Page 6 of A Gifted Earl

Morgan raised his eyebrows, curious, but not immediately worried. He got on well with his employer, who had always been a most reasonable man. He looked down at himself with a wry grin.

“I’d best go and clean up a little then – the birthing of foals is a messy business. Please let Lord Crosswood know that I will be there as soon as I’m presentable.”

“Certainly.”

The footman turned and went back towards the house, leaving Morgan to wash his hands and face in the nearby trough before he hurried up the stairs to his quarters above the carriage house. Fifteen minutes later, scrubbed and dressed in clean clothes, Morgan quickly looked in on the mare and foal, and then set off across the stable forecourt to the back door of Crosswood Hall.

Lord Crosswood’s study was on the ground floor, at the back of the house – a position well suited to meeting with his estate manager or his staff, as well as merchants who came to sell their produce to the estate. It reminded Morgan of his own father’s small study – full of books, ledgers, stacks of papers and the like.

He tapped on the door, and Lord Crosswood bid him enter.

“You wanted to see me, my Lord? I apologise for the delay, but Mist has just delivered a healthy filly, and I was… not in a clean enough state to come into the house – I had to change.”

Lord Crosswood nodded, smiling, and waved Morgan to a chair.

“A filly, you say? That’s good – more breeding stock. Let’s hope that she’ll be as well put together as her mother, eh?”

“Indeed, my Lord.”

Lord Crosswood looked almost nervous, and Morgan wondered just what this was about – but it wasn’t his place to ask. If the Lord wanted to speak to him about something, he’d get to it in his own time.

So he allowed the silence to stretch.

Lord Crosswood tapped his fingers on the desk for a moment, then reached out to one side where two letters lay, one sealed, one with the seal broken. He lifted the sealed one, and pushed it across the desk to Morgan. Morgan glanced at it, puzzled, and found that it was addressed to him.

“This came today, enclosed in a covering letter to me. Before I say anything more, before we have the conversations which this will require, I will leave you to read it.”

That statement sent a shiver down Morgan’s spine – what on Earth could be in that letter?

He did not recognise the seal, or the hand it was addressed in, neither of which facts gave any reassurance at all. He took a deep breath, lifted the missive, then broke the seal.

He read it, and then, shaking his head in disbelief, read it again. The words stayed the same.

He felt, in that moment, detached from everything, as if the world was not real. For what was on those pages changed everything, upending his life utterly, all in an instant. He looked up at Lord Crosswell, sure that his face had gone pale.

“I… I don’t know what…”

Lord Crosswell nodded.

“Take your time about it, let it sink in. I offer you both my condolences, and my congratulations. I have just one request of you, before your new life sweeps you away – can you please find me a new stablemaster who is even half as good as you are?”

*****

Mid-August 1817

As soon as she heard the click of the front door closing, Venetia set aside her book, and hurried out of the parlour to intercept her mother. From Lady Hardenwell’s expression, the meeting with their man of business had not gone entirely well.

“Mother?”

Lady Hardenwell sighed.

“Let us go back into the parlour. I will send for some tea, and then I’ll tell you about it.”

Venetia was glad, for the thousandth time, that her mother was a competent woman, who thought that her daughter should also be regarded as intelligent and competent. It meant that Venetia was told everything about their finances, and the workings of the estate, rather than being ‘protected’ from such things, as so many young women were.

They settled onto their favourite chairs, and said nothing at all until the tea tray had been delivered, and the maid had left the room. For a moment after that, they sipped tea, and appreciated the flavour. Then Lady Hardenwell set her cup down.

“It is not entirely good, but also not entirely bad. This year’s harvest has been far better than the last two years’ harvests, but still not as good as we had hoped for. And costs have risen, so we are not quite breaking even. The reserve funds we had are nearly exhausted. We will have enough to get to Christmastide, and maybe a little beyond, but we will need to sell at least one more horse, and one of the carriages.”