by Emily Royal
“That may be, your Ladyship, but I cannot discuss the estate with anyone but him.”
“Because he’s a man?” She leaned forward. “At least tell me the problem. And don’t deny it. I may be a woman, but I’m no fool.”
He hesitated. “I…”
“I won’t leave this room,” she interrupted, “or permit you to leave, until you explain what’s wrong. So, I’d advise you to speak now to save both our time. Given my husband’s lack of business acumen, I suspect the problem is financial, yes?”
A spark of respect lit his eyes. “Our income has been falling, but costs are increasing.”
“Then let’s start with the income.”
“Very well,” he said. “Tenants have struggled to pay their rent.”
“And why’s that?”
“Illness, mostly. Some of the farmers are no longer producing an income.”
“And what do you do?”
“What we’ve always done. Evict them.”
“Why not send a physician to tend to them?”
“Physicians cost money. His Lordship would never sanction the expenditure.”
“What do you do with the properties? Find other tenants?”
“No, they remain empty.”
How senseless! Did Henry think turning out tenants was the prudent thing to do, whether or not he cared for their welfare?
“Why not let them remain? They can accrue arrears and pay rent when they can afford it again. Better that than have empty properties fall into ruin.”
“What if they cannot pay their arrears?”
“They could work for it. There must be some service they can perform.”
The steward shook his head. “Their sort would take advantage. They’re a different breed to the rest of us…”
He lowered his gaze. “I’m sorry, my lady. I didn’t mean…”
“You didn’t mean me? My father has worked hard all his life. People of his class work hard, some through necessity, others through a desire to better themselves.”
“You must admit there are those unwilling to work.”
“In my experience, the laziest creatures belong to my husband’s social class, not mine.”
The steward’s lip twitched, as if suppressing a rush of amusement.
“Give the tenants a chance, Mr. Barnes,” Jeanette said. “A little compassion and the opportunity to improve their lives will secure their loyalty. If we can restore the estate’s income, my husband can congratulate himself on having such a clever steward.”
“And if we fail?”
“He can commiserate himself on having such an interfering wife.”
Mr. Barnes smiled. “I think he’s made an excellent choice of wife.”
“You’re very kind,” Jeanette smiled. “And now, if you could oblige me, I’d like to inspect the ledgers.”
“But Lord Ravenwell…” The steward paused, then smiled, “…is not here. Very well, I’ll bring you the ledgers for the past year.”
“The past ten, if you please.”
Mr. Barnes let out a laugh. “Yes,” he said, “an excellent choice of wife, indeed.”
It seemed Jeanette had an ally.
*
By the time Jeanette had finished, the sunlight had faded. Rays of light which had stretched across the rug in Henry’s study had long since been replaced by shadows. She dropped the final book onto the floor, and it landed with a puff of dust. Amid her coughing, the steward entered the room.
“Shall I ask Mrs. Barnes to bring more tea?” He looked pointedly at the teacup on the desk, still full, its contents stone cold.
“No, thank you.” She gestured to a chair. “Would you sit?”
“Forgive me, Lady Ravenwell, but I have to see…”
“It wasn’t a request, Mr. Barnes.”
Understanding flashed across his face. “You’ve found something?”
“I believe I have,” she replied. “It dates back eight years.”
His body stiffened. But the accounts had been prepared honestly, the steward demonstrating, as she’d told Henry during their first encounter, that he was more deserving of an Oxford education than his master.
“I’m not implying foul play, Mr. Barnes, but certain patterns in the accounts seem to have been overlooked.”
“Patterns?”
“Subtle at first,” she said, “but over a sustained period they’ve compounded to have a detrimental effect on the estate’s financial position.”
“For example?”
“You said tenants have been failing to pay their rent. This seems to have begun eight years ago. Did anything specific happen then?”
He looked to one side, as if recalling a memory. “The year 1807; a harsh winter, if I recall. What have you discovered?”
