“Your jacket, sir,” Mac said, appearing beside John’s reflection in the mirror. John realized he had been staring at his image for some time, lost in thought. What was worrying his father? Something seemed to be preying on his mind. It couldn’t be anything to do with farm production because the Trewbridge fields and pastures were in good heart. He and Mama seemed as happy together as ever, so it wasn’t anything like that. John had never before seen Father look as though he was facing an insurmountable problem. When problems taxed the marquess, he worked hard to find a way around them. But since John’s return, he had noticed a measure of defeat in his father’s demeanour that he could not fathom.
Mac held out his jacket and he eased himself into it, trying not to bump his wound.
“Your father had a wee talk with me yesterday, my lord,” Mac remarked.
John and Mac’s eyes met in the mirror. John took a deep breath. “Uh, what did he want, Mac?”
“Oh,” Mac said vaguely, “he was interested in how you got your wound and things like that.”
“Lord, you didn’t tell him the truth, did you?” If his parents found out how reckless he’d become with his life, especially during the débacle at Sagahun, they would be devastated.
“No, sir,” Mac said, looking shocked. “I told him nothing that would distress him.”
“Thank you, Mac.” John suspected his parents would read between the lines, however. “Did Father show you his pride and joy?” he asked.
Mac looked puzzled.
“The scales,” John said.
“Oh!” Mac grinned. “He did. As a matter of fact, sir, I asked about them. I noticed the little gold scales sitting on his desk. My father was a goldsmith so...” Mac shrugged. “I found your father’s story about the Trewbridge family history to be very interesting.”
“He gave you a lecture about Lachie Trewbridge being presented with the scales by George I in 1726, didn’t he?” John rolled his eyes.
Mac grinned. “Yes. And how the scales represent the counterfeit gold guineas and silver crowns that some disaffected Scotsmen had minted.”
“Personally, I’ve always thought old Lachie was a bit of a traitor to his fellow Scotsmen,” John said. “What a weasel.”
“Well,” Mac said, “at least I now know why you joined a Scottish regiment. Gentlemen’s sons normally prefer the cavalry regiments.” There was a slight inflection of contempt in his voice and John grinned.
Mac picked up a note from the writing table. “By the by, sir, this was delivered for you.”
John reached out his hand for it. His heart leapt and his pulse hammered beneath his skin. Then he told himself he was a fool. It could not possibly be from Serena. She had made her choice. He disentangled the complicated paper folds and saw it was his mother’s handwriting.
“Would you care to come for a drive with me today?”
He smiled, remembering the old childhood ritual. The marchioness had made it a practice to spend time with each of her sons once a week. Sometimes they breakfasted in her rooms; at others they might ride out in her carriage. They had enjoyed being the centre of her attention, telling her their worries and triumphs and listening to her down-to-earth advice.
He slid the note into his pocket. He looked forward to hearing from his mother all about what had happened in his absence, and he would ask her what was worrying Father so much. Of course, he’d have to be careful what he said about the army. If she so much as suspected he hated the life, she would push hard to have him sell up and then she’d bring him back to the fold in no time. And that wasn’t right. He must make his own way in life. And it was best if he did that far from Trewbridge.
Out in the hallway, the long-case clock chimed the hour. He hurried downstairs to the foyer.
“Good morning, my son. I’m glad you decided to come,” his mother said as they waited for the small carriage to be brought around.
“Couldn’t resist it, Mama,” he said, pecking her cheek.
A footman pattered past carrying a picnic basket.
“Is that for us?” John inquired.
“Yes. I thought we might make a day of it.”
“Hmm.” All very mysterious. What was she up to?
As the carriage pulled out of the driveway, the marchioness took his hand in hers. “Darling John, I shall get this over with.” She drew a deep breath, her face set and anxious. Whatever she had to tell him was distasteful to her. “When Spencer brought Serena here at Christmastime, we were puzzled. He had sent his usual letter saying he intended to stay in Town with friends for Christmas.”
