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‘No doubt he will marry an heiress.’
‘What happened to the Spanish wife?’ Charlotte asked mischievously.
‘Charlotte, is it in your nature to be perverse? Or is it simply that you enjoy provoking me?’
‘Oh, I am definitely perverse,’ Charlotte said, laughing.
They had reached her curricle, with its patient horse standing in the lane, and she bade her ladyship goodbye and drove herself home. In spite of telling herself what Roland Temple did was no concern of hers, that she despised him, she had frequently found herself thinking about him since his return and wondering how they would go on when they met again, because in a village as small as Amerleigh, they could not fail to meet. And now she knew. It was war.
Chapter Two
Later that day Roland fetched Travers, and they went on foot to inspect the big house. ‘I might as well go and see what needs to be done,’ he told him.
Taking the great key his mother had given him, he unlocked the stout oak door and stepped inside. Even the dilapidated state of the exterior did not prepare him for the interior. The downstairs rooms had been cleared of anything of value, leaving only the heavy old Jacobean furniture, which had long gone out of fashion; there was hardly a stick of decent furniture left and most of the carpets had gone. The walls were bare of pictures, though it was easy to see on the faded wallpaper where they had once hung.
Travers followed him from room to room. ‘If you don’t mind my saying so, Major,’ he said. ‘It could be a villa in Spain after the Frenchies have done with it.’
‘Yes.’ It was far worse than he had expected. How had it got like this? What had his father been thinking of to let it happen? Surely his mother was mistaken and it had nothing to do with Cartwright and a worthless strip of land? An unwise investment made by his father, perhaps. But if that were so, why had Mountford not advised him against it? His mother was right, a visit to the lawyer was called for, and the sooner the better.
They went up the wide, curving staircase and wandered about the first floor, containing the main bedrooms, the gallery and the ballroom, followed by the caretaker who had arrived from nowhere and seemed to think it his duty to be in attendance. The bedchambers were dank and those hangings that remained smelled of damp. A mouse scurried along the wainscot and disappeared down a hole. ‘What on earth happened?’ he murmured.
‘Happened, my lord?’ Old Bennett was clearly agitated.
‘Oh, I do not expect you to know,’ Roland told him.
‘No, my lord, but it grieves me to see the old place like this. We are all glad to see you home. Amerleigh needs you.’
The man’s words brought home to him that he could not please himself, that there were others involved, servants and tenants and those in the village whose livelihood depended on the work they did, directly or indirectly, for the estate. How had they been managing? The thought that some of them had gone to Mandeville incensed him, especially if this desolation was any of Cartwright’s doing. No wonder his father had wanted revenge.
‘Seems to me, Major, you’re going to need some blunt,’ Travers said as they locked up and left to go back to the dower house.
He should have reprimanded the man for his impertinence, but he was only stating a fact and they were more than master and servant: they were friends, comrades in arms who had shared bad times as well as good. ‘Yes, Corporal, I think I will.’
‘There’s the French gold…’
The day before the battle at Vittoria, millions of dollars, francs and doubloons had arrived in the French camp and Lord Wellington, who knew of it and was always having trouble paying his troops and buying supplies, had been anxious to lay his hands on it, but unfortunately the troops had found it first and in the aftermath of the battle had stuffed their pockets and knapsacks with it. The 95th was no exception; though Wellington had threatened to punish anyone who looted, there was no stopping them. Travers had returned to their billet with his pockets jingling. He had used some of it to buy himself out of the army in order to accompany his officer home.
‘I can’t take that,’ Roland said. ‘It’s yours.’
‘No, it ain’t, not rightly. And it seems to me you need it more than I do. There’s been many a time you’ve helped me out of a scrape.’
‘Thank you, Travers, but I doubt if it is enough to do more than scratch the surface of the problem.’
‘Then scratch the surface, sir.’
He laughed suddenly. It was good to have a friend, but talking of French gold reminded him that he had a little nest egg of his own, given to him by a grateful Spanish Count the first time he had been sent behind the enemy lines. His work done, and wanting somewhere to hide up before trying to make his way back to his own lines, he had taken refuge in the stable of a large villa and hidden himself in the straw. A dog had found him early the next morning, yapping its head off until its owner appeared. She was young and frightened, but he had soothed her and assured her he meant her no harm. He had only wanted somewhere to sleep. She took him into the kitchen and while the cook gave him a good breakfast, she went to fetch her grandfather.