“After a sustained period of increase, the tenancy income fell in the year seven and has continued to fall. At first, the reductions were almost too small to be noticed, but then the income began to fall by larger increments, presumably representing the evictions.”
“Hardly enough to bring the estate into ruin.”
“Not in isolation, but the estate, like a business, resembles a living organism. Each part, and person, performs a function on which the others rely. The loss of tenants doesn’t just affect the cashflow; one must consider the other benefits the tenants bring to the estate.”
“Such as?”
“Goods and services, Mr. Barnes. The farmer who cannot tend to his crops or livestock is unable to supply the household.”
“A single farmer can’t bring an estate into ruin.”
“But he has a family, sons who work the land—builders, foresters. He has daughters, women who work in the household, family ties which keep him loyal. Evict him, and others will follow. From what I’ve seen, ten families have left the estate in the past two years alone.”
“How can ten families have made such an impact?”
“One family can make an impact when the accounts are balanced so delicately,” she said. “Take the farmers, for example. The land hereabouts is ideal for cattle, yet according to the ledgers, there hasn’t been a livestock farm here for seven years. Mrs. Barnes has all the beef and mutton sent from London.”
“You’re suggesting we stop ordering beef and mutton?”
“Of course not, but have you considered the impact, over seven years, of buying supplies which the estate previously produced? A London merchant is a fool if he adds anything less than fifty percent profit over the market price of his beef. Add the costs of transportation from London, it’s plain to see why the estate is losing money. You’re lining the pockets of merchants, where a farmer would have charged you considerably less and also yielded rent.”
“What makes you think merchants are overcharging us by such a margin?”
“My father made his fortune selling to the idle rich who couldn’t be bothered to put their own estates to good use. The prices in your ledgers exceed what Papa used to charge per pound by twenty percent.”
“What do you propose, Lady Ravenwell?”
“Do any farmers on the estate have experience with livestock?”
He drummed his fingers on the desk. “There’s Robert Milton. His father, old Mr. Milton, had a herd.”
“Where’s old Mr. Milton?”
The steward colored and shook his head. “Patterns.”
“What do you mean, Mr. Barnes?”
“He died eight years ago; shortly after, his herd all but died out. Why didn’t I notice?”
“Sometimes we’re too close to the points of detail to spot the link between them.” She pushed back her chair and stood. The steward followed suit.
“Will you take supper now, my lady?”
“Yes, thank you,” she said. “Then tomorrow you can take me to Robert Milton.”
“But he’s a farmer! Wouldn’t you rather I brought him to you?”
“No, I wish to see his farm.”
“But you’re…”
“…the
daughter of a farmer, Mr. Barnes.”
He smiled before opening the study door to let her through. “And, I might add, a better prospect for Ravenwell than the daughter of a gentleman.”
Chapter Twenty-Two
The deep, throaty caws of the rooks echoed through the trees as the gig drove past and a cloud of birds burst through the treetops, disturbed from their roost. Shortly afterward, a stone farmhouse came into view. Several slates were missing from the roof. Some had been patched, but to Jeanette’s eyes, it was yet more evidence of neglect. A skilled roofer would not have left such large gaps through which rain would seep and frosts would penetrate.
Beside the farmhouse were a number of outbuildings, including a squat stone building with a steep, sloped roof and the tell-tale charring around the windows typical of a smokehouse. In the field immediately behind, tufts of wheat moved to and fro in the breeze with a fluid, rippling motion. The fields beyond were empty.
A man leading two bullocks along the perimeter fence waved and called out. Mr. Barnes raised his hand in response.
The gig drew to a halt at the farmhouse beside a painted wooden door, framed with a climbing rose bush, dotted with delicate pink blooms. A thin, dark-haired woman opened the door, a baby in her arms. On seeing Jeanette, she shrank back.
“My husband’s in the field.”
