“Sorry,” said the captain lowly. “You were correct about the gossip, I see.”
“I’m sorry that my neighbors do not recognize your name from the papers.”
“My preference, actually.”
Dani thought of the humility of this; he sounded very genuine. She thought of all the ways that encounter could have been made worse by arrogance, or presumption, or impatience.
Not terrible, she thought.
“You were saying,” prompted Captain Bannock.
“I’ve no memory of what I was saying, I’m afraid.” The Striplings’ wagon rolled past, and she gave another wave.
“You were suggesting that you might enjoy travel?”
“Oh, right. It’s true, perhaps I might. But I could not possibly leave Ivy Hill now. Obviously.”
“Why not?”
“Because the town is in danger of disappearing.”
He took off his hat and held it out to shade more of his face. Three times now she’d seen his hair. It was dark, with auburn streaks brought out by the sun. The imprint of the hatband caused it to curl at the ends.
“But what is causing Ivy Hill to disappear?” he asked.
“Leadership,” she said, “or lack thereof.”
He couldn’t know this, but the decline of Ivy Hill was the most pressing issue of Dani’s life at the moment.
“That is unfortunate,” he said.
Not terrible, she thought. He hadn’t scolded her for presumption about village leadership. But the conversation was new. She hadn’t told him about her passion for preserving the town, or her grievance against the Londoners who’d moved in and sought to turn the lot of them into professional hole diggers.
“Why the failure of leadership?” he asked.
“Well there was a baron,” she told him. “Formerly. Lord Langston, he was called. His estate, Eastwell Park, has supported the villagers of Ivy Hill for centuries. They farmed Eastwell Park’s land, tended the sheep, worked as staff in the manor house, and felled timber. No one resource was a great fortune-maker, but taken together, the house and lands provided a living for the people of Ivy Hill. Unfortunately, Langston died five years ago with no obvious heir. There is a distant cousin who lives in America, but that man has no interest in returning to England to claim it. Without the support and resources of a landlord, industry of any kind has all but ceased; there is no wool, no mutton, no timber, no crops.”
“Sorry, but did you call this propertyEastwell Park? Eastwell Park you say?”
“That’s right. Without the opportunities provided by Eastwell Park, the people of Ivy Hill are traveling farther and farther afield to find work.”
“I see...”
“No, you cannot possibly see—there is more, I’m afraid. An avaricious London businessman called Giles Stinchcomb”—it was impossible to say Stinchcomb’s name without contorting her face—“has bought a parcel of land near the town of Maidstone, some ten miles from Ivy Hill, and he’s hiring men to dig out an embankment. He’s fashioned it into something like a sand pit, and his workers quarry a mineral called ragstone from it. They pile it into carts and load it onto barges and he sells it God knows where.”
“A quarry?” mused Captain Bannock. “And extracting the ragstone provides employment for the men of Ivy Hill?”
“In theory—yes. But what manner of work, Captain—I ask you? Digging a massive hole in the ground? Ivy Hill is an agrarian village. For generations, local families have cultivated the land. They raise sheep on the land. They do notdigholesto survive.”
Captain Bannock opened his mouth to speak but Dani felt compelled—urgently compelled—to finish. She held up a hand to silence him.
“Worst of all—worse than digging holes like badgers—Maidstone is not Ivy Hill. It’s an hour’s ride from here; double that if the men walk, which many do. What family can be without their fathers and sons for every daylight hour, plus four hours of walking to and from the quarry? Families are leaving their homes to be closer to the pits, causing our village to disappear along with it. Our market day has already been absorbed by Maidstone’s. If we have no market day, our local craftsmen can no longer sell their goods without traveling. Our public buildings—most pressingly, a parish house attached to St. Andrew’s church—have fallen into disrepair. There is no place to gather; no place to celebrate weddings or mourn after funerals. My parents survive on a pension from their years in London, but most families require work on a fully operational estate like Eastwell Park to survive. If the house sits empty and its fields lay fallow, it benefits no one.” She took a deep breath. “Forgive my diatribe. You touched on a topic very dear to my heart. I am largely powerless in this struggle. At the moment, my small contribution is to restore the parish house I mentioned. It is a civic landmark, distinctive to Ivy Hill; a place to hold parties and conduct village business. If restored, the parish hall could allow villagers to convene for assemblies and club meetings; it would allow us to gather as a village with a known identity and beating heart.”
“So, it would be accurate to say that you are invested in the success of this estate? Eastwell Park?”
“Well, I’m invested in the success of the village. And if the village is to survive, Eastwell Park must be under the purview of a generous landlord. Someone who is a steward of the community, diligent and generous. Its fields must be cultivated and its stables full.”
“How very commendable—this cause,” he said.
