Chapter Eight

The weather remained uncertain, typical of early May. The Yardley daughters and their governess took a hack to Bond Street, to perambulate and be seen, hoping to meet some of their acquaintances and also to observe the fashions and behavior of those around them. They were peering in a shop front when they were hailed by Anna Morris. “Well met, Ariadne! I had hoped to see you. Do say you’ll come to our place to have a chat about Caroline’s party. You too, Miss Marshfield.”

Like the Yardleys, the Misses Morris tended to treat Helena as one of the family. Helena reminded herself again how fortunate she was. She thanked Anna Morris and smiled. “But I know you young ladies will feel much happier without a chaperone to overhear your secrets.”

They laughed, knowing she was teasing them, but relieved all the same that they could chat unguardedly. Helena felt almost a hundred years old, but she knew it was not their intention. She was just sensitive of late.

Having escorted all the young ladies to the Morris home in Chelsea Gardens, Helena returned to Russell Square to find a message awaiting her. It was brief and to the point. Obviously penned by Sir Ivor, she thought amusedly. “Your brother has arrived safely. He is pulled by his journey but is much better than we expected. Come when you wish.”

How like Ivor Stafford! A strange mixture of commands and comfort. No waste of words. She examined the large black signature. It just seemed to be a large “S”. She tucked the note away in her armoire.

Hurrying downstairs to find Mrs. Yardley, she was brought up short to see Mrs. Sowerby in full sail entering the small withdrawing-room. Helena waited quietly for a pause in the conversation and managed to attract her employer’s attention. Under Mrs. Sowerby’s avid gaze she explained where she was going, and that she would meet with Ariadne and Caroline later in the afternoon.

“Oh, my dear, of course you must go straight away to see Sir Robert! Take the carriage. I do hope he feels more the thing shortly. Please give him our kind regards, and I know you’ll remember to thank Sir Ivor prettily. Of course you will,” she added quickly, as Helena did her best to smother the outraged expression on her face.

Did Mrs. Yardley imagine she did not know her manners? If there was a lack of manners around here, it wasn’t from her. Helena felt a hot flush rising beneath her skin.

Scrambling awkwardly to her feet, Mrs. Yardley demanded Stalley to ask Cook for any little tidbits which might tempt the appetite of an invalid. Cook of course declined to deal directly with Stalley, and Helena had to intercede. She chafed to be on her way. So near and yet so far, after all this time. Patience, she reminded herself, but Poppy must have seen the flash of exasperation in her eyes and was uncharacteristically cooperative, even going so far as to make suggestions for Robert’s welfare.

Finally managing to extricate herself from Mrs. Yardley and Cook, Helena stepped into the Yardley carriage carrying a jar of restorative jelly in one hand and smelling salts in the other. Her reticule was stuffed full with her own recent medical purchases. Presuming that John Coachman knew the address in Eaton Square, she settled down in her seat feeling anxious and out of sorts. She knew Mrs. Yardley had meant nothing by requesting her to thank Sir Ivor. But it rankled that the Yardleys regarded the favor being done to Robert was being carried out for their sakes. Mrs. Yardley meant well but she had offended Helena so much that for the first time Helena had had to firmly close her lips tightly in order not to say something rude to her employer. Surely Mrs. Yardley knew that Helena would never be backward in every politeness to Sir Ivor. Good heavens! And the idea of upsetting Sir Ivor’s chef by taking Robert tidbits as if he were a lapdog. Helena didn’t know whether to laugh or cry.

She prayed desperately that Robert’s injuries were not too debilitating. Most of all she hoped that when he had recovered sufficiently, they would be able to do as Sir Ivor suggested and embark on a future that would hold a few of the elegancies of life. Poor Robert was coming straight from five years of army life. He would probably not notice if they had to make do with cheerless accommodations, but Helena feared she had been spoiled by the Yardleys. She dreaded the further sacrifices she might be obliged to make to keep Robert optimistic when his illness had abated and decisions had to be made. How long could one put on a brave face and plaster on a smile whilst quietly dying inside? “Don’t be dramatic, Helena,” she muttered and squared her shoulders. “You have done it before, and you will do it again.” Just to be with Robert was more than she had expected.