Her voice held an undercurrent of apprehension. And well it might. A visit from the steward was usually the precursor to an eviction. The previous quarter day, Robert Milton had only been able to pay half the rent due. Last year, his brothers had been evicted.
“Mrs. Milton, I must commend you on your beautiful roses,” Jeanette said. “Forgive me for the imposition, but may we sit in your kitchen?”
The woman dipped into a curtsey. “Of course, your ladyship. Let me put the baby down before I show you.”
She turned to leave, and Jeanette caught her arm, her heart clenching as the woman flinched.
“Please wait with us,” Jeanette said. “I have no wish for you to be parted from your child on our account.”
*
Robert Milton was a giant of a man. He had to hunch his shoulders to avoid his head brushing the top of the doorframe. On entering the kitchen, he ran his hands through his thick, red hair before wiping them on a cloth tied to his belt.
“Ma’am.” He bowed to Jeanette before casting a wary glance at his wife. She shook her head, and Jeanette saw a slight relaxing in his shoulders.
“Are ye wanting tea, your ladyship?”
“No, thank you, Mr. Milton, I won’t keep you long.”
“We’re here to discuss the farm,” Mr. Barnes said. The farmer’s stance stiffened again.
“Please don’t be alarmed,” Jeanette interjected, “your tenancy is secure. But I’d like to know more about your family, and your farm.”
“What do ye want to know?”
She nodded toward the baby. “How many children do you have?”
“Three,” he replied. “Two sons and baby Lily there.”
“How old are your sons?”
“Robert, our eldest, turns fourteen this year, and Stephen is twelve.”
“Old enough to help you on the farm?”
“Aye.”
“What livestock do you have?”
“Two head of cattle.”
“The bullocks I saw in the field,” Jeanette said. “If I’m not mistaken, they’re Sussex cattle, yes?”
The farmer’s eyes widened. “Ye know about the Sussex?”
“Aye, I do. Originally a draught breed but prized for their versatility in being able to produce profitable quantities of both beef and milk. My father bred Herefords, but he said the Sussex were far superior. He once read a journal in which they were described as being unquestionably ranked among the best in the kingdom.”
The farmer’s face brightened into a smile. “I read that journal myself. My father…”
He broke off, his smile disappearing.
“I understand your father had a herd?” Jeanette said. “Did you help him?”
“Aye. My brothers and I grew up tending to the herd. After he fell ill, I tried to run the farm for him.”
“So you know how to farm livestock?”
“Aye, both cattle and sheep.”
“Excellent! Then I have a proposition for you, a herd of your own.”
The light in his eyes dimmed. “I couldn’t afford it.”
“That’s where I come in,” Jeanette said. “I can provide you with sufficient funds to purchase, say, ten head of cattle as a start?”
“A new herd wouldn’t yield much in the short term.”
“I understand that, Mr. Milton, which is why I’ve asked Mr. Barnes here to make inquiries locally for employment. It’ll be harvest time soon, and the neighboring estates would pay handsomely for any labor your family could provide.”
“It’d be too much work for me. Robert and Stevie can only help me so much.”
“What about your brothers, Mr. Milton? If they returned to the estate, your family can be reunited.”
“Forgive me, but I cannot take charity from a lady.”
“Consider it a loan,” Jeanette said. “As for being a lady, I’m a farmer’s daughter first and foremost. What better purpose could I put my pin money to than investing in a farm? I confess, I’d relish the prospect of attending a cattle market again.”
The steward choked on his water, and Mr. Milton arched an eyebrow. “Ye’d want to come with me to Chichester?”
“Mr. Barnes’s constitution would not entertain it,” Jeanette laughed.
The farmer and his wife exchanged another glance, and Jeanette rose from her seat.
“We’ve imposed on your time long enough, Mr. Milton,” she said. “I hope you’ll consider my proposition. I’d like nothing more than to see your farm restored. I’ll leave Mr. Barnes to make the arrangements. Perhaps you could attend him when you’ve decided.”
