His mother met him on his return. “Don’t tell me what you think about Corrigan’s yet, John. Let’s see the other estate first.”
John flexed his fingers. His neck and arm throbbed. He was too sore to ride any more today, but his mother rarely asked anything of him and he would do whatever it took to keep her happy. He gazed out over the green valley. If his mother purchased this estate, would she permit Marguerite Ninian to continue her visits?
“Ready, John?”
“Eh? Oh, yes.”
“Are you tired? I keep forgetting you’re an invalid.”
“Mama! I am not—”
She laughed.
He had forgotten what it was like to be part of a family with all the teasing and laughing. When had he lost his sense of humour?
They got back into the carriage and it rumbled along the lanes in the direction of Milk Hill. Tim Coachman managed to avoid the hill by veering off towards Burbage. There were very few travellers on the road at this time of year, and with no snowdrifts to hamper their progress, they made good time. Just short of Burbage the marchioness rapped on the carriage roof. She leaned out the door.
“The next turnoff on the right please, Tim.”
John grabbed her skirts since she seemed to be in danger of falling out of the carriage.
“Just as well Father can’t see you, Mama.”
She grinned, then looked searchingly at him. “Wound hurting, darling?” she inquired. She knew him so well, knew that he always tried to joke when something hurt him physically but stayed quiet and aloof if he was in pain of another kind.
When she pointed out the second property on the Upavon-Pewsey road, he did his best to appear interested. From this distance the estate looked perfect—too perfect for him. He enjoyed a challenge. The land here was gently contoured, very different from Corrigan’s. Well tended farmland stretched as far as the eye could see, and a lovely dwelling was visible from the road.
“You’d have no trouble with this place,” he said, as the carriage halted in the circular driveway in front of the mock Tudor house. He did not care for timbered dwellings himself. He preferred the solidity of stone.
Gregg, the spindly-legged steward, hurried out to greet them.
“I call him Spider Shanks,” the marchioness murmured.
“I wonder why?” John retorted and his mother grinned.
“It has been a long while, your ladyship,” Spider Shanks murmured, bowing low.
As they inspected the house, John hissed to his mother, “What did he mean: ‘a long while’?”
“Well, I’ve owned this property for about seven or eight years now, but he’s such an excellent manager, we seldom need to meet.”
Startled, John halted in his stride, his thoughts turning every which way. Then he asked, “Do you own the old Corrigan place too?”
“Yes. I purchased it when poor Mr. Corrigan went bankrupt. It needs bringing up to scratch because he never had the wherewithal to spend on it, and Mr. Berry is not as good a manager as Mr. Gregg. At least, not when it comes to the farmland.” She gave him a little shove. “Go with Mr. Gregg and inspect the estate.”
Which left him foundering. Why did his mother want him to see her investments? And why had she never told her sons that she owned two respectable estates within easy travelling distance of Trewbridge? She was entitled to do as she wished with her investments of course, but he felt a little hurt that she had not confided in him. Confused, he followed Mr. Gregg.
Then an idea struck him. Perhaps he was looking at this from the wrong side of the coin. Maybe his mother was going to sell her assets. But why? His stomach churned. Surely Trewbridge wasn’t in financial trouble? How could that be? Was that why his father looked so worried?
“Perfect, Mr. Gregg. Just perfect,” he praised as they checked the barns and outer fields, but all the time he wondered...
In this district the snow had cleared several days ago and he could see where the boundaries were. “Where is the water supply, Mr. Gregg?”
“Down there.” The steward pointed with his whip.
“Hmm. The only problem with that is how far the water must be brought. I presume the well on level ground is for household needs, but if you have a dry summer, is the stream sufficient for the crops?”
“It has been so far. Of course, we share it with the neighbour on the other side.”
“I see. If it were up to me, I’d see if it was possible to have another well dug closer to the house. I’m thinking in terms of household efficiency. And there’s always the possibility of fire...” Which was why John preferred stone.
Mr. Gregg looked at him, his head on one side and his eyes screwed up as he considered. “An excellent idea, my lord. I shall mention it to her ladyship.”
When they returned to the house, the marchioness flicked a glance at her son then called for the coachman. “Thank you, Mr. Gregg. I shall contact you soon.”
John eased himself back into the carriage, his wound dragging and throbbing. The second ride of the day had been one too many. But he had more important things to worry about. “Are you trying to ascertain which property to sell?” he asked his mother.
She smiled. “Not at all. I wanted you to see them before I transfer ownership to you and Edward. Edward will trust your opinion.”
“Transfer...what do you mean?” Staggered, he forgot about his pain. His mother clasped one of his hands. The steady sway of the carriage and the hollow clopping of hooves outside lent an air of unreality to their conversation.
“John, these estates are for you and Edward. When you have chosen the one you prefer, I will have the appropriate deeds of gift drawn up.”
John started in surprise. “But—” Then he swallowed. If only... “No. You must not do that, Mama. Of course it is like you to be so generous.” He tried to smile and returned the firm clasp of her hand. “Thank you.”
