa hadn't been a farmer--nor had his father--but they were horse breeders beyond compare.
"As you wish. But--"
"It is not open to discussion."
"No, I was merely wondering... Never mind. Now, about the croplands: is there some reason why so little of the land here at Guillemot is cultivated and that so inefficiently?"
"Raising horses requires considerable pasturage." He'd been unable to keep a snap from his voice. "Clearly you know little of what is necessary to maintain a large stable." He wasn't about to admit that he was nearly as ignorant.
"I confess my ignorance. However, my lord..." She steepled her forefingers, tapped them against her lips. "It would seem to me that an estate this size should be raising a surplus of oats and corn, should be supplying the household and the farm workers from the home farm, and raising poultry, pigs, and even beef enough to send some to market." She took a deep breath and rushed on, before he could speak, had he something to say. "Furthermore, isn't it customary, when one raises hunters, to sell off the promising young stock annually?"
Clarence stared across the room, unable to believe what she seemed to be saying. At last he found his voice. "Of course. The annual sale of two-year-olds has always been our main source of income. At least that from Guillemot Burn."
"There is no record of any horse sales for two years."
Still disbelieving, he said, "Where is the stud book?"
"I-I am not sure. What does it look like?"
"A big book." He measured two feet with his hands. "Bound in red leather, with a gold imprint on the front. Entitled 'Guillemot Stables.'
It was always kept in the muniment room, along with all the ledgers."
Lisanor shook her head slowly. "I found nothing of that description, sir. Could he have taken it to Town?"
"Possible. But unlikely. How thoroughly have you searched?"
"Not at all, since this is the first I've heard of it. I shall instigate a search immediately. Will you write to your mother and ask her if she knows where it might be?"
"Immediately." As soon as she departed, he picked up his pen. What could have happened to the stud book? Surely Fa didn't remove it to Town. Why the information in it is priceless. Irreplaceable.
He lay back, eyes closed, and resisted the strong temptation to curse his father.
When Lisanor returned to the master suite, her hair was mussed and her skirt bore smears of dust. "The stud book is not in the muniment room. I have asked Mrs. Smith to instigate a search of the other rooms. She estimates it could take the better part of a week, since I told her to include the attics and cellars."
"The letter to my mother will go out in tomorrow's post." Clarence shook his head. "I can't understand what possessed my father to behave so. Had he lost his mind?" He moved restless, impatient with his continued infirmity, "I'm going to have Nettles take me to the stables as soon as possible, if he has to carry me pick-a-back. Perhaps--"
"He is already searching there. But I agree. Your presence in the stables would be advantageous, if for no other reason than to remind the grooms and trainers that they are employed there on your sufferance."
"My dear, I am sorry--"
"Do not be. I honestly expected matters to be in worse hand. We will not be thrown from the door, nor reduced to begging in the streets." She smiled, albeit a little wryly, as she spoke.
"Now then, I must tell you that significant changes must be made in how the land is managed. In the first place, we should eliminate at least half the pasturage, converting it to crops in three-field rotation. We will enlarge the scale of the home farm, raise our own pigs and poultry--"
"We always have--"
"Not in recent history. The pigsties are in ruins and the dairy barn is being used to store hay. Yesterday when I toured the home farm, I saw no evidence that poultry had ever been kept."
Clarence closed his eyes and tried to envision the home farm from his youth. He remembered geese, for one old gander had terrified him until he refused to go there alone. "No, I don't recall any chickens, but we did have a small dairy when I was a boy."
"The dairy cattle were sold off seven years ago, at the same time your father purchased a stallion at an exorbitant cost." Her pencil tapped rapidly on the ledger cover. "There is a note to that effect in the home farm record. One of the last, I might add. For soon after that, the records ceased. Apparently your father discharged the bailiff who had been here for many years."
Clarence tried to recall what his father had said in a letter, one he knew he'd read in India. "That would be when he hired Inglewood. I wish I could remember what Fa said about him."
"Would your mother remember?"
"I doubt it. She never paid attention to anything outside the house. But, wait. There was something. Yes, Fa met him when he hunted with the Quorn. He was beyond elation, filled three pages with descriptions of the hunt. And he hired Inglewood while he was there."
"That seems peculiar circumstances for engaging a bailiff. Unless Inglewood was not hired to supervise the estate, but to work with the horses."
"By Jove, I believe you're right. That must have been exactly what Fa wanted. Someone who would concentrate on what mattered to him. The stables."
"Yes, but it is unfortunate that he didn't engage a knowledgeable bailiff as well." Her sigh told him she thought it more than merely unfortunate.
Since he agreed that his father had made some spectacularly bad decisions in the last few years, he said nothing. At least Fa did one thing right. He promised me to Lisanor Hight. If anyone can save Guillemot, I believe she can.
"So are we on the verge of going under?"
"We will not go under, my lord. We will merely have to tighten our belts rather severely for a year or two and live frugally for somewhat longer. Fortunately Ackerslea's less than ideal financial position is temporary. One good season should ameliorate the damage my father did. Of course, full restoration of the Manor's profitability will be delayed by the necessity to divert funds to Guillemot."
