‘The legislation was not approved?’ Mrs Merrill enquired, recalling his attention.
‘No, unfortunately. Conservatives argued that the government employing former soldiers or trying to alleviate the distress of displaced farmers or factory workers, by interfering with freedom of trade and the individual’s liberty to choose a position himself, would end up only exacerbating the distress.’
‘All well and fine to talk of freedom of choice when one has alternatives,’ Mrs Merrill said bitterly. ‘But when want is staring one in the face…I can understand why some might feel forced to more drastic measures. Did the more conservative men not see that by giving desperate people no hope, they might bring about exactly the sort of unrest they wished to avoid?’
Ned imagined she was recalling her own predicament, stripped of her position by her aristocratic employer with little cash and no place to go. How could she help but sympathise with the radicals? He must keep watch, to make sure no one played upon those sympathies to her detriment.
‘Some men of power and influence, keenly aware of the difficult situation in the countryside, are actively working to improve conditions. But I agree, there is still much to be done. One can only hope that in the interim, no such violent disaffection develops. Should you hear anything further, I would appreciate it if you alerted me. If there are murky doings afoot, I want to be able to protect Blenhem Hill’s people.’
‘I know you would do anything to protect those under your care,’ she avowed, looking up at him with an expression he hoped was respect and admiration.
‘Especially the pretty ladies under my care,’ he said, smiling at her. How he would like to protect her…and more, he thought, all discussion of politics fading as his mind fired with the images of what he might do for and to her.
‘Am I…under your care?’ she asked softly, leaning towards him, her face uplifted, her full moist lips almost inviting a kiss.
Under him—ah, that would be a fine position, he thought, digging his nails into his palms to resist the innocent allure of those lips.
A virtuous matron who’d loved her husband, she couldn’t know what her subtle scent and the proximity of that lush, pouting mouth did to him.
But he’d vowed to her that he didn’t pursue women under his protection, as she was, and he meant to keep that promise. Even if it meant he had to take a dip in the icy brook every night to cool the fevered imaginings engendered by the knowledge that she slept down the hall, only a few dozen steps from his bedchamber.
Wrapped in a soft linen night rail—or clothed only in her auburn hair? Enough! He stifled a groan and hauled back on the reins of imagination. He could use an icy dip right now.
‘Absolutely,’ he affirmed, moving away from her. ‘Now, shall you have some of this ham before I devour it all? Since you’ve finished your work here, I can escort you back to the manor before heading on to the Anderson farm.’
She sat back too, an odd look—he’d almost call it disappointment—in her eyes. But then, she kept his senses in such a continual uproar that he’d hardly be able to tell a duck from a goose, much less guess the tenor of her thoughts.
Perhaps, rather than wondering if she was willing to be kissed, he’d do better to put some distance between them. ‘While you finish up and pack the basket, I’ll speak to the workmen and hitch the horse to the trap.’
‘If that is what you desire,’ she murmured, turning her face away.
If she only knew what he desired! No—better that she did not. Reluctantly he rose and made himself walk away from her.
Protect his tenants from becoming involved in dangerous mischief indeed, he thought, disgusted with himself. Just the hint that Mrs Merrill might be ripe for kissing and his concern about the disturbing report she’d just given him had gone clean out of his head.
He’d better remind himself again of the reason he was masquerading as his own estate agent. After he’d escorted Mrs Merrill home and stopped by the Anderson farm, he’d go into town and see what he could discover about one Sergeant Russell.
The sky was darkening and it was not yet dinnertime when Ned pulled up his mount before the Hart and Hare in the village of Hazelwick. The information Mrs Merrill had given him today had spurred him to make immediately the visit he’d been planning for several days.He’d always found it a wise practice for the estate owner to pay frequent visits to the public house in the villages near his properties. ’Twas here that the country people gathered to lift a tankard of home-brewed, gossip, and glean news about the country roundabout as well from more distant metropolises from the travellers stopping at the coaching inn.
In addition to which, it was the practice of the Society of Spencean Philanthropists to meet in small groups at local public houses. If Hazelwick contained such a group, he might hear something about it during his visit to the Hart and Hare.
As he walked into the taproom, deserted at this early hour before the end of the workday and the arrival of the evening mail coach, he was greeted by the savoury smell of roast and a broad, red-faced man with a shock of sandy hair. Taking the latter to be the proprietor, Ned held out his hand. ‘Mr Kirkbride? I’m Ned Greaves, the new estate agent at Blenhem Hill.’
