by Anne Gracie
“Very well, my lord.” Podmore made a note. “Is that all you wanted to see me about?”
“No,” said Dominic, continuing to look out of the window. “I wanted to check something about the will. Let us say I break this betrothal to Miss Pettifer and the estate is sold. What is to stop me from simply buying it?”
The lawyer sighed. “I explained it to you in Bristol, my lord. I did fear you were so angry at the time you might not have taken in all the permutations. Your father anticipated this. You cannot buy the property—the will specifies it most particularly. Not you, nor any agent in your employ, nor any blood relative, nor a wife.” He shook his head sorrowfully. “I’m sorry, my lord, but your father was furious when you ran off like that. He was determined to bring you to heel in the end.”
Dominic clenched his jaw. He would not be brought to heel by his father—dead or not! He said, “Sir John has come down here with his daughter to try to force an early marriage. He’s ill. It occurred to me to wonder, what happens if Sir John dies?”
“As long as Miss Pettifer is still unmarried, the will stands.”
“And if she chooses to break the betrothal?”
“If she does, the ten thousand pounds originally paid to Sir John by your father on signing the contract must be repaid to the Wolfestone estate.”
“What if I choose to waive that?”
Podmore shook his head. “You cannot. The money must be repaid by Miss Pettifer or her father—and you know they don’t have it. I’m sorry, my lord, but your father anticipated both Sir John’s spendthrift ways and your own reluctance to wed a bride of his choosing.”
“What if I give her the money from my own funds?”
The lawyer shrugged. “I would know nothing about that. But the fact remains that, according to the will, you must still gain Sir John’s permission to marry—your father, as I said, was determined to bring you to heel—and I was under the impression that Sir John is very much in favor of the match between you and his daughter.”
“He is, damn him!” Dominic punched a fist into one hand. The stubborn old fool could not be made to see that Dominic would make a terrible husband for Melly—cruel and neglectful, dammit! He resumed pacing the floor.
Podmore looked coy. “I presume you have some other young lady in mind, my lord.”
Dominic looked at him blankly. “No, whatever gave you that idea?”
Podmore shrugged. “An old man’s fancy, that’s all.” He hesitated, then added, “My lord, why do you not simply refuse this marriage and let the estate be sold? Since that is your intention anyway, and since you do not need the money—”
“No! I need to own it. It is my right! I will not be done out of my rights by my damned father’s will! If the estate is to be broken up, it will be by my will, not my father’s, may he rot in Hell!”
Podmore blinked.
Dominic continued, “My mother was sold in marriage for the sake of Wolfestone. She was just seventeen.”
“I remember,” the elderly lawyer said softly. “She was a beautiful bride.”
Dominic nodded. He kept forgetting this old man had known his mother. “My father made her life a misery, so much so that she was forced to flee to the continent in the end. There she lived in poverty for years—and all because of my father and Wolfestone!”
There was a long silence while Dominic battled to swallow the bitterness in his throat. Finally he sat down in the chair opposite Podmore and said, “I promised my mother on her deathbed that I would do whatever it took to ensure Wolfestone came into my possession. She asked me—begged me—to take it back for her sake. And so I will. By whatever means I must.”
Podmore heaved a sigh. “Yes, I see. I wish there was some other way to do it, but your father was very thorough.”
Dominic set his jaw. If he must, he must. Wolfestone would be his. He changed the subject. “Now, on the matter of the estate, it needs some attention—it’s in a shocking state of neglect. I trust I have your permission, as executor, to go ahead with it.”
“Of course.”
“I’ve appointed a local man, Jake Tasker, as temporary estate manager, and I’ve sent for Abdul to come down. He’ll take over Eades’s position.”
Podmore pursed his lips. “Is that wise, my lord? Abdul has no experience in the operation of an English estate.”
Dominic raised his brows. “Abdul is a genius.”
Podmore shifted awkwardly in his seat. “Yes, but . . . but he is so very foreign, my lord. The local people might not take to him. English rustics tend to be very parochial. In these parts they refer to folk from Shrewsbury as foreigners, and that’s only twenty-three miles away.”
