“A man may be equal to all manner of things, and prefer not to undertake them.” Yes, there went the thin straight mouth of disapprobation. “But I spoke flippantly. Responsibility or no, the fact is I cannot contemplate with any eagerness the event that will make me a baronet, so I cannot look forward to my baronetcy.” Suddenly she was no longer at his side, and he craned about to find her stock-still behind him, her chin lifted to finally show all her face. “Please tell me you’re not astonished by that sentiment,” he said.
Even in the shade of her bonnet he could see her cheeks coloring. “Not astonished. A bit surprised, perhaps. You mean to say you love your father.”
“Not necessarily. There’s a great stretch of ground between loving a man, and wishing for his demise.” He walked on and heard her follow, a step or two behind as though she were wanting to study him, and fit this new bit of knowledge in with the picture she’d already made. “But I suppose I am rather fond of him.” Now he’d confuse her further still. “I made up my mind to be so, and he hasn’t succeeded in dissuading me yet.”
“Not even by banishing you for something so small as a snuffbox?”
“It wasn’t just the snuffbox, you know.” He bent to pluck up a long blade of grass, and to avoid her eyes. Had he just heard her take his part against his father’s? “I’ve been a bit of a wastrel all round. Not good for much.” He’d always owned up to the fact readily. It was good for a laugh at White’s. But for some reason it didn’t sound nearly so amusing out here in the country. “I do intend to be better, eventually.” He twirled the grass-blade between thumb and forefinger. “To be upstanding and respectable and so forth. Certainly by the time I’m a baronet.”
“If you know you can be better, why not be better now?” Ah, here came the lecture. So much for taking his part.
“Think a minute, darling. What would it profit you if I were to reform now?” He bent his head to flash her a smile, and knew she took his meaning by the way her bonnet tipped down and her conversation ceased.
Well enough. He tossed away the grass-blade and they went on. With or without talk, it was a beautiful day to be walking with a woman. Some overnight rain had left a fresh scent in the air, and woke a few languid late-summer flowers that dotted the grass, white and yellow and purple punctuation on a great page of green. Birds swooped down and up again, calling to one another in a regional dialect unlike the birdcalls one heard in Lincolnshire. At the top of the nearest hill he could see how a breeze stirred the grass as though some large invisible hand were going through it with a comb.
“We want to go up and over that hill.” She pointed, her black glove stark against the blue, blue sky. “The place I have in mind is just on the other side.”
They climbed slowly—what perverse devil had decreed that widows must wear so much black, even in weather like this?—and reached the hilltop to look down on a minor kind of valley, green and studded everywhere with sheep. A dog barked at the sight of them and raced up the opposite hill to where a girl sat in the shade of some trees. “That’s one of my tenants,” Mrs. Russell said. “One of the Everett daughters, I think.” She put another step of distance between them. “And a little way beyond those trees is your hedge.”
So this land could be his, perhaps, if he chose. Though it didn’t look very promising for wheat or any other crop. And the girl would lose a grazing place with the advantage of a shady overlook. He put the map away under his arm. “Why do you suppose your husband didn’t enclose this himself?”
“I’m afraid I haven’t any idea. Mr. Russell didn’t often speak about that sort of thing.” She turned her head to face him, and looked for a moment as though she would say more. But after a short pause, she only proposed crossing the valley and greeting the shepherdess.
The girl had a book and a basket with her, in addition to the vigilant dog, and as they drew near she closed the book and shoved it half-hidden under the basket, which rendered the volume a good deal more interesting than it otherwise should have been.
Apparently Mrs. Russell thought so as well. Once the introductions were through—the girl proved, indeed, to be a Miss Everett, and honored to make his acquaintance—and they’d all taken seats in the shade, he could see the widow’s attention straying again and again to that corner of the book peeping out from under the basket, even while she made all the necessary inquiries into the girl’s health, and the health of assorted family members.
