Winning Miss Winthrop

by Carolyn Miller

  He eyed his young cousin as Winthrop’s estate manager continued espousing other cost-saving measures. Jon’s brain might work for financial matters, but the ins and outs of farming were beyond him. They seemed beyond Peter, too, but the boy had at last realized the need to at least be aware, even if he might never plow in himself.

  After extensive discussions between Avebury’s most interested stakeholders, a three-pronged solution had been offered to save the historic estate: to sell what could be sold, rent out available land and encourage greater productivity amongst the tenant farmers, and open the house and grounds for tours. Such plans were approved wholeheartedly by Mr. Whittington and Mr. Trelling, and more reluctantly by Clothilde’s solicitor, Mr. Bantry. Peter, whom Jonathan had urged—no, demanded—be privy to the discussions, had been forced to see the magnitude of Avebury’s problems, his wide-eyed silence as figures and the naming of huge sums of capital were tossed around, proving just how much he was out of his depth. So Jon had begun Peter’s education the way he had learned to survive in India: in deep waters.

  “Thank you, Clipshom. I’m sure Peter is feeling not a little overwhelmed by now.”

  “Well, it’s a right shame nobody did open your eyes to seeing how badly managed this property was.” Clipshom eyed Peter firmly. “Anyone would think you’d never seen it before.”

  “Lord Winthrop—that is, Uncle Walter—he used to show me around …” His voice trailed away uncertainly.

  “There be a world of difference between being shown around and caring enough to know when your steward is being lazy.” Mr. Clipshom sighed, and shook his head. “To think no one from the big house has visited these fields in years!”

  “Any successful business requires thorough knowledge of a multitude of factors,” Jon said. “And the ability and diligence of one’s workers is a mightily important one.”

  Peter nodded, his expression could only be described as glum.

  “So really, it depends on you,” Jon continued. “How much do you want Avebury to succeed? Because if you, Clothilde, and Elizabeth are prepared to invest a great deal of hard work, then I believe that the estate can be saved. If not, then it will prove to be an elephant-sized burden on your shoulders, one under which you may well collapse.”

  “I still don’t understand why you can’t give us a lump sum,” Peter muttered.

  “Because it will never be simply one lump sum. Unless you become cognizant of the details of running such an estate, you will be requesting a similar sized lump sum on a regular basis, and I would much rather invest in things that will prove of greater benefit than simply propping up an old edifice.”

  Peter’s eyes widened. “Mother will think you don’t care for Avebury.”

  “She may, and frankly, it would be true.”

  His cousin’s jaw dropped.

  Jon worked to soften his tone. “Perhaps if I had been brought up here I would care more. The house possesses a certain charm, and with its unique history, I do think it could prove quite a draw for visitors, especially given its location so close to London. As I said to your mother and aunt, many of the big houses, like Derbyshire’s Chatsworth, are open to the public upon occasion. With some inexpensive attention and tidying up of gardens, there is no reason why people would not choose to visit Avebury as well.”

  “You really think so?”

  “I do. But I repeat: I remain unwilling to prop up bad debt with good.”

  The hope filling his cousin’s face faded, his features twisting in a frown.

  “His lordship has the way of it,” said Clipshom. “And if your tenant farmers improve their farming practices, it will see increased yields, which means increased income from rents.”

  “And if you are not responsible for the upkeep of small holdings you do not care for, then your energies can be devoted to ensuring this house survives for future generations,” Jon reiterated.

  As they continued to ride around the property Jon was reminded again of the importance of wise investments, of planning for the future, of ensuring assets were properly maintained. To reverse such damage could prove ruinous to a man’s finances. Things left undone for too long only demanded a price too high to pay in the future. Avebury was testament to that.

  By the time he was headed back to Winthrop he’d reached some other decisions.

  Propping up the past was a fool’s game. He should have listened to those misgivings he’d had that first evening at Winthrop. The past had passed. It was best to move on with the future. With his future.

  Jon squared his shoulders.

  He would see if Miss Beauchamp’s parents were amenable to return for a longer stay.