The carriage slackened speed. She peeped out of the window, hoping to see the façade of Stafford House but it was raining again and she could see very little. Scarcely had the carriage lurched to a halt than the door was opened and steps placed beneath it. A gloved hand held an umbrella above her. A footman assisted her to descend, then guided her quickly through the pouring rain toward a doorway. She pulled up her skirts and paused for a moment beneath the portico, gazing about her at the imposing entrance and rain-drenched crocuses beside the walkway.

The Staffords’ butler was a tall, reserved man with an air of calm authority rather similar to someone else she knew. Like master, like man.

She was ushered into a foyer which had not one, but two staircases leading upward. There was an air of light and grandeur about the place, but most of all there was a feeling of solidity. This house had the same ambiance as the home of her childhood. It felt as though several generations of Staffords had happily lived and died here. Even though this was not their principal place of residence, the Staffords obviously loved their townhouse. Tapestries were flung artfully over the upper balustrades, and the floors were polished to within an inch of their lives. Daffodils had been placed in brass urns at intervals up the staircases. Many London houses were only hired for the Season and as a result looked jaded and tired. This house was well loved.

“Has Miss Marshfield arrived yet, Timms?”

She turned and heard the butler and Sir Ivor conferring quietly. “There you are! Welcome to Stafford House.” He smiled a wider smile than she had yet seen from him. Usually when he smiled it was just a glint which disappeared into the serious planes and angles of his face. But here in his own home he seemed much more relaxed. She bowed slightly and he held his hand outstretched so that she was obliged to place hers in it. As soon as politely possible she stepped back. For some unaccountable reason she again felt a rush of warmth spread all through her body. She raised her eyes to his and caught a strange expression on his face. It was as if he were unwillingly attracted to her.

She knew how that felt. She wrenched her mind away from the track it was rushing down. She could not afford for this to happen to her. If she was honest with herself, should this man offer her a carte blanche, she doubted she would have the strength to say no. So she must nip this thing in the bud. Feeling herself reddening, she shoved her thoughts aside and tried to concentrate on Robert. She was here to help Robert. Her life had already been completely upended by her father. She had no wish to inflict self-harm by ruining what remained of her reputation and future.

Her chin tilted, she said briskly, “Good day, Sir Ivor. I hope I am not inconveniencing anyone.”

His welcoming smile disappeared. “My housekeeper, Mrs. Annerwith, will attend to you.”

She was taken aback at his change of manner. Maybe she should not have been so brisk.

“Perhaps you would care to take a glass of ratafia with me, and then we shall go to see your brother.” Abruptly he strode from the foyer and left her standing alone at the bottom of the staircase.

Timms reappeared with a chubby, motherly looking woman dressed in the garb of a housekeeper. She bobbed a curtsy to Helena and steered her through to a powder room, chattering all the while. “Why, miss, what a terrible day for you to venture out. But naturally you were anxious to see young Sir Robert. Such a nice young man as he is too.” She prattled on, and Helena understood that Mrs. Annerwith was already well disposed toward Robert. Good. They might have need of her for some time to come.

“Now, miss, sit here by the fire. We don’t want you to contract a nasty head cold. The staff is ever so pleased to have such a nice young lady come to visit Stafford House.” She put Helena’s bonnet aside. “Such beautiful hair as miss has, too.” She bobbed another curtsy. “No offense I’m sure, miss.” The voluble woman had obviously recollected that she was speaking to a perfect stranger. Helena smiled warmly. “No offense taken, Mrs. Annerwith. How could there be? Now, tell me all about Robert.”

They settled down to discuss the invalid upstairs. Time flew by, and they both jumped when there was a knock on the door. Helena stood. “Oh, I forgot. Sir Ivor suggested I join him for a glass of ratafia.”

“Ratafia,” Mrs. Annerwith whispered to herself, sounding amused. “She’s just coming, Mr. Timms.”

Sir Ivor awaited her in a small withdrawing-room. On a low table by the fire a silver tray was laden with glasses and pippin tarts. Helena was flattered by his kindness and ventured to say as much. “Sir, you are very extremely kind—” but got no further. He interrupted with an impatient wave of his wrist and gestured her to a comfortable wing chair. He seated himself on the opposite side of the fire.

“Your brother is resting at present, Miss Marshfield. We will go up to him in a little while. Do have a pippin tart. The pippins came from our orchards in Norfolk last autumn.” The servants had left the room, and he seemed to be used to serving himself. Surprisingly he seemed rather nervous, as if he were making social chitchat for the sake of it. She hoped he did not have bad news about Robert that he was reluctant to tell her.

