“They’re nothing alike,” he said. “Sarah is not dying. She’s simply grieving.”
Hester didn’t argue with him, but the look she senthim was dispute enough. He had to admit, it was a little worrying. Sarah had slept for a whole day and didn’t look as if she wanted to rouse yet.
“I’ll return in a few hours,” he said, hesitating at the door.
Hester settled into the high-backed chair beside the window. “Go along now with you sir,” she said, pulling out a crochet hook and a bit of thread. “I’ll sit here ’til she wakes, you’ve no worries on that score. Do what needs to be done.”
He closed the door behind him, surprised that the corridor leading to the Duke’s Suite was empty. In the last day, he’d been assailed by at least six people, all of them intent on reaching Sarah and obtaining permissions, approvals, guidance, and direction for various projects. His answer to them had been the same, “Handle it yourself.”
Beecher, however, had been insistent, standing outside the Duke’s Suite with a tenacity in direct proportion to his frailty. Douglas had finally convinced the man to retire to his office and that he would follow shortly.
The journey to the steward’s office required walking down three long passages and taking two staircases. At the end of his journey, Douglas could understand why the steward looked so frail.
He’d already discovered that Chavensworth had six wings in total. Four wings comprised the main, boxlike, structure while the remaining two wings formed an H at the southernmost part of the box and were connected by a portico.
Just how many miles did Sarah walk each day?
He knocked on the door, hearing the shuffling footsteps of Chavensworth’s aged steward. Beecher openedthe door a few moments later, standing aside to allow him to enter the room.
Bookcases occupied three walls, each filled with ledgers. A large mullioned window overlooking the courtyard occupied the fourth wall. The majority of the space, however, was taken up by a large table, one more often seen in a dining room than a steward’s office. Beecher evidently used it as a desk.
He waved Douglas into a chair on the other side of the table and sat as well.
The morning sun streaming in through the window did not favor the man. With the light behind him, Beecher looked even more frail—his hair appeared so light in color as if to be invisible, and the bones of his face seemed even more prominent.
Just how old was the man?
“You said there are matters that cannot wait, Beecher?” he asked.
“The draining of the upper fields must occur tomorrow, sir, and Lady Sarah always supervises the event as well as the cleaning of the sluices.”
“Why?”
Beecher’s eyebrows drew together. “Why, sir? Because it is Chavensworth.”
“Are you not the steward?”
“I am, but the Dukes of Herridge have always had an intimate knowledge of the estate, all the way back to the first duke.”
“Lady Sarah is not the Duke of Herridge.”
Beecher blinked several times while his mouth worked. Evidently, he was thinking of rejoinders and dismissing them as quickly. Finally, he fixed a lowering frown on Douglas and sighed heavily.
“Lady Sarah has always assumed thoseresponsibilities that needed to be seen to, sir, in regard to Chavensworth.”
“What you mean to say, Beecher, is that her father has abdicated his responsibility, and she has assumed it.”
Once again, the steward seemed at a loss.
Finally, he reached behind him, and, with some effort, lifted a large ledger, one of the biggest books Douglas had ever seen. He laid it flat on the table between them and opened the cover, using his forearm to help turn the pages. Reaching a section midway in the book, he turned the volume a little so that Douglas could see.
“These are the plans laid out by her grandfather,” he said, pointing to a map carefully drawn up of Chavensworth’s many fields. “In addition to lavender, we here at Chavensworth grow a variety of crops. But in the larger farms, we rotate four crops in order to give the land a boost. It was Lady Sarah herself who suggested clover, following the recommendations of some men with whom she corresponded.”
“Did she?”
“Indeed she has,” Beecher said proudly. “She has always supervised the draining of the upper fields. The irrigation sluices must be seen to, and she has always approved the building of new connections.” He looked over at Douglas. “The sluices themselves accumulate mud, you see, and the wood rots, no matter how much pitch is used.”
“Is this not something you can handle, Beecher?”
