“It’s not called the cursed acres for no reason, miss.”
“Look around you, Sinclair.” She swept her hand through the air, knocking her shawl aslant. “The house is falling down about our shoulders. The Inman estate is already cursed. Besides, that tale is from centuries ago. I’m sure any truth to the legend has expired by now.”
“‘When the land is left alone, in peace the curse is overthrown.’”
As if on cue, a low drone of thunder added a sinister tone to the ancient words. A shiver spidered down Eva’s spine—one that annoyed more than frightened. She faced the steward with a lift to her chin. “Be that as it may, the account numbers leave me no choice. That ground must produce, despite traditions—or superstitions. And even then we’ll barely get by.”
“I don’t like it, miss.” He blew out a long breath. “But I’ll do as you ask.”
“Thank you, Sinclair. I know it’s not been easy on you sincemy father died. It’s not been easy for any of us. I pray we will soon see better days.”
“Your words to God’s ear, miss.” He clapped on his hat. “And may the good Lord grant us a speedy answer. Good day.”
“Good day.” Her words blended with the chime of the wall clock. Eleven already? Where had the morning flown? She closed the ledger cover, weary of trying to balance numbers that refused to be wrangled into any sort of common sense.
Leaving the office, she wound her way through the back corridor, passing by the open kitchen door. The mouthwatering aroma of baking bread pinched her empty stomach. Thin soup and toast for dinner again, yet she was grateful for it. Why her father had kept the abysmal state of their finances such a secret was beyond her. After managing the books this past year, she still couldn’t account for how he’d kept things going, save for the odd earnings he’d labeled as sundries. She’d sure like some of those sundry payments now—payments that had dried up after his death. Apparently he’d had some unknown source of sporadic income to keep the manor running, not enough, though, to provide her with a new gown for the Guy Fawkes festival. If only he had explained instead of hiding their money woes. If only she had not pushed him so hard on the matter. For if they’d not quarreled, he wouldn’t have taken out his fury on such a hard ride.
And he’d still be here today.
She sighed as she threaded her way to the front of the house. No sense obsessing about monetary matters now. She simply must trust God to provide, and the devil be drawn and quartered. La! What a thought, but even so, a wry smile twitched her lips.
“There you are!” Penelope Inman whirled from where she’d been pacing in the entry hall.
Eva smirked. The girl had the ears of a dormouse.
“Aren’t you eager today.” Closing in on her sister, Eva straightened the girl’s collar.
“You’re late.” Penny flinched away, waving her copy ofLittle Womenin the air. “I’m dying to find out what happens now that Marmee cut her hair. Do you think Jo will cut hers? Why, I was of half a mind this morning to do away with my own.”
“I’m glad you didn’t, poppet. I happen to like this head of yours as it is.” Bending, Eva planted a light kiss atop her sister’s crown. “It is a far more respectable colour than the wildfire burning atop mine.”
“Then perhaps we should clip off yours.”
“Perhaps we should,” she murmured, then added under her breath, “it might bring in a coin or two.”
“What’s that?” Penny cocked her head, a single dark wave falling over her brow.
“Nothing.” She grabbed the book from her sister’s grasp. “Let’s find out what is happening in the March home, shall we?”
Penny spun toward the drawing room, a folk song on her lips and her skirts swishing around her legs, which didn’t slow her in the least. She marched off, completely unhindered by her lack of sight, as the front bell rang.
“Be there in a moment, poppet. I’ll save Dixon a few steps.” Eva set the book on the entry table before pulling open the front door.
A round fellow smelling of lilies and sausage stood on the front stoop. Rain droplets dripped from his hat brim onto his moustache—which was a curled affair, the sides neatly swirled into downward circles at the sides of a stern set of lips. His direct gaze was no merrier, and she got the impression he summed her up with as much pleasure as she had this morning’s ledger.
Even so, Eva managed an amiable smile. “How may I help you, sir?”
“I should like a word with the man of the house.” He sniffed, his bulbous nose bobbing. One fat raindrop fell to the ground.
“There is no man. I am Eva Inman, mistress of the Inman estate, and you are?”
“Mr. Buckle, tax collector from the Royston Assessment Office. I’m paying a courtesy call to all the homes in the area, reminding owners that taxes are due by December thirteenth.” He held out an envelope that may have been crisp at one time but was now damp and wilted. “Oh, and there’s been a slight surcharge added. Rates have gone up. Good day.”
He dipped his head as she broke the seal. Of all the inconvenient times for a tax increase!
And then her jaw dropped as she glanced at the formal missive.
“Hold on there, Mr. Buckle.” She dashed down the stairs, chasing the man to his horse in the rain. “There’s nearly a fifty-pound difference here.” She shoved the horrid document against his chest, blinking away the moisture collecting on her eyelashes.