“This is a beautiful little room,” she remarked, looking about her at the rosewood piano and carefully draped velvet curtains.

“Yes, ’tis my favorite. There is a larger reception room on this floor too, but I prefer this one. And my library, of course.”

At the word ‘library’ she glanced up. “Yes, Miss Marshfield. I knew that would draw your attention. I heard from Mr. Yardley how you and Caroline are so fond of libraries. And I have seen the evidence with my own eyes.”

This time she managed not to blush over that incident at Hookham’s. “Indeed, sir. The prospect of owning one’s own library must be the most wonderful thing in the world, I think.” She pulled a face, her eyes laughing. “My father was not bookish unfortunately. But there. I know I am not in fashion with my love of books. Truly, sir, I do admire the Belgian tapestries hung over the balustrades in the foyer, and of course this early Georgian fluted silver tray is perfect. But I prefer the sound of your library, I must confess.”

He laughed. “I understand. It is good to see your natural enthusiasm. When you assume the demure mien of a governess I confess to a certain irritation. But I understand the circumstances of your position, and for a while it must be so. Possibly when your brother recovers, things may be different.”

She fastened on to the one thing that meant most to her. “You think Robert will recover then?”

“I have no medical knowledge, but he seems to be very tough physically. I do not think he will recover for some time, but I hope that with careful nursing he can be almost himself again. Just remember, Miss Marshfield, the key word is ‘time.’” He turned aside. “I shall see if he is awake yet.” He pulled the bell-rope, and Timms came to inquire their pleasure. He managed to convey the impression that he was extremely busy but would make an exception just this once. He left majestically and calmly to inquire after Robert, and Helena stifled a nervous giggle. Sir Ivor looked at her inquiringly, but she shook her head and fiddled with her reticule. Obviously he was used to Timms’s mannerisms and saw nothing unusual. Timms returned saying, “Young Sir Robert can see you now.” Helena was impressed at how Robert seemed to have the full approval and sympathy of the Stafford household.

When she paused on the threshold of Robert’s room she saw why. Robert was not at all as she remembered him. He was dreadfully ill. He half reclined on several pillows on a huge bed on a dais in the middle of the room, but he was lost in its hugeness. His already thin frame had become even thinner, and on his white face sharp lines etched themselves from cheekbone to jawline. He was gazing anxiously toward the doorway, a lock of dark hair over his brow as always, but his body seemed to be screwed into an uncomfortable position, and his right arm and shoulder were in some sort of sling.

“Ellie,” he murmured, and she flew to his side.

“Dear Robert,” she exclaimed and attempted to kneel down beside the bed. A footstool was slid underneath her knees, and she turned gratefully, but Sir Ivor was already withdrawing from the room. “My poor, poor Robert.” He held out his good hand, and she cradled it against her cheek. “I have waited so long for us to be together again, Robert, but not like this, not like this…” Her voice trailed away, suspended with tears.

Callused fingers weakly stroked her cheek. “I have to say, Ellie, that sometimes it was only the thought of you waiting here that kept me going. Particularly during the last few weeks,” he added. He seemed glad and relieved to see her but was extremely listless. His innate good manners kept him from drifting back to sleep, but Helena sensed he was exhausted.

“Here Robert, take a little laudanum.” She measured a few drops into the glass of water at his bedside and held it to his lips. “There. Now go back to sleep and get well. That’s all I ask.”

She stroked the lock of hair back off his forehead and propped herself against the bed. His eyes closed docilely but he kept hold of her hand, and Helena was obliged to perch uncomfortably on the edge of the bed, moving as little as possible. After a while she became cramped and shifted slightly, but even in his half-sleep Robert was aware of her movement and tightened his grip. Her eyes filled with tears as she gazed on the face she knew so well. So, this was what happened when young men went off full of dreams to fight for King and country.

Her mind drifted back to their idyllic childhood when the highlights of their lives had been to explore the neighboring Broads on their ponies or visit their grandmother in town. But Grandmother was dead now, and that carefree life had gone. Robert had gone to be a soldier and had come back wounded, and she was a governess.

