Wycliff had awakened early that morning with an odd mix of contentment and anxiety churning through his gut. Rather like oil and water, the two didn’t combine, and the constant battle wouldn’t allow him to sleep any later than the first hint of dawn.
The contentment came from Hannah. At long last, he had her in his arms, to discover an inquisitive and responsive lover. The closeness he shared with her soothed the hellhound, even as fire burned through his veins to repeat the night’s events again. He considered locking the study door and spending the next few days and nights getting to know every inch of his wife’s body intimately.
Oddly, his anxiety also arose because of her. What must she think of the derelict house? He had forgotten, or perhaps suppressed, the sad state of the once grand Mireworth. She had degraded into a horror fit for a gothic novel. When they’d been searching upstairs for a bed frame he had altered his vision, wondering how many of his ancestors still roamed the halls. He spied only two lost souls, but couldn’t identify them without searching the many portraits stored in the former billiards room.
He had brought his wife to the estate and couldn’t even provide her with a bedchamber. Instead, they were camped out in his study, where she used his desk as a dressing table. The spectre of failure loomed over him. What sort of husband couldn’t even provide a watertight roof over his wife’s head? Admittedly, the roof above them was rather expansive, but the storm-damaged slates from years ago had allowed water to seep into the timbers. The constant drip of moisture over a number of years spread rot and decay like a creeping plague.
One of his many tasks would be talking to the tradesmen about the scale of the work needed on the roof. He cherished a dim hope that he might be able to raise the finances to start critical repairs. They had only a few short weeks in Dorset until his mother-in-law would descend upon them to renew the spell that kept Hannah frozen in time, and allowed her heart to continue to beat. He found himself uncomfortable at the thought of viewing the estate through her parents’ eyes. Did Hannah regret her decision to marry him, now that she saw the amount of work and money the estate would consume?
He remembered his conversation with Sir Ewan Shaw the night of the duke’s wedding, when he had sought counsel about his relationship. If you cannot find the words to tell her how you feel, Wycliff, show her instead. Words alone are empty unless accompanied by action. Wrap her in your devotion and your feelings will filter through to her.
To win his wife’s heart, Wycliff needed to become rather similar to the creeping rot or the droplets of water that the timbers and plaster absorbed. Drip by drip, he would show Hannah the depths of his devotion to her. Decision made, and considering he had kept Hannah awake a good part of the night, he let his wife sleep on undisturbed. He kissed her exposed shoulder and drew the blankets around her before he slipped from the bed. On silent feet he gathered his clothes and pulled on his breeches and shirt, but took the rest out into the hall.
There was an overwhelming amount to do and he needed to show Hannah some improvement in the month available to them. Part of him hoped that she would see this as their family home. If her parents found the cure for the Affliction, it could even one day see their children running along the cliffs and swimming in the ocean.
He finished dressing seated on the bottom stair next to a griffin. As he pulled on his boots in the gloom, he made a note of immediate chores. The stone walls needed repair first, to ensure the valuable sheep stayed where they wanted them. Then he would count the few pounds left over to see what could be done about the house. He suspected the choice would be between the roof or the broken windows. A piece of timber would fix the draft in the study and the money saved might buy a few roof slates.
Despite the early hour, he found Mrs Rossett in the kitchen, clad in her dressing gown and slippers, stoking the fire.
“Morning, Mrs Rossett. Do you have anything I can eat on my way to see Swift?” He had agreed to meet the farm manager early, to begin the first of many tasks. He also had to find the time to visit the tenant farmers, particularly those who had fallen behind in their rents.
A more immediate problem that clamoured for his attention could be easily remedied. The spaniel bounced at his feet and Wycliff flung open the door to let her out.
“I made some pasties yesterday. You can take one of those with you and it will fill your belly until morning teatime.” The housekeeper opened the larder and removed a large tin. She prised off the lid to reveal a row of fat and golden Cornish pasties.
With their filling of meat and vegetables, each savoury would be a meal almost on its own. Wycliff selected two—one for him and one for Frank, who would be useful for the heavy work ahead.
“Is her ladyship awake?” Mrs Rossett asked as she put the lid back on the tin.
“Hannah sleeps on, Mrs Rossett. She seems quite worn out from her first night at Mireworth.” Then his good mood burst forth and he winked and waggled his eyebrows.
The old housekeeper giggled like a young girl and swatted at him with a towel. “Get out of here, you rogue. I’ll wait until I hear Lady Wycliff stirring before I start on toast, or perhaps she will need something more robust to revive her?”
