Tobias stared at the ledger before him, the columns of figures blurring together in a manner that distressed him immensely. Dawn had scarcely broken, yet already he found himself drowning in matters of estate management that Edward had evidently handled with effortless competence. Perhaps, he thought, this was why his brother was perpetually dissatisfied.
“And the cost of such repairs?” he asked, not that it mattered.
Mr. Pemberton looked down at his notes before he spoke. “Approximately three hundred pounds for the cottages alone, my lord. The drainage will require an additional sum, though I hesitate to provide a precise estimate until we have consulted with?—”
“Three hundred pounds.” Tobias frowned. “And the tenants? Can they contribute toward?—”
“I would advise against requesting additional funds from the tenants, my lord.” Pemberton spoke with certainty. “The harvest this past autumn was less than satisfactory, and many families are already struggling. Your brother always believed that maintaining the cottages was the estate’s responsibility.”
Of course, Edward believed that. Not that it was a bad thing to believe. In fact, it was rather admirable, so Tobias suppressed the uncharitable thought and forced himself to focus upon the matter at hand. “Very well. Proceed with the repairs. What else requires my attention?”
The list, it seemed, was inexhaustible.
For the next hour, Tobias listened as Pemberton detailed crop rotations and livestock management, boundary disputes and timber rights, matters of such bewildering complexity that he wondered how his brother had managed to appear so thoroughly in command whilst simultaneously criticizing Tobias’s every action. Was he not too exhausted to be a critic?
“Your brother maintained detailed records of every transaction,” Pemberton was saying, and Tobias was certain that he detected a note of gentle reproach in the statement. “Perhaps if you were to review his methods?—”
“I shall endeavor to do so.” Tobias rose abruptly, suddenly desperate for air that did not taste of responsibility andinadequacy. “Thank you, Pemberton. We shall continue this tomorrow.”
The estate steward remained quiet, though his expression suggested that he harbored doubts regarding Tobias’s commitment, but he merely bowed and made his way out of the room, leaving Tobias utterly alone.
This is your life now, he thought grimly, staring at the endless papers scattered across the desk. No more gambling until dawn. No more carefree existence. Just ledgers and tenants and drainage systems.
He had been at Redmond Park for six days, and already he felt the walls closing in on him.
The household moved around him with an uncertainty that set his teeth on edge. Servants who had once deferred automatically to Edward now paused before addressing him, as though unsure whether he deserved the same respect. The housekeeper consulted Amelia on every domestic matter, rather than Tobias.
And Amelia herself...
Tobias frowned as he left the study, his thoughts turning unbidden to his brother’s widow. She had established routines so rigid they might have been carved in stone. Breakfast in her chambers. Morning hours with Henry in the nursery. Afternoon walks in the garden when the weather permitted, always alone save for the child. Evening meals taken in solitary dignity before retiring early. He had barely seen her.
She avoided him with the dedication of a general planning military strategy.
The few times their paths had crossed, she’d maintained an icy politeness that made him long for the fire of their argument in the nursery. At least then she had been alive, passionate, real. Now she had retreated behind walls so thick he could scarcely glimpse the woman beneath.
“My lord.”
Tobias turned to find two housemaids frozen in the corridor, their conversation dying abruptly at his appearance. They bobbed hasty curtsies, but not before he caught the knowing glances they exchanged.
“Ladies.” He forced a smile and continued past them, but their whispers resumed the moment he rounded the corner.
The entire household was gossiping, of that he was certain. About him. About Amelia. About how they lived under the same roof, about how she carefully avoided him. About the rake who had become a viscount, who suddenly had to sacrifice his lifestyle.
Let them whisper, he thought irritably. I am doing the best I can.
Yet somehow the thought provided little comfort.
The afternoon found Tobias attempting to review Edward’s correspondence regarding some dispute with a neighboring landowner, but his attention refused to cooperate. He had read the same paragraph three times when a sound arrested him completely.
Laughter.
Genuine, unrestrained laughter—bright and musical and utterly unexpected in this house of mourning.
Tobias set aside the papers and followed the sound, like a man under a spell. It led him through corridors he had not explored since childhood, drawing him inexorably toward the drawing room.
He stopped in the doorway, and the sight before him drove every coherent thought from his mind.
Amelia sat upon the floor, her mourning gown pooled around her in a sea of black silk, with Henry between her knees. She had abandoned all pretense of propriety, her hair loosened from its severe arrangement, curls escaping to frame her face. She was rolling a small ball toward the child, who shrieked eagerly whenever it approached, babbling like a brook.
