“The usual sort with him.” Manners drew himself up and gripped both of his lapels. “A woman who doesn’t know her place generally loses it. He likes that one. Another is, A fine thing, when the master of the household grasps upon whose hard work his wealth depends, that sort of talk. Danvers says he’s getting worse, but then, Danvers is pretty.”
Duncan consulted his watch rather than observe Manners’s ears turning red—again. “Do we know anything of Trostle’s background?”
The footman moved on to the row of portraits, nudging this one straight, swiping a finger across that one’s signature. “He’s waiting for his father to die, a squire over in Hampshire. I gather he and his papa don’t get along. Mr. Trostle isn’t awful, sir. The fellow we had before him was worse.”
The lot of factors and stewards Quinn had inherited from the previous Duke of Walden had been driving the estates deeply into debt. When the College of Arms had lit upon Quinn as the ducal heir after several years of searching, significant damage had already been done at the family seat near Yorkshire.
Brightwell hadn’t fared much better.
“Your honesty is appreciated, Manners. You needn’t defend a man you don’t respect.”
Manners came to a halt before the portrait of the late duke. His Grace was dressed for shooting, for tramping his acres with a pair of harriers panting at his heels, an unusual portrayal of an aristocrat. Brightwell was set in the distance on a tidy lawn, with beds of colorful tulips lining the lane and circular drive.
“I wasn’t much older than Jinks when His Grace was alive. He was a dear old thing. Tried to teach me to play chess, of all the daft notions. Said a child could master the game, when I could barely keep my letters straight. Somewhere up in the attic, we have a painting of him at the chessboard, with the pieces arranged in some famous chess puzzle. He went a bit barmy toward the end, though he was always sweet. Didn’t put on airs. Said what he thought. Didn’t suffer fools—or knaves.”
Manners aimed a pointed look at Duncan.
“Please have Mrs. Newbury send up a lavish tray,” Duncan said. “Give me about ten minutes with Trostle before the tea arrives, and warn Miss Maddie that Trostle is underfoot.”
Manners collected his bucket of hot coals. “Already done that, sir.” He gave the gallery another inspection, then headed for the door. “Miss Maddie reminds me of somebody. Can’t think who it is. The old duke used to have company by the score, but I were just a lad and mostly kept out of sight belowstairs. Still, it’s on the edge of my mind, like a dream you can’t recall if you try, but it steals closer in the middle of the vicar’s sermon.”
“I know exactly what you mean.”
Though that tip-of-the-tongue, edge-of-a-dream feeling didn’t pertain to Matilda in Duncan’s case. She was an entirely new phenomenon, and she’d occasioned in Duncan something like spring fever. On the way home from visiting a tenant, he’d found himself humming old French folk tunes that fit with the rhythm of his horse’s hooves slopping along the farm lane.
Humming. He never hummed.
He’d penned a report to Quinn that had nothing to do with pence and quid and everything to do with how nicely situated Brightwell Manor was for the setting it occupied. That epistle had gone into the dustbin, of course.
He’d considered sending to London for a new pair of boots. Uncle had claimed one could tell a gentleman by his boots. Duncan’s were old and comfortable, or perhaps tending toward disreputable. A suitor should not wear disreputable boots. Colonel Alphonse had doubtless courted Matilda in spotless boots.
“I am losing my mind,” Duncan muttered to the ancestors on the walls.
Or perhaps he was becoming a Wentworth, capable of impetuous behavior, and even self-interested behavior. Capable of considering strategy and objectives beyond travel logistics or philosophical paradoxes.
“There you are, sir.” Oscar Trostle strode through the doorway, hand extended. He was blond, blue-eyed, and moving toward middle age with the bluff good cheer of the Saxon yeoman. His boots looked new to Duncan and far too clean considering the weather.
Mrs. Newbury sent Duncan a fulminating look and drew the door closed.
Duncan turned to study the late duke. “Has the custom of knocking on a closed door gone out of fashion, Trostle?”
From the corner of his eye, Duncan saw Trostle weighing alternatives: Blame the innocent housekeeper for that rudeness or show contrition?
