“As you know, Mr. Harlow, of Harlow Industries, will be staying at Highfield Hall this evening,” her father continued. “His reason for being here is that he is looking for a home in this fair county of Yorkshire, and I may be able to provide one for him. Assuming, of course, he finds it suitable for his needs.”
Louisa blinked.A home?
Arthur voiced the most obvious question. “You intend to take lodging at Highfield Hall, Mr. Harlow?”
“No, Master Northcott, not here,” the man replied. “Possibly nearby, however. That’s if your father and I can come to an agreement.”
Louisa’s sharp brain quickly figured out the riddle. “Northcott Manor,” she said. “Is that it, Mr. Harlow? You’re taking tenancy of Northcott Manor?”
He fixed her with his dark gaze. “Possibly,” he repeated with emphasis. “So far, I’ve only seen the property from the outside, a situation to be remedied tomorrow.”
Captain Northcott nodded. “Indeed.”
“Oh, I’m sure you’ll love it, sir,” Louisa said. “It’s a fine house, well deserving of an occupant. I was over that way today actually, while out riding, and thought it a shame that no one had lived there for a while.”
The beginning of a smile appeared on the man’s face. “My first impression of the manor is a positive one, Miss Northcott, but first impressions are just that. I have learned that one should not always judge by them.”
“That is true,” Louisa replied, wondering if she imagined the pointedness of his remark. “Though I’m sure your subsequent impression will be equally as positive as the first.”
“Would it be a temporary tenancy?” Clara asked.
“It would be a year’s lease initially,” Mr. Harlow replied.
“And would it be just you living there?” Evie chimed in.
“Or do you have a wife?” Clara finished.
Louisa’s mother gasped. “That will bequiteenough from both of you,” she said, glaring at the twins. “I do apologize for my daughters’ rudeness, Mr. Harlow. They forget themselves.”
Louisa exchanged a glance with her father, whose sober expression belied the amused twinkle in his eyes.
“The young ladies are curious, which is to be expected,” Mr. Harlow replied, graciously. “In answer to your question, should I agree to lease the manor, it will be for myself and my younger brother Finlay, who assists me with my business affairs. The manor will also allow me to properly entertain business colleagues and shareholders. Once I marry, my wife will join me there as well. Indeed, she is the main reason I am seeking a more permanent home.”
“Mr. Harlow recently became engaged to Viscount Dent’s daughter, Miss Sybella Chessington,” Aldous explained. “The dappled mare is a gift for her.”
Louisa’s heart didn’t exactly plummet into her shoes, but it definitely deflated a little. So much for Evie’s theory about Maxwell Harlow searching for an aristocratic bride. It seemed he’d already succeeded in that regard. Though she knew the name, she could not recall ever meeting Miss Sybella Chessington.
“Well, I’m sure the future Mrs. Harlow will love Northcott Manor,” she said. “If you decide to take the lease, of course.”
“We shall see,” the man replied, just as the gong sounded out in the hall.
“It would seem dinner is served.” Grace rose to her feet. “I hope you like roast pheasant, Mr. Harlow.”
*
The roast pheasanthad been quite delicious, as had the entire meal, in fact. Afterwards, the ladies had excused themselves, and the men, with the exception of young Arthur, had retired to Captain Northcott’s rather splendid study.
Maxwell, brandy snifter warming in his hand, was now installed in yet another leather armchair. So far, he could not fault the hospitality he’d been shown at Highfield Hall. The family had been nothing but gracious. Nor did their congeniality feel forced or contrived, especially given his reason for being there. It had been made quite clear that being a guest of the Northcott’s in no way obligated Maxwell to take tenancy of the manor.
As for his societal status, well, that was another issue entirely.
Money—and Maxwell had plenty—did not an aristocrat make. Bloodline and title were the principal indicators on any noble barometer, with wealth and privilege being the inherent rewards going back generations.
If Maxwell had inherited any traits at all from his late father—who had been a successful wool merchant—they would include a knack for negotiation and a flair for business. Maxwell, however, had not embraced his father’s trade. New and exciting prospects had driven him to explore Britain’s evolving industrial landscape. Opportunity had a smell, and Maxwell had the nose for it.
“I can understand why you have chosen this area, Mr. Harlow.” Julian Northcott’s voice drew Maxwell from his musing. “It’s well-placed for access to South Shields and Sheffield. Manchester and Liverpool as well. I’m assuming that is largely what drew you to our little patch of moorland.”
Maxwell regarded the eldest son and heir of Highfield Hall, who was only a couple of years younger than himself. A decent fellow, according to Maxwell’s investigations, who had been educated at Rugby and Cambridge with no scandal or blemishes on record.
