Will was moved by such profuse gratitude and sincerity, even though he was ashamed to admit to himself that he could not summon a memory of Mr. Young. Perhaps if he saw Mrs. Young, that might spur a recollection.
After Mr. Young had spoken his piece, several more people came forward, declaring their thanks to him. Among these, there was one woman who thanked him for nursing her daughter through an infected cut on her leg. An elderly man who said his wife had passed much more peacefully thanks to the tincture he had prescribed to ease her pain.
He vaguely remembered him.
Their actions were most surprising. He didn’t know what to make of it. Had Miss Copperweld heard wrong? Had Jane? Perhaps all really was as it should be.
Suddenly, a wizened, disappointed voice spoke up from within the throng.
“Many of us knew you as a kind, compassionate man, Lord Ainsworth, as your father was before you. God rest his soul. Why have you left us to suffer? You impose on us all such a burden! And for what reason?”
“What do you mean?” Will found his voice, although he could not see who spoke. Whoever he was, he was still obscured by the small sea of faces.
“Your taxes, Your Grace. They are too high. Much too high. If we did not hold your father in such high esteem, and we did not hope that you would be the same kind of man as he… most of us would have quit the village. Or tried to, if we were able.”
The slight old man who slipped past the shoulders of the taller and broader villagers was very well known to Will.
I knew that I remembered his voice!
His name was Thomas Croft. Croft had been, and was still, the village apothecary. Will had worked with Croft in tending Brookfield’s people before his departure to Salamanca and subsequent return to England. He had learned much about folk remedies, as well as more scientific applications, from the man, who was already elderly when they’d first made each other’s acquaintance. Due to his age, suspected Will, Croft was always one to speak frankly and without fear of repercussions. It was not a bad characteristic.
There was never a time that Will had appreciated his blunt talk more than this very moment. He took a deep breath as though he were about to dive headfirst into very deep, cold water. It’s now or never, he thought. He knew that Jane and Miss Copperweld could hear the entire exchange from the carriage behind him, which Jensen had parked just inside the small, currently crowded village square.
Will did not want to give the appearance that he anticipated the need for a hasty retreat, but all the same, he did not want to be far from his conveyance.
Miss Copperweld, of course, had agreed heartily to staying obscured within it.
“Mr. Croft,” began Will. “That is the very reason I have come.”
This garnered raised eyebrows and more mumbling, but everyone who had assembled waited for him to continue.
“Listen to me, all of you. Your liege lord hid when he should never have secluded himself.”
Croft considered him squarely, looking without any trepidation at his face as though he were searching for the exact young man he had met so many years ago.
Will could have told him that young man might as well have been dead.
“With respect, it does seem as though you had reason to.”
Will did not keep a smile from his face. Croft’s was a succinct summation. “That might be true, but I should have paid better attention to those to whom I hold a responsibility. I let fear and shame get the better of me. But what I am most of all is a physician and, I suppose, a duke. I should have behaved more like both, and not like a coward.”
“You have suffered much,” was all Croft said.
Brushing that aside, for he had not come to Brookfield for sympathy or to make excuses, Will said without preamble, “I only heard yesterday that half of all your earnings were being taken from you.”
He prayed his sincerity was genuine and did not come off like playacting. Thus far, from his vantage point, he could barely spot a few specific expressions of pity and others of wariness.
No one seemed angry. Yet.
He pressed on, keeping his voice steady and loud. “I have told my steward to meet me here because I wanted to address as many people as I could publicly. To my knowledge, I was collecting, in most cases, a tenth of your respective incomes, with the bulk of that collective sum being devoted to the upkeep of the village and its surrounding lands.”
With a sinking heart, however, he could see—since he was now in Brookfield during the day and not under the moonlight—that even that comparatively small amount of money was not being used for its proper purpose. Plaster crumbled, the cobblestones cracked more than they ever should have, and weeds were sprouting through roofs, bright patches of green amidst the dull brown shingles.
“You lie, Lord Ainsworth!” cried a man in the crowd. “How can you not know the amount that enters your own coffers?”
An older man with an enormous nose cautioned, “Hold your tongue, Brom Copperweld. You should not speak to the duke in that manner!”
“Why not? He’s done badly by us. Duke of Sorrow, indeed.”
The name “Brom Copperweld” struck Will like a blow, and he looked hurriedly in the direction of the belligerent speaker. It was a bear of a man with the ruddy skin and spread, bulbous nose of someone who was dependent on drink. Had Augusta not explained who her father was, Will would never have guessed they were related at all. Even apart from the ill effects of his vice, they had no coloring in common, few shared features.
Will would have called him out then and there, but a small uproar at the back of the gathered throng caused too much of a distraction.
Everyone parted after some jostling, and a man was pushed into the open space where Will stood, torn between fury directed at Brom Copperweld and confusion that the villagers were not treating him as the monstrosity he was convinced they saw him as. For they were not moving toward him with menace. They were, the best he could glean, bringing someone to him. Incensed words and noises met his ears.
