The answer wasn’t in the least bit complicated, of course. It was all his father’s fault.
He snorted out a silent laugh. Easy enough to blame the dead…they didn’t argue back. Which in some ways was an advantage, since the previous Baronet, Sir Thomas Arthur Howell, would have argued until he was blue in the face, or had worn out his opponent. Caleb knew only too well, since he’d been on the receiving end of such arguments far too often.
There were moments when he tried his best to believe that his father had, at one time, cared for his family. But sadly, those times became fewer as the years passed, until neither man could be in the same room for more than five minutes without raising his voice.
God knew Caleb had tried. He’d pointed out the dangers of visiting London gaming clubs, when a poor harvest had depleted the Howell coffers. He’d pointed out, at length, the dangers of brandy, whether consumed in Howell Court, or the aforementioned gaming clubs.
His practical advice had fallen on deaf ears.
Three years ago, those ears—and the rest of his father—ceased to function at all. The aftermath revealed the mess that was the Howell estate, and Caleb recalled the difficult conversations he’d had with his late father’s creditors.
Some land had been sold, the London residence, Howell Court, was presently leased for the Season, and at the end of the first year, Caleb knew he had averted the worst of the disaster that could have befallen him.
Of course, he also had a private source of income that he kept to himself. Very few people knew of it, and he fully intended to keep it that way.
But even so, there wasn’t much in the way of spare coin to hire a crew for cleaning hedgerows, which accounted for his presence in the middle of one, in this increasingly hot earlysummer’s day. He resumed his labours, doing his best to avoid flying leaves and twigs, knowing he must be near his goal.
A satisfying thunk told him he’d hit something hard, and within moments, he was looking at a nicely shaped stone protruding from the mess he’d created with his scythe.
He leant down and brushed away some grass, smiling as he noticed what was probably once a date carved into the rock’s surface and a very simple declaration etched roughly beneath:Diwedd Yma.
“Well then,” he said, amused. “Stop Here, I believe that says. I shall indeed do exactly that.”
Rising to his feet, he looked behind him, gauging the distance, and accepting that this was where the Abbey property ended. There was a small stream meandering toward him, which Caleb knew marked more of the boundary not far away, so with the evidence he’d discovered this morning, he could now easily inscribe on the map just what did, and didn’t, belong to him.
It was, all things considered, a good job done.
Happy to have accomplished his goal, and even happier not to have to slash his way through any more stubborn shrubbery, Caleb wiped the sweat off his brow with his sleeve and picked up his scythe. He was hot and sticky, his shirt soaked with sweat, and he wanted nothing more than a cool bath.
His eye fell on the stream, the water glistening as it tumbled over some large stones.
Oh yes, his mind grinned.
It wasn’t more than a couple of minutes before Caleb’s shirt was off, his boots thrown on the bank, and the man himself waded up to his knees and happily splashed the cool water all over his head and chest.
God, that felt good.
Though his old breeches were soaked, his body now tingled with the refreshing impromptu bath. This was why he lived in the country and loved it. This freedom to do as he chose, when he chose to do it. To know he’d worked, physically worked, and now had chance to reap the rewards of a quick refreshing splash in a small country stream.
The water was clear and clean, sparkling like diamonds where the sun shone between the leaves and lit up the surface.
He toyed with the idea of stripping off his breeches as well, but before he could act on that notion, a sound caught his ears over the soft rippling of the water.
Voices.Femalevoices.
Caleb sighed. Was there nowhere in England he could enjoy a few moments of private peace? He tiptoed out of the stream and moved behind the hedges.
*~~*~~*
“Elinor, you didn’t,” gasped Bronwen as she strolled beside her friend, choking down her astonishment.
“I most certainly did. And I gave it all I had,” she replied firmly. “My palm stung for a good five minutes afterwards.”
“You actually slapped his face?”
“What else could I have done?”
Bronwen blinked for a moment or two. “I don’t know, since I’ve never been in a situation like that.”