John nodded. Spencer avoided all family gatherings like the plague. Too dull for him. “You say there has not yet been any announcement of impending nuptials?”
“No,” his mother replied, frowning.
John grimaced. Spencer’s unsavoury reputation for pushing the boundaries of decent behaviour was deserved. He was rarely seen in the company of respectable women and his favourite haunt was a sluicery in Tothill Fields that most fathers warned their sons about. But somehow he still managed to be accepted in upper circles, and not only because he would be Marquess of Trewbridge one day. He could lay on the charm when he liked. Spencer always knew when he’d gone too far and managed to smooth any ruffled feathers he’d caused in the nick of time.
“But maybe Spencer has met his match,” the marchioness continued thoughtfully. “I think Serena might be playing games.”
John looked up from drawing patterns on the leather seat. “Games?”
“I think she wants to be a marchioness.”
“Oh.” He was conscious of a coldness in the pit of his stomach. His mother had the right of it.
“Your father is worried that Spencer will create a huge scandal. Since you’ve been away—well, never mind. But Father suspects that in the past you’ve mopped up after some of Spencer’s escapades. Is this so, my son?”
It was true. And just prior to John leaving for the Peninsula, Spencer had ordered him with a cynical curl of his lip to mind his own business. “No need to grease any palms on my account, little brother,” he’d said with contemptuous amusement. “I don’t need a nursemaid.” It hadn’t occurred to Spencer that John was concerned for Edward and his parents. And the man was his brother, for God’s sake. It was John’s duty to help out—even if it was a sense of duty spawned out of his guilt-ridden, jealous conscience that whispered “You don’t like him. Never have.”
“I see,” the marchioness said after a moment. “’Tis a shame your father and I dislike Town so much. Perhaps if we’d gone up more often we might have been able to curb some of Spencer’s unsatisfactory behaviour. Then again,” she admitted, “perhaps not.”
They sat in silence for a few moments.
They had travelled for only a short time when the carriage began slowing for a turn and the marchioness brightened. “Here is an estate I’d like your advice on. Later we shall look at another one, over towards Marlborough.”
“Are you buying another property, Mama?”
On their marriage, the marchioness had brought a considerable dowry to the Marquess of Trewbridge. Rather than all of it being included in the entailed Trewbridge estates, much of it had been invested in Funds and property.
His mother answered his question with another. “You have time on your hands and I have implicit faith in your ability to assess good farming land. Are you well enough to ride around with the farm managers?”
He glared at her. “Mama, I’m not some old dotard who—aha!” He grinned and shook his head. “You almost took me in there.”
The carriage bounced over a rut and John peered out. “Why, you sly thing; this is the far side of Corrigan’s land.” So she was interested in this estate, was she? His mind began churning through ideas. The land was arable, very much so, but what about the state of the manor house? With a bachelor as manager, it might be neglected.
“Will Mr Berry allow us to roam around?” he asked.
“From what you told us, you already have roamed around,” the marchioness said, grinning. “Anyway, he cannot object because he allows Miss Ninian to make herself at home here.”
The carriage lurched to a halt and settled with a sigh into a rut. Not very auspicious. John handed his mother down on to the driveway in front of the portico of a very handsome manor house constructed of Bath stone.
He stood looking about him. “Why, I had forgotten it was such a charming place!”
The marchioness smiled. “It is, isn’t it?”
“No wonder Miss Ninian likes coming here. Now, Mama, what do you wish me to look at?”
“All of it,” his mother said, flinging her arms wide. “I want you to examine the house and the farms and the outlying buildings and the gardens. And you will need to take a quick look at the books, although there’s no time today to make a thorough investigation. I want to know your first impressions of the place.”
“Very well. Shall we start with the house?”
“A good idea.” Then his mother smiled at someone behind him. “Ah, there you are, Mr. Berry.”
John turned. So this was the Mr. Berry who allowed Miss Ninian to traipse over the estate in all weathers. Berry was a thin, ascetic-looking gentleman with a bad head cold. He was not anywhere near as old as John had imagined, nor as decrepit. Hmm. Perhaps the man’s interest in Miss Ninian was not paternal after all.