"My dear, I am sorry--"
"You should not be. We have a bargain, and in the long term it will benefit both estates." She turned back to the desk and closed the ledger she'd been working in. "You look tired, my lord. I believe you should retire."
"I...ahh..." A sudden recollection of when he'd awakened sometime in the dark of the previous night came to Clarence. Somehow, in their sleep, they had both migrated to the center of the wide bed. She'd been warm against him. Soft. The faint scent of her--reminiscent of the ginger crisps Cook had always made at Christmastime--had teased his nostrils.
He had reached out one hesitant hand, had touched her cheek lightly. And for the first time since well before the retreat to Coruña, he'd felt a faint stirring of desire.
"Yes...bed... Perhaps you're right. I am fatigued."
* * * *
"I have one question, my dear."
"Just one?" There was so much she wished to know of him. The longer she knew him, the more she wanted to know of him. Chief among her question was why the only son of a marquess had bought his commission, had risked his life--and the succession--for eight long years.
"Perhaps more than one, but the rest can wait. I must have this answer."
"Ask away then. I do not promise to answer."
"When did you see a man's naked buttocks?"
Lisanor gaped. Of all the questions she had expected, this was entirely unexpected.
Her husband met her gaze squarely, his expression perfectly serious. He was not jesting; he wanted an answer.
Containing the laughter that bubbled into her chest, she said, "I was fifteen."
"Good God! And your grandfather allowed it?"
"He had nothing to say about it. In fact, I doubt he ever knew."
"But--"
Her urge to laugh only grew as his expression went from shock to outrage to...suspicion? And died as she realized what thoughts must be passing through his mind. "I had followed Elmer--"
"Elmer?"
"Elmer Snead. He is head stockman at Ackerslea. What he does not know about animal husbandry has probably not been discovered yet. I was his shadow whenever I could escape the schoolroom, from...oh, perhaps my sixth year." When me made an impatient sound, she said, "Do you want to hear this or not?"
"Oh, I definitely want to hear." He folded his hands on the counterpane covering his midsection. "You had followed Elmer...?"
"They were cas-- The stockmen were altering bull calves."
His eyebrow went up, but he said nothing.
"Steers make better beef animals. One of Ackerslea's main sources of income is beef cattle." She wondered that he did not know that, but then recalled that Guillemot had never raised cattle other than dairy. "They must be clipped when young, and I had always been forbidden to attend. That day I decided that as the heir to Ackerslea Farm, it was my duty to become familiar with all activities."
For a moment a vivid image of that day came to her mind, but she quickly quelled the sick feeling it engendered. "I confess that is one task I am entirely happy to leave to the stockmen."
"I can imagine." His voice was tight. "The very thought..."
"Yes, well, I was determined not to let my weakness be evident to the men, so I entered the pen and stood close to the fence. Somehow--" As she brought back the memory, she once again saw the gate swing, once again wondered who had left it open. "Somehow a gate came unlatched.
"In the next pen a young bull was being held in anticipation of a buyer's inspection. He was restive, disliking being penned, for our bulls ranged free in a large pasture until they were sold."
"And the gate--"
"Yes, the gate somehow came unlatched. No one noticed, and suddenly the gate slammed open and the bull was among the men. He tossed them aside like tenpins. I could not move, but Elmer said I screamed. The man holding the clippers struck the bull across the snout with them and ran for the fence. He almost made it over.
"But it was distraction enough. Elmer snatched off his coat and waved it while shouting at us all to escape. The bull charged him and he leapt aside, just as I've imagined a matador must do. Twice more he faced the bull, each time drawing a little closer to a gate. He was yelling something, but it made no sense to me as I perched, horrified, atop the fence.
"With the bull's last furious charge, it collided head-on with one of the stout posts that supported a gate. Stunned, it paused long enough for two men to get behind it and, with prods, harry it into an adjacent pen. Elmer had leapt onto the fence, and the impact of the bull's charge dislodged him and he fell to the ground, fortunately outside the pen where the bull was. But he was uninjured.
"Not so young Colin, an apprentice stockman. The bull's horn had hooked him in the side on its first charge. All the while Elmer fought the bull, he lay in the dust of the pen, bleeding."
She saw his eyes close, and wondered if he was picturing other men lying in the dust, bleeding. Considering some of his shouts in the night, he'd seen more than his share.
"I had already learned much about treating wounds from Elmer and from our local midwife who often stood in place of a doctor for our workers and tenants. Such knowledge is essential to a farmer." Realizing she was attempting to distract herself, she forced herself to continue. "I was the first one to young Colin's side, and I used the knife he carried to cut his shirt open, to expose the wound. It was immediately obvious that the horn had entered his back just above his hipbone and had ripped through his flesh, tearing his britches."
She drew a deep breath, as the image of that horrible wound filled her mind. "Without thinking, I cut open his britches too, barring his backside."
What followed next was as indelibly imprinted upon her memory as the bull's attack.
"Elmer yelled, one of the other men snatched the knife from my hand, and a third one covered my eyes. Someone picked me up, slung me over his shoulder and, despite my struggles, carried me from the pen."
A Pitiful Remnant Page 7