“I do apologize, Mr. Wentworth. With the roads in a state, I feared to be tardy.”
Blame the weather, a safe option. Duncan ambled to the escritoire situated by a full-length window. The gallery had been designed such that portraits on the inside wall hung between the reach of the sunbeams pouring through windows on the outside wall, though the room at midday was flooded with light.
“I see you neglected to bring your reports.” Duncan took a seat behind the desk.
“Beg pardon?”
No chair sat opposite the escritoire, by design. Trostle was left standing, like a menial in the presence of his supervisor. Silly posturing, but preferable to tossing the man through the window.
“You are Brightwell’s steward. I assume you keep reports, ledgers, and wage books showing the exact state of the finances week by week. I am responsible for this property now, and that means you are answerable to me for your recordkeeping.”
“Of course, sir. Of course.” Trostle elected to wander the room rather than ask permission to be seated. “I hadn’t considered you’d want to bother with all that detail. This fellow with the dogs is the old duke, the one who let this place get into such a muddle. I ought not to speak ill of my betters, but I’m told His Grace didn’t have a head for numbers. Not his fault, of course.”
No Oxford-educated chess enthusiast would lack a grasp of mathematics. Duncan took out a nacre-handled penknife and began trimming the quills in the standish one by one.
“The current duke believes his predecessor was victimized by scoundrels and scalawags,” Duncan said, “people who betrayed the old man’s trust at a time when he was most vulnerable.” The shavings piled up on the blotter while Duncan pretended to ignore his steward.
“Never a good thing,” Trostle said, “when a staff lacks leadership. I noticed that right off when I took over here. Everybody, from the tenants, to the neighbors, to the house staff, appreciates knowing who’s in charge.”
Duncan swept the leavings into the dustbin. “I agree, and as I am the person who now fits that description, I’d like your opinion regarding a number of matters.”
He quizzed Trostle on everything from the number of fresh heifers, to the repairs needed on the tenant cottages, to the state of the hedges—badly overgrown, which meant better sport for Trostle, who, as a squire’s son, appropriated for himself the privilege of shooting Duncan’s game.
“We’ll always have a problem with poachers this close to London,” Trostle said, gazing out at the snowy back garden. “If we were so inclined, sir, we could take steps to deter them beyond what our gamekeepers have been able to do thus far. The management of game has been left to us, and that can be a lucrative endeavor.”
We, us, our…The words were intended to make Duncan feel complicit in the illegal and highly profitable business of supplying London establishments with fresh game. He’d heard those words before, suggesting an even more heinous complicity.
Women expect us to behave as God intended, Wentworth. Procreation is part of the divine plan.
Not like the females protest our attentions, Wentworth. Not for very long, anyway.
The memory of Vicar Jameson’s casual excuses still sickened Duncan, and yet, Trostle was merely stealing rabbits, not destroying a young woman’s virtue. All over England, trade in game went on despite grievous penalties for poaching and despite sore want of sustenance in many rural communities.
“Brightwell will not involve itself in illegal game sales,” Duncan said, dusting his hands. “His Grace of Walden would be very displeased
to learn of such practices, as would I.”
Trostle leaned a shoulder against the edge of a bay window, his posture suggesting he felt no compunction to behave formally with his employer. “People need to eat, Mr. Wentworth. This estate needs income.”
“I need my honor more, Trostle. You are doubtless aware that the present titleholder comes from a distant and lowly branch of the Wentworth family. His Grace brooks no chicanery, no winking at the law, for he is held to a very high standard by his peers. My cousin must not only appear to be worthy of the responsibility he’s been entrusted with, he must live up to the demands of his station in truth. I strive to do likewise in my own humble way.”
Trostle glanced down the row of portraits. When his gaze lit on Duncan, amusement shown from blue eyes.
“You are my employer, more or less, sir. We manage Brightwell as you see fit.”
No, we do not. A brisk rap on the door prevented Duncan from offering that correction. “Come in.”