“Think he can get away with it…”
“Mr. Milton…”
“The steward? My word…”
“Bag all packed…”
The man they shoved before him was none other than Milton Benedict, his steward. At the moment, Benedict was nothing more than a shivering bundle of limbs, such was his agitation.
“What is this?” asked Will.
A short, stocky lad who was no more than sixteen said, “We caught him sneaking that way with his bags.” He wiped his nose with his hand and grinned. “Think he might have been trying to get away with something, don’t you, Your Grace?”
Aghast, Will managed to query, “And who are you, then?”
The lad grinned even more widely and doffed an invisible hat. There was an enormous gap between his teeth. “Silas, Lord Ainsworth. I’m a hostler round the inn. He was trying to steal one of the horses in my care, and that was how we caught him.” The second, dark-featured man who had Benedict in hand seemed to be no more exerted than if he’d been swatting at a fly.
To be fair, it was easy. Miss Copperweld could have managed it. The steward was, in a word, scrawny, having lived a sedentary life behind a desk consulting his ledgers.
At once, Will comprehended what had happened. I gave him too much oversight and independence, and he took advantage of it. He flinched. There had been enough opportunities, that was for certain. He did not always work directly with the man, after all. He thought there was no reason to keep such a tight rein.
He thought back to the day when Benedict had been so disapproving of the way he’d ceded to Jane over Miss Copperweld’s stay. The steward had not been concerned with the established social order.
He’d been worried that Jane might leverage more influence over Will.
Will couldn’t personally see what threat she might pose, but to a man who was interested in pilfering coin under an unsuspecting nose, anyone could be viewed as a challenge. It was, reasoned Will, much easier
to steal from a man—even a duke—who was isolated and without any external counsel. Benedict had most likely thought that there was a slim chance that the duke might involve his matronly aunt in his financial affairs eventually, seeing as she was his only remaining family and had experience running a household.
And Benedict had been subtle about it. He had not stolen everything at once. He had whittled away at it for weeks.
It was not the first time Will had been wrong about something but, hopefully, it would be the last time he misjudged someone’s character so badly.
Miss Copperweld and Jane had asked the correct question. Did he trust his steward?
He had placed his trust in the man and until he now stood before his tenants, who were now jeering at Benedict, he foolishly hoped that there was an innocent explanation for all the trouble. A misunderstanding. An unfair rumor.
Will had simply not thought Benedict capable of such deceit, not because he was convinced the man was a saint, but because the man never struck him as terribly insidious.
He liked to see the best in people and, more than that, he’d been overwhelmed when he hired Benedict. If there were really any tells as to his true character, he had missed them entirely.
Now, I know that I have been too naive, thought Will, watching him through narrowed eyes.
“Speak up, man. Have you been robbing my tenants?” Will’s gaze bored into Benedict until he squirmed. “Not to mention me?”
The steward launched himself at Will, somehow freeing himself from his captors, worming his way out of their grips.
Silas was visibly disgusted with the groveling.
“It was wrong of me, Lord Ainsworth. Terribly wrong,” Benedict blubbered. Will stepped out of his reach, and Silas took the opportunity to dash forward and collar Benedict again.
“Why did you do it?”
“Why does anyone do anything, Your Grace? I needed the money. We are not all born to privilege.”
“You could have done a very wide range of things before resorting to stealing from hardworking people,” observed Will dryly. “I’m not nearly as concerned with myself, although I have to tell you that committing fraud against a duke will be the thing that grabs the magistrate’s attention.”
The crowd erupted in curses and an angry din.
A muscled man with a scar through his left eyebrow yelled, “Give him to me, Lord Ainsworth! I’ll see that he’s dealt with!”
Will was almost tempted, but knew it was not the right way of things.
An old woman who must have been well past her seventieth year nodded. “Let Quick Peter have him, Your Grace. Look at the state of the square, of the roads. He took coin that was supposed to better Brookfield!”
Then and there, Will knew he did not want to ask why “Quick Peter” was known as such. Not when he was built like a boulder, had that scar, and such a wicked scowl.
The gaggle of villagers would have descended upon Benedict in fury, but for Will’s quick intervention.
“I understand why you are all angry. But this man shall be taken to the courts,” he called over their noise. “It is not for us to decide his fate.” He nodded to Silas meaningfully. “See that he is held captive until the magistrate comes. I will send word. It may take a while for him to arrive, unfortunately.”
A rotund woman with leathery skin shouted, “Lord Ainsworth, will we have reparations?” She was on tiptoe to see Will, and she met his eyes beseechingly.
“Indeed, you all shall,” said Will. “And I shall send men to the village to assess and repair what has been neglected.”
Amidst the surprised but approving mutters, Benedict was taken away, happily dragged by Silas and his unnamed companion.
However, Will was not finished righting recent wrongs. “Seize Mr. Brom Copperweld, too,” he said coldly. “He is wanted for beating and abusing his daughter on countless occasions.”