She bent her head and prayed earnestly for Robert and also a little for herself as her tears fell on their clasped fingers. They only had each other now. Robert must recover. He had so much to offer the world. One-handed she groped for the handkerchief in her reticule to wipe away the telltale tears. She still did not want to release Robert’s hand. Desperately scrubbing at her cheeks with her free hand she reminded herself that she was in someone else’s house. This would not do. Unfortunately, lecturing herself on propriety did not seem to be working very well. The tears came harder. She heard the door open and kept her head bent. Mrs. Annerwith’s skirts rustled toward her.

“Poor lamb,” she said, pushing a fragrant square of cambric into Helena’s hand. “I thought you’d have need of a handkerchief or two, my dear. I don’t know what the young man looked like before of course, but I can see he’s sadly pulled and in great pain. No wonder you’re upset. Sir Ivor sent me to make sure all was well.”

It was fortunate Sir Ivor had had the forethought not to come himself. There was nothing more calculated to horrify a man than a weeping woman, so her father had always said. And this would make the second time she had succumbed when he was around. But surely he would understand. With the Staffords’ great kindness, she wished to look well in their eyes. It irked her that she was unable to repay their hospitality, but she would find a way to do so, she vowed. Breathing in a shuddery sigh, she composed herself. “Mrs. Annerwith, I brought with me some restorative jelly and some laudanum should there be any need for—” She broke off, realizing she knew nothing about the seriousness of Robert’s injuries yet.

“Bless you, dear. We can provide anything that’s needed for the poor boy.” Mrs. Annerwith carefully unlatched Robert’s fingers and moved Helena away from the bed. “Now then, when are you coming to see us again? Tomorrow?”

Helena was quickly reminded of her other responsibilities. She gasped. “Oh! I must be off to Chelsea Gardens to collect my young ladies. Is it very late?”

“’Tis only four o’clock, Miss Marshfield. Don’t fret. Timms will arrange for the carriage to take you to the Gardens.”

Helena dabbed at her face and attempted to pull on her gloves at the same time. Mrs. Annerwith hustled her downstairs to fetch her cloak and bonnet. Timms and the housekeeper kindly overrode her protestations that she could walk to Chelsea Gardens, and the butler disappeared into the nether regions to order the carriage to be put to. Helena bit her lip. She was being an infernal nuisance to the Stafford servants.

At that moment Sir Ivor ambled downstairs to find his butler ordering his town carriage and his housekeeper engaged in tying the strings of Helena’s bonnet. “Here, let me, miss. The dratted things have knotted.”

Helena felt quite embarrassed at the cheerful way with which the Stafford servants overrode all her protests and sailed ahead doing what they thought was best. Very like their master. She spotted him on the stairs.

“Sir Ivor…” she began, but he smiled down at her and she found herself floundering to formulate a simple sentence.

“Tell me, Miss Marshfield, how did you find your brother?”

“Oh, Sir Ivor, thank you so much for all of this.” She swept her hand graphically around the foyer to where Timms was giving orders to the groom, and Mrs. Annerwith was explaining to a housemaid that ‘young Sir Robert’ must not be disturbed for a while. Helena swallowed. “I really don’t know what to say—”

“Then don’t say a word,” retorted her abrupt benefactor.

He certainly did not like being thanked.

“What do you think about your brother’s health?”

“Passable, I think, considering his long coach journey.” Then she recollected that that journey had been undertaken in her benefactor’s luxurious traveling coach and blushed. “He is weak and exhausted, but there is no sign of a fever, and that is the main thing,” she added hastily.

“Yes,” he agreed, “And Sir William Fox comes tomorrow.”

“Sir Ivor, please. We already stand too much in your debt. I agree that Sir William is the very surgeon I would have engaged had I the funds, but I decided that Dr. Tibbert would have to do and…”

He waited until she had run out of breath. “I am sure you wish to do the very best you can for your brother. Therefore, I engaged Sir William. Let there be no more argument about it.”

Helena set her teeth. Her even white teeth which were, at this moment, engaged in grinding against each other. Never had she known such an arbitrary, over-confident, generous, irritating man. How were they ever to repay him?

Then she caught herself up short. Weren’t the characteristics of generosity, over-confidence, and arbitrariness the same ones that she had had to stamp out of herself since working for a living? Yet in Sir Ivor these characteristics, though trying, were the ones she found intriguing. On the other side of the coin, however, the fact that she had had to hide these self-same tendencies within herself pointed out the huge divide in their stations in life. Where once they might have been well suited, now they were far apart. She would get used to it. Just give her a century or so.

