An Honorable Gentleman

Chapter Four

Of course, Sir Trevor ignored her advice. In fact, Gwen was beginning to think the baronet was not going to be an easy gentleman to manage.

He kept his head high as his horse stepped away from the inn, the crowd cavorting along behind him as he made his stately way up the winding, tree-shaded lane. He must know the hope he’d given them—their faces glowed and their praises rang to the fells. Walking beside him, she could look up at his face—calm, dignified, with the barest hint of a smile lingering about the curve of his lips. He obviously had no idea that what he’d promised was impossible.

Oh, Lord, please keep them from hating him when he has to tell them the truth!

At least he wasn’t gloating, she thought as they approached the wrought-iron gates of Blackcliff Hall. However much of a challenge he offered her in keeping the estate going, he had to be a better owner than Colonel Umbrey. The colonel had always been capricious—the house too warm one day, too cold the next; salmon his favorite and least favorite meal by turns. He’d only grown more strange as the years had passed. Look at how he’d cast off his faithful valet, discharged her father and holed up in his bedchamber.

But even he had understood that the mine was closed.

The villagers stopped respectfully outside the gates, their rousing cheers following Gwen and Trevor up the curving gravel drive. The trees edging the estate boundary quickly hid them from view. From the direction of the gatehouse came a single, questioning bark: Dolly, protesting being left behind. She hated it when Gwen locked her in the kennel behind the stone gatehouse. Gwen would have liked nothing better than to lean against Dolly’s warm side, particularly as Gwen was a bit sore from the night’s exertions.

But she knew the mastiff had no place in the morning’s activities. This morning was all for Sir Trevor.

As they continued up the drive, other noises faded until the loudest sound was the crunch of Icarus’s hooves against rough gravel. The autumn breeze brushed Gwen’s cheek, set the trees along the drive to rustling. Leaves of bright red and deep russet drifted down across the emerald lawn.

“How long has Blackcliff been sitting?” Sir Trevor asked.

Did it look so terrible to him, even in the daylight? True, the stone fountain below the sweep of the drive stood empty and clogged with fallen leaves, but that was easily fixed. “About six months,” Gwen replied. “Colonel Umbrey refused all callers the last three months of his life, and he wouldn’t allow any changes to the estate. But the mine’s been closed for over a year. The surveyors said it was too dangerous to work.”

There—she’d said it. She cast him a quick glance to see how he might be taking it. The smile on his handsome face was even more noticeable.

“Surveyors can be mistaken,” he said.

So could he, but Gwen was suddenly very glad his education was one thing she could leave to her father.

Rob Winslow was waiting in front of the gray stone manor to take Icarus. She’d picked Rob purposely. He was tall, his strapping frame showed well in the brown coat and breeches that had been the livery of the previous master, he knew something about horses being the son of the village blacksmith and he’d play the role for no other pay than her thanks. He touched his brown forelock as Sir Trevor reined in, then quickly took charge of the horse.

Sir Trevor watched him, green eyes narrowed, until he’d disappeared around the house for the stables.

Gwen swallowed, feeling the chill in the air. “He’s not the one who took your horse yesterday, is he?”

“No. That man was much older and considerably thinner. That was my impression, at least. He was wearing a cloak.” Sir Trevor shook himself and started up the stairs. “I thought you said the groom had been discharged.”

“He was,” Gwen said, pacing him to the door. “Rob, that is Mr. Winslow, is merely filling in until you settle on your staff.”

He raised his dark brows over his aristocratic nose. He’d taken out his key, but she reached around him for the door. “No need. My father’s already opened the house. You did ask to meet with him this morning.”

He cast her a look. She could not tell what he was thinking, but she found herself holding her breath as he pushed open the door and strode inside.

Margaret Bentley was waiting to take his coat. She was the one person Gwen had qualms about. Oh, she looked the part of housekeeper with her snowy hair bound in a coronet about her round face and her motherly girth swathed in black bombazine covered by a pristine white apron. But she had no experience as a cook for anyone other than her six children and husband, all of whom had passed on.