Dominic shrugged. “I have no interest in what they think of Abdul. He is not there to be liked. He is there to do a job—to get the estate in a condition where it will bring the best price at sale.”
Troubled, Podmore shook his head. “I fear there will be trouble, my lord. Could you not prevail on him to dress a little less . . . exotically? And shave, so that he does not look quite so fierce?”
“No, his attire is his own concern. Now, on that matter—what progress have you made on the breaking of the entail?”
Podmore absently touched a sheaf of papers in front of him. “It might be as well if I hired your staff then, rather than Abdul. If the place is as neglected as you say it will need—”
“Don’t bother. There are upward of fifty people scouring the place from top to bottom as we speak,” Dominic informed him. He rose to his feet and resumed his pacing. “And before you start congratulating my initiative, it is a damned nuisance. Miss Pettifer’s paid companion has taken it on herself to assemble an army of local people to scrub, mend, and polish.”
Podmore’s brow wrinkled. “A paid companion has taken on staff?”
Dominic snorted. “Yes, but she’s the most unusual hired companion you’ve ever seen. For a start she has no respect for rank, rides roughshod over my sensibilities, orders her mistress around, and at the same time protects her like a tigress with a cub. She fills my house with local yokels and sets them scrubbing—in my house, mind—and when I questioned her, she assured me kindly that if I cannot afford it, she will pay their wages!” He snorted again.
“An older woman, I presume?” Podmore inquired delicately.
“Not at all.”
“Ahh.” Podmore steepled his fingers and regarded them earnestly. “And how old might this companion be?”
Dominic waved a careless hand. “I don’t know. Young. The same age as Miss Pettifer, I imagine. Sir John says she’s new to the job, says she’s one of ‘Gussie’s gels’ whatever that may be—”
“Lady Augusta Merridew. She has an interest in female orphans and has done some remarkable philanthropic work—”
“—But the way this girl talks to Miss Pettifer, you’d think she’d known her for years. She even calls her Melly half the time! Melly! Not Miss Pettifer! No respect at all.” Realizing he’d gone into something of a rant, Dominic sat down.
Podmore gave him a long, thoughtful look. “I gather she’s pretty.”
Dominic frowned. “Pretty? Of course she’s—who cares if she’s pretty? That’s got nothing to do with any of this.”
The lawyer smiled. “No, of course not.”
Chapter Ten
Telling one’s sorrows often brings comforts.
PIERRE CORNEILLE
BY LATE AFTERNOON, GRACE WAS FEELING THE STRAIN OF A LONG day of putting the house to rights. She was tired of answering questions and solving problems. The more she looked around her, the more there was to do. Her arms and legs ached. It was hot, she was dirty and dusty and weary. What she longed for was a good, long soak in a hot bath, but that would take organization and time to heat the water and there was only the small hip bath and she wanted to wallow. And she couldn’t face the raft of questions she knew she’d get about wanting a bath in the middle of the day, and not even on a Saturday.
No, a bath wasn’t pra
ctical. What she could have however, was a swim. She could swim. When her sister, Faith, had come back from France with her new husband, she’d told all the Merridew girls about the delights of swimming in the sea, and the next summer they’d all learned. It was glorious and twelve-year-old Grace had learned to swim like a little frog. She’d found opportunities to go swimming every summer since, even though it was regarded as a slightly scandalous activity for ladies.
If she slipped away now, nobody would notice. At this time of the afternoon, everyone was occupied. And Lord D’Acre had ridden into Ludlow on business and was safely out of the way.
She knocked on Sir John’s bedchamber door and bobbed a curtsy. “Sir John, Miss Pettifer. How are you getting on, Sir John?” Privately, Grace thought he looked even worse. He was thinner and paler than ever. She glanced at his luncheon tray, where a bowl of chicken soup and some thin slices of bread and butter remained untouched. Melly caught her eye and shook her head very slightly. Sir John still hadn’t been able to eat anything.
“Can’t complain, Greystoke.” He shifted and as he did, grimaced in pain. “Gettin’ old, that’s all. Have you come to play cards with us? I’m fleecing m’daughter of all her beans.”
