“Shall I find a new gown for you, my lady?”
“No need.”
“Your nightgown, then?”
“Come back at eleven, Brandon. I need to be alone.”
“As you wish, my lady. It’ll be dark soon, so I’ll light some candles before I go.”
Izzy was still sitting on the floor, but the storm had blown itself out. After the maid had left, she sat on as the last rays of the sun disappeared. Somewhere, an owl hooted.
You chose well five years ago.
Had she? Jumping to her feet, she crossed to the bedside table and picked up the framed miniature of Ian. He had insisted on having one of her —‘So that I may carry it next to my heart, always,’he had said in the glib way men had — and had given her one of him, too.‘Just in case you ever forget what I look like,”he had joked.
His strong face gazed back at her, topped with that distinctive red hair that no one else in his family had. She had never thought much about that until after they were married, and she had seen the family portrait hanging in the drawing room. There they all were, his father and mother, his two older brothers and his little sister, all with dark hair and dark eyes. In the middle, beside his mother’s knee, her hand on his shoulder, was Ian with his vivid hair and blue eyes. Then she had wondered a little. And how strange that all the dark-haired ones, the parents, the older boys and even little Sarah, had all died young. At the age of eight, Ian was the only surviving child, and by the age of fourteen, he was alone in the world. No wonder he was serious.
He was a good husband, she would concede that much. Kind, generous to a fault, not censorious. He was placid… perhaps too placid. She liked a little drama, but there was none of that from Ian. Even when she threw breakable objects at his head, he never scolded her. He was steady, reliable, dependable. A little dull, perhaps, but then he never rubbed her the wrong way, as a more dogmatic man might. She had no complaint to make.
And yet… had she chosen well five years ago? If she had chosen differently, what would her life have been like?
Now, that was an interesting thought…
***
Ian was frustrated. All his instincts screamed at him to pursue Izzy with all speed, and make use of the special licence burning in his waistcoat pocket beside the miniature of her he carried everywhere. He had planned to leave early the next morning, reaching Harfield perhaps only a day behind her. But over the port, the earl had begun talking about the state ofthe accounts, and how his brother George was attempting to understand it all, and not getting on very well.
“You have such a clear head about money, Farramont,” he said gloomily. “My steward is very good at the practical side of things, and Willerton-Forbes has a legal mind, and has been looking into titles and properties and leases and so forth, but the accounts! We cannot make head or tail of it, and that is the truth. Would you be so obliging as to have a look? I know you got everything straight three years ago, but—”
“I should be happy to, but Izzy—”
“Izzy will be safe enough with her mother, and you will only be leaving one day later than you planned.”
“Two days. Tomorrow is Saturday, so I shall not be on the road again before Monday.”
“Oh… I suppose so. Well, where can Izzy go from Harfield? Only to Josie, and she is at Harfield also at the moment,” he said triumphantly. “Izzy will still be at the Priory on Monday, and you can be married there. Oblige me in this one small matter, if you please. I should be most grateful.”
Ian gave way gracefully, and thus spent the whole of Saturday closeted with Mr George Atherton, Mr Willerton-Forbes, Clarke the steward, and the account books. Despite the inconvenience of the delay, it was of all things a task he enjoyed. Long after the others had left, he laboured on, his pen dipping into the ink pot, scratching away on the paper, then dipping again, writing out long columns of numbers and adding them up. Even on Sunday before church he made some final adjustments, and then spent the hour before dinner correcting the account books.
The earl was suitably grateful, but Ian knew perfectly well that the accounts would be in a muddle again within the quarter. Clarke was too careless about the business, mixing up entries, entering payments or rents incorrectly and sometimes forgettingto make an entry altogether. He was undoubtedly good at the outdoors part of his job, for the rents had improved in recent years, and the tenants seemed contented, but he was lax about record-keeping.
“If I may venture a suggestion, sir,” Ian said that evening as the gentlemen lingered over the port, “I believe you should engage someone to oversee the accounts and keep them properly up to date. Your steward is very efficient at paying bills, but not so prompt in claiming all the monies owed to you. A thousand pounds adrift, and no one noticed! That should not happen.”
“No, and of course you have my gratitude for finding that amount. Clarke will see it collected, I shall make sure of that. So you think I should employ someone, do you? As a secretary? Or purely for the accounts? It is difficult to find anyone willing to live out here, Farramont. We are very remote from the attractions of the town.”
“It does not need to be an employee. You have sons, after all. Who else would have such an interest in ensuring that you receive all the income to which you are entitled?”
“Walter is looking into a government position, and Eustace has his own affairs to manage.” His eyes turned on Kent, watching them with his habitual smile on his face.
“Not me, Father,” he said with a laugh. “Numbers are a mystery to me.”
“Anyone may learn how to keep accounts,” Ian said. “It is merely a matter of attention to detail, and diligence. It would not take up a great deal of your time, and would be of inestimable help to your father.”
“It is all very well for you, Farramont,” Kent said. “You enjoy trawling through these dry lists of numbers, but most of us would rather be outdoors, riding fast over the moors or out with a gun.”
“One may shoot things and also keep the accounts up to date, I should have thought,” Ian said, but he did not press the point. He was content to have offered the suggestion, and it was for the earl to take it up, or not, as he chose. He suspected nothing would get done. A man who was too indolent to take an interest in the accounts himself was probably also too indolent to appoint someone else to do it for him.
First thing on Monday morning, Ian set out for Harfield Priory, near Durham. The roads were no worse than usual, but no better, either, so it was rather late in the afternoon before he drew up outside the ivy-covered building. The great doors creaked open as he descended from the carriage, but it was not the ancient butler who appeared. Instead, two ladies rushed out to meet him, Lady Rennington, and Josie.
