Eva handed her the pennies. “Allow me to introduce Mr. Fitzallen. He owns the old ruin on Thatchers Road. He has taken residence there and needs to replace the items stolen from the house over time. Pots and such.”
She gave Mrs. Fleming a meaningful look, then sent a sharp glance to the pots that had attracted Mr. Fitzallen’s attention. They had appeared in the shop the morning after a day she crossed paths with Mrs. Fleming’s son on the road near the ruined house. He had been carrying a bulky sack on his back.
Mrs. Fleming bit her lower lip. “I’ve pots, sir, but only small ones, and they be used and old. You probably want better.”
“I think they will do for now.”
Glancing at Eva, Mrs. Fleming took them off the shelf and placed them on her counter. “For pots for stews and soups, you’ll be wanting the ironmonger at the edge of town. The whitesmith is out there, too, if you be wanting tin to store flour and such.”
“I will be sure to visit them. Thank you.” He added some knives and eating implements to the pots. He moved on to the lamps and candles, then to the shelves on the other side of the shop that held crockery.
Eva took the opportunity to whisper. “You just sold that man pots that are already his, I think.”
“What was I to do? Bits of that house are all over town. Who expected the owner to turn up after all these years of neglect?” She smiled at Mr. Fitzallen while he filled his arms. “What is a few pots, anyway. It isn’t as if I helped myself to chairs, now is it?” She lowered her head and looked up at Eva.
Eva preferred not to dwell on the chairs. At the time, it seemed to her they would be happier carted off than used for firewood by vagrants. “We must spread the word that those who borrowed from that house must return the items.”
“Unless they sold them, of course. Can’t then, can they?”
No, they couldn’t. She could not return the chairs. But if a line of townsmen brought back borrowed items, she might be able to return that which she had borrowed, too, without it attracting notice.
“I will spread the word, as you must also,” she whispered. “He may be related to a duke, but I think he will turn a blind eye to anyone bringing back his belongings, as long as they do find their way back.”
“Related to a duke! What is he wanting with you? Nothing good, I’ll warrant.”
Eva had no idea what he wanted with her, or if he wanted anything at all.
Mr. Fitzallen set the last of his items on the counter. “That will be all for now. I am sure as soon as I am not distracted by two lovely ladies, other essentials will occur to me, though.”
Eva all but rolled her eyes at the flattery. Mrs. Fleming glowed and, for an instant, she appeared twenty years younger.
“We can bring all of this to the house,” she offered. “My son will carry it.”
“How good of you. You have my appreciation.”
Mrs. Fleming giggled. “It is nothing, sir. Nothing.”
Eva took her leave while Mr. Fitzgerald paid. He caught up outside and strolled along as if he intended to spend the day in her shadow. To be polite she pointed out the lane to the church, although he showed more interest in two taverns they passed.
“It is an attractive town,” he said. “It appears prosperous.”
“Although there are old families in the area, out on land beyond, many who live here moved from Birmingham after they made their fortunes. In the early morning hours, you can see the men going to Birmingham on horse or in carriages. There are many new homes if you stroll the lanes, usually of good size. The assemblies are full of fine garments and jewels.”
“Industrialists? I doubt I will be well received. My experience has been that the newly prosperous are more critical than most about a person’s birth. My own is a mixed blessing. I am indeed related to dukes. In fact, I am a duke’s son. However, my mother was not his wife.”
He was a bastard.
An awkward lull passed while she sought some response. “Your birth will not signify, I believe,” she said. “I hope people will be enlightened enough to know better than to judge a person by things he does not control.”
“I am glad to know that there are some free thinkers in Langdon’s End, and feminine ones at that,” he said, then added, “I could not help but overhear your conversation with those other ladies outside Mr. Duran’s shop.”
Her face heated as the exchange with the sisters Neville repeated in her mind. “Perhaps I was wrong, and you are not a gentleman after all, if you eavesdrop on private conversations.”