  CHAPTER TEN

  JULY PASSED. AUGUST saw the return of slightly warmer weather coupled with further rain showers, weather that made Catherine and her mother feel increasingly fractious and ever more aware of the small confines of the cottage. Back at Winthrop they had escaped heat within the spacious rooms, or better, by traveling to the seaside, even occasionally to one of the large estates in cooler climes, where parties and the company of others distracted from weather and forced thoughts away from oneself. Now, it seemed as if all their thoughts had turned inward, brooding, leading to short tempers and cold indignations.

  But perhaps, in Catherine’s case at least, this was also reinforced by the return of Miss Beauchamp and her mother, a return that seemed to prove Lavinia’s suspicions about Mr. Carlew’s intentions. Catherine tried to tell herself she did not care. She did not! But she could not prevent a few tears from falling onto her pillow at night, even as she despised her weakness.

  She shook her head at her foolishness as she stepped around mud puddles on the lane. Why spoil her daily walk with thoughts of him? Why not be glad for the chance to escape for a few minutes, to escape both the cottage and Mama’s offended silence, her current pique stemming from Catherine’s audacity to disagree about the state of the meal last night, asserting it was fully cooked when Mama said otherwise. Time alone should be sweet distraction.

  She squinted, her heart dropping in recognition of the riders at the end of the lane, and she had to force her steps forward, rather than veering off and hiding away, as she’d prefer.

  “Miss Winthrop!” Julia reined in her horse. “I was just saying to Lydia that I was hopeful of meeting you again.”

  Catherine glanced up at Julia’s golden-haired guest and dredged up a smile. “Good day, Miss Beauchamp.”

  “Oh, call me Lydia, please.”

  The ingenuous smile went some way to thawing her heart. She could not yet return the exchange of first names, though still sought to be polite. “Are you enjoying your stay?”

  “Very much. I do like this part of Gloucestershire.”

  Catherine lifted a hand, shading her eyes. “And where are your people from?”

  “A little town in Wiltshire, although we stay in London quite often, which is where we met Julia and her family.”

  Was that a slight blush on the girl’s cheeks? No wonder Mr. Carlew was so enamored. She fought the envy. Lost. Nodded, smiled stiffly, and turned as if to walk away.

  “Would you care to go riding with us, Miss Winthrop? I’m sure being such a local you would know all of the cooler spots to visit.”

  “Oh, yes, Miss Winthrop, please do,” said Lydia. “I’m sure Julia would love to have someone else to listen to, rather than my prattle.”

  The newcomer wasn’t making it any easier for Catherine to dislike her, not with such self-deprecation. “I don’t know …”

  “Please?”

  It would be churlish to refuse. And it would keep her away from the cottage for a little longer. “If Mama does not mind.”

  Any hopes of refusal were dashed by Mama being asleep, and Frank’s unlooked-for speed in enabling Ginger to be ready to ride. She joined the ladies upon their return from further exploration, half wondering if the man she wished to avoid would also suddenly appear.

  The next hour proved strange respite,
as relief at Mr. Carlew’s absence wrestled with wariness and not a little curiosity. She would much prefer to ride alone, perhaps even dip her toes in the stream near Nelly’s Wood, but such practices might not meet the approval of her companions. She glanced across at the younger girls, both so fresh and innocent, impropriety and scandal so foreign to them both. If only …

  Catherine forced regret aside, and focused on the pleasure of riding Ginger once more. Julia and Miss Beauchamp’s innocent chatter proved strange balm to Catherine’s twisted emotions.

  They cantered down a small hill until Julia stopped under a copse of trees. “Well! I think the sunshine is begging us to break for a while.”

  “You may be right,” Miss Beauchamp agreed, before glancing across at Catherine. “Miss Winthrop, might I say you are quite a horsewoman.”

  “You may,” Catherine murmured, to her companion’s gurgle of amusement.

  “Oh, I do like your sense of humor,” Julia said. “It reminds me of Jon.”

  Catherine stiffened, her hard-won ease dissipating.

  “Miss Winthrop, may I be so bold as to ask a personal question?” Miss Beauchamp said.

  “It depends on the question.”