The rush of hope in the farmer’s eyes told her he’d already made his decision.
*
Jeanette settled into a routine at Ravenwell. Managing the household took little effort thanks to Mrs. Barnes. The estate was a different matter, but after Jeanette set her plans in motion to restore the fortunes of Milton Farm, the fruits of her labors injected a new enthusiasm into Mr. Barnes who took an active interest in the other tenants, securing paid employment for them in neighboring estates.
A month after Jeanette’s proposal, Robert Milton purchased ten head of Sussex cattle at the Chichester market, including a bull he was able to put to use as a stud together with a small flock of Southdown Sheep. Riding past the farm in the gig, Jeanette heard laughter echoing across the fields. Robert’s younger brother had returned with his family. Sounds of hammering drifted across the air as the brothers toiled to repair the smokehouse. With luck, the nucleus of hope, which had breathed life into one small holding, would initiate ripples of prosperity throughout the estate.
Aside from the servants, Jeanette had no company except for the portraits of Henry’s ancestors which dominated the corridors. Shadowy expressions followed her each time she walked past a painting, eyes hard with disapproval at how she tainted their ancestral home. The finely bred features of the women offset the stern, square jaws of the men. Soon, Jeanette’s own portrait would accompany them, an imposter among the aristocrats.
Ye gods, no wonder Henry sought solace among the London lights!
Jeanette turned once more to her music. A Broadwood grand resided in the music room, overlooked by another portrait. The woman in the picture looked a similar age to Jeanette. Her face bore a secret smile, soft gray eyes twinkling as if engaged in mischief.
Jeanette settled on the piano stool and pulled out the sheet music she had been practicing. She ran her fingers over the keys, relishing the melodies which soothed her soul.
After the last note of the final aria of the Goldberg Variations faded away, a deep female voice made Jeanette jump.
“
I’ve not heard that Bach since I was a little girl.”
Dressed in black, the woman in the doorway stood almost six feet tall, supported by a cane, her fingers curling claw-like over the tip. Eyes the color of steel focused with sharp intensity on Jeanette.
Henry’s maternal grandmother, the dowager duchess.
“Your Grace.” Jeanette rose from the piano stool, then dipped into a curtsey.
The woman nodded toward Jeanette’s left hand. “My emerald. You must be the commoner my grandson married.”
Jeanette straightened her stance. “My name is…”
“Yes, yes, I know who you are.” The woman waved a dismissive hand at her. “What I want to know is what made him too ashamed to invite me to the wedding. The cursed boy saw fit only to send me a brief handwritten note.”
“He hasn’t told you what happened?”
“Henry possesses little sense, but he knows better than to tattle. I loathe gossip myself, but tales always have some element of truth at their core. I heard the upstart daughter of a farmer purposely ruined herself to entrap my grandson. Does the prospect of being a duchess encourage all ladies of your birth to risk their dignity?”
“I have no wish to be a duchess…”
“Yet you married a man who’ll inherit a dukedom. My grandson is no easy catch. You succeeded where countless women of superior birth and fortune have failed.”
Jeanette’s cheeks warmed at the insult, but given Henry’s contempt of her, she could hardly expect his nearest relation to welcome her into the family.
The duchess moved further into the room. “How did you snare Henry?”
“I didn’t,” Jeanette said. “His friend Viscount Oakville ruined my reputation so I challenged him to a duel.”
“I’d heard that was Viscount De Blanchard.”
“No, him, I punched on the nose.”
“Dear God,” the duchess said. “What was the boy thinking offering his hand to you?”
“I’d suggest you ask him yourself, but he’s in London. Would you care for some tea?”
The old woman shook her head, and a ray of sunlight illuminated her face, the color of her eyes sharpening to ice-cold steel.
“No, thank you. I’ll write to Henry myself if he lacks the courage to face me. Don’t bother to show me out.”