Count Caparosso was an elderly man, wearing old-fashioned satin breeches, an embroidered coat and a bag wig. He was also very nervous. The French were near at hand and he was frightened for his granddaughter. After giving Roland a meal and asking him all about himself, he had asked him to take Juanita to safety. ‘She has an uncle in Coimbra,’ he had said. ‘Take her there. I shall pay you handsomely.’
‘Do you not wish to go yourself?’
‘No, I am too old to travel and I must stay and look after the house as best I can until this dreadful conflict is over.’
Roland had hesitated. The journey would not be an easy one, bad enough on his own, but with a gently nurtured girl it would be doubly difficult. The Count had seen his reluctance. ‘She is my only joy,’ he had said. ‘The jewel of my bosom, but I dread what would happen to her if the French find her here. I am an old man and I would not be able to defend her.’
‘How do you know you can trust me?’ Roland had asked him with a wry smile. ‘I might be as bad as the French.’
‘No. You are an honourable man, I can see it in your eyes and the way you are so courteous to Juanita.’
‘She is a lovely young lady and deserves every courtesy.’
‘So you will take her?’
It was necessary for him to make a start and so he had allowed himself to be persuaded. Juanita and her maid were given into his care, and though he had protested he wanted no recompense, his host persuaded him to accept a small bag of jewels and an ancient carriage pulled by two very scrawny horses. But it had been a good disguise after all, and though they had had one or two scary moments, he had brought his charge safely to the house of her uncle. He had become very fond of her by then and they had parted with a promise from him that if he were ever in Coimbra again he would call. He had done so once, over a year later, only to find she had married her cousin and died in childbirth. Poor little thing, she had been no more than a child herself.
Apart from a diamond ring that he’d kept, thinking that one day he might marry, he had turned the jewels into ready money in Lisbon, surprised and delighted to discover they were worth a small fortune. He had banked the money, intending to save it against the day when the army no longer needed him and he had to settle down in civilian life. Believing he would not be welcome at home, he had planned to buy a farm, work the land and breed horses. Together with his annuity and half-pay, it was enough for him to make a good start. Must he give up that dream for this rotting mansion? But the rotting mansion was his birthright and his responsibility; he could not please himself, not anymore.
‘I think I shall move in at once,’ he told Travers as they wandered about the almost empty rooms, followed by Bennett, hanging on their every word for a morsel of information that might indicate what his lordship intended. ‘It behoves the Earl of Amerleigh to live at his country seat, not at the dower house with his mama. Besides, there is very little room there.’
They went up to the attics where they found a couple of old beds with damp mattresses, one or two cupboards, a sofa and some uncomfortable chairs, which even the creditors had disdained. ‘Fetch it all down and make up two bedrooms,’ he told the two men. ‘You will need to take the mattresses down to the kitchen and dry them off by the fire. And light fires in all the rooms to air them. I will be back later.’
He set off back to the dower house to acquaint his mother of his decision. She was dismayed and tried to dissuade him, but he was adamant. ‘If I am to restore the Hall to what it was, I must live there,’ he told her.
‘How can you do that without servants?’ she said.
‘I have Travers and Bennett.’
‘You will make yourself a laughing stock.’
‘I will be a bigger one if I stay here, attached to your apron strings.’
She sighed. ‘Shall you take Mr and Mrs Burrows back?’
‘No, you need them. I will take on a woman from the village. Do you know of such a one?’
She thought for a moment. ‘There is a Mrs Fields. She used to work at the King’s Head, but lost her position over some dispute with the landlord. I never had a meal prepared by her, but I have heard she is a good plain cook. As long as you are not contemplating entertaining…’
He laughed. ‘That I am not. Will you do the necessary for me?’
Having agreed, she insisted on making up a parcel of clean bedding for him and gave him a basket containing a cold cooked chicken, a meat pie and a boiled ham. ‘You will starve if left to yourself,’ she said, forgetting, or not realising, that he was perfectly capable of subsisting on his own, and had been doing so for the past six years with the help of Travers. ‘I will have Mrs Burrows make something up for you every day until you take on a new cook.’
He thanked her with a kiss and left.