“There is no discussion necessary, John. It was planned many years ago. Your father is ten years older than I. If he dies before me—” She broke off and gazed into space for a moment and he knew she was seeing a dark future. “Suffice to say that I am aware Spencer will not provide you and Edward with a penny of support if he can help it. Nor will he want a dowager marchioness under his roof. Of course he has not told us that outright. He has hinted, then pretended it was all a joke.”
John tamped down on the helpless anger boiling inside him. “Sometimes I think he says these things but does not really mean them, Mama.”
“He means them,” his mother responded, a look of such anguish on her face that John wanted to thrash the living daylights out of Spencer then and there. “John, there are dark days coming to Trewbridge.”
John ploughed on. “Mama, I cannot allow—”
“There is no ‘allow’ about it, John. After Edward’s birth, Dr. Andrews advised me it was unwise to risk another childbirth. So I invested the money set aside for our daughters’ dowries.” She paused and pulled a face. “But I have a bargain to strike with you. My gift has strings attached.”
Puzzled, John kept quiet.
“If your father dies before me, I will of course have ample funds to support myself. But I have no doubt that the minute Spencer takes over Trewbridge, my life will be a misery. If I seek alternate accommodation straight away, speculation and rumour will run rife throughout the county. Your father would hate to think that—” She broke off and shook her head. “So I am hoping that either you or Edward will house me for a while until I can make permanent arrangements.”
John exploded. “You had to ask? Good grief, Mama! Edward and I would be proud to do so; you know that.”
“It may not be that simple, my son. When you are married, your wife may not appreciate having her mother-in-law foisted upon her, even for a short time—”
“No problems there,” John interrupted. “I have no interest in marriage.”
His mother looked at him for a moment. “I see. So...which property do you prefer?”
“Well—I...” Of course he knew which estate he preferred, but somehow, to prefer one above the other smacked of ingratitude.
“I shall guess, shall I?” she asked.
He laughed. “As you know us all so very well Mama, I’m sure you will not have any trouble.”
“It’s Corrigan’s, isn’t it, John? Because you like a challenge, and the land is hillier and the cottages and farms need more work done on them.”
John grinned. “Of course.” And, he thought, I might even see Miss Ninian now and again. It would be fun to spar with her.
“Well then.” The marchioness settled back in her seat. “Tomorrow I shall instruct Dalton and Yerby to set everything in train. And we will take Edward to see his property before he pesters us silly.”
John grinned. She was right about that. As soon as Edward heard about his good fortune, he would be bursting to take a look at his property.
His mother was quiet for a while, then she said with some constraint, “I daresay you are wondering why I did not broach this matter before—before you joined up.”
John stared out the carriage window. The thought had not entered his mind, but now she mentioned it...
“John, you needed to distance yourself from Trewbridge. But we did not expect you to take such drastic measures. I suppose Miss Blyth was the cause of that.” His mother shivered. “It was an uncertain and dangerous life you chose, my son.”
He shrugged. “Actually, I was walking past the Horse Guards and I remembered Great-Uncle Maurice and Uncle Charles were second sons and they entered the army so I thought—”
“You were not thinking at all, darling. Gracious heavens! Your great-uncle was a blundering nitwit who survived by the goodwill of his men. And he bludgeoned poor Charles into joining up when the boy was only fourteen.” She patted John’s hand and let it go. “We assumed you would become a steward somewhere and thought it would be good experience for you. When you purchased a captaincy, well...every day since you went away has been—never mind.” Her lips trembled. “I shall never forget your first homesick letter where you said, “Even though I am in the midst of my own countrymen, I feel quite divorced from England. This country is so unlike England as to be on the moon.” And every single one of your letters ended, “I so look forward to receiving your letters. Please write.” It was what you didn’t say about the horrors you were enduring that upset us most.” She held a handkerchief to her mouth.
“Mama, please don’t cry,” John pleaded. Oh, God. His mother had committed to memory every word he’d written.
“I’m not. I never cry.” She raised her chin and stuffed the handkerchief into her reticule.
John was reminded of Miss Ninian. He smiled at his mother as a bubble of anticipation welled up inside him. At last he would have something of his own, something he could shape and mould and hold forever. His mind spun with possibilities. Lord, if he let himself dream, the future looked bright with promise and—
Reality crashed in. His mother’s distress was not only for the danger he had been in, but for the dangers he was about to face. It might not be possible for him to sell out before he was recalled. He had escaped death by a hair’s-breadth only six weeks ago and here he was, spinning daydreams. But by God, he would make damned sure he didn’t thrust himself into skirmishes this time just to prove—to prove what? That he didn’t care about living? That he wasn’t a coward? That Serena could go hang? He grimaced when he recalled Mac and Colly shaking their heads over his impulsiveness. But Colly had understood. He knew that second sons were often driven to seek a space for themselves in the world in ways that others could not comprehend.
Well, now he had a space. It was a small estate called Corrigan’s. He would do everything in his power to make sure he returned to it as soon as possible. No more forlorn hopes.
He sat back in his seat, a smile curving his lips. What would Miss Ninian do when she found out who the new owner was?