Depressed and locked into introspection she entered the carriage, not giving Sir Ivor more than a cursory “Thank you, sir.”

****

Ivor Stafford stood staring after his carriage wondering if he would ever understand such a contrary creature. She fascinated him, sometimes annoyed him, and always he itched to take some of the responsibilities off her shoulders. He wanted to protect her. He had never felt protective of a woman before apart from his mother and sisters. He sighed. He had known the other day that he was getting in too deep. It was not fair to lead her on. He still had to drag their family fortunes out of the mire his father had left them in. Until some of his own pressing responsibilities were lifted, he could do nothing further except keep a watching brief over Helena Marshfield.

Fortunately, one of his responsibilities in the shape of the older of his two sisters was being lifted. Nerida was shortly to be married. But that meant settlements. Nerida and George had requested a small, convivial wedding to speed them on their way back to the Dower House on the Chisholm estate which abutted Ryewolds. Neither Nerida nor George were particularly enamored of the Season and had decided that three or four weeks of it would suffice this year. This was Nerida’s second Season and George had been a man about town for almost as long as Ivor. Like her mother, Nerida preferred the countryside.

But their youngest sibling would cost him a pretty penny next year when she came out. It had been an almighty struggle to maintain Ryewolds and Stafford House for the past four years, as well as pay for Nerida’s coming-out and Ned’s fees at Magdalen. But now that Ned had put forward the proposition that ‘he did not intend to batten’ on Ivor for all of his days but would seek an occupation, things were definitely looking up. Thank God none of them took after their father. Their mother was the shining example they had all followed. A pity their father had not valued her as he ought.

Ivor gazed at the gloomy prospect outside the window. Miss Marshfield and his mother would deal well together. They were of similar temperament—conscientious, ethical, and with a bone deep quality that overrode adverse circumstances. He sighed. All that aside, he still needed at least another six months till he was out of the woods. One more harvest, the sale of some livestock, and another six month’s rent from the tenants would do it. Those minor investments in the Far East Investment Company were due to come to fruition shortly and would help considerably, provided circumstances continued as they were.

As he did not employ a bailiff, nobody had noticed that over the past few years farm workers on the Stafford estate who had retired or moved away had not been replaced. Likewise, a few staff from Stafford House had not been replaced once they had left. However, very few workers left his employ. They seemed to like it. He had even tentatively suggested that some of the housemaids and kitchen maids from Ryewolds could double up on their duties at the townhouse, as the family was only in London for a small part of the year. Instead of handing in their notice, they had beamed enthusiastically at the added responsibilities with all the assiduity of evangelists. He grimaced. He must be a very lax employer. No, he knew he wasn’t. He simply preferred a dignified but happy atmosphere in his houses. Unlike a few of his contemporaries he did not want people to serve him from fear; respect perhaps, but not fear.

But he yearned to be free of the yoke of debt that had been his since his father died. Although he was naturally a reticent man, the necessity for extreme secrecy irked him. In an ideal society he would receive the sympathy of friends and be able to discuss varying methods of saving on expenses with those in a similar predicament. To have a friend in adversity lightened the load.

But this was not an ideal society. The Stafford family would be a source of gossip and even amusement if the ton knew how he struggled to maintain their lifestyle. And if it was discovered how close to the wind his father had been sailing, Ivor would have been encouraged to marry an heiress or something of that ilk. But it was not in his nature to use another individual to rescue him. He could not live with himself if he had to rely on some young heiress’s trustees to loosen the purse strings. Anyway, just calling to mind a couple of last Season’s heiresses was enough to put him off that idea. Over the years he had known several heiresses who had been married for their fortunes. He had never considered those alliances to be happy ones. He himself had an intense dislike of the idea of money as the only valid currency. He would hate to be married solely for what he could provide in material goods, even though it was the way of the world.

Some of the last couple of years’ débutantes could not be called ‘innocent’ either. They had been tutored by their mamas to go for the jugular—a title or money. Some of those matchmaking mamas were little better than abbesses. They showed no mercy at all, neither to their quarry nor their daughters. Why else would they team their untried, helpless offspring with doddering, drunk roués or raw and uncouth moneyed merchants?