“Thank you, no. I’m here to collect the tray, sir, and to remind Miss Pettifer that she wanted to go for a walk this afternoon.”
“Off you go then, Melly,” her father said instantly. “You don’t want to be hangin’ around in a gloomy sickroom with your old father, when you could be out and about on a lovely day like this.”
Melly shook her head vigorously. “Oh, no, it’s far too hot to be venturing outside at the moment, Papa. I shall go for a walk in the evening, when it is cool.”
Her father gave her an indulgent smile. “Worrying about your complexion, eh, puss? Well, such a delicate complexion is worth protecting, eh, Greystoke? Not many of the fine London ladies can beat my Melly in that department.” He gave Grace a concerned look. “You ought to be more careful of yours, young Greystoke. In fact, maybe Melly could give you a few hints.”
Melly smothered a giggle. She’d helped Grace touch up the freckles the previous evening.
“Yes, Sir John, thank you, Sir John.” Grace curtsied and took the tray.
If Melly didn’t want an excuse to escape for an hour or so, there was nothing she could do. She took the tray to the kitchen and left, her spirit lightening. She was free to do as she wished.
She could go to the pool in the woods that Granny Wigmore had told her about, the one that was supposed to have magical powers—magical freckle-clearing powers. Grace could have a quick swim and nobody would be any the wiser. And her freckles would be perfectly safe. She was getting quite fond of her freckles, quite protective of them.
She’d had no idea before how freckled girls must suffer. Everyone offered advice on how to remove them. Mrs. Parry sent buttermilk. Granny Wigmore said water from Gwydion’s Pool. Even Mrs. Tickel had sent lemons, with instructions that Grace was to bathe her skin in lemon juice twice a day.
And men with wicked golden eyes speculated aloud on where the freckles ended . . .
AN HOUR LATER DOMINIC RODE OUT OF LUDLOW. IT WAS A scorching afternoon, and by the time he rode into Lower Wolfestone, he’d developed a considerable thirst. He was so thirsty, in fact, that the idea of a long draught of the Wolfestone Arms bitter ale appealed. He would not admit, even to himself, that the blasted brew was growing on him.
Deep in thought, he wove his way between the people gathered in the taproom, vaguely noticing that there seemed to be rather a crowd, but not bothering to wonder why. A voice pierced his reverie.
“Wolfe! Dominic Wolfe! I say!” A hand thumped him between the shoulder blades, almost hard enough to make him stumble.
He turned and beheld a lanky young man dressed in neat dove-gray trousers, a pale gray-and-white-striped waistcoat, and an elegant black jacket, only slightly worn at the lapels.
Dominic’s jaw dropped. “Frey—is that you? Good God!” He seized the man’s hand and wrung it heartily. “Frey Netterton! Here of all places! Come outside and we’ll have a drink.”
His friend glanced around the taproom and wrinkled his long nose. “I quite agree. I gather soap has yet to be discovered by our companions.”
Dominic grinned. Some things never changed, thank God, and Frey was one of them. His friend might be as poor as the proverbial church mouse, but he was as fastidious as ever. “I can’t believe you’re really here, Frey. But what has dragged you to the wilds of Shropshire? I’d swear you didn’t know I was here. Very few people do.”
“Yes, you blasted hermit. When I think how old Jenkins used to wax lyrical about your penmanship, it’s a disgrace that you never put it to use in keeping in contact with your friends.” He ran a finger delicately around his collar to loosen it without disturbing the exquisite arrangement of his neckcloth. “Not to mention letting them perish of thirst in this blasted heat.”
Dominic laughed and arranged for drinks to be brought to the shady bench outside. “It’s only ale, I’m afraid. They don’t cater to toffs here.”
Frey seized a brimming pewter tankard and took a long draft of the brew. “Ahh, that’s better. Now, who are you calling a toff, Lord D’Acre, owner of all he surveys?” He looked around critically. “The village is part of the estate, ain’t it?”
Dominic surveyed his tankard of ale and pulled a face. “Yes, but I don’t actually own any of what you see, yet. I have yet to secure the estate.”
