“Aye, Da. My work is still in London, and I’m no farmer.”
“You won’t come back, not easily,” the old man said.
“Don’t say that. We’ve made our peace, haven’t we?” Rob knew he had.
“Not with Lucy here. What do you mean to do about Lucy Whitaker?” Da’s knowing eyes reduced Rob to the confused boy who left Ashmead.
With Lucy here, would I stay away? Could I stand to see her and not—.“She won’t come to London. She has some daft idea about finding a cottage and raising her bees. It is hers to choose, isn’t it?”
“Have you asked her?”
“To come to London with me? No. I asked her what she thought of the place, but her answer was an adamant no. I’m wondering if I could ease her into the idea.”
Da snorted at that. “You might try talking to the woman, Robbie. Women put store by a proper proposal. Some uncomfortable conversations are better had sooner rather than later.”
Rob couldn’t deny the truth of that. Not after the one they had just had. Finally. “You’re right, of course. But right now, I have a powerful thirst.”
The two man rose and walked to the taproom, Da’s arm came around Rob’s shoulder.
“Need another ale then, Robbie?” Eli called.
Behind the bar, Emma drew two pints. “Give the lad some room, you two. Quit grinning like fools.”
Chapter Thirty-Nine
Lucy stared atthe empty parlor of a tiny cottage, one smaller than she hoped, but perfect in most ways. The smell of dust and misuse assaulted her, and faded curtains blocked the light of the sun, but those things could be easily remedied. If Agnes moved with her, they would pose no problem. The estate agent in Nottingham had been gratifyingly swift in his response, and now Lucy faced what could be her future if she chose it.
She had walked the perimeter of the property, confirming that it did indeed have adequate space for a bee yard. A stone walk, lined with overgrown patches of green, meandered some distance beyond the rear of the house, past three apple trees thick with fruit, to an open area which, the estate agent assured her, had once held kennels. It would do for her bees.
A garden shed in decent repair leaned against the stone fence marking the end of the property, one sufficient for her equipment. If the vegetable patch behind the house and flower beds around it were weedy and overgrown as well, she could envision them in glorious bloom. It would do. Lucy doubted she’d find a place better, one more suited to her requirements.
Now she paced from room to room on the ground floor of the cottage itself. The building lacked a full cellar but sat up a bit on its foundations and boasted four small rooms down and four up. The room across from the parlor might serve for an office, she thought. Her desk would fit along one wall and still allow space for a bookshelf. Other bookshelves might go under the windows that opened, one to the front and the other to the side.
The hearth lay to one side, clustered like the fireplaces in each room around a central chimney, one that appeared sound. The door next to it led to a kitchen, made smaller by cupboards built into one wall but adequate for a single woman’s household. The kitchen lacked Willowbrook’s Rumford stove, and the rough stone fireplace was, no doubt, too small for one. They would cope. In addition to the door she came through, another led outside to the rear of the house and the vegetable garden. She went to a third, which led to the final room.
Much sunnier than the parlor, if every bit as dusty, the place would do for a breakfast room—and for dining, too. Unadorned walls and plain wooden floor gave it no pretense of beauty. More even than the rest of the house, this room felt devoid of life.
Is that what’s eating you, Lucy? No sign of life?
Agnes promised to join her, but there would be no tenants.No maids. No Andy and Johnny Thatcher cutting up my peace. No palace guard. No Rob. She thought it located far enough from Ashmead that she need never fear encountering him when he came to visit family—and she had no doubt he would—yet close enough that Emma and even Maddy, duchess she may be, could be persuaded to visit.
She came around through the parlor again and out to the four-by-four square entryway. Dark and narrow, it lacked windows entirely. A stairway occupied one side, doors to the parlor and Lucy’s office two others. The estate agent stood in the doorway on the fourth side, hat in his hand. Lucy thought of the bank of windows overlooking the drive at Willowbrook and stiffened her spine. She couldn’t expect everything. This place would do.
“A bit neglected, I know,” the man said. “As I explained, the will sat in the courts for a bit, but they’re ready to sell and anxious to do it. The price is fair.”
Lucy didn’t answer. The price exceeded her expectation. She could do this, but it would mean hard work.
“What do you think, Miss Whitaker?” the agent asked.
“I think I best sleep on it, Mr. Green.”
Weep on it more likely. But I’ll take it. Rob will sell Willowbrook and leave. I’ll have to take it.
“Bring your father or brother over to view the place,” the agent said. “They’ll tell you. At this price, even in hard times, this sweet little property will sell.”
“You’ve been kind, Mr. Green. I’ll bring the deposit in a day or two.”
*