Mrs. Newbury entered with a gleaming silver tray in her hands. The tea service had to weigh two stone, but Duncan remained seated, as an arrogant prig would.
Neither did Trostle make any effort to help a fellow employee.
Duncan gestured to the blotter. “You may pour out.”
She wrapped the handle of the teapot in her apron and poured a single cup, then stepped back.
“You are excused.”
She curtsied, sparing Trostle not a glance.
Trostle watched her retreating form, and not respectfully. “You talk about living up to the demands of one’s station. Brightwell’s housekeeper would do well to recall her own station.”
Duncan took a sip of tea hotter and stronger than he preferred. This was stage business, a display of superiority over an employee to whom he’d not offer so much as a tea cake.
“Explain yourself.”
“I heard Mrs. Newbury was faking illness last week, and just between us, sir, she’s no better than she should be. You can put a lace cap on any female—that doesn’t make her proper.”
Duncan set down his teacup gently, lest the relief he felt become obvious. Now I can hate you. Now you’ve eased my burden and made the way clear.
“You imply that Mrs. Newbury lacks morals?”
Trostle grabbed a little French chair padded in red velvet and set it before the desk. He seated himself and leaned forward, as if imparting confidences.
“If your origins are humble, you might not know how a great house is run, sir. A housekeeper is allowed certain privileges, but she must not overstep. Mrs. Newbury oversteps. She goes through candles like a hostler consumes beer. I haven’t wanted to say anything, because she’ll not find another post as good as this one, but stealing is stealing.”
Trostle’s expression was that of a man from whom a confession had been dragged, but his gaze on Duncan was assessing: Had the performance been successful?
Well, yes, in a sense. “What you tell me is most disappointing, Trostle, though not exactly a revelation. The habit of graft is hard to break. I suspect many in the vicinity have come to view Brightwell less than respectfully as a result.”
Trostle sat back, his features schooled to reluctant agreement. “I’m glad you see my point, sir. I’ve wondered about some of our tenants, too, and have been waiting for an opportunity to share my concerns with you.”
Oh, waiting for an opportunity, indeed. Duncan finished his tea, knowing that sacking Trostle was not only the right thing to do, it was necessary for the good of Brightwell and all who relied on the estate for a livelihood.
“Trostle, you must not believe all the gossip that comes to you,” Duncan said. “For example, I can tell you that Mrs. Newbury was gravely ill and that the local physician refused to heed my summons. She was not faking sick. Not in the least.”
Trostle rose. “Whose word are you taking for that, sir? That lot you have belowstairs has had years to guard each other’s backs. They’ll close ranks against you, whisper behind their hands about you. I’ve seen it before. No respect when respect is needed.”
Leave. The single word begged to be spoken, to be shouted. “Respect must be earned, Trostle.”
“I do my best, Mr. Wentworth, but you’ve a half dozen footmen, and not a one of them could be bothered to light this hearth. That’s not respect.”
That’s economy, you dolt. “To light a pair of hearths nearly sixty feet apart in a room I intend to use for less than an hour is ridiculous, Trostle. Our interview is at an end.”
You are sacked. Duncan said the words in his head, but as Trostle paused before the empty hearth, no words were spoken. That decision could not be unmade, no replacement for Trostle was on hand, and he was at least the devil the staff knew.
“I’m sorry to be the bearer of bad news, sir, but honesty is the best policy.”
Turn the lying cheat off without a character. The voice in Duncan’s head sounded very much like Quinn—a Yorkshire growl with more than a hint of menace.
“Here is how we shall proceed,” Duncan said. “You will deliver to my butler all of the ledgers and books you’ve kept since becoming steward at Brightwell. Wage books, receipts, tithes, everything. I shall review those records and acquaint myself with Brightwell’s financial history.”
Trostle braced a hand on the mantel and studied the empty hearth. “That’s a lot of history, sir.”
A lot of theft? “I hope to see Brightwell set to rights for a good long while. That means developing a thorough grasp of every error made in the recent past. With winter setting in, such a task appeals.”
“Very well, sir. I wasn’t aware you’d hired a butler.”