“Welcome home, sir,” she said in her gentle voice as she reached up to help Sir Trevor with his multi-caped greatcoat. She had to stand on her tiptoes to pull it off. As she dropped back down, she peered at Gwen around his waist, brows up and mouth pursed in an O of awe.

“This is Mrs. Bentley,” Gwen said. The little woman straightened as Sir Trevor turned to eye her. “She’s acting as housekeeper and cook.”

Mrs. Bentley bobbed a curtsy, puddling Sir Trevor’s coat against the floor as she did so. “A pleasure, sir. Mr. Allbridge is waiting in the library, and I’ve started the teakettle on the boil. Is there anything else I can do for you?”

“No, thank you,” Trevor replied. “And tea would be most welcome.”

Gwen let out her breath.

“Have it right out, dearie,” Mrs. Bentley said with a grin, then she blinked and swallowed. “That is, very good, sir.” She ducked her head and hurried off.

Trevor turned to Gwen. “So I have a groom and a housekeeper. How many more?”

“A maid of all work, and I’m working on a footman,” Gwen replied, feeling rather proud of herself. It hadn’t been easy finding people willing to volunteer with such short notice. “And several other men will be by this afternoon to set the gardens to rights.”

She waited for his praise, his amazement over her skills at managing a house. She was certain she’d be just as humble accepting them.

Instead, his mouth tightened. “You are kind to think of my needs, but in the future, I’d prefer to be consulted before you spend my money.”

Gwen felt as if he’d slapped her. She recoiled, but only for a moment. How dare he assume she’d spend his money without asking!

She squared her shoulders and looked up into his icy green gaze. “I will have you know, sir, that not one of these people asked a penny. Blackcliff Hall is the life of this village, and we’re all so glad to see it occupied again that we were delighted to stay up last night and make it presentable. And if you were any kind of gentleman, you’d appreciate that!”

Trevor raised his brows at her vehemence. Every inch of her straightened spine and high head said righteous indignation. Her chest rose and fell in her green coat, pink ribbon fluttering, as if she were taking deep breaths to try to steady her emotions. She truly thought these people would serve him with no expectation of reward.

He couldn’t believe that. In his experience, everyone had a reason for offering help; everyone expected something in return. Nor could he believe they’d worked all night for no other purpose than to pretty up Blackcliff Hall. They knew nothing about him. Why put themselves out on his behalf?

And despite what she’d said about Blackcliff being vital to the village, he was certain they must have more important things to do. Determined to prove himself right, he strode into the withdrawing room.

And stopped. And stared.

Every wood surface glowed; every inch of brass from the candlesticks on the mantel to the lamps on the tables gleamed. A fire was crackling in the hearth, and a bunch of russet chrysanthemums filled a crystal vase on one of the decorative tables. He could smell the lemon polish.

He whirled to find Gwen watching him. “Is the whole house like this?” he demanded.

A becoming shade of pink darkened her cheeks. “Most of it. We didn’t quite get to the cellar, but we hoped you wouldn’t get to it, either.”

He glanced around the room again, noting the quilted lap robe draping the sofa and the silhouette framed on the wall. Neither had been there last night, he was certain. “Did you sleep at all?” he marveled.

She smiled. “Who could sleep with a new master at Blackcliff?”

Trevor shook his head. It seemed he was wrong. They truly had stayed up all night, for him. What kind of people were these? What land had his father sent him to? There had to be some reason for their kindness, but if not expectation of repayment, then what?

Still, he knew what his response must be. He offered her a deep bow. “You have my thanks, Miss Allbridge, and my apology. I’m not used to people so generous with their time and talents.”

“You’ve never met the people of Blackcliff,” she said, smile deepening as he straightened. A dimple danced at the corner of her mouth. Trevor found himself unable to look away.

The grandfather clock in the entryway chimed ten. “Oh, goodness! I’ve kept you from your appointment!” She seized Trevor’s hand. “This way to the library. I’m sure my father has everything laid out to explain the estate to you.”