Wycliff barked in laughter, let the puppy back inside, and wandered across the packed earth yard to the stables. He found Frank up and mucking out the horse stalls. Barnes sat on a beam above, next to the barn cat. Hand and cat eyed each other as though a fight was about to break out.
“The horses can go out in the field, Frank.” Wycliff left the pasties on a ledge, while he clipped a lead to a halter and the monstrous man did the same. Leading two horses each, they soon had their small herd out in a pasture, where the animals cantered away and kicked up their heels.
Barnes slid down the pole and Frank picked up the hand and placed him on his shoulder. Wycliff handed over a pasty, and the two men ate as they followed a beaten dirt track to the cottage where Swift lived with his family. Not far from the main house, the two-storey home was picturesque, with wildflowers growing around it. Unlike the manor house, this one had sparkling clean and unbroken windows and a watertight roof. Smoke curled from the chimney and the laughter of children drifted past his ears.
Wycliff went around back and knocked on the kitchen door.
Mrs Swift opened the door and bobbed a curtsey. “Lord Wycliff, how lovely to see you here! Do come in, sir.” Her eyes widened at the sight of Frank, with Barnes sitting like a bird on his shoulder, but the woman said nothing.
Swift rose from the table where he was having his breakfast. The gaggle of children at the table fell silent as Frank entered the cosy room.
One of the boys pointed and let out a long ahhh of wonder. “Is he a pirate and that’s his parrot?”
Before Wycliff could answer, excited chatter erupted and Frank was surrounded by little ones, most of whom barely came to his knees. One boy stood on a chair, snatched up Barnes, and held him to his face. The hand wriggled and twisted but couldn’t break free.
“I see you brought an extra hand.” Swift gestured to Barnes with his teacup.
Wycliff chuckled under his breath. Those jokes hadn’t grown tired yet. “Yes. That’s Barnes and he’s good in a pinch. The taller one is Frank.”
“You have some odd servants with you, milord,” Mrs Swift said as she poured tea and handed the cup to Wycliff.
“Lady Wycliff is the daughter of Lady Seraphina Miles, the mage. They have an eclectic range of staff in their household.” Wycliff leaned back in his chair and sipped the tea. The hot brew was just what he needed after their walk.
“Lady Miles? Isn’t she dead?” Swift asked.
“Yes, but that hasn’t stopped her from continuing her work.” Wycliff took a warm scone from the plate offered by Mrs Swift. The Cornish pasty warming his insides would appreciate the buttery company.
A quarter hour later, when the men rose from the table, children dribbled off Frank like water from a stone. The giant plucked Barnes free of the mob and the hand waved farewell from his perch as they headed out the door.
They walked to a nearby field, where the sheep snoozed in the soft morning light. Wycliff surveyed the flock with a growing sense of satisfaction. Even to his untrained eye, their fleece appeared finer and superior to their more common breed counterparts. With the money from Lord Pennicott, he had purchased the ewes, along with a ram, and the resulting spring lambs would augment their stock and establish the new business. In the coming years, he planned to breed enough merino to be able to spread them among his tenant farmers. One day they would build their own mill to produce wool cloth from the fleece.
But first there were practical measures to see to, as a portion of drystone wall had collapsed and needed to be rebuilt. The sheep grazed contentedly, oblivious to the men working alongside them. Frank hauled the larger stones and made a pile while Wycliff and Swift placed them.
“What has been happening in my absence, Swift? Which tenants do we need to call upon?” Wycliff found a rounded stone to wedge between two larger ones.
Swift pulled a handkerchief from his pocket and wiped his brow before replying. “There are three in arrears, my lord. Two are struggling—made some bad choices last winter. They’re good folk and a decent harvest this autumn, a bit of leniency, and some sound advice should see them right.”
Wycliff nodded. The harvest was susceptible to the weather. He’d rather see his tenants supplement their crops with a more reliable source of income, like sheep or cattle. If the merino breed adapted to the Dorset climate in the way he envisioned, they would one day spin the wool themselves. The increased profit margins would benefit the entire community. Although that was merely a dream; he didn’t have sufficient cash to mend his roof, let alone build an expensive mill.
“What of the third tenant in arrears?” Wycliff removed the cork from a water bottle and took a deep drink.
