The Cottage by Coniston (Seasons of Change Book 5)

by Deborah M. Hathaway

  In all the commotion, Amy barely registered the hands holding onto the chicken as the hen attempted to escape—the feathered body preventing any view of the person behind it.

  Finally, the bird was let loose and sailed toward Amy, who waved her hands in front of her to stop the assault, backing farther away with another yelp.

  Finally, the chicken landed on the ground and scurried away on her thin, scaly legs. The red, fleshy comb on top of her head quivered as she clucked toward her friends on the other side of the henhouse.

  “Blast! Now she’s got away again!”

  Amy pressed a hand to her chest, her heart racing fiercely as she whirled toward the culprit who had managed to accost her with a hen. A hen, of all things.

  “What in heaven’s name are you doing?” she shrieked.

  The man scowled, his lips parting in disbelief. “What in heaven’s name are you doing? This is private property, ma’am. And you’ve just cost me a quarter of an hour’s work.”

  She pulled back, raising her chin with indignation. He was blaming her for losing the chicken? She scanned him from his black boots to his thick, dark brown hair. She could not deny his handsome features, though dirt and sweat tainted his brow. He wore no jacket, cravat, or waistcoat, and his braces stretched from his buckskin breeches over his broad shoulders.

  Clearly, he was tasked to maintain the manor.

  Clearly, he was doing a very poor job of it.

  “Well, forgive me for costing you such precious time,” she spat back with sarcasm. “However, I must say, it was your own doing that the chicken escaped your mannish clutches.”

  He propped his hands on his hips, causing the front of his shirt to open farther, revealing the top of his muscular chest.

  She kept her gaze steady on his face. For the most part.

  “My fault?” he questioned. “It was your screaming that sent the hen flying.”

  “Well what am I to do when an animal is thrown into my face? At any rate, it was your doing. You ought to have known better than to hold her so far away from you. You were frightening her.”

  He scanned her person, and she shifted to the side uncomfortably as he lifted a dubious brow. “Forgive me if I choose not to trust you. I find it difficult to believe a lady such as yourself knows the proper way to hold a hen.”

  She pursed her lips. Mama always advised her she need not prove others wrong just on principle. But this man needed a firm dressing down. Especially if he was the one who would be caring for the hens. The poor creatures would be injured if he carried on in such a manner.

  Without another thought, she turned toward the chickens, slowing her pace as she approached the one who had unwittingly scared her half to death.

  As she’d done a hundred times before, she clicked her tongue and bent toward the ground. The hen strode directly up to her. With a soft grasp, Amy reached out to her, holding her close between her side and upper arm. Securing the clawed feet with one hand, Amy used her free fingers to stroke the hen smoothly along her feathers.

  She delivered a pointed look to the gentleman then deposited the hen with her friends in the henhouse and secured the latch on the door.

  She turned back to the man, brushing off her gloved hands and dress. “There, you see? That is the proper way to hold a chicken.”

  He remained silent, studying her.

  “And now that I have done your work for you,” she continued, “I would be most appreciative if you would inform me as to where your master is.”

  “My master? Ma’am, you—”

  “Yes. I should very much like to express how displeased I am with our encounter, as well as the state of this house and what might occur to these hens. How would we ever be content living here?”

  “Living here?” he repeated her words again, narrowing his eyes. “Forgive me, ma’am, but are you confused, lost? Did you wander too far from home, perhaps, and are now turned round? I can help you find your way back, if you know where you are even supposed to be.”

  How dare the man be so insolent as to assume she had wandered there by mistake? He clearly thought her a simpleton, a weakened, female waif. “Of course not. My family and I are—were—to lease this property.”

  He shook his head, obviously still baffled. “I fear the more answers you provide, the more questions arise within me. Why—”

  “I could say the same for myself, sir.” She propped her fisted hands on her hips, only vaguely aware of interrupting him. She was far too preoccupied with her rapidly rising defenses. Who did this man think he was? “I should like to ask after your employer’s choice in servants, as well as his ineptitude in keeping up with the deplorable state of this house.”