Trevor didn’t resist as she tugged him out of the withdrawing room and down the corridor. She had strong hands for a woman, sturdy, unlike his mother’s long, elegant fingers. She was also the busiest woman he’d ever met. Everywhere he looked he saw evidence of her handiwork.

Windows that had been grimy with dust now sparkled in the golden light of autumn. Every last cobweb had been obliterated. She must have enlisted each man, woman and child in the village to clean the place and stood as their captain. And she didn’t even look tired!

She threw open the door to the library with a flourish and stepped aside for him to enter. He thought surely she’d wait outside, perhaps even go straight to attack the cellar, but she followed him inside and shut the door behind her.

He had the oddest sense of a trap being sprung.

He glanced around the library, trying to determine what was wrong. Every wall was hidden by tall oak bookcases with leaded glass fronts. The only open space was for the paneled door by which he’d entered, the wide window opposite it overlooking the grounds and the black marble fireplace to his right. Candles in the brass chandelier cast down a glow on the stout leather-bound chairs scattered about the ruby-patterned carpet and the massive, claw-foot desk across the room.

This was where a gentleman conducted business—thoughtful, logical, impressive. For the first time, he began to feel at home.

An older man stood with his back to the desk, hands braced behind him on its surface as if he needed its strength. Where Gwen Allbridge was an all-consuming fire, her father looked more like a burned-out husk. His gray hair was thinning and receding, his cheeks hollowed. His body was too narrow for the plaid wool coat and brown breeches that hung from it.

He pushed off from the desk and managed a bow, his voice creaking out of him as if even breathing was a struggle. “Sir Trevor, an honor to meet you. Horace Allbridge at your service.”

“Allbridge,” Trevor greeted him, moving into the room. “I understand I have you to thank for keeping my estate safe.”

His steward immediately dropped his gaze to his scuffed brown boots and shuffled them against the carpet. “Only doing my duty, sir.”

Trevor swung around him and seated himself at the desk. The black leather-bound armchair didn’t offer a protest as he sank into it, fitting his frame as if it had been made for him. He rubbed his hands over the smooth desktop, saw his reflection gazing thoughtfully back at him in the polished surface. If he turned his head, he could gaze out at his garden and the black fell rising behind the house.

Something drifted over him, strong, sure. If he’d had to name it, he would have called it peace.

He took a breath and raised his head. Gwendolyn Allbridge was watching him from her place near the door. He’d seen similar smiles on the faces of new mothers, excessively proud of their babbling infants. But was it her father or him she found so adorable?

Not a little discomposed by the thought, he waved toward another of the leather-bound chairs on the other side of the desk. “Have a seat,” he told her father. “I’d like a full report.”

Allbridge perched on the edge of the chair, spine inches away from the back of it. He blinked bleary blue eyes as if trying in vain to gather his thoughts.

Gwen seemed to sense it. Her smile faded, and she hurried closer. “I’m sure you have a great deal to report, Father,” she said, for all the world like a teacher coaxing a student to answer a difficult question.

Did the man need such help? What kind of steward was he that he required his daughter’s prompting to do his duty? Trevor had assumed the man had been working at her side all night; now he could only wonder.

“Miss Allbridge,” he said, giving her his most charming smile. “Forgive us for taking up your time. I’m certain you have other matters on your mind this fine day.”

She came forward eagerly, face alight. “Not at all! I love hearing how well Blackcliff is doing!”

Her father cleared his throat with a phlegmy rattle. “Could take some time. Best you see to Sir Trevor’s tea. Wouldn’t want him to perish of thirst, now, would we?”

Her face fell, but she nodded. “Of course. I’ll be right back.” She hurried from the room.

“Your daughter is a credit to you, sir,” Trevor said.

“That she is,” Gwen’s father agreed. “She’s been managing Blackcliff for years.” He glanced after her as if to make sure she’d shut the door behind her, then scooted forward on his chair until Trevor thought he’d surely fall flat on the floor.

He raised his gaze to meet Trevor’s. “Unfortunately, I have no good news to tell you about Blackcliff, sir, and that’s the truth of it.”