They formed a pretty picture, the young widow with her dark eyes and dark dress, and the younger shepherdess, blue-eyed, with reddish-blond hair and a sprinkling of freckles over the bridge of her nose. He’d sat a bit apart from them, to lean against the trunk of a tree. The dog, a shaggy brown-and-white herding sort, sank down beside him and rested its chin on his leg just as though it belonged to him, its ears perking this way and that as the ladies spoke.
They spoke without much ease. Miss Everett seemed a bit in awe of Mrs. Russell, who didn’t help matters with the topics she chose. Sunday school was broached. Schooling of every sort came in for praise, and so did the general concepts of duty and application, and so did the parish curate, who was apparently plotting to inflict a school upon the children of his flock. The poor girl could only nod and murmur agreement, and twist her hands in her lap, bereft of her book, while the widow launched her next offensive in support of education.
Clearly she hoped to inspire her listener to some enthusiasm on the subject, but she went about it all wrong, bludgeoning the girl with worthy this and diligence that, and never giving the smallest sign that she cared to hear anyone’s opinions but her own. Not so different, really, from the tone she took with him.
“Perhaps Miss Everett is rather an adherent of self-education,” he put in at a moment when the widow had paused for breath. He smiled at the girl, encouragingly as he could. “You were reading something, I think, when we approached. I fear we keep you from it.”
“Oh, no, I was only reading to pass the time.” She blushed and looked more miserable yet. “Nothing in the way of education.”
“A novel, I suppose?” Mrs. Russell quickly caught up this new thread, and when the girl nodded, she continued with fresh purpose. “Certainly there are more substantial things a young lady can read, but most novels do no real harm. One may begin with tales of romance and suspense, and proceed eventually to reading Shakespeare, or Homer, or some other thing to elevate the mind.”
Good Lord, she was bad at this. Couldn’t she see the girl growing smaller with mortification over her poor novel, and shrinking from the prospect of these elevated things the widow would foist on her? He leaned forward, and worked his fingers into the ruff at the dog’s neck. “A novel, eh?” he said to Miss Everett at a conspiratorial volume. “Was it The Monk?”
Her face convulsed with nine parts alarm and—he’d almost stake his soul on it—one part mirth; meanwhile the widow whipped round to fix him with her sternest stare.
“No?” he said. “Was it The Italian, perhaps?”
Four parts mirth to six parts alarm: he was making progress. “It wasn’t anything like that,” the girl said, finally drawing her book out from its hiding place. “I’m only reading Belinda.”
“Ah, Belinda. Let me see.” He took the volume and flipped to its opening pages. “Oh, this won’t do. You want the original version. Lucy marries an African plantation servant, and Belinda nearly marries that Creole fellow, the West Indian. Very scandalous. The author’s father disapproved, and so she revised it.” He returned the book and sat back, scratching the dog along its jaw.
“How do you know any of this?” Mrs. Russell had grown saucer-eyed listening to him. “How do you know of The Monk?”
“Older sisters.” He felt, and fought, a most unseasonable impulse to wink at her. “When I was a boy, my sister Sophia was caught with a copy and nearly disowned. How could I not seek it out, after that?” And how do you know of The Monk, he barely refrained from adding.
“I’m convinced that’s exactly opposite to the less
on your parents intended.” She would surely have drawn herself up to a more terrible height, but that she was already sitting, as was her habit, straight and strict as a judge.
“Then they ought to have given me more interesting things to read.” He shrugged, and slouched a little farther. “You ladies have the advantage of us entirely, with your novels.”
These last words apparently reminding the widow of Miss Everett’s presence, she turned to address the girl again. “Mrs. Edgeworth’s books amuse and entertain, undoubtedly, and she is to be commended—as is any lady novelist—for finding a means of income and independence. But if you care to read a more ambitious sort of novel, you ought to try Waverley. It’s just come out this summer and it’s quite well regarded. The author has drawn what I believe is a very accurate picture of Scotland in the middle of the last century. You may borrow my copy.”
“Waverley,” the girl repeated. Behind her attempt at a smile was all the enthusiasm of a housemaid getting set to scrub out the chamberpots. “What story does it tell?”