In the study, the estate ledgers lay open on a desk for their inspection. However John found it hard to concentrate on facts and figures because Mr. Berry persisted in sniffing and honking into his big handkerchief. Even so, John was impressed. This was a reasonably productive, well-run property.
As they wandered through the manor house poking into rooms and cupboards, John enjoyed the sturdy, settled feeling of the place. Rays of weak, winter sun stretched bars of light across the Persian carpet squares in the study and living room. Upstairs the corridor leading to the bedrooms was lined with walnut which lent a honey-colored warmth to the coolness of the Bath stone. John commented, “The house is in an excellent state of repair, Mr Berry. Is that your doing?”
Mr Berry admitted that it was.
“Is there a horse available for me to ride over the farmland?”
“Yes, my lord. Two are already saddled.” Mr. Berry’s doleful expression made it plain that he considered it incumbent upon him to accompany John.
But John wanted to form his own opinions. Besides, he might meet Miss Ninian again. “Stay inside, sir, and nurse your cold,” he said. “On my return you can answer any questions I might have.”
Mr Berry brightened. “That would be much appreciated, m’lord.”
As the grey hack they’d chosen for him settled into a trot, John reflected that his mother could do very well out of this property, provided what he was about to see added up to the final figures on the ledgers.
He dismounted and peered into a couple of barns, checking to see what stock was under cover.
“Oi! What d’you think you’re doing?” demanded an indignant male voice.
Damn. So much for poking around on his own. “Mr. Berry sent me. I am looking with a view to purchase.”
“Purchase? Nobody told us about that!” The farmer looked shocked. “We’ve only just begun the new system of rotation. What will happen if the new owner doesn’t like it? Take a step backwards, I s’pose,” the beefy man answered his own question.
“Not necessarily. I’m very interested in pasture and crop rotation myself.”
“Begging your pardon, sir, but who might you be?”
John nodded to him. “Sorry. Should have told you. I’m John Trewbridge.”
The farmhand cast him a puzzled look. “Oh...Trewbridge, eh? That’s good. Sorry, sir. I’m new to these parts.”
Although John was grateful for the farmhand’s information, it was difficult to shake the man off.
“We’ve four farms sir, excluding the home one. And several crop fields of oats, barley and vegetables, that sort of thing. We always leave one field fallow. I believe the river slopes were once used for the owner’s horses, but there’s not been an owner living here since Corrigan’s time.”
Yes, it was an estate with much potential. John had spied the bare branches of a good-sized orchard a short distance away from the house. In his opinion the first job would be to tackle the rutted driveway, but any decisions like that would be up to his mother to decide.
He thanked the farmhand and walked his horse down the slope towards the river. No Miss Ninian today. Perhaps Mr. Berry had warned her to make herself scarce.
The snow had melted from the gentle slopes and in the river the ice was splintering and melting. In a week or two the spring thaw would free the water into a tumbling torrent. This countryside would be beautiful then. It was beautiful now. How he envied the owner of this estate, whoever he was.
On his return to the stables, he spied Miss Ninian. What on earth...? She seemed to be kneeling beside a sheep in the home field. A reminiscent stirring in his groin irritated him. “Damned woman,” John muttered. “What the devil does she think she’s doing?”
He dismounted, tied his horse’s reins to the fence, and strode along the driveway till he reached the stile into the field. Miss Ninian was engrossed in her task and did not hear him.
“What are you doing?” he demanded.
“Oh!” She raised her head and looked him up and down. “It’s you.” Her tone of voice left no doubt what she thought of people who sneaked up behind her. “I’m trying to help this ewe. They put her here because she always has trouble lambing. Severidge’s wretched ram escaped again this year and got into Corrigan’s upper fields. These early lambs are the result. But this old ewe is making no effort to push. I can’t make her budge.”