It was not the discomfort of the lumpy bed that had kept him awake that night, but the knowledge that he was in the devil of a fix. There was no money in the estate coffers and the only income was rent from the tenants and he had no doubt their holdings had been neglected too and would need repairs. The money from the sale of the jewels would only stretch so far and then what was he to do?
However, he had always maintained there must be mutual affection in a marriage, which was why, he supposed, he was still single. He had met no one to whom he could give his heart and now he wondered if he ever would. And if his heart was not engaged, could he bring himself to look for a wealthy bride? Would the women around here all be like Miss Cartwright—mannish, spoiled, arrogant? There was only one way to find out and that was to mix socially and assess the situation. But putting the estate to rights must come first.
He was used to rising early and it was no hardship to get up at dawn, eat a Spartan breakfast and set off on horseback for Shrewsbury. He planned to see Mountford, have a look for furniture and carpets to make the principal downstairs rooms of the Hall presentable, and buy himself some clothes.
It was a mild spring day and he stopped on the way to admire the pink-and-gold sunrise over the hills. He breathed deeply and continued on down into the valley to Scofield. As he approached the Cartwright mill, he could hear the bell, warning employees that time was running out. They came hurrying along, men, women and children, streaming in through the open gates.
He reined in to wait for them to pass before proceeding. Some of them noticed him, pointing him out to their fellows, others bobbed a knee or touched a forelock. Two of the girls he remembered seeing in Amerleigh. They were probably daughters of estate workers. He smiled at them. ‘Good morning, young ladies.’
They stopped and giggled, then, remembering themselves, dipped a curtsy.
‘You come from Amerleigh?’ he queried.
‘Yes, sir, I mean, my lord.’ It was the older of the two who answered him.
‘Tell me your names.’ He asked because he thought he should know all his people, and they were still his people, even if circumstances meant they had to work in the mill.
‘I am Elizabeth Biggs,’ the elder said. ‘This is Matilda.’ Her sister, too shy to speak, looked at her feet.
‘And do you enjoy your work?’
‘It’s work, ain’t it?’ Beth said. ‘Better than the workhouse anyday.’
Everyone had gone into the mills and the clanging of the bells had suddenly stopped. ‘Oh, my, we’re late.’ Beth grabbed Matty by the hand and ran towards the gates just as they were being closed. Roland watched, expecting the gatekeeper to hold them open for the girls, but they were shut in their faces. They stood for a moment, then turned sorrowfully away, their shoulders drooping.
‘Why doesn’t he let you in?’ he asked them.
‘No one goes in after the bell stops,’ Beth told him. ‘We lose a day’s pay. It’s to teach us not to be late.’
‘But you were not late. You were here, ready to go in. If I had not detained you…’ He stopped speaking and reached in his pocket for his purse. ‘Here,’ he said, offering them half a crown. ‘I made you late, so I must recompense you.’ It was more than the day’s wage they would lose and they hesitated. ‘Go on, take it,’ he urged, holding it out.
Beth accepted the coin, murmuring her thanks, and they scampered away just as Miss Cartwright bowled up in her curricle.
She drew up beside him. He doffed his hat. ‘Good morning, ma’am.’
‘What was the matter with Beth and Matty?’ she asked. ‘Was one of them not well?’
‘No, they were shut out for stopping to speak to me.’
‘Nonsense!’
‘I beg your pardon, ma’am?’ It was a question, not an apology, uttered stiffly.
‘I mean you must have misunderstood.’
‘No, I do not think I did. I spoke to them and they stopped to answer. It was a brief exchange only and the gatekeeper could see them quite clearly. He shut the gates in their faces. If that is how you treat your employees, Miss Cartwright, then I pity them.’
‘Save your pity for your own employees, my lord,’ she retorted and drove up to the gates, which were immediately opened for her. She disappeared through them and they were shut behind her, leaving him staring at the words Cartwright Mill painted in large letters on them.
Charlotte left the curricle in the yard where a small boy came to walk the pony away and look after it until she was ready to leave again, and went in search of William Brock. She was seething. To be criticised by the Earl of Amerleigh over her treatment of her employees was the outside of enough. At least she was employing them, which was more than could be said for him. ‘What is your policy over latecomers?’ she demanded.
He looked puzzled. ‘You mean the hands who are late for work?’
‘Yes, the hands.’
