Anthony sat down on the roof and wiped the sweat from his eyes with his shirt sleeve. Squinting into the sun, he looked for any sign of a cart. Fortunately, the weather had remained clement since their arrival, but Anthony knew his luck was likely to run out very soon. Still, thankfully the slates were due today, and if the rain would just hold off for another couple of days, he’d have the roof nice and watertight.
He heard a muttered expletive and looked over the edge of the roof in time to see George standing in a puddle of dirty water. He fought a grin. The lad had managed to refrain from swearing in his employer’s presence, but Anthony had learned quite a few previously unknown obscenities whilst out of sight on the roof. True to his word though, the boy had worked hard without complaint.
‘Bugger it, Nelson, do you have to get under me bleedin’ feet every time I step outside the bloody door.’ Anthony winced. Once he brought in more staff, he’d have to put a stop to George’s foul mouth for good.
‘He took a sip of water from the bottle that hung at his waist and unbeknownst to George, sat and watched the urchin march to the well for what was probably the umpteenth time since they’d been here. Anthony had cleared the area around the well, but the rest of the garden had long been allowed to grow wild.
It was entirely unlike his brother-in-law to allow one of his properties to deteriorate so, but he knew why Nicholas had done so on this occasion.
Bovey Manor had been Peter’s favourite place. Though Nicholas spoke very little of his older brother, even after so many years, Anthony knew that growing up, the two boys had spent weeks of every summer in this house.
On Peter’s death, the old Duke had locked it up and forbidden entrance to anyone. And when Nicholas returned on his father’s demise, unable to face the ghosts of the past, it had been easier to simply put the house from his mind.
Until he began looking for a property and land to gift his youngest brother-in-law.
Since leaving Eton, Anthony had spent four years shadowing Nicholas’s estate manager, learning how to manage a large estate. It had originally been the Duke’s intention to employ him once Jarvis retired. However, he slowly realised that Anthony, though quick to learn and eminently capable, did not take orders well. He was too much his own man, and Nicholas realised he needed to be his own master.
Unbeknownst to Grace, Nicholas rode to Bovey Manor and was surprised to discover that although the bittersweet memories remained in every stone, they no longer overwhelmed him. It was time to bring life and laughter to the house again, and he knew Anthony was just the man to do it.
The Duke’s initial intention had been to have the property entirely renovated, though a thorough inspection revealed that the house had weathered the years of neglect remarkably well. However, when he mentioned his intention to his wife’s youngest sibling, Anthony was at first speechless and then determined to undertake the necessary repairs himself.
A sudden cloud of dust appearing on the horizon had Anthony scrambling down from the roof, yelling, ‘Slates are here.’ Five minutes later, George appeared through the front door. Dirty and dishevelled with black streaks across his face and still wearing sopping wet britches. Anthony looked him up and down. ‘You look like you’ve been down a bloody mine,’ he commented.
‘You said no swearing,’ George retorted with a grin.
‘For you, not me.’ Anthony grinned back, and abruptly, he felt a connection between them and something else – something more. It took him aback, and he frowned, quickly turning towards the approaching cart.
‘Greetings, Will,’ he called to the driver as the cart came to a stop.
‘Aye,’ was the taciturn response as the man climbed down, and without further ado, began to unload the slates.
Anthony raised his eyebrows at George, and together they went over to the cart to help.
‘I thought Luke would be with you,’ Anthony huffed as he hefted the first load of slates.
‘Tommora,’ the man mumbled. ‘Where d’yer want these settin’?’
Anthony pointed to a cleared area near to his ladder. Clearly the man was no gabster, but at the end of the day, it meant the job would get done that much quicker.
∞∞∞
Reverend Shackleford finished reading through Percy’s sermon in record time. He had to admit that since the curate had wed, his readings had grown less about fire and brimstone and more about the heavenly kingdom. Though the Reverend was loath to admit it, Lizzy had definitely shifted her husband’s theological leanings. Of course, it might also be the fact that the Percy’s mother was living in sin with the landlord of the Red Lion. Hard to keep pontificating about the road to damnation when your mother’s likely to be the one holding the signpost.
With a small chuckle, Augustus Shackleford put the sheets of paper back onto the desk in the vestry and looked down at his pocket watch. Nearly five p.m. With a bit of luck, Percy would have finished polishing the alter candles by now and they could indulge in a swift tankard of ale before supper.
‘Have you heard from Anthony, Sir?’ Percy asked as they settled themselves at their usual table in the corner. The Reverend shook his head and patted his knee in invitation to Flossy. ‘Old Will left with the slates this morning, so he’ll likely send word once the roof’s on.’
‘Ere yer go, Son. That’ll put some ‘airs on yer chest.’ Mary Noon’s strident voice cut into their conversation as she plonked two tankards in front of them.
‘Mother!’ Percy protested faintly turning pink. Naturally, a ribald laugh was all he got for his objection.
Reverend Shackleford shook his head. ‘I don’t know why you rise to the bait,’ he muttered, picking up his pint and holding it out of the way as Flossy circled in his lap. He waited until she’d made herself comfortable before taking a contented sip and adding, ‘You fancy a farthing’s worth of pork scratchings?’ At the curate’s nod, Augustus Shackleford waved towards the bar.
‘A dish of pork scratchings if you please, Harry,’ he shouted.
They sat in companionable silence for a few minutes idly listening to the conversation at the bar.
‘Yer mean that bloody lot who turned up a couple o’ weeks ago?’