  His scowl returned, and his jaw twitched. “Deplorable? You—”

  “Indeed, deplorable. I don’t believe I’ve ever been so disappointed. He ought to be ashamed with the state of his property.”

  His eyes hardened, and silence pulsed between them before his slow, deep voice filled the air. “Tell me, ma’am, were you taught to be so blunt and disagreeable, or does behaving in such a way come naturally to you?”

  She pulled back, pained as if struck with a switch at school.

  Blunt. The word seemed to follow her around like a dark specter, made even worse by the accompanying word, disagreeable.

  The man was right, of course. She’d interrupted him countless times and accused him and his employer of neglect and incompetence. And she’d held a chicken in front of him. She was behaving exactly as Hugh had told her not to, and now this man had seen her at her very worst.

  Instead of humility lowering her defenses, or common sense reminding her to be kind and silent as Hugh had suggested, strong barriers fortified round her heart.

  After all, she hardly needed to impress this man, as she would never pursue him. And if he had the audacity to critique her for the faults she already knew she possessed, he hardly deserved any kindness at all.

  She leaned forward, setting her lips in a determined line. “How do you even—”

  “Amy? Amy!” Father appeared at the side of the stables at a quick walk, relief sweeping across his features. “There you are.” His eyes flickered to the man then back to Amy. “What has happened? I returned to the carriages when your mother told me she thought she heard you scream.”

  His accusatory eyes settled on the half-clothed man.

  “I’m sorry to have worried you both,” Amy said, a soothing hand on Papa’s arm. “I assure you, I am well. Merely startled by the sudden appearance of this man and his chicken.”

  “His chicken?”

  Amy motioned to the henhouse, and Papa looked from the hens to Amy to the man. “Do you work here, sir?”

  “I—”

  “His employer owns this property,” Amy interjected. “Though he will not tell me where he is.”

  The man huffed a disbelieving laugh. “I beg your pardon?”

  “All right, then,” Papa said in his no-nonsense tone. “Tell us at once where we may find Mr. Eastwood.”

  Chapter Four

  William blinked as the father and daughter finally quieted down, their critical eyes honing in as he shifted his feet. What on earth was going on? How had he not heard these people come onto his property? And more importantly, why had these people come onto his property to seek him?

  He clasped his hands behind his back. “I am Mr. Eastwood.”

  The woman’s disbelieving gaze skimmed the length of him again. If he hadn’t removed half his clothing upon arriving at Corcliffe Manor, perhaps she would have treated him with greater respect.

  “You are Mr. Arthur Eastwood,” the gentleman clarified, his disbelief as apparent as his daughter’s.

  William stared. Now they asked after his grandfather? What in heaven’s name was going on? “My apologies. I am Mr. William Eastwood. Arthur was my grandfather.”

  “Was?”

  “Indeed, he passed a little over a month ago.”

  The gentleman huffed out
a sigh. “Heavens. My apologies, Mr. Eastwood.”

  William delivered the customary nod expected when someone expressed their condolences, though the past month had been one of the best of his life.

  “Thank you, Mr.…”

  “Ah, yes. Mr. John Paxton. And this is my delightful daughter, Miss Amy Paxton.”

  Delightful? Perhaps when she wasn’t scowling so fiercely, or criticizing his home, or correcting his holding of a chicken. Though in that regard, she’d been correct. How the devil did she know how to hold one, though?

  He bowed. “It’s a pleasure.”

  Miss Paxton returned the gesture with a begrudging curtsy.

  “I do apologize for my state of undress,” he continued. “But I assure you, I am now master of this estate.”

  A small degree of satisfaction tickled William’s pride as the young woman’s expression fell, a blush creeping across her cheeks. Now she believed who he was. Would she also regret her short behavior?

  He pulled his eyes from her pink, pouting lips. “Forgive me, but I fear I am still at a loss as to what the two of you are doing here on my property.”