‘They are locked out, ma’am. It’s to teach them punctuality, Miss Cartwright. They are rarely late more than once.’
‘I assume from that you mean they lose a day’s pay.’
‘Yes, of course. It has always been so. All the others mills do it.’
‘Not this one, Mr Brock. The two I saw turned away today are good workers and now we have lost their labour for a day. That is not good business sense.’
‘Their looms are not idle, I can find good weavers who can manage two at a time.’
‘Not good enough. In future, you will instruct the gatekeeper to take the names of those who arrive late and you will see that they are deducted half an hour’s wages for every five minutes they are late. Is that clear?’
‘Yes, ma’am,’ he said resentfully.
‘Good, now let us get on with the business of the day.’
They went on to discuss other matters, then she inspected the looms, peeped into the schoolroom where the young man she employed to give the children an hour’s tuition during the midday break was preparing his lessons. She could not afford to take all the children off their work at once, so they came to him in two shifts. They were given a good dinner and then settled down to lessons. Any that showed promise she intended to send to school. She hated employing children, but knowing that not to do so would harm their families, she tried to make their working conditions as pleasant as possible.
By the middle of the afternoon, she had done as much as was needed and, sending for the curricle, drove herself to the Shrewsbury office of Robert Bailey, her mining engineer, to talk to him about opening a new level. The encounter with the Earl that morning had added to her annoyance with him and made her all the more determined to thwart him. He was a thorn in her side. For the first time in her life she was being illogical and unbusinesslike, but she could not help it. She did not care what it cost, she wanted that new adit.
‘If you do not mind my saying so, Miss Cartwright,’ the engineer said. ‘You are thinking like a woman.’
‘I am a woman, Mr Bailey.’
‘So you are, but you have always figured things out like a man, pros and cons, objectively.’
‘And who is to say that I am not being objective now? The deep level is causing problems with flooding, so we need to abandon that and sink another. There is lead down there, you know it as well as I, and lead commands a very high price, so we weigh that up against the cost of bringing it to the surface and we arrive at the conclusion that it will take less than three years to make a handsome profit. And it will give work to many.’ Even while she was arguing with him, she was picturing Roland Temple, Earl of Amerleigh, standing where the engineer was standing now, telling her he would have his land back. When she had extracted all she could from the mine, she might offer to sell it back to him at a highly inflated price. She wondered if he would try to raise the money or give up. Why did she sense the Earl was as stubborn as she was? And why, oh, why did it matter?
Charles Mountford, who had been the family lawyer ever since the late Earl had inherited the title twelve years before, was in his forties, dark haired, dark eyed and dressed in black. He had been expecting his lordship, he said, after the usual greetings had been exchanged. ‘Please take a seat.’ He indicated a chair placed on the other side of his desk, then he sat down and began shuffling papers. ‘May I offer condolences on the demise of your father,’ he said. ‘And congratulations on your coming into your inheritance.’
‘And what exactly is my inheritance?’ Roland asked him. ‘Apart from the title, that is.’
‘Amerleigh Hall and its domain—very little else, I am afraid.’
‘I thought as much. Tell me what happened. My mother said something about a lawsuit.’
‘Yes, that has been unfortunate.’
Unfortunate for whom? Roland wondered; not for the lawyers, he was sure, but he did not speak aloud. ‘Tell me how it came about.’
The man coughed as if reluctant to begin, then, seeing Roland’s look of impatience, made a start. ‘The estate had not paid its way for many years, harvests had been poor and taxes heavy on account of the war, and in order to recoup the late Earl invested in stocks that he hoped would make a quick profit, but they failed, leaving him with heavy losses.’
‘Did you advise him to buy them?’
‘No, I did not.’ The man was outraged by the suggestion. He was very small and wiry and his bony hands were continually on the move as he spoke. ‘I do not know who advised him. It might have been Cartwright, but if he did, he did not take his own advice, or he was high enough in the instep to absorb the loss. As soon as I heard what had happened, I begged his lordship to retrench, but he would not. He continued going on as he always had, entertaining lavishly, buying the latest fashions for her ladyship, maintaining horses and hounds—for he was Master of the Hunt—and gaming. The more his pocket pinched, the more he gambled and the more he lost.’
‘And all this happened in the last six years?’
‘No, my lord, it started while you were at university, but he would not have told you of it even if you had been at home.’