“It’s true to history, an account of that period in which many of the Scots people hoped to enforce a Stuart claim to the throne. Perhaps you’re not versed in that, not having had the advantage of schooling. But Waverley is such a novel as could address gaps in a person’s knowledge of English history, while simultaneously imparting a lesson through its hero’s progression from sentimental fervor to a more reasoned, practical view of the world.”
God in Heaven, she made the thing sound like a sequel to The Utility of Agricultural Knowledge. “Has it got a love story?” He would prompt her in the right direction.
She paused, considering in her fastidious manner. “I suppose it does. Mr. Waverley comes to feel a regard for two different young women, each worthy in her way. The one, I think, is intended to embody a sort of Jacobite zeal while the other—”
“Has it got battles, or a quest? Does your Mr. Waverley risk his life for high ideals?”
“Well, there are battles, of course. One could hardly set a story in the Jacobite rebellion without them, and as I’ve said, the author seems scrupulous in regard to the accuracy of the setting.”
“Very good.” He nodded at the shepherdess. “You look like a reader of sturdy constitution. You must read this novel and tell me whether there’s a good story in between all the accurate and elevating parts. I’m afraid those virtues are a kind of poison to me, and I need some other reader to go before, like one of those fellows who tastes a king’s suppers.”
He did know how to get what he wanted from women. Most women. The girl flushed prettily under his attention, and agreed to precede him with Waverley. The widow, who had at first frowned as if ready to say something scolding, observed this outcome, and studied him with a thoughtful mien, and said nothing after all.
From there the conversation went more easily. Mrs. Russell spoke of his errand in visiting her, and unrolled the map to consult with Miss Everett on how the land before them corresponded with what was drawn, and on which families would be affected if this land should pass out of their use.
Theo sank against the tree until he was near to recumbence. The dog rolled over and eyed him expectantly; he scratched its belly with an absent hand.
He didn’t want any families to be affected. He didn’t want this bashful, novel-loving girl to be the worse off for his having come to the country. Would every parcel on the map be like this? Behind the neatly inked rendition, just an opportunity for him to dispossess people who’d done nothing to deserve it? And yet if the addition of land could increase Pencarragh’s prosperity, and put an end to relying on the poor rates for his laborers’ upkeep, then surely he must consider enclosing.
He frowned at the dog, who returned his look with drowsy unconcern. So many times he’d worn such a look himself, before he’d come to Sussex and learned the weight of cares.
YOUR COTTAGERS must be very fond of you,” Martha said when they’d taken their leave of Jenny Everett and marched north into open pasture.
Mr. Mirkwood laughed without much perceptible humor. “Must they? I wish someone would tell them so.” He was more than usually handsome in the out-of-doors, moving with the vigor of an animal turned out from captivity. Jenny had looked quite smitten.
“I can’t believe they’re not fond of you. You were so good with Miss Everett just now. You knew all the right things to say.”
“I guessed.” He shrugged.
“To set her at ease the way you did is no commonplace skill. As I believe I demonstrated myself.”
“You do come off a bit like a draconian governess.” Over his shoulder he smiled at her, robbing the words of any sting.
“I suppose that’s to be expected. I was raised chiefly by a governess, though I should never call Miss York draconian. Sensible, rather. Proper.” Strict, of course, but within reason.
“Indeed.” His step slowed so that they walked exactly abreast. “At what age did you lose your mother?”
“I was seven. But she was unwell for all those seven years. Preparing for the next confinement or recovering from the last.” The words came out rather tentatively. One really need not provide this level of detail. “There ought to have been three more children after me. But none of them survived, and the last took her with him.” Though truly, little had remained of her by the end. Five children living, five more deceased, and Mother further diminished with each birth and each loss.
“And your father never remarried?” Round the brim of her bonnet she saw his white gloved fingers hitching the rolled map higher under his arm.
