Andrew ran his hand through his hair as he sat at his desk listening to his steward. “I don’t understand. If you told them they needn’t pay their rents this season, why are they struggling?”
Mr. Foster looked away. “I think they’re afraid you’ll ask them for the rents in the spring and they won’t have it.”
“Of all the half-witted ideas!” He slammed his hands down on his desk as he stood. “The harvest was poor, the weather freezing, and when I offer them hope, they ignore it?”
The man finally met his gaze and straightened his shoulders as if he feared what he was about to say would have him dismissed. “I can’t say I know what they are thinking, but…” he hesitated, clearly wrestling with how much he wanted to reveal.
Andrew took a deep breath and slowly sank back into his chair. “Do tell, Foster. I’m not going to dismiss you simply because you give me more bad tidings.”
“Right, sir. Well, the way of it is, your current tenants were your father’s.”
When the man simply stared at him as if that was some sort of revelation, he found himself tamping down his irritation. “Yes, I’m well aware of that. What bearing does that have on this issue?”
“They are used to how your father handled things such as this.”
Again the man seemed to think his statement enlightening in some way. “And…” He purposefully didn’t ask a specific question, his knowledge of his steward telling him that may lead them off into another subject all together.
Foster’s brow rose and he cocked his head. “Your father did not accept any excuse for not paying rents.Any.”
His body tensed at what Foster implied. His father had been a gregarious person, always smiling, always happy, always appearing as if he had not a care in the world, at least until he grew sick. The man had never even raised his voice except in laughter or with a bawdy joke.
Leaning back in his chair, he pinned Foster with his gaze. “I suggest you explain what that means specifically.”
The man seemed to lose his bravado, his shoulders falling and his whole frame seeming to sink in on itself.
“Hell and damnation, Foster, sit down before you fall down.”
The man sat in the wingback chair before the desk, his small frame melding with the thick green cushions.
“My father did not involve me in his dealings with our tenants until the last two years of his life. He wanted them to know me, and he explained how things should be run. So if there is something I should know about, it’s best you tell me now instead of years down the road. Do I have a half-sister among my tenants?” That was something he could too easily see occurring while his father was alive.
Foster’s eyes rounded. “Oh, no, my lord. I mean, I know of no such happening, sir.”
He sat back in his own chair to give the impression that he was relaxed when he was anything but. He was stymied, irritated, frustrated, and out of patience. “Then please do enlighten me on why my tenants being my father’s would keep them from using the money they would have paid me to feed their families.”
“I don’t know the truth of it, but I think it may be that they don’t trust in your generosity since your father refused to acceptanyexcuse.”
There was that emphasis again. “Can you give me an example?”
Foster nodded vigorously before taking his time deciding on one. Finally, he spoke. “Do you know Mr. Rupert?”
He nodded, not wanting to hinder the information from being revealed. Mr. Rupert had one of the largest tracts of land from which they received rent.
“Do you remember when scarlet fever came through three years ago?”
He gritted his teeth, wondering if the man had any idea how frustrating he was. He nodded again. He remembered well because his father had taken them all to Bath that year to avoid the scourge.
“Poor Mr. Rupert. That year, everyone in his family were down with the fever. And when it was all done, it had ravaged those poor souls. He lost three sons and his wife to that curse. May they rest in peace.” Mr. Foster made the sign of the cross. “Only two sons and his daughter were left alive, and she too weak to leave her bed. It was harvest time and though he tried, Mr. Rupert and his two sons, as weak as they were, could only get in half the harvest. So he asked your father for more time to pay the rent.”
Andrew’s stomach tightened, stealing himself against what was to come. Surely his father agreed.
“Lord Sommerset refused. Said if they didn’t pay the full rent by the end of the month as required, they would have to leave. And I was the one that had to give them the notice because Lord Sommerset, he put it all in writing.”
He didn’t want to believe his father could be so callous. “But the Ruperts are still here.”
Mr. Foster looked upward as if speaking to the heavens. “It was a truly moving event.” He paused as if thanking the lord then resumed his tale. “Your other tenants, hearing of Mr. Rupert’s misfortune, sent one son each until Mr. Rupert had a dozen hearty men helping with the harvest and he paid his rent. Now how word got about, heaven only knows.” From the self-satisfied smile on the man’s face, he obviously had much to do with it.
Andrew tried to reconcile the new information with what he knew of his father and at first it just wouldn’t fit the man he’d known. But as he thought back, small snippets of his father’s treatment of those who served him had him wondering. It was something he’d look into further, but right now he had a quandary on his hands. How was he to get his tenants to use his gift of their rent money to support their families?