‘Jonathan Kirkbride,’ the man replied, giving Ned’s hand a firm shake. ‘Welcome to the Hart and Hare, Mr Greaves! Old Martin told us Lord Englemere had sent out a new manager. The whole business happened so quick, didn’t know until two days ago that the former agent had left. Took his foreman with him, too, I understand.’
The girl behind the bar sniffed. ‘Good riddance to bad rubbish, that one.’
‘Mr Barksdale wasn’t much liked hereabouts, I’m hearing,’ Ned said.
‘Very true,’ the innkeeper agreed. ‘But Martin is already singing your praises, sir. And not just Martin! Tanner said you’ve engaged him to repair the stonework on several of the cottages at Blenhem—for a very fine wage. Employing carpenters and blacksmiths, too, I hear. Good for the workers hereabout and even better for my business!’ Kirkbride declared with a laugh.
‘Good for everyone, I would hope,’ Ned said, smiling back.
‘Sit yourself down, sir,’ Kirkbride urged. ‘Mary, bring Mr Greaves a mug! Won’t you stay and sample my wife Peg’s roast? ’Tis not a better cook to be found in the county!’
‘Thank you, I should like that,’ Ned said. ‘Before I take my ease, though, I have an errand to discharge. Mary, isn’t it?’ he asked, walking over to the barmaid.
Giving him a frankly appraising glance, the girl curtsied. ‘Aye, sir, I’m Mary.’
Ned flipped a gold coin on to the bar. ‘This is from Mrs Merrill—the new mistress for the school we are establishing. She told me how helpful you were to her the night she came to Hazelwick. To my great regret, there was some confusion about the date of her arrival, else I would have had a gig waiting to meet her. I appreciate your directing her to Blenhem Hill.’
For a moment the girl goggled at the shiny coin before snatching it up and tucking it into her ample cleavage. ‘Glad to help. Unlike some—’the barmaid looked over to the innkeeper, whose face reddened ‘—I knew right away she was a lady.’
‘Just heard from Martin you meant to start a school for the tenants. Very sorry I am about the misunderstanding with the mistress!’ Kirkbride added quickly. ‘Being as I didn’t know Mr Anders were gone, and seeing how he had, ah, ladies sent out regular, naturally I thought she was another one of his women. ’Twas an honest mistake.’
‘Oh, naturally,’ the barmaid muttered. ‘Travelling alone, she must be a doxy.’
Giving Mary a sharp glance, the innkeeper said, ‘Please offer the lady—Mrs Merrill, is it?—my apologies and tell her I’ll be happy to stand her a mug of ale and a good dinner, next time she comes to the village. Wouldn’t want any hard feelings between the Hart and Hare and the household at Blenhem Hill,’ he added, obviously impressed by Ned’s gold and anxious not to give offence to one capable of such largesse.
‘An unfor
tunate mistake,’ Ned agreed.
‘Ah, here’s my Peg with your dinner. Hope you enjoy it, Mr Greaves.’
‘Nice to have your custom, sir,’ the innkeeper’s wife said, setting a steaming plate of roast and potatoes before him, her face red from the heat of the kitchen. ‘There, now, tuck into it.’
‘Thank you, ma’am. It smells delicious.’
‘You be new to the county, ain’t you?’ she asked. ‘Where d’you hail from?’
‘Kent, ma’am.’
‘Very good eye for the land, my brother tells me. Tim Johnston, he is. Farms a hundred acres of wheat for Lord Englemere, out past the Redman place. He says you’re looking to hire more men to repair cottages and build some new barns.’
‘That’s right, ma’am. Mr Kirkbride,’ Ned said, turning to address the innkeeper, ‘I’d be much obliged if you’d let your patrons know that any man who’s looking for work can apply at Blenhem Hill. There are a number of farms vacant and I’d like to get more fields under cultivation as soon as possible.’
‘Aye, many men left their farms to look for work in the mills in Manchester,’ Mrs Kirkbride said. ‘Who could blame ’em, what with enclosures gobbling up the common lands and rents going up and up like they was? Don’t know as they’ve fared any better in the city, though.’
