1
Royston,England
October1889
The end of Eva’s world started with a window she never should have left open. A small neglect, yet twelve years later, one that had culminated in a leaky roof, a ledger that refused to balance, and a blind sister. Not to mention her dead mother—for Eva wouldn’t. She kept that memory locked tightly in a closet.
Hefting a great sigh, she set down her pen, trying to ignore the incessantplip-plip-plipof raindrops collecting in a nearby bucket. Inman Manor may have a long list of needs to fill, but at least she did not need to worry about their water supply.
She picked up her father’s silver letter opener, taking a moment to admire the scrollwork on the handle, then slit the next missive on the pile. Thankfully this one wasn’t a bill but a note from her friend Lottie, bemoaning the fact she’d not seen Eva in ages and would Eva please consider coming to the harvest ball on Saturday. A lifetime ago she would have. She’d have bought a new gown and ribbons for her hair, maybe even splurged on a pair of silk slippers. She’d dance with the young men and laugh with the ladies. Oh, what a dream she’d lived in.
She wrote a short, yet pleasant, refusal. Lottie would understand. Hopefully. Eva sealed the note and set it in the post bin. In her haste, her elbow caught on the bottle of ink. Black liquid spilled on the desktop and crawled up the fabric of her sleeve like a disease. Bother!
Grabbing a rag, she blotted up the mess on the desk, then did what she could to dab away the stain on her gown. So much ruin. A sigh leached out of her. It was the best she could do.
She sank heavily onto the chair, pressing her fingertips against her eyes, wishing she weren’t the one who must hold everything together. And yet here she was, sitting in Papa’s office, at Papa’s desk, filling Papa’s shoes.
Oh,Papa.
It had to be nigh on a year ago since the riding accident that horrid grey morn. But her father’s commands hung heavy on the air as if he had just spoken them.“Take care of yoursister. Always. And the house,don’t lose it.”Expected commands. Promises she easily gave and had every intention of keeping. But it was his final words that haunted her the most.
“Blackwood. Beware of Blackwoodssss ... hissss.”
A statement unfinished. A warning she had yet to decipher, for in the twelve months since, she still hadn’t figured out why she ought not trust the Reverend Mr. Blackwood.
“Are you unwell, miss?”
She swiveled in her seat at the steward’s voice. How had she missed the thud of Sinclair’s boots on the office floorboards? Yet there he stood, water dripping from the brim of his hat, adding to the cadence of theplip-plip-plippingin the corner bucket. He was a sinewy man with an incongruent softness of cheek, as if the sugar biscuits the cook, Mrs. Pottinger, slipped him now and then were never swallowed but stayed bunched up right there beneath the skin. Would that change now that there were no more coins for sugar?
“I am fine.” She tapped the ledger, ignoring the jagged edgesof her bitten fingernails. It was a slovenly habit, one she’d picked up over the past year, but she had bigger concerns to master first. “Our budget, however, is ailing. Do you have a moment? I should like to speak with you about an idea to increase our income.”
“I was just stopping by for the supply list, miss, but I have time to hear you out.” He pulled off his hat, the crow’s-feet at the corners of his eyes a mix of hardship and laughter. “What’s on your mind?”
She pulled the list he wanted from atop a stack of papers, quickly penned an addition, then held it out. “As long as you’re going into Royston, would you stop by Mavers Feed and pick up enough winter wheat for ten acres? I know it’s not much, but every bit will help.”
He slanted her a skeptical look. “I thought the budget was strained.”
“It is.” So much so that she’d nearly considered fluttering her eyelashes at any man of means in Royston, for marrying into money ought to be easier than grabbing pennies out of thin air. Another great sigh leached out of her. “But I pawned my locket for extra funds. If God wills, no one shall purchase it, and I’ll buy it back when the wheat is harvested next summer.”
A frown tugged down his brow. “I hate to see you suffer such hardship, miss.”
So did she, and yet there was nothing for it. Perhaps this was what came of buried secrets. “Thank you, Sinclair,” she murmured.
“I can do that, miss, but...” He tucked away the note, rainwater collecting in a pool at his feet. “Where is this seed to go? The fields are already sown.”
“Which is why I’d like you to speak with Tom. As soon as this rain lets up”—she glanced out the window, the leaden skies giving no hint of relenting—“have him begin work on the fallow plot near the northwest corner of the estate. If wecan get that wheat in before a hard freeze, next season we’ll increase our yield.”
“Mmm.” An ominous grumble rumbled deep in Sinclair’s throat. “I don’t think so, miss. You know it’s not right.”
She pulled her shawl tightly to her neck to hide her frustration. “You cannot negate the fact that eighty extra bushels—one hundred if God smiles upon us—will bring in extra money.”
“I don’t fault your mathematics, miss.”
“Then what do you fault?”
He fiddled with his derby, inching it about in a circle, the veins on the backs of his hands sticking farther out with each twist. “It’s not wise to turn earth that ought not be disturbed. You know this.”
She snorted, wholly unladylike yet completely unstoppable. “Don’t tell me you believe such poppycock. I should have ordered this done earlier.”