John heard the hint of tears in her voice. “Here. Let me try.” He elbowed her aside, inadvertently brushing a soft breast. He inhaled sharply and tried to sound matter-of-fact. “You’ll get muddy.”
“No I shan’t,” she said. “I brought my sack with me.” Sure enough, she was kneeling on an Indian hessian sack.
“Do you do this sort of thing often?” John asked as he palpated the sheep’s stomach.
“Only if the men are busy. Today is market day in Devizes and everyone wanted to go. I offered to stay with this old girl because her time is near.”
He took off his hacking jacket and threw it on the ground. Miss Ninian wriggled over to give him room. “I think she’s having twins again. She’s very tired. You’ll get yourself dirty,” she added, looking as his clothes in sardonic amusement.
“I’ve been dirty before,” was all he said. If only she knew.
Suddenly the ewe’s sides heaved and she bleated in distress. John pulled his gloves off and held his hands ready. Nothing happened. When the spasm stopped he felt inside the ewe and discovered that there were legs everywhere. It was possible that the sheep was about to birth not two lambs, but three. When the next spasm began he pushed rhythmically with his hands against one of the lumps until out squirmed a warm, wet little body.
“How clever!” Miss Ninian chirped. “I’ve never seen it done that way. Have you had much experience with lambing?”
John grunted. Another little body flopped out without assistance.
“So sweet!” Miss Ninian exclaimed. “Look how she’s trying to lick the caul off her lamb. Animals are so clever, aren’t they? Women have doctors and midwives and things, but sheep just go ahead and look after themselves.”
John had never discussed birthing with a young woman before. He wasn’t sure what to say to this practical, innocent young lady.
The ewe tried to heave herself to her feet, bleating piteously. John felt inside her and discovered that the third lamb was huge. He doubted it was still alive. In her misery, the ewe stumbled around and expelled the inert lamb at Miss Ninian’s feet. Miss Ninian did not turn a hair. “Oh dear. You poor old thing. Here, have your other two babies. They will be consolation enough.” She gathered up the two slimy, wriggling bundles and held them under the ewe’s nose.
Meanwhile John bent over the big lamb and rubbed it briskly with both hands. But the little body did not stir.
“No good, I’m afraid.”
“Never mind. We tried,” Miss Ninian said stoutly. “Mr. Berry would not have accounted for it in his books because we never get triplets. At her age I doubt she could have fed three, anyway.”
She scrambled to her feet and brushed down her skirts. John was careful not to assist her. Picking up her disreputable sack she faced him. “Thank you for helping, sir. Mr. Berry will be horrified that a visitor got his clothes dirty helping to birth some lambs, but I could not have done it without you. We might have lost the ewe as well.”
For once she seemed to be looking at him with approval. He wasn’t sure whether he felt pride or irritation. Why on earth should he care what this scruffy little lady thought of him? He sought for a suitable topic of conversation. “I will report it to Mr. Berry if you like. That ewe should not breed again. You had best come over to the pump and clean yourself.”
They walked in silence to the pump in the yard. John stood back as Miss Ninian lavishly spattered water over herself and his boots.
“Would you care to meet my mother?” he blurted. Damn. He’d intended to get rid of Miss Ninian. Why did she have this annoying effect on him? She kept making him do things he didn’t want to.
She glanced down at her filthy clothes. “I am a little acquainted with her ladyship,” she said, “and I cannot meet her like this.”
“Then I will say good day, Miss Ninian.” He felt a twinge of disappointment as he turned and walked to where he had tethered his horse. Ridiculous. Why on earth should he feel disappointed that Miss Ninian preferred her own company to his?
As he turned the corner by the stables, a flicker of colour at the edge of his vision informed him that Miss Marguerite Ninian was clambering over the stile. He told himself he was no gentleman. He stopped to look. Her skirts were kilted up around her knees and for a second he caught a glimpse of two neat calves and ankles. Then she hopped down off the stile on to her shortened leg and moved with an awkward but rapid gait downhill towards the river. He watched her till the contours of the land hid her from sight.