“You cannot have me carted off like a thief,” Copperweld fired back. “I suffer so because my daughter has eloped with a man. How can you accuse me of beating her? Who has come to you with such tales? Who is your witness?” He was nearly spitting with rage. “Ask them, Lord Ainsworth. Ask anyone.” He looked around haughtily at his compatriots, none of whom would meet his eyes, but looked instead at Will. “I have been looking all over for the ungrateful lass for three weeks, now, and seen neither hide nor hair of her.”
Croft spoke up again, with the lines in his aged face deeply etched with disdain. “Do not listen to him, Your Grace. I have tended to Augusta Copperweld’s wounds numerous times. None have been accidental. I just did not know how to help further.”
“He lies, Your Grace.”
“The only time I noticed you looking for her, you stumbled into my shop foxed and knocked over a set of my scales,” said Croft to Copperweld. “You did not seem overly concerned with her whereabouts and bothered only to ask if I had seen her in passing.”
Quick Peter added, “I reckon I’ve seen your sorry face more times in The Golden Goose than I have wandering the streets looking for your girl.”
The Golden Goose? thought Will. It must be a drinking den. It’s not the inn.
Then a young, blonde woman came forward. Her voice trembled, but she spoke clearly enough. “I shall bear witness against you, Mr. Copperweld.” She swallowed. “I seen Augusta after you beat her. We was both hired to clean Mr. White’s house after his wife passed. I should have said something long before now, Heaven help me. Perhaps you have killed her and thrown her corpse away.” She would not or could not look at Copperweld, but she darted cornflower blue-eyed glances at Will, who tried not to appear too intimidating when she looked at him. He did not know if his attempt was successful, but she added one last insult to the raving man. “I knew you were the lowest scum from the very first day you leered at me down the tavern.”
“Foolish girl. I am telling you, my daughter has run off with a man! She wrote me a letter herself. I can show you.” Copperweld produced a stained, rumpled piece of paper from his pocket to complete the charade.
Will had had enough. “Hold your tongue, Mr. Copperweld. I hardly think—”
“Father, stop.”
Will turned as Miss Copperweld stepped out of the carriage, looking resplendent in one of his aunt’s gowns of amethyst linen. In that moment, when she smiled at him with gratitude and tears in her eyes, he knew he was smitten.
But such matters were not to be discussed at present.
The throng, which was comprised of many people who presumably knew Augusta by sight if not any more deeply than that, gasped almost as one.
“Is she not your daughter?” Will asked Copperweld, who was struggling against the two strapping young men who had come forward and taken it upon themselves to keep him present. Will nodded to both of them in thanks. They looked like laborers, and were surely built like they were used to hard work.
Without missing a breath, Copperweld’s tone became simpering, and although he did not stop struggling entirely, he stilled somewhat.
“Oh, she is back! Where have you found my beloved girl?”
He shammed what he must have thought was a gratified expression but, in truth, looked like perplexity. Besides, there was no mistaking the malice deep in his eyes. Here was a man who, if he had not always, now delighted in petty cruelty.
Miss Copperweld had none of it and responded before Will could.
She marched right up to her father and looked at him with sadness and utter disgust on her face.
Will was incandescently proud of her.
“You may call me your daughter no longer,” she said. “I will not stand idly by and listen to you spin lies about our relationship, or about me… especially not when fellow villagers have just testified to the fact that you are violent.” She thrust her chin upwards and gazed at him directly. “If I were you, I would prepare better for my time in court. No one will buy what you have just tried to sell.”
Copperweld went wild, and Will stepped between the two of
them. Even the ominous scowl of the marred duke did not stop his ravings, and his young captors redoubled their efforts to keep him within their grasps.
“You stupid little slut! You’d dare to let them take me?” He scoffed. “I should have killed you long ago. You are not my own daughter, not my flesh and blood!” He tried to nudge his way over Will’s shoulder and although he could not, he continued to shout at her. “Do you hear me? Your bitch of a mother was untrue to me.”
“Even if she was,” Miss Copperweld fired back, holding her ground even in spite of her pale face, “I can see why she might have been!”
“What a thing to say about your own mother!”
“You keep her out of this,” said Miss Copperweld, brimming with fury.
“She would be ashamed of you and your wanton ways.”
It was, Will knew, completely nonsensical for him to say, seeing as he by all accounts did not allow his daughter to maintain any time of her own. He also had little doubt that Copperweld was grasping for things to say that would hurt Augusta, so even the veracity of the claim that she was illegitimate was debatable.
Miss Copperweld took a steeling breath and said, “I cannot reason with a madman. Better a bastard than your daughter.”
Spellbound, the villagers began to talk amongst themselves at that. The blue-eyed, blonde-haired woman who’d spoken up against Copperweld nodded her head curtly as though in agreement.
Copperweld spat at his daughter and missed. The sickly, green-flecked spittle landed with a wet splat on the cobblestone near her right shoe, one of a pair of soft, umber boots that Jane could no longer wear because she said they hurt her knees.
“Enough,” said Will, his face mere inches from Copperweld’s. He hoped he looked his fiercest. “Or I will run you through myself. But first, I shall cut out your lying and disrespectful tongue if it continues to wag.”
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