He had been pursued now for ten years by women who wanted him only for what they could get out of him. He despised the irrational secret hidden deep inside which nagged that he wanted to be married to a woman who could not live without him—in short, a woman who loved him, only him. The current vogue for young married women to have lovers was a pitfall for one of his nature. He did not relish sharing the affections of his wife with a slavering acquaintance who had been waiting for years to get back at him for some imagined slight, a not uncommon occurrence.

Yet he did number among his contemporaries several very happy marriages. On the whole those couples stayed well away from town and spent most of their time on their estates.

He had known since he was a child that as the older son it was his responsibility to carry on the lineage. His baronetcy was not important in the great scheme of things. It was not as if he were a viscount or an earl, but his was an old family name, much older than many of the titles which had been dished out haphazardly during the last two generations. And he owed it to previous generations of Staffords to pass on the estates unencumbered to his sons.

Thinking of sons brought him right back to Miss Helena Marshfield for some reason. Now there was a young woman who would make an admirable Lady Stafford, no doubt about it. She would be a partner in every sense of the word. He had offered to house her brother in order to keep in her good graces. For some reason he just wanted to please her, to change those uncertain smiles to open happiness. Oh, damn it all. He was falling fast for the lady. It had crept up on him. How had that happened? After all his years on the town and all those matchmaking mamas, he had been snared by a pair of violet eyes glancing back at him in Hookham’s Library of all places.

It tore him in two to see her unhappy, but the best thing he could do was to stand back from her. Through her brother he could be her friend if she allowed it. ‘Friend.’ Now there was a euphemism. After the alluring glimpse of Helena’s luscious breasts as they danced together, ‘friend’ did not begin to encompass his feelings for Helena Marshfield. She did not display herself with arrogant abandon as did some women. As a result he practically panted every time she cast him a look, or he caught a fleeting glimpse of a slender ankle. He drew in a deep breath. The smooth, creamy breasts he had unexpectedly glimpsed during their waltz had put him in such a lather that he’d thought for one dreadful moment she had guessed his discomfort.

Lord, he wished he were free to court her now in the time-honored way, but he wasn’t. If only he did not have this load sitting on his shoulders. He would like nothing more than to approach Helena right this minute and tell her of his feelings. In the past he had been able to extricate himself gracefully if he felt he was getting in too deep and raising false hope. But with Helena ‘too deep’ wasn’t nearly deep enough. He wanted to hold her close and protect her from people like Elverton—and what had all that been about? —and from people who treated her as if she were a lackey.

He especially wanted to take his lady away from that little vixen Ariadne Yardley. He wondered at Josh Yardley; he really did. Helena was forced to take any number of undeserved set-downs from that young woman, and it was unfair. Certainly, she didn’t show much emotion when Ariadne treated her unkindly, but the hurt was there, behind the beautiful violet eyes. He had noticed that her chin tilted just a little higher when she was upset. She became crisper and pretended a self-confidence she clearly did not feel. But he could not interfere in the Yardley household. It wasn’t done to tell another man how to handle his family, but he could see trouble looming there. Miss Ariadne Yardley was damnably hot at hand and although Helena could advise, she could not control. How he wished he could step in and take her away from her life of genteel servitude.

Ivor gazed unseeingly out at the rain and thought that responsibility was one thing, but years of anxiety and tightrope walking was another. His father had always been a fool. He had deserved no filial respect and had been given none. Ivor, Ned, and the girls had been enraged at the way their mother was treated, left for months alone at Ryewolds whilst his father gambled and drank away their heritage. Their mother had been so happy when he had been at home, however, that they’d never made any comment to her. She had loved Theo Stafford deeply and agonized over his dissolute ways, blaming herself for some inexplicable reason. When he had fallen ill she had nursed him devotedly, and when the doctor had pointed out that a life spent in such a self-indulgent manner could only lead to an early demise, she had angrily ordered the doctor from the house.

When their father eventually died their mother had been racked with grief, and there was no way Ivor could have mentioned that the estate was not in order and that the debt collectors had already sent in their first demands. Had the bank not been accommodating when they realized he was in earnest about recouping the losses incurred by his father, both Ryewolds and Stafford House would have been sold. Damn his father to the pit.

At least the Committee gave him an outlet for his pent-up energy, gave him a chance to use his brain on something apart from how to wring the last groat from his estates whilst maintaining the land and buildings to a reasonable standard.

Ten minutes later he was still staring out at the rain, wondering how he was going to survive the next few months.