“Hiswages. The bible says ‘the worker is worthy ofhiswages,’” Eli said. “Though it is silent on the subject of women’s work.”
Rob snorted. “The book is easily manipulated to mean what people want it to, to affirm what they choose to believe.”
“True enough,” the older Robert said cheerfully. “The money is yours to do with as you see fit. Even Lucy Whitaker made that clear. She’s a good one and probably deserves the wages.”
Make it clear, she did.Rob had little doubt he’d be able to deal fairly with the woman and her housekeeper. The responsibility hung like an anchor around his neck, tying him to Ashmead, the place he never planned to see again.
Eli stood, putting both ledgers and documents carefully into his valise. “Shall we use Da’s office for this?” He glanced up at the old man, who nodded in return.
“I’ll meet you there in an hour or so. I have some letters to write.”One to Rockford, telling him I’ll be delayed a month or two and one to Brynn Morgan.“I’m inviting a friend to look at that land.”
“A surveyor?” the old man asked.
“Morgan is an engineer.”And a friend. I need an impartial ally.
Eli’s brows shot up. “Did you send surveyors to Willowbrook?”
“No, and I’d damned sure like to know who did,” Rob replied.
“You have another letter to write, Robbie,” Eli told him. “I have to get to the original will and the deeds. I can’t do that without the earl. Your friend Morgan is all well and good, but we need the earl.”
Rob glared down at a glass of Robert Benson’s best brandy. That his little brother was correct didn’t help. He would have to deal with—my other brother, he realized, and swallowed his drink. He slammed down the glass and leaned forward. “You write it,” he said. “A letter from my solicitor on my behalf.”
*
Lucy pulled herpony trap off the road and tied her old draft horse to a tree at the edge of her property. She glared at it and mentally corrected herself—Sir Robert Benson’s property. Her long stride took her swiftly along the stone fence that marked the boundary between Willowbrook and Caulfield Hall, as it had for decades. She walked until the Limestone ridge—a great gray outcrop, stretching skyward and dotted with scrubby bushes—came into view.
Nothing has changed. It all looks the same. And yet… Everything has.She dropped to the ground, her back to the stone wall, her head on her knees.He has taken my ledgers; he has taken my world.She gave in to an overwhelming temptation to cry, here where no one would see her.
Moments later, she wiped her tears on her shawl and stood, brushed off her skirts, and tipped her head back to let the sun warm her face, the moment of weakness gone. She had work to do, tenants that depended on her, and a letter to write. She had battles to fight—for the money due her, for Agnes, and for the tenants who would depend on their new landlord.
By the time she had walked back to her rig, her emotions were under tight control, and she had a plan in place, at least for the day.
Soon after, Agnes followed her to the study, peppering her with questions.
“Are you sure he doesn’t plan to take up residence?”
“He says not.” Lucy didn’t pause.
“Do you think he’ll let us stay?”
“If I pay rent.”Which I will never do. She wondered if a steward’s wage and rent were opposing options. She stopped in the doorway and blocked Agnes from entering. “I have work to do.”
“That’s good, though. The baronet won’t evict us on our arses?”
“Language, Agnes! You know as much as I do.”Except that Robert Benson didn’t send the surveyors. I’d bet next month’s honey harvest on it.“Now I have some things to attend to.”
She shut the door on her friend, quietly but firmly, and turned to face her desk denuded of her precious ledgers. She ran a hand across the surface and took a deep breath, shaking off the emotion it caused.
Lucy learned when her father died that she should never rely on a man, and she made up her mind when Marjory died that she would never whine to her brother-in-law, never demand help. He had children to raise, a bankrupted estate to cope with, and a horror of a mother to deal with. He seemed happy to ignore her most of the time, but they had gone past time when he needed to hear some things.
She took out her best vellum and trimmed a pen.
Dear David…she began and then stared at the page. She picked up the pen and added carefully over the top,The Right Honorable David Caulfield, the Earl of Clarion.She intended to merely ask him if he had hired a surveyor, but if he had not, it might alarm him. She nibbled her lip and considered what bits to tell him but realized, in the end, she had no choice.Everything. He needs to know everything.
Dear David,
Major Sir Robert Benson returned to Ashmead some days ago and has spoken with Spangler about the will…
