Who would he be?
That was the heart of the matter, wasn’t it? The reason he had not returned to Smythson by now.
He could have told Elise other lessons that he had learned—that women and children were not protected under the law. He had not needed Elise’s experience or her complaints to be convinced that was wrong. He’d always believed that men should inherit, until he’d witnessed cases such as her own where families were turned out because they received nothing. Just as her cousin had treated her and her sisters.
He’d seen children as young as four doing repetitive dangerous work under stern masters because their families needed money. In every vale was a widow who could barely feed her children now that the husband was dead.
During his travels, he’d met freethinkers and clergymen who declared it was time for a change in this country. They hadn’t known they were talking to a man who had rarely taken his seat in the Lords as was not only his right but his responsibility. Kit had been too immature to rise to the task. He had not realized how much it mattered.
Elise had played a part in changing that. She didn’t know the meaning of the wordindifference. And he was grasping how his apathy about his responsibilities had hurt the very people whose plight touched his heart.
He was also aware that there were always men like Holbert willing to take advantage.
Of course, he had never had a full grasp of what it meant to work hard for one’s bread. Smythson had treated their tenants and workers fairly, or so Kit had believed. He and his mother had left daily matters up to Smythson’s factors and agents. Everyone had seemed well-fed and happy.
However, supporting himself through his work, hiring on here and there with the harvest or planting, had brought home the harsh realities of life. He’d come to remember incidences and reports he’d received as Winderton—reports that had never really interested him, to be honest. And Kit suspected that his estate had been like any of the others that he’d hired onto during his rambles. As owner of Smythson, all Kit had wanted to know was that he had money, and he hadn’t been particularly interested in the details.
Over the past year, he’d come across estates where the owner was very interested in farming methods. Those estates had been the envy of their neighbors. He’d also realized there was a new class of landowner rising across the country comprised of merchants, nabobs, and builders.They were often better stewards of their property than landed lords.
Elise watched him expectantly. She was waiting for an answer, and he smiled. If her sisters were like her, then the Lanscarr sisters were probably setting the wagging tongues of thetonon fire. He was sorry he had missed it.
“When I return,” he answered her, ignoring the first part of her question, “I’m not certain whom I will be.”
Her lips twitched as if disappointed. She spoke. “You are hard on yourself.”
“And you think that because—?”
She touched his arm. “I think you had reason for why you left. You already have said you wished to be a better man. That is more than what I have wanted. I left because my feelings were hurt.”
He nodded, and could have confessed that he had run with exactly the same excuse, except Tamsyn barked, pulling their attention from each other. She had been following her nose and disappearing into the surrounding country a time or two. She now trotted happily back to them.
“We are reaching Moorcock,” Kit said, nodding to the stone roofs in the distance.
Elise sat up in anticipation, and they fell silent as they concentrated on reaching their destination.
The day had grown cloudy. Moorcock was much like any other village they had passed through. There were stone cottages with moss-covered roofs, gardens, and children playing.The ruins of a small church stood tall and quiet as a sentinel at the far end of the village.
But there was also a difference. Several taverns lined the streets. More than one would expect for a village of this size.
Closer now, one could see that the stone walls between gardens were crumbling. And there were no flowers, no climbing roses or tall larkspur. Pigs and chickens ran loose while mangy dogs watched them without making a move toward them.
“Tamsyn, up here,” Kit ordered.
The dog jumped into the carriage. Elise put her arm around her. “This is... different,” Elise said.
“Moorcock is its own place. It draws gamblers, petty thieves, and, strangely, religious fanatics of all sorts.”
“Why were you here?”
He grinned. “Do you mean, which category did I fit in? I came here because someone told me we all end up in Moorcock or a place like it from time to time. They say the village was taken over by Cromwell’s deserters and it hasn’t changed much. It is a good place to sell a stolen silver plate or my lady’s jewelry. Rumor is Gentleman Bristow made his home here until they caught him. No one in Moorcock gave him up.” Gentleman Bristow had been an infamous highwayman.
“Why would my father be here?”
“I don’t know about your father. However, Old John is here because the play is always good.”
Kit stopped at a posting inn called the Thorn and Thistle. The placard was of a hand with a nail-shaped thorn through the palm. The inn was a dilapidated-looking place, with no flowers surrounding it and a shutter hanging from one hinge.
A stable lad ambled over to them. Kit started giving him instructions on the horse and carriage, but the boy completely ignored him. Instead, he was rudely ogling Elise. Kit clapped him on the shoulder with such force that the lad jumped, andthenhe listened.