Trevor felt as if the room had darkened. “As bad as all that?”

Allbridge nodded solemnly. “The estate has no income to speak of and any attempt to rectify that will incur a princely sum. Unless you’ve a pretty penny in your pocket, you might as well ride for London this very afternoon and thank the good Lord that no more of the place rubbed off on you.”

Chapter Five

Trevor stood at the library window, staring out at the estate. A shelf of green lawn led up to the base of Blackcliff Fell. Rob Winslow walked past, leading Icarus, who dropped his head to nibble at the grass. Clouds floated serenely in the blue sky. It was as bucolic a scene as he might have wished for as the new lord of the manor. But it was a lie.

After his steward’s pessimistic assessment, Trevor had pressed him for details. All had been bleak. Most estates Trevor knew had a thousand acres or more, much of them good pastureland for sheep or cattle, or fields for crops of one kind or another. All those lands needed was a set of tenants with half Miss Allbridge’s energy to bring in a handsome income that allowed their owners to live in luxury, most often in London.

The Blackcliff estate had only a few hundred acres, the vast majority taken up by that hulking rocky mountain. Blackcliff Fell didn’t offer enough pasture for more than the most hardy of sheep. There were no tenant farmers; there was nowhere for them to farm. As the owner of the land on which the village and church sat, Trevor received rent from each cottage and shop, based on the yearly income. Unfortunately, with the mine closed, there was precious little income to be had.

“But you claim the mine was prosperous,” Trevor had said, trying to keep the frustration from his voice. “Why shut it down?”

“It wore out,” Allbridge had said in his rusty voice. Trevor wasn’t sure if his accompanying sigh was for the situation or Trevor’s question. “We even had a man killed from falling rock. That fall buried the biggest vein of wad.”

Trevor frowned. Why couldn’t it have been gold or silver? “Wad? Is that what we mine?”

“Aye, sir. Was used to cast His Majesty’s cannons, I hear. Now they use it to fill pencils.”

The fellow must mean graphite. Trevor had heard it came principally from Cumberland. “What’s the market?”

“Generally good. The mines at Borrowdale can only produce so much. Seems there’s always more demand.”

A demand he couldn’t meet with a mine too dangerous to work. “Why did the villagers act as if it were my decision to reopen the mine?” he pressed.

“People will do most anything to feed their families,” his steward had replied. “They didn’t want to believe the surveyors the colonel had in.” He’d cast Trevor a sidelong look that made Trevor think of his daughter. “I suppose the villagers were hoping you were the type of gentleman who was willing to invest in his mine.”

He’d have been more than happy to invest, if he’d had a penny to spare. He had plans for the income this estate should have produced—a house, a carriage, a wife of noble birth and decent marriage settlements, a place among good Society, respected, admired.

“I’d like to read the surveyor’s report,” he’d told his steward, but it had not been among the records Allbridge had brought for Trevor’s perusal. His steward had promised to locate it as soon as possible.

Until then, Gwen’s father had recommended that Trevor look over his estate. Allbridge made it sound as if Trevor might discover something worthwhile, something valuable that would make him wish to stay. What man in his right mind stayed on a lifeless rock?

“You haven’t tasted your tea.”

He turned at the sound of Gwen Allbridge’s warm voice. She was standing in the doorway, her fiery hair the one spot of brightness in the room. She’d taken off her green coat and wore a white apron over her green-checked cotton gown. She looked industrious and competent. He felt neither. His feelings must have shown on his face, despite his best intentions, for her brows rose, and she hurried into the room.

“What’s wrong?” she demanded. “Was the tea not to your liking? Mrs. Bentley thought you’d favor the souchong but that smoky smell isn’t for everyone. Or did we miss a spot when we were cleaning?”

Trevor forced a smile for her sake. “I wasn’t thirsty, after all, and the house seems immaculate. You almost make me believe in miracles.”

“Almost?” she teased, cocking her head and endangering the pile of curls on top.

He felt his smile slipping and returned his gaze to the black, unforgiving mountain. “I had hoped for better news from your father.”

