George made a sound of disbelief. “But you didn’t say any of that, Theo. You gave them the impression that you have no intention of selling Blackfriars at all. And that’s not true.”
Theo opened his mouth to say something, then closed it again, frowning.
“You’ve given them false hope that nothing is going to change,” George shook his head. “That poor woman was so relieved. When she finds out you’re selling after all, she’s going to be devastated.”
“Hang on a minute,” Theo said, coming to a halt and taking hold of George’s arm to stop him striding onwards. “Don’t you think you’re being rather pessimistic? Why would you leap to the conclusion that any buyer will evict them? The Morgans pay their rent on time, and they seem to keep the place in order.”
“Why would you leap to the conclusion that any buyer would keep them?” George shot back. “The truth is, you have no idea what any new owner will want to do, Theo. They might want to farm the land themselves, or give leases to other people. Once the land belongs to someone else, it will be theirs, to do with as they wish.”
“Fine then,” Theo said, his face taking on a mulish expression George remembered from when they were boys. “I’ll make it a condition of sale that the Morgans stay on as tenants.”
“In which case, you’ll have to find a buyer willing to accept such a condition. Generally, when people buy land, they expect to get the right to do what they wish with it,” George said. “And anyway, how would you enforce such a promise? Let’s say that, three years from now, the new owner evicts the Morgans, notwithstanding the terms of your agreement. How will you even hear about such an event? By the sound of things, you might be in the Alps by then! And what would you do if you did find out? Come back here and—do what? Serve proceedings on the owner yourself? What would you ask the court to do about your broken agreement? Whatever it was, it would do the Morgans no good. They would already have lost their home by then.”
Theo’s jaw was clenched now, a muscle working in his cheek. “A gentlemen keeps his promises. I am confident that any such agreement would be honoured.”
“Well, that’s certainly convenient,” George said angrily. “Do you mean to tell me you don’t know of a single gentleman who has ever broken a promise? Theo, do not be naïve!”
“I’m not naïve,” Theo protested. “I would make enquiries. Satisfy myself as to the character of any buyer I contract with.”
George forced himself to take a deep breath and calm down. Theo was perfectly entitled to sell his own land if he wanted to.
“All I’m saying is that you do not know—could never know—what might happen once you sell this land. Your buyer might sell to someone else a year later, or die and leave the property to his heirs. Your condition would not bind any such new owners.” He paused. “My point, Theo, is that, if you are selling this land, you cannot control what is done with it later, and in the meantime, you have given the Morgans the wrong impression.”
Theo pressed his lips together and turned his gaze to the horizon. After a moment’s silence he said, “You don’t think I should sell Blackfriars, do you?”
“I didn’t say that,” George protested. “I’m merely saying you oughtn’t to give your tenants false hopes. That way, at least they have time to make alternate plans, in case they are evicted on short notice.”
Theo nodded unhappily. And suddenly, George felt like the worst sort of heel. It wasn’t Theo's fault that he’d inherited this estate, or that he had no money to pay for improvements.
Or that he was considerably more optimistic than George.
“Come on,” George said, “Let’s meet this Mr. Martin.”
Martin’s farm was spare and tidy.
The sheep grazing in the fields—Leicester Longwools by the look of them—appeared well-tended, as did the gates and drystone walls. The farmhouse, too, when they reached it, looked to be well maintained, though not as cheerful as the Morgans’ place. No sweet peas on the windowsill here, at least not that George could see.
A knock at the front door stirred no response, so they skirted around the side of the house, entering a neatly-kept farmyard, where a man who must be Martin was sitting cleaning dried mud from a sturdy fork.
He was a spare, lean man of around sixty years, with the wiry strength of someone who had worked hard all his days. His grizzled face was weather-beaten—sun-bronzed and wind-chafed—and his pale eyes glinted blue under thick brows, oddly bright against his walnut complexion. His iron-grey hair was thick too, and tangled by the breeze, an old lion’s mane.
As they approached him, he glanced up from his labours.
“Good afternoon, Mr. Martin,” Theo said heartily. “I’m not sure if you remember me, I’m?—”
“Mr. Caldwell.” Martin interrupted. “I remember you.” His accent sounded quite different from the Morgans and Mrs. Ford.
Martin stood slowly, taking his time—not exactly disrespectful, but not particularly respectful either. He did not smile.
George glanced at Theo to see how he was taking this cool reception. His own smile was fading.
Stepping forward, George held out his hand. “George Asquith,” he said, introducing himself. “You have a well-kept farm, Mr. Martin. It’s a credit to you.”
Martin reached out his own hand, giving George’s a perfunctory shake. “And what’s your interest, Mr. Asquith? Are you thinking of buying Blackfriars from Mr. Caldwell? Is that why you're here?”
George’s eyes widened in surprise. “No,” he said. "Not at all.”
“Mr. Asquith is a friend of mine,” Theo put in. “You might not feel like being civil to me, but perhaps you could at least be civil to him.”