‘Times are hard,’ Ned agreed, choosing his words carefully. ‘Makes a man angry, working all day and still being hard put to feed his children.’
‘Some be more ’n angry,’ she said.
‘Now, Peg, leave the man be to eat his dinner,’ the innkeeper inserted hastily. ‘That’s my Peg, talk the ear off a donkey, she would. Just like some of them men. All talk, but we don’t want no trouble here like they had at Loughborough.’
Loughborough, outside Manchester, where last summer, Ned recalled, a group of Luddites had attacked Boden’s mill, smashing the knitting machines. Troops had been called out, a number of men apprehended and tried. Six had been hanged and three more transported.
‘Any likelihood of trouble like that here?’ he asked.
The innkeeper gave his wife a sharp glance before saying, ‘Men talk, that’s all. Ah, there be the squire come in. Peg, best get you back to your kitchen. Excuse me, sir.’ With a nod to Ned, the innkeeper hurried off to greet his new customer.
So there was something afoot here, Ned mused, reading between the lines of what the couple had said. At least a group of malcontents meeting to talk. Although, if those who attacked his carriage had been local men, obviously some of them were ready to do more than exchange words.
Several more patrons entered, working men and farmers by their dress, keeping the innkeeper and the barmaid busy with their orders. Ned finished his meal in silence, then took his dishes up to the bar.
‘Another mug, Mr Greaves?’ Mary asked as she loaded up a tray full of ale.
‘Thank you, no. Best be getting back to Blenhem Hill.’
She threw a glance across the room to the innkeeper, who was still waiting on the squire. ‘A group meets most every evening,’ she said in a murmur almost inaudible under the hubbub of chatter. ‘Forbes, Harris, Matthews are the leaders. Don’t hire anyone with those names. Hotheads they are, more ready to find a grievance than do an honest day’s work.’
‘Forbes, Harris and Matthews,’ Ned repeated. No mention of Sergeant Jesse Russell, he noted. ‘I’ll remember the names. Thank you, Mary.’
‘You seem like a decent sort. Generous, too,’ she added with a flirtatious look. ‘You get lonely some night out at Blenhem Hill, I’d be agreeable to offering you a bit of companionship.’ She gave him a wink.
Ah, that it were Mrs Merrill leaning towards him with that come-and-get-me look! Attractive as she was, Mary didn’t tempt him at all…unlike a certain auburn-haired, green-eyed school mistress. Stifling a smile, Ned said, ‘That’s…neighbourly of you, Mary.’
She grinned. ‘Be happy to be “neighbourly” to a fine-looking gentleman like you, Mr Greaves. Tell Mrs Merrill I’m glad she made it safely to Blenhem Hill.’
‘I’ll tell her,’ Ned promised. ‘For the ale and my dinner,’ he said, laying some coins on the bar.
The innkeeper bustled over. ‘Nay, Mr Greaves, none of that! Tonight is our welcome to you. By the way, I should introduce you to the squire. Second only to Lord Englemere at Blenhem Hill, he farms more acres than any other property owner in the county.’
‘I’d be honoured,’ Ned said, always glad to meet a fellow agriculturalist.
He followed Kirkbride to a table at which sat a portly man stylishly appointed in a tight-fitting bottle-green coat over fawn Inexpressibles, his beefy hand curled around a pint of ale as he chatted with a party of friends. Shooting coats tossed negligently over the backs of their chairs and rifles stacked by the entry proclaimed the group must have spent the day hunting.
‘Excuse me, Squire Abernathy,’ the innkeeper said. ‘May I present to you a newcomer in the county? Mr Greaves is Lord Englemere’s new agent at Blenhem Hill.’
The squire tossed Ned an indifferent look. ‘Greaves.’ He acknowledged Ned with a nod before shifting his attention back to the innkeeper. ‘Kirkbride, where is that extra mug? Here I’ve been boasting all day about the excellence of your home-brewed and my friend Haslitt here is about to expire of thirst. And my roast?’
‘Indeed, I feel I shall perish,’ his friend exclaimed, looking past Ned as if he were a piece of the furniture.
‘Right away, sir,’ the innkeeper said, bowing low. ‘Mary! Where are those mugs?’ he called as he hurried off to the kitchen.
‘Coming!’ The barmaid slipped around Ned, brushing her arm against his as she passed, then bending low over the table as she unloaded her cargo of mugs, giving Ned a wink as she offered him an excellent view of her impressive cleavage.