“Hardly private. It rang through the town more clearly than a church bell.”
“I am sure you misunderstood what you heard.”
“Perhaps. However, so that you know me to be enlightened, too, I assure you that I also do not believe women should be sexual slaves. Unless they enjoy the role, of course.”
“While there are unfortunates who find themselves in that role, I am sure none of them enjoy it.”
He appeared about to debate the matter. She gave him a withering look. He retreated from the topic, but not from her company.
“My apologies,” he finally said. “I fear I have shocked you.”
“I suspect it amuses you to shock people, Mr. Fitzallen. If so, you will find my friendship quite lacking, since nothing shocks me.”
“Nothing? You are indeed enlightened.”
She hastened her steps. She heard a low laugh as his strides kept up.
She abruptly crossed the lane and led him to the door to Mr. Trevor’s office. “Mr. Trevor is an architect,” she explained as she pressed down on the latch. “He can advise you on workers, and help you far more than I ever can.”
Mr. Trevor, a young man with blond hair, spectacles, and an obsequious manner that Eva found irritating, jumped up from his chair when he saw her. She marched over to his massive desk strewn with drawings, and pointed to her companion. “Good day, Mr. Trevor. This is Mr. Fitzallen. He owns the old ruin and intends to rehabilitate it. He will need much advice and many references.”
The men greeted each other. Mr. Trevor turned his attention back to her. “I am grateful for the introduction, Miss Russell. I confess, however, that I had hoped you came about your own property.”
“I have already given my answer on that. Now, I will leave the two of you together and be about my business. Oh, and Mr. Trevor, could you let it be known that anyone who chances upon items removed from Mr. Fitzallen’s home should return them? There were many who thought it an abandoned house. In error, it appears.”
With that she strode out, before Mr. Fitzallen could find a way to take his leave as well.
* * *
Mr. Trevor watched the lady depart. A man’s appreciation showed in Trevor’s pale eyes.
“Miss Russell is quite self-possessed, is she not?” Gareth said. “I am fortunate she agreed to aid me as a newcomer.”
“She is also a formidable opponent, sometimes. Her weakness is she allows sentiment to at times govern what is a natural intelligence.” Trevor sank back into his chair. “I have a family that wants to purchase her property for a handsome sum. She will not sell. She will starve first, I fear.”
“She is from one of the old landed families, is she not? They are usually loathe to sell.”
“Oh, it is understandable. The Russells once owned five hundred acres, an unentailed freehold. But times being what they are . . . Her father sold much of the land, and her brother’s illness sent their situation into a steep decline, of course.” He spoke like Gareth knew all this. Gareth did nothing to indicate he did not. “She will sell eventually. She will have to. It will be for the best. She will do far better in a small house here in town.”
“I would not count on that happening soon, if it has not already. Once that legacy is gone, it is unlikely to be regained. Property is not easily or cheaply obtained in England. It is why your client wants hers.”
Trevor nodded absently, then focused his attention. “Just how bad is that house you have
? Is the roof sound at least?”
They spent the next half hour discussing Albany Lodge’s condition. Gareth left the office with an agreement that Trevor would visit in two days to assess the damage.
He paid a visit to the ironmonger, then walked back to the main lane and entered one of the taverns, the White Horse.
His appearance stopped conversation. Ten men stared at him in the silence. None of them were gentlemen. This, then, was the tavern favored by the longtime workers and tradesmen of Langdon’s End. The new residents, those industrialists building new homes, drank somewhere else.
He sat and called for an ale. The buzz of talk resumed. He took in the dark wood, timbered ceiling, and uneven plastered walls while he drank.
A young man of about twenty-five years, wearing a brown coat, loose pantaloons, and old-fashioned shoes, sidled over to his table and smiled so amiably all his teeth showed. “Are you the fellow who has taken the old lodge?”
“I am. How did you know?”