“Oh, no. It’s a bit of a wonder he ever married at all, he had such a retiring nature. Shut up in his study with his Bible and philosophy books most days.”
“Who was there to love you, then?” Without any discernible hesitation he asked the question, and without any attempt to hide the swell of sympathy in his voice. Wasted sympathy, roused on behalf of a little girl she’d long since left behind.
She crossed her wrists behind her back and laced her fingers tight together. “I am in no doubt of having been loved by both my parents. My siblings care for me as well. And Miss York managed my upbringing quite capably. If I am draconian, or ungraceful, in such interactions as you witnessed today, the fault is entirely my own, I’m sure.”
The conversation lapsed. She would not look at him, and risk meeting with more sympathy in his indiscreet eyes. She marched on, unlacing and relacing her fingers, until he spoke again.
“Don’t suppose you’ve seen an accurate example of how I interact with my own laborers. Talking to someone else’s cottagers is different, I don’t doubt. Too, you were there. She shouldn’t have been so much at ease if I’d come upon her alone.”
“Of course. I hadn’t thought of that.” A single gentleman landowner had a whole different set of challenges, didn’t he? Maybe she could be of use. “Perhaps one afternoon I could go with you to call on your own people.”
“Perhaps.” He wheeled out ahead of her, as though to slip from under the burden of solemnity, and walked backward, facing her, eyes lit with irreverence. “Will you badger the ladies with lists of recommended reading? Will you make a sermon on the virtues of education?”
“I might make such a sermon to you.” Impudent man, he would deserve it. “Have you given any thought to educating your laborers’ children?”
“No more sermons today.” He caught the map in his hands and proceeded to twirling it round and round like a parading soldier’s musket. “No more thought. Altogether I’ve had a pleasant afternoon, and I should like to finish it in just this style, walking about with you under the sun and the sky.”
So she said no more. Hope burned strong and steady in her, though. No more sermons today, he’d said. That left tomorrow, and quite a few days besides. With persistence, and encouragement of his better qualities, what improvements might she not set in motion, on his land as well as her own, before the month was through?
IF HE were a cottager—which h
e must remember to be thankful more often that he was not—Theo would keep a house, he hoped, not unlike Mr. Barrow’s. The very yard told of thrift and order, with the geese and pig confined in separate makeshift pens and a neat kitchen garden visible back of the house.
The door stood open to take advantage of the early evening breezes. One could afford that little luxury, of course, when one’s pig was not at liberty to march into the house. He stopped on the threshold and knocked.
He’d come home restless from Seton Park, and gone from room to room looking for something to do. All that study and tramping about ought to have left him tired, but he found, instead, that he wanted to be busy. Industry probably became a habit, if one allowed it to.
“Come,” a voice called, and he went in.
Sunlight slanted through clean windows to show the spare, tidy kitchen he remembered from the one time he’d called there to find no one home. Mr. Barrow sat at the table, doing something with a needle and cloth. A plate of food sat near him.
Country hours. He ought to have learnt by now. “Forgive me.” He stopped where he was and made an apologetic bow. “I didn’t mean to interrupt your supper. I’ll call another time.” He hadn’t any particular purpose in calling, anyway; just a vague notion of seeing whether he couldn’t have as cordial a conversation with one of his own people as he’d done with Miss Everett.
“Supper?—not at all.” The man pushed up from his place at the table, sweeping another place clean. “Only something to take the edge off. Will you sit? I’ll fetch a plate for you.” He bustled off with such speed as his age allowed, reaching down a tin plate from a shelf that ran across the kitchen’s back wall, and some paper-wrapped foodstuffs from another shelf, this one hanging by chains in the room’s center so as to foil even the most ambitious and sure-footed rats.
Yes, he must remember to be thankful he was not a cottager. Thankful for a life in which rats were dispensed with by somebody else, kept away from his meals by methods of which he could remain blissfully ignorant. Thankful for dinners eaten from patterned china on tables laid with linen, and thankful for numerous inventive courses rather than the heel of bread and unprepossessing hunk of cheese now set down before him.
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