“I’ve promoted Manners.” Duncan would promote Manners, as soon as Trostle had gone stealing and lying on his way. For present purposes, Duncan was advancing a knight whom Trostle had probably mistaken for a pawn. “He’s hardworking, loves this house, and can be relied upon to put its welfare before his own.”
Even in the face of that salvo, Trostle didn’t flinch. “Commendable loyalty in a man so young, I suppose. I hope he proves worthy of your trust.”
“As do I.” Let him go. Get rid of him. Turn him off. Stephen’s voice had joined Quinn’s in Duncan’s head.
“If you’ll excuse me,” Mr. Trostle said, “my missus will want a recounting of this interview. She sets great store by the goings-on here and shares my high hopes for Brightwell’s future.”
Trostle had a wife. Of course he had a wife. Most men his age had wives. “Have you children?”
“A pair of darling little girls, sir, and the missus and I spoil them shamelessly. They get their beauty from their mama, and my job is to buy the hair ribbons and keep the pony fed. My mother-in-law lives with us as well, and has made very pointed comments about my duty to provide her a grandson or two.”
Even a scheming bounder could be a doting father, even a philandering rake could deliver a stirring sermon on the topic of self-denial.
“You may tell your missus that your duties will require you to travel in the immediate future,” Duncan said. “I’m sending you to Bristol, where I want you to take a look at the circular saws used in the naval yards. We have a surfeit of lumber here, and I’m told those saws can cut wood at more than ten times the rate experienced sawyers can manage. Bring me an estimate of what it would take to set up a circular saw and sawpit here at Brightwell.”
Trostle paused by the door. “You’re sending me out to Bristol now, sir? In this weather?”
“The roads are passable, Yuletide is some weeks away, and the task requires a knowledgeable eye. If my request is beyond your abilities, then please say so. I’m sure the under-steward will cheerfully undertake the journey.”
“Under-steward?”
Duncan rose. Even if Matilda joined the mental chorus clamoring for Trostle’s dismissal, Duncan would not sack the man today, not until he knew the Trostle family’s circumstances in greater detail.
“Brightwell is in trouble, Trostle. Despite your
best efforts, the estate is not solvent, and more effort is needed to make it so. His Grace has broken the entail, and the property can thus be sold if I can’t set it to rights. I’d rather not see Brightwell broken up or pass from the Wentworth family’s ownership. Clearly, more resources are needed to address the situation here, and I have taken steps to hire an under-steward. Shall you make the journey to Bristol, or shall I send someone else?”
“I can do a bit of shopping for the missus in Bristol,” Trostle said. “When would you like me to leave?”
“Immediately.”
Trostle’s annoyance was a fleeting glower at the door, then he recovered and approached Duncan with an outstretched hand.
Duncan poured himself another cup of tea.
Trostle bowed and withdrew, while Duncan took his tea and stood before the late duke. “I should have sacked him.”
His Grace remained memorialized with his loyal hounds, a gun propped over his shoulder.
“I should have sacked him without a character, but he has a family.” Duncan took a sip of tea and nearly scalded his tongue. “I have family, too, and they would have sacked him.”
“Talking to yourself,” Stephen said from the doorway, “surely a sign of inchoate dementia. It’s colder than the ninth circle of hell in here. Maybe you’re in the early stages of hypothermia as well.”
Stephen knew all about illnesses of both the body and the mind. What did he know about a troubled heart? “I sent Trostle to Bristol.”
His lordship closed the distance to the tea tray. “Probably qualifies as a version of purgatory this time of year. Did he admit to stealing you blind?”
“More or less, and he attempted to sully the reputations of any loyal to this house. The tea is very hot.”
“I like it hot. I’m the bearer of news.”
Stephen was no longer a boy. Every time Duncan came to this realization, it made him a little sadder. The sun slanting through the windows illuminated the face of a young man rather than a youth. The manner in which Stephen grasped a delicate porcelain teacup—confident, graceful, unselfconscious—was a man’s grasp, not a boy’s.
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