“All the talk, it is. How some gentleman from London is going to live there now. Mrs. Fleming told Harold there what you look like, so we figured it was you.” He laughed. “Funny, you don’t look mad.”
Gareth called for another ale for his interrogator. “I must be, though, to take on such a pile of stone, right?”
“Probably. Not that I’m one to judge. Best if someone takes it on, is how I see it.”
“And others don’t?”
The man shrugged.
Gareth gestured for the man to sit when the ale came. “What is your name?”
“Erasmus. Don’t laugh. My father had some odd notions. He sent me to school to learn my letters and numbers, another odd notion, so I guess I can live with the name.”
“My name is Gareth Fitzallen.”
Erasmus took a long drink of ale. “I know. Mrs. Fleming told Harold that too. Also that Miss Russell said anything taken from that house was to be returned.”
“Is anyone likely to listen to that?”
“Could be. Miss Russell is liked, in a respectful kind of way. She’s quality, but doesn’t talk down, like some can. And she has no bother with the new ones much.”
“The new residents are not liked as she is?”
“Nah. Noses higher than the queen’s, but their grandfathers were no better than me.” He drank again, then leaned over the table with a conspiratorial grin. “Few months ago, some of the new ones were in Mrs. Fleming’s shop and got very critical of the wares. This wasn’t good enough and that wasn’t of quality. Miss Russell was there and she told ’em to leave if they were so poorly bred as to not know when to speak and what to say.” He chuckled. “Word is their mouths fell open so far you could’ve seen their lungs.” He nodded. “She is true quality. Like you be. Maybe not so high as you, but a gentleman’s daughter.”
“What is your trade, Erasmus?”
Embarrassed, Erasmus raked his roughly cropped brown hair with his fingers. “My family were tenant farmers. Our place bordered the lake. Real nice land, that. The owner sold, though, and we were put out. Four generations we were there. Now there’s no crops but roses, and big houses full of the new ones. So my trade now is whatever comes along.” He smiled as a thought came to him. “I guess I’m a this-and-that monger.”
“As it happens, I need someone to do this and that.”
“Do ya now? Well, I’m your man. There’s not much this or that I can’t do.”
“Come to the house tomorrow. We will start with the this.” Gareth stood to go.
Erasmus looked across the tavern to the table where his fair-haired friend still sat. “Say, do you need others? Harold there was in the army during the war. Served an officer, he claims.”
“Tell him to come, too, if he is interested.”
After leaving the tavern, Gareth stopped by Mrs. Fleming’s shop to purchase one more item, then retrieved his horse from the stable and headed home.
Home. He had to smile at the word. In a manner of speaking, he had not had one since he was sent off to school as a boy. He rather liked that he did now, even if it was a derelict pile of rock.
Erasmus and Harold would be useful in many ways. They knew the town well, and its people. For example, they would know where Miss Russell lived.
CHAPTER 5
Rebecca carefully stitched together a sleeve by the light of the front window. Eva worked on the bodice so that she might fit it today.
“Have you heard from Sarah yet?” Rebecca asked without raising her head from her work.
“I only wrote two days ago. I do not expect an answer right away.”
“Do you think she will allow us to stay with her? I would so love to spend several days in Birmingham, and not just the odd day.”
“I think that she will.”
Sarah was the daughter of her mother’s sister, and older than Eva. That side of the family had never been close, probably because her father’s family had not approved of his marrying the daughter of a merchant. A wealthy merchant, to hear it, who could have bought and sold Papa three times over even in the best of times.
She kept up a sporadic exchange of letters with Sarah, so that all connection would not be lost. That did not mean Sarah would look kindly on her cousins asking to impose on her hospitality.
If Sarah begged off as expected, the rest of that stash of coins would have to be badly depleted to pay for an inn or a hotel, and they could only stay one night instead of two or three.
Eva shook out the bodice and admired the fabric. She had chosen well. It appeared fresh, but not too girlish. Rebecca would have objected if she were made to appear a schoolgirl in this new dress.