Swift blew out a sigh and stared at the ground, as though searching for an answer in the grass. “Old man Miller. He’s a rotten drunk, that one. Never recovered after his granddaughter Amy died before Christmas. He sits out in his yard watching the chickens scratch and the weeds grow. He hasn’t paid his rent in over six months and, given the sorry state of his place, has no hope of ever making amends. He needs moving on, if you don’t mind my saying so, milord. Put a young fellow on that farm who will roll up his sleeves and get the land productive again.”
Wycliff placed the water bottle in the shade. “You know I value your honesty, Swift. Instead of throwing Miller out into the dirt, do we have any small cottages we could offer him?”
Swift paused in his work and swatted a fly by his ear. “There’s one or two that are empty and not too derelict. We might need to do a few minor repairs before winter, but we’ll find something to suit and he won’t have to stagger so far to the tavern and home again.”
“There is our solution, then. Miller either moves into the cottage we offer or finds his own alternative. While I’m sympathetic to his grief, I’ll not carry dead wood on good land and he has wasted his chance.” Wycliff couldn’t afford to let prime pasture lay fallow year after year. They all needed to contribute if the district was to flourish. The man had been given ample time to grieve his granddaughter and he’d chosen to wallow in cheap gin instead. “What is happening in the village?”
Swift picked up a stone and assessed where to place it in the wall. “Sarah Rivers has gone missing. Been two days now and no one has seen hide nor hair of her.”
Wycliff sorted through his memory to place a face with the name. Youngish woman with blonde hair, if he remembered correctly. “Has she run off with another man?”
Swift shrugged. “Seems unlikely, but you know how the villagers like to gossip. Her man will be out again this morning, walking the shore in case…” His voice trailed off.
“You think she drowned?” The ocean took lives and sometimes gave the bodies back, washing them ashore. Others vanished and were never seen again.
“That makes three in the last year, my lord. Lisbeth Wolfe and Amy Miller were both taken by the sea.” The farm manager’s gaze darted around the paddock as though he expected a sea monster to emerge from the nearby river and drag away a precious ewe.
Wycliff tightened his grip on the stone in his hands. Lisbeth. Her death a year ago still caused an ache inside him. Sometimes, people trod a dark path and they could not be turned back.
“Drownings are not uncommon, Swift. The tide can turn and pull even an experienced swimmer out farther than they intended.” That reminded him of his promise to teach Hannah to swim. Her fear of the ocean would surely fade somewhat if she could stay afloat and swim a short distance. But as much as he wanted to spend time in such a way with his wife, that would be time away from the mountain of tasks to tackle and would do nothing to improve the sorry state of Mireworth.
“As you say, milord, drownings happen when you live by the sea. But folk talk. There are whispers of mermaids returning to the ocean. Of selkie women who shed their skins somewhere along the shore.” Swift took a rock from the pile made by Frank and found a spot for it in the wall.
Wycliff snorted. Selkies and mermaids. As if he didn’t have enough to do, without tracking down any such creatures to record in the Ministry’s registers. Although if Sarah Rivers were a selkie, then her sealskin would be discarded somewhere near the shore or hidden among the tussocks. “If the women were mermaids, their families would be, too. Why don’t we suggest the locals examine each other for gills or scales at bath time?”
Swift barked in laughter and then selected a rectangular stone. “There is another matter, Lord Wycliff. Since you have brought your bride to Mireworth, the village will be expecting some sort of celebration.”
Wycliff let out a sigh. He’d rather not. Although planning a ball might give Hannah something to do. He was aware he had abandoned her to her own devices, while he rolled up his sleeves and tried to reverse years of neglect to the estate. A ball would be an opportunity for her to get to know the locals. “I will talk to Lady Wycliff. The manor is not fit for such an event, but we could hold a dance in the village hall.”
Swift beamed and slapped his thigh. “That would be grand and it will make Mrs Swift happy. It was her idea and all.”
As the men worked, Barnes ran back and forth along the wall. Occasionally he returned with a pebble to slot into a gap. After a few hours of hard labour, the breach was repaired and the sheep secure in the pasture. Wycliff surveyed their handiwork and ticked one job off the myriad on the list in his mind.
“Where to next, Swift?” Wycliff picked up the water jug as they headed back across the paddock.
The farm manager rattled off a number of jobs that all required his attention. It would be a long, hard day. There were two things Wycliff looked forward to at day’s end. One was a bath to wash the sweat and grime from his body. The other was shutting the study door on the world and being alone with his wife.