  Miss Beauchamp laughed prettily. Catherine covertly studied her. Was that why he liked her? Tinkly laughter? Happiness unfettered by past mistakes? Such pure and lovely looks?

  Aware her companions were awaiting further response, Catherine summoned up a smile. “I believe you had a question, Miss Beauchamp?”

  “Oh! I just wondered how you learned to ride so well.”

  “I grew up with horses.” Such as the ones we’re sitting on, she almost added.

  “Ah. Of course.”

  Ginger nickered. Catherine stroked her glossy mane.

  “That’s right. I forgot you’re Lord Winthrop’s cousin.”

  Because addressing her as Miss Winthrop did not give that away? Perhaps he liked her because she was unlikely to challenge his intellect, Catherine thought nastily.

  “If you don’t mind my asking, why do you call him Carlew and not Lord Winthrop?”

  “Lydia …”

  “Thank you, Julia. I don’t mind answering.” Catherine eyed Julia’s guest. “I f-first knew him as Mr. Carlew’s ward.”

  “Ah.”

  Catherine noted Miss Beauchamp was taking on her soon-to-be mother-in-law’s manner of curiosity as well as her expressions. “I had wondered, you see …”

  It was clearly an invitation to enquire. Which Catherine refused to fulfill.

  Julia nudged her horse farther into the shade, but Lydia remained singular in her focus. “It is only that your manner towards him seems a little peculiar at times.”

  Catherine gritted her teeth.

  “I see you do not ask for elaboration. Very well. Let me just say that Mama and I have often wondered at your avoidance of him …” Lydia allowed her horse to move closer, away from Julia’s hearing. “It is just I cannot help but wonder if there is something of which to be aware.”

  Dismay at the effects of her actions coiled shame within. “He is all that is good,” she replied stiffly.

  “I’m so glad!” Miss Beauchamp smiled, her eyes lowering modestly. “I should not want to align myself with someone if that were not so.”

  An icy bar lodged directly behind her chest, contracting then expanding with every breath she took. Each painful throb welled water in her eyes. She blinked. Told herself not to be so foolish. He was nothing to her. Nothing!

  She nudged Ginger’s sides, shifting away from her tormentor. Really, she could scarcely blame Miss Beauchamp for such questions. She seemed sweet and innocent—which was problematic, because it offered Catherine no justifiable grounds to dislike her.

  Wheeling Ginger around, she hastened up the ridge, away, alone, for a few precious seconds. But the thunder of hooves close behind sent the solace of solitude to flight. She forced another smile, nodded, acted all politeness. Lord God, help me …

  As they neared the Jeffcoat farm she saw a figure straighten, wave. She waved back.

  “Who is that?” enquired Miss Beauchamp.

  “That is Jack, the son of farmer Jeffcoat.”

  “Is he a beau of yours?” she asked slyly.

  Catherine ignored her, rode up beside him. “Hello, Jack.”

  “Hello, Miss Cathy.” His cheery countenance was salve to her fractured feelings. “Is this your horse?”

  “Yes, Jack. This is Ginger.”

  His wide eyes turned to her companions whose expressions grew equally slack-jawed. “Miss Carlew, Miss Beauchamp, this is Jack Jeffcoat.”

  Julia nodded, Lydia frowned, both moving away without further acknowledgment. Catherine’s smile grew tight as she overheard comments about a “moonling” and she desperately asked after Jack’s mother and father. His replies were ever slow, but she forced her attention to remain fixed on him, redoubling her attempt to make the farmer’s son feel her acceptance.

  “I think it’s time we return,” Julia soon called.

  Catherine stifled a sigh, said goodbye, and rejoined the others. Soon they were trotting closer to the Manor.

  “Would you care to join us for lunch?” Julia asked. “Or will you remain forever adverse to dining with us?”

  Was that pique in her friend’s voice? “It is not that.”

  “If it makes any difference, I believe my brother to be out.” Julia sent her a searching look. “I know you do not like him very much.”

  What could she say that was true—and still polite? “I … I do not dislike him.”

  “I know on occasion he can seem a little too principled, which bothers Mama at times, but he is also very considerate when he wants to be. But you need not fear his company. I believe I heard him tell Mama he would be out until late this afternoon, so really, it is the perfect time for you to come.”