  Miss Paxton clasped her hands together, her blue eyes seething. She must still be upset about his words. Perhaps he shouldn’t have been so harsh, no matter how truthful he’d been.

  Mr. Paxton reached into his waistcoat and procured a correspondence. “Ah, yes. I do apologize. I can only imagine how we must look to you. Allow me to explain. We have been in contact with a Mr. Chamberlain for the past four months now in regards to renting out your grandfather’s property through the months of September and October.” He extended the letter to William. “I take it you had no knowledge of this transaction?”

  William retrieved the paper, skimming over the letter with a knotted stomach. Sure enough, Grandfather’s and Mr. Chamberlain’s signatures were both signed at the bottom of the agreement to lease Corcliffe Manor to the Paxtons. But why in heaven’s name had Grandfather agreed to such a thing? He’d always despised the idea of leasing out an inch of his property to anyone.

  “I’m afraid I have never heard a word about this business,” he reluctantly admitted.

  Mr. Paxton sighed. “This is most disappointing. We were assured everything would be ready upon our arrival. Mr. Chamberlain even promised us the use of a few of Mr. Eastwood’s servants.”

  William brushed a discouraged hand over his eyes. Of course Mr. Chamberlain would promise such a thing. And of course the man would not have told William a word about it.

  “Forgive me,” he said, his gaze flicking to Miss Paxton, who still frowned. No doubt she was from the city, Bath or London by the looks of her fine traveling dress. Even so, how did a lady of such high society know how to carry a chicken? He shook away the thought and focused on the matter at hand. “I am in the middle of shifting a great deal of information around after hiring another steward, as Mr. Chamberlain is no longer employed in my services.”

  “I see,” Mr. Paxton said. “How dreadful.”

  Dreadful? Discharging Mr. Chamberlain from his work with the Eastwoods had been nothing but relieving. He and William had never liked each other. Mr. Chamberlain had been unreliable and unyieldingly loyal to Grandfather, so much so that he did nothing William asked of him. He’d omitted, if not destroyed, any information of renters at Corcliffe Manor, clearly desiring William to appear unprofessional.

  Unfortunately, the steward’s plan had worked. But William still could not understand the logic behind Grandfather leasing a property that was not fit to be lived in. Unless…

  “I must ask, have you already provided my grandfather a deposit of some sort?”

  “Indeed, we have. I have the agreement if you’d like to see it.”

  William shook his head. “No, there is no need.” He did not need to see any evidence when he trusted this near-stranger’s words more than Grandfather and his reprehensible plans to exploit whoever he could to gain more money. How many times had he done such a thing? And how many lives had the man ruined?

  Extending the letter back to Mr. Paxton, William raised his brow with regret. “I am terribly sorry over all that has occurred. Of course you understand that I cannot allow you and your family to stay when the manor is in such a terrible state. But I am more than willing to return your deposit to you in full today.”

  Mr. Paxton merely nodded, and William’s culpability increased tenfold. Would he ever stop running into the issues Grandfather left behind? Cleaning up derelict estates, allowing tenants back onto their properties, repaying strangers for dishonest deals. The deceit would never end.

  But William would try his hardest to make the lies end.

  “Furthermore,” he said, “I’m more than happy to suggest a few places in the village where you might stay temporarily, until more permanent matters can be decided upon beyond Coniston. If you wish, you and your family would be most welcome to join me for a cup of tea at my main estate, Birchwick Hall, while this whole business is sorted.”

  Mr. Paxton nodded, though his expression had since fallen with disappointment. “That would be much appreciated, sir.”

  William motioned toward the drive. “It is only a short ride up the road.”

  Miss Paxton looped her arm through her father’s as they moved past William.

  “I had my heart set on Coniston,” Mr. Paxton whispered. “As did your mother.”

  “Worry not, Father,” Miss Paxton said, her voice in a loud whisper, signaling her desire for William to overhear her words. “I’m certain we shall find somewhere much better to stay. A place with honorable people who treat their tenants and business associates with kindness and respect.”