Frey frowned. “What do you mean, secure it? Your father’s dead, ain’t he? And you’re his only son.”
“Yes, but his will is rather . . . complicated.”
Frey snorted. “You mean he’s still trying to make you dance to his tune, even from the grave!”
Dominic relaxed. He should have known Frey was one of the few people who’d understand. “Yes, you have it in a nutshell. My father tries to pull my strings even from the grave and so I must earn my inheritance.”
Frey sipped his ale thoughtfully. “Dashed good ale, this. And how are you supposed to earn it?”
“By being the dutiful son and heir. By marrying the girl he so kindly picked out for me when I was sixteen.”
Frey’s jaw dropped. “You never told me that!”
“He never told me, either. I only found out a few weeks ago.” He grimaced. “He wants me to breed sons for Wolfestone, but I’ll not do it.”
“You’ll refuse to marry?” He shrugged. “Fair enough. Not as if you need the land or the extra income.
Dominic shook his head. “No, I’ll marry, damn him. I won’t let the bastard deprive me of my rights! But he won’t have it all his way!”
“So, it’s parson’s moustra—” Frey broke off with an unconvincing cough. “Er, holy wedlock for you! Who’s the lucky girl? Is she pretty? Does she love you already?”
“Not at all. She’s plain, dull, and doing it for the money.”
His friend stared. “Good grief! Why saddle yourself with a female of that sort? If I was going to saddle myself with a wife, I’d make sure she was dashed pretty. Not that I can—saddle myself with a wife, that is. Not till my blasted uncle turns up his toes.”
“Still hanging on to the purse strings, is he?”
“As tight as if they were a lifeline,” Frey said gloomily. “Keeps me—and thus my mother and sisters—on an absolute shoestring. How he expects the pittance he allows us to support myself, my mother and sisters, and scrape enough together for the girls’ coming-outs is more than I can fathom.”
Dominic nodded in sympathy. Frey’s uncle controlled the huge family fortune with miserly righteousness, as if poverty was a virtue. “Let’s not talk about such things here.” He jerked his head back toward the inn, where anyone could be listening. “Why don’t you come up to Wolfestone?” He frowned. “You never did tell me—if you didn’t know I was here, why have you come?”
Frey gave him a sheepish look. “The vicar of St. Stephen’s Church is old and i
ll and has retired to live with his daughter in Leeds.”
Dominic didn’t follow. “And how does this vicar concern you? Is he a relative of some sort?” Dominic drank deeply from his tankard. He was slowly developing a taste for this ale.
Frey flicked at a nonexistent spot on his jacket, “Ah, no. No relation at all.” Then with an air of faint embarrassment, he added, “Actually, I am the new vicar of St. Stephen’s Church—and didn’t your mother ever teach you not to spit ale on a vicar? It is uncouth and disrespectful. Luckily as your new spiritual shepherd, I can take you in hand.” He wiped off the drops of ale that Dominic, in his surprise, had splattered over him.
“You’re a vicar? You? You’re joking.”
Frey said with an air of great dignity, “Show some respect for a man of the cloth, heathen! I’ll have you know I was ordained by the archbishop of Canterbury himself several years ago.”
Dominic let out a sharp laugh. “Poor fellow was hoodwinked then! A rogue like you dressed in sheep’s clothing.”
“Sheep’s clothing?” Affronted, Frey adjusted the lapels of his coat. “It may not have been tailored especially for me, but this is very fine merino cloth, you ignorant clod! As for calling me a rogue, you were always the wolf in our pack.”
Dominic shook his head. “You—a parson? But why, Frey, why?”
His friend shrugged. “Got to earn the readies however I can. Never did have a head for business, can’t afford to get killed in the army—then Mama and the girls would be left utterly destitute after my uncle passes on—am too shatter-brained to be a diplomat, so the church it must be.”
Dominic laughed. “I can’t seem to take it in. You, the new vicar of—where?”
“St. Stephen’s. Just for a few months—I hope—until they find someone permanent. It’s reputed to be one of the poorest livings in Shropshire.”