  For some perverse reason she wanted to. She felt almost reckless today, or maybe just braver, like the changes at Winthrop she was sure to see would not hurt her as much as they might have previously. “Are … are you sure I would not be intruding?”

  “Positive!” Julia grinned. “I’ll race you both back to the stables.”

  Half an hour later, Catherine was seated again in the dining room, eating something delectable, surprised into admiration about the new drapes. The girls were in the middle of lighthearted conversation—such a contrast to Mama’s diet of complaint—when the door opened and Lady Harkness entered, followed by Lydia’s mother. The former glanced around, her brows rising when she spotted Catherine. “This is a surprise, Miss Winthrop.”

  “Julia invited me, ma’am.”

  “Oh, I do not doubt that. You hardly seem the sort to just appear.”

  Catherine blushed, her taste for luncheon gone. Perhaps she should make her excuses and leave—

  “Don’t look like that, child. You are welcome.”

  “Th-thank you.”

  She swallowed the remaining syllabub without tasting it, half listening to the conversation between the ladies when the door opened again.

  “Here you all are!” The deep-voiced, tall figure moved into the room.

  Catherine froze, wishing she could sink beneath the table.

  “I’m pleased you’re feeling better, Mother.” Mr. Carlew nodded to Julia. “Mrs. Beauchamp, Miss Beauchamp, a pleasure.” His eyes widened a fraction. “Miss Winthrop.” He offered a small nod, before glancing away to the other occupants of the table. “My business concluded far earlier than I envisaged, so I thought to join you. I hope you don’t mind.”

  “Of course not,” his mother said.

  “We always enjoy your company,” Miss Beauchamp cooed, smiling coyly at him.

  The conversation picked up again, a cacophony of loud, high-pitched female voices, underscored by those deep, dark tones. Catherine tightened her hands in her lap, eyes on the table centerpiece, conscious of Lady Harkness’s scrutiny; conscious he refused to look at her. Pressure increased in her head.


  “We came across a funny fellow on our ride today,” Julia said.

  “Oh, yes. A moonling,” said Miss Beauchamp.

  “A tall young man, near the west fields,” continued Julia. “Miss Winthrop and he were having quite the chat.”

  “Poppet,” warned the deep voice.

  “I thought at first he was Miss Winthrop’s beau.” Miss Beauchamp giggled. “Silly me.”

  The indignation at Lydia’s earlier comment melded into mortification. Perhaps Miss Beauchamp wasn’t so ingenuous as Catherine had believed.

  “A moonling?” said Lady Harkness. “I was not aware any such persons lived on the estate.”

  Mrs. Beauchamp frowned. “Moonlings are dangerous, are they not? I cannot like knowing one lives so near.”

  Tension rekindled within. How could they say this? How could she let them? “Jack is n-not a moonling,” Catherine said. “His m-mother became ill before his birth. He c-cannot be blamed for any mental deficiency.”

  The room fell silent; five pairs of eyes stared; the heat searing her chest seemingly to have set fire to her entire body.

  “I beg your pardon,” Julia said in a subdued tone.

  “You seem to take a great interest in the tenants, Miss Winthrop,” Miss Beauchamp said in a kindly—patronizing?—manner. “For a moment you sounded just like our host.”

  Her warm smile at Mr. Carlew sent a prickle of pain through Catherine’s heart.

  “I do think it quite wonderful how keenly you involve yourself with your tenants,” the blonde continued. “Many landlords would be interested only in the rents they receive.”

  Catherine studied the lace tablecloth. How true …

  Thoughts of her father’s lack of interest in his tenants were banished at Mr. Carlew’s deep voice. “Jack seems to have such a way with animals. I believe he’d make a fine groom.”

  “Yes,” Catherine whispered, stealing a glance at the head of the table. He did not look at her, but was smiling at Miss Beauchamp. Miss Beauchamp, whom he would soon make his bride.

  A fist clutched her chest. She glanced away. Studied the collection of pineapples lining the silver salver in the center of the dining table. They blurred.