  William clenched his jaw. How dare the woman accuse him of dishonesty, of showing a lack of respect? Clearly, he was not in the wrong here.

  But he would let her words be. She was obviously highly favored by her father. Had she always received everything her little heart desired?

  Thank heavens Charity wasn’t like that. He couldn’t abide a spoiled person, and Charity was the furthest thing from it. Having lost her father at a young age, she’d been forced to grow up too early—just like William.

  This Miss Paxton needed a hearty dose of reality. Perhaps this experience would humble her.

  But caring for the Paxtons was hardly his responsibility, and Mr. Paxton seemed more than capable of handling this mess himself.

  William paused. He was beginning to sound an awfully lot like Grandfather—passing responsibility off to other people, refusing to help his tenants—exactly what Mr. Rutledge had taught William not to do. Grandfather never did a thing for anyone else.

  William did.

  “Wait a moment.” He paused on the drive, and the Paxtons turned to face him. “I might have another solution.”

  Mr. Paxton’s brow rose, but his daughter’s lips thinned as she pressed them impatiently together.

  “Thank you very much,” she said, “but my father can—”

  “Just a moment, my dear,” Mr. Paxton gently interrupted. “Let us hear him out.”

  Amy looked away with impatience. Did William truly wish to help her when she wouldn’t appreciate a thing he did?

  Yes, because he was not simply helping. He was righting a wrong made by his grandfather. And he would never say no to that.

  “I have another home that may satisfy your needs. You will have driven past it on your way here, the cottage set just by Coniston. Though, you may not have noticed it, as it is nestled within thick trees.”

  Mr. Paxton smiled, clearly intrigued. Miss Paxton covered her mouth with a gloved hand to stifle a yawn.

  “The back of the house lets up to stunning views of the lake, and the gardens are lovely from the front. The cottage is also clean and comfortable and has four rooms, as well as housing for any help. If you do not mind close quarters, I think your family could be quite happy there.”

  Mr. Paxton nodded with excitement. “This sounds marvelous, Mr. Eastwood. But we wouldn’t
wish to encroach on your hospitality, as you must have had other tenants in mind for the cottage.”

  “No, not at all. In fact, I was looking for visitors to lease the property but assumed I would not find any until next spring or summer at the earliest. Really, you will be doing me the favor by staying.”

  That was only half a lie. He really hadn’t wanted tenants until next year to allow him time to finish all of his work, but that was beside the point.

  “And is this cottage overrun with dust, as well?” Miss Paxton’s smooth voice dripped with feigned innocence.

  “Amy…” Mr. Paxton whispered.

  She kept her accusatory eyes on William, but he refused to cower.

  “I assure you, the cottage has only recently been renovated to meet the standards of even the most fastidious of females.”

  “There, you see, my dear?” Mr. Paxton said. “Mr. Eastwood shall help us after all.”

  “Hmm.” Miss Paxton turned away.

  “I shall show you the way in just a moment,” William said. “I must—”

  “Make yourself decent?” she finished with arched brows, looking over her shoulder with a raised chin.

  Mr. Paxton chuckled. “We shall wait for you by our carriages, Mr. Eastwood. Come, Amy, before that tongue of yours gets you into trouble.”

  “Of course, Papa. I wish you luck with your chickens, Mr. Eastwood. And do remember my advice. It may save any other unsuspecting visitors from your wrath.”

  Mr. Paxton gave her a quizzical look, but she merely smiled and walked away.

  As they departed, William instantly regretted his offer of Flitfield Cottage.

  That woman was trouble. And he was too busy to have any amount of trouble in his life right now.

  “Why ever would you wish to leave the cottage, Amy? We’ve only been here two days.”

  Amy glanced around her, ensuring no one could overhear her and Mama’s words, though her concern was unnecessary. The road through Coniston that they walked along was nearly empty, dotted only with the occasional passerby, carriage, or elderly couple seated outside the bakery.