“Who is that?” Rebecca said.
Eva looked over to see her sister staring out the window. Rebecca stood and opened it so she could see clearly.
“Is it another of those strangers who have been about too much the last month?” Eva had seen another one crossing the field beyond their garden four days ago. He could have been a neighbor’s friend, of course. He was far enough away that perhaps he was not a stranger at all. Yet unease had prickled through her, much as it did with some of the unknown faces and figures dotting her world these days.
“He looks to be a gentleman, or a very wealthy man, and he is riding a big black horse and is quite dashing. Goodness, he is coming right to our door, I think!”
Eva walked over and peered out. She drew back quickly and shut the window, then looked around the library. “He is a new acquaintance of mine. I never expected him to call, however. Clear the fabric and notions off the divan. Quickly.”
Rebecca hurriedly scooped up her work and dumped it into the sewing basket. Eva tried to make the table where she sat more presentable, then turned the one chair to face the divan. She was thanking God that protective cloths draped the borrowed painting and her work in progress when the rap on the door echoed through the house.
She pointed to the divan. “Sit. We will give him the chair.”
“Who is he? How did you meet him? Why did you not tell me you had a new friend?” The questions tumbled out in a low voice.
Eva had no time to explain. She went to the door and opened it.
Mr. Fitzallen stood there in all his compelling splendor. She had convinced herself that she exaggerated his appearance in her mind, but no, she had not. At least she did not gawk or fluster this time.
“Mr. Fitzallen, how kind of you to visit. Please join us, and tell me what I can do for you.”
He entered and followed her into the library. “I have not come to impose on your helpfulness, Miss Russell. I was riding by and thought I would pay a social call.” He made a bow to her, then one to Rebecca, but he did not give her sister any special attention.
The same could not be said of Rebecca. Eyes wide and face slack, Rebecca appeared struck dumb. Just as I did several times now, Eva reminded herself.
“How generous of you, sir.” She introduced Rebecca, took a place on the divan, and invited Mr. Fitzallen to use t
he chair.
“Do your efforts progress well at the lodge?” she asked.
“Ever well, thank you. I hired two of the townsmen. One is proving skilled at repairs. The other was a batman in the army, and has begun organizing the household and serving as valet.”
“That must be Harold. He is an honest man.”
“As are many of Langdon End’s residents, I am learning. I now have three more chairs and two tables. They appeared outside the door yesterday morning, along with a basket of cutlery and several copper pails. I have you to thank for that, I believe.”
“I am relieved to hear some of the borrowed items were returned. I think more will be. Then you will not have to furnish the house completely.”
Rebecca’s big eyes turned on her at mention of borrowed items. Eva ignored her.
“I welcome that. Mr. Trevor visited and drew up a list of major repairs. Today I rode the property, to see what was what there.”
“If you have been riding long, you must need refreshment. I can only offer water, but it is from a good spring.” She stood. “I will go and bring some for you.”
He was on his feet as soon as she. “Allow me. The day is fair. Do you have a garden?”
“Yes, a very nice one.”
As he turned to walk around the table, Mr. Fitzallen saw the paint box. His gaze went to the walls, and two of her paintings that decorated them. He paced over to one, casting a distressingly interested glance at the shrouded canvas on the easel. He squinted at the landscape on the wall.
“Which of you is the artist?”
“I dabble,” Eva said. “They are just an amateur’s whimsy.” No one ever bought her own paintings. Several had been in Mr. Stevenson’s shop for years.
“A very good amateur,” he said.
“How kind. Thank you.” Eva led the way toward the back of the house. “Come along, Rebecca.”
“Do you mind if I do not?” Rebecca responded. “I will read my book here, if it will not be thought rude.”
“You have been reading for hours,” Eva said pointedly, locking her gaze on her sister’s. “The day is fair and fresh air will do you good.”
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