Ignoring his mug, Haslitt stared bug-eyed at the display, practically salivating. ‘If you’d told me there was such a pretty wench here, Abernathy, we’d have put up our guns hours ago.’
‘Know just where you want to put up that gun,’ another of the friends said, setting all three off into a guffaws of laughter.
‘Come, my lovely, have a seat and entertain us,’ Haslitt said, trying to pat the barmaid on her bottom.
Evading his hand, she said brightly, ‘Sorry, gentlemen, but the room is full. Old Kirkbride will send me packing if I don’t keep all the tables served.’
Brushing past Ned again, she murmured, ‘Come back again, Mr Greaves. Soon.’
As she trotted off, the squire and his friends resumed their conversation, leaving Ned standing in the middle of the floor. Shock at first held him immobile; never had he been treated so slightingly.
Welcome to the status of farm agent, he told himself, amusement tinged with an edge of dislike replacing his initial surprise. An estate owner who tended his land as he ought, Ned reflected, his opinion of the squire plummeting, cultivated a close working relationship with the managers of all the surrounding properties, regardless of their rank.
‘Nice to meet you, too, Squire Abernathy,’ he murmured under his breath.
But as he turned to exit the room, he noticed the tall, slim figure of a man standing just inside the entrance to the Hart and Hare. Simply garbed in the frieze coat, breeches and boots of a farmer, his upright stance and squared shoulders announced his former profession as eloquently as the empty sleeve pinned to his breast.
This had to be the sergeant Mrs Merrill had told him about, Ned thought, wondering if he should confront the man directly and introduce himself.
But as he was poised to walk towards the newcomer, he realised Sergeant Russell’s gaze wasn’t scanning the patrons, searching for a convivial group to join, or observing with curiosity the squire’s boisterous table. Instead, his whole attention was riveted on the swaying figure of the barmaid as she wove her way back to the bar.
Of course, Ned thought, suppressing a smile, the amply endowed and friendly Mary was well worth a man’s scrutiny. His amusement faded, tho
ugh, as a look of longing, regret and some darker emotion Ned couldn’t identify passed across the Sergeant’s unguarded face. With a grimace, he clenched his one thumbless hand into a fist.
Something more than casual lust was at work, Ned felt certain. Was it significant that Mary had not mentioned Russell when she had warned him about the group that met here?
Uncomfortable as he felt about blatantly observing the man, nonetheless Ned made himself sidle behind the squire’s table next to the wall where he could unobtrusively watch the Sergeant.
He probably needn’t have worried about remaining inconspicuous. Totally oblivious to Ned’s scrutiny, Jesse Russell blew out a breath, set his jaw and stomped past the squire’s table towards the barmaid.
Mary reached the bar and set down her tray. As she looked back and saw the man approaching, she started, her lips opening in a gasp. For an instant she darted a hand forwards as if in supplication, almost knocking over one of the mugs on her tray, then quickly thrust the hand back at her side. Pain came and went in her eyes before she lifted her chin, a defiant, almost mocking look on her face as she waited for Sergeant Russell.
So the two were definitely acquainted—more than acquainted, by the fierceness of the Sergeant’s gaze, though apparently they’d had some sort of lovers’ quarrel.
Despite that, was she still involved with the soldier? Was she trying to protect him by not revealing his name as one of the disaffected group who met at the Hart and Hare?
Or was Ned merely making a great nothing out of a simple tiff between a man more enamoured than he should be of a light-virtued lady who did not appreciate his possessiveness?
Nonetheless, still feeling the voyeur, he continued to watch them, though the babble of voices in the public house made it impossible for him to overhear their conversation.
Resting his hand on the bar, the soldier leaned towards her and spoke urgently, his whole body radiating tension. Mary drew back and tossed her head, as if dismissing his words—or warning—then glanced purposefully in Ned’s direction.
The look was so unexpected Ned barely had time to swivel his gaze towards the squire’s table, as if he were following the ongoing discussion there. Relieved she hadn’t caught him spying on them, he continued to watch obliquely, his face angled slightly away from them. Still, he had no trouble reading the anger in the gesture the Sergeant made towards him before the man turned back to the barmaid, who seemed to be merely hearing him out, her face impassive.
From Waif to Gentleman's Wife Page 9