He heard her suck in a breath, then the rustle of skirts as she hurried around in front of him.

Her brown eyes were imploring. “He hasn’t had to give a report in months. I’m sure if you allow him a little time, he’ll do better.”

She seemed to take it personally that anything might not be to his liking. “You mistake me,” he assured her. “I find no fault in your father. He came straight to the point, a trait I admire.”

“Then what?” she begged.

He could not stop looking at that mountain. It dwarfed the house; it blighted his hopes. “I simply could not like the truth.”

She angled her head to look up into his eyes. “The truth? That the village is overjoyed you’re here? That you have a venerable home you can be proud of? That you will make an excellent master for Blackcliff? How can you not like those truths?”

“They were not truths I expected,” he replied. In the face of her optimism he was beginning to feel like a spoiled child. Yet she could not know how important wealth and consequence were in his world. “There is nothing for me here.”

Her eyes widened as if in shock, and she drew herself up, once more all righteousness. “Nothing? What nonsense! You, sir, are coming with me.” She strode for the door, and he turned to watch her, surprised by the sudden change.

“I’ll ask Mrs. Bentley to fetch your coat,” she threw back over her shoulder. “We’re going for a walk, and then, sir, we will see about this nothing!”

She was out the door before he could argue. But then, he doubted she’d have listened if he’d tried.

Nothing? How could he call Blackcliff nothing? Blackcliff was her home; Blackcliff was her world. More, it was the world of every man, woman and child in the village, and it had been for generations. He should be happy to be welcomed, stranger that he was. He should be overjoyed to learn what he’d been given here.

“But wasn’t he pleased?” Mrs. Bentley asked, following Gwen back to the library with Sir Trevor’s coat bundled in her arms. Gwen had found her in the butler’s pantry, a small room just off the dining room that held the china and silver service and served as a place to keep the food warm after it had been carried from the kitchen in the outbuilding. “Does he approve of what we’ve done with the house?”

“He will,” Gwen promised, pulling on her own green coat and cinching the ribbon under her breast. “Just give me a day.”

“I’ll be happy to give you all the time you need, dearie,” the little housekeeper replied with a sad smile. “I really have nowhere else to go.”

Neither did Gwen and her father. She’d lived her entire life in that gatehouse. Her mother had married, given birth and died there. Her father was only now beginning to find himself again after her death. Blackcliff Hall, Blackcliff village, St. Martin’s Church—they were all Gwen had ever known. Leaving was unthinkable. The very idea robbed her of speech, set her stomach to cramping.

Oh, but Sir Trevor had to be made to see reason! This house was their last chance to keep the village together in the coming years. A great house had hunting parties in the autumn, Christmas parties in the winter and house parties in the spring and summer. Visitors toured the area, ordered food from the George, bought laces and writing paper and gloves from the village shops, left money to thank the servants.

A great house had gardens that needed tending, horses to care for, carriages to manage. It needed maids and footmen and cooks, perhaps even a governess and nursemaid if the master’s family was increasing. Blackcliff would keep them all together.

But only if Sir Trevor was happy enough with the place to make it his home.

Why had her father emphasized the negative? A shame she couldn’t have stayed while he had made his report. She could have corrected mistakes, shown Blackcliff in a better light. She knew how to manage the estate; she’d followed her father about his duties since she was a child, taking on more of a role each year as her father and Colonel Umbrey aged.

But even if she had stayed with her father this morning, she knew she had to be careful how much she helped him. He needed to feel useful; he needed to take back his place in the community. Surely that would get him over this depression he continued to fight. Right now, though, she just had to make sure his dismal report didn’t affect her plans for Blackcliff.

She marched into the library, prepared to counter any argument Sir Trevor might mount, but he came around the desk to meet her and Mrs. Bentley with a polite smile. He even bent over backward to allow the little housekeeper to shrug him into his greatcoat.

“Is there something special I can cook you for dinner, then, sir?” she asked as he straightened, her big brown eyes looking up into his.

He adjusted his coat across his broad shoulders. “I’m sure whatever you have will be fine, Mrs. Bentley.”