Читать книгу Winning the War Hero's Heart - Mary Nichols, Mary Nichols - Страница 8

With the tea drunk and the child roused and taken from Helen, they took their leave. If she had expected him to ride away, she was mistaken. He insisted on escorting her home, walking beside her, leading his mount.

It was at least three miles and for a little while they walked in silence. She was acutely aware of him beside her, his height and strength, his warmth which was as unlike the coldness of his father as it was possible to be. His limp she hardly noticed—it was part of the man. ‘Mrs Watson seems to be managing very well with Mr Byers’s help,’ she said. ‘But she tells me he is working for bed and board only and that does not help his wife and family. And people who do not know the truth of it are gossiping. He really cannot stay there.’

‘I know. I have a friend who has some spare land who has come up with an idea to help the unemployed men, which will give them work. The idea is that a strip is given to each man to work as a market garden, but lodgings are another matter. There is an old barn on the far side of Ravensbrook. I don’t know if it is watertight, but if it could be made so, it could house several families.’

‘Who owns it?’

‘The man who owns the land,’ he said evasively.

‘Your friend is very generous.’

‘No, simply wishing to help.’

‘And what is the identity of this man, my lord?’

He laughed. ‘Do you think I would tell you? It will be all over the next edition of the Wa r b u r ton R e c o rd.’

‘Why not? It would be good to publish some good news for a change.’

‘I will tell you more about it when it is all arranged, then you can let the world know that Warburton and its neighbouring villages look after their men.’

‘I wish the weather would improve,’ she said. ‘It would make all the difference, not only to the men’s chances of working, but to their spirits, too. Some days it is nearly as dark as night and, what with the rain and gales, everyone is miserable. We need a little sunlight and then we shall all feel more cheerful. And market gardens will not flourish without it.’

‘I know. I notice the parson prays for good weather in every service and the amens after that are louder than usual.’

‘Let us hope his prayers are answered. If the men cannot cultivate the land they are given, it will not help them, will it?’

‘No. I have been thinking about that. At Ravens Park we have a great glasshouse in which all manner of things grow regardless of the weather. The men could build some of those. I am sure my friend will provide them with wood and glass and there are bound to be carpenters and glaziers among them. They could grow more exotic things, which fetch more on the London markets.’

‘The generosity of this friend of yours seems unending,’ she said with a smile. She had already guessed the identity of the benefactor. It put her in a quandary. How could she maintain her antipathy towards him when everything he did was to his credit? She could only do it by reminding herself over and over again that he was his father’s son, that when he inherited he would undoubtedly revert to type. How could he not do so with that great mansion and a vast estate to maintain, not to mention the society with which he would have to associate? She hoped that would not happen before the good he was trying to do came to fruition.

‘If it keeps the men busy and stops them attending seditious meetings, that is all to the good, do you not agree?’ he said.

‘Oh, most certainly.’ The clouds were darkening the sky again as they approached the town. ‘If it rains again before you arrive home, you will be soaked,’ she commented. ‘Why not leave me? We are almost in the town. I shall be perfectly safe.’

‘I will see you to your door, as I promised, and I always have a serviceable cloak rolled up on my saddle. I met weather worse than this in the Peninsula when we were on the march and am none the worse for it.’

‘It must have been a hard time.’

‘No worse for me than hundreds of other poor beggars. As an officer, I could ride when they had to march and officers had billets when the men had to sleep where they dropped, whatever the weather, sometimes so hot it was like an oven, at other times freezing with hale and snow and biting wind.’

‘I wager you did not always take the billets, but slept with your men.’

He laughed. ‘How do you know that?’

‘Because I am coming to know the man,’ she said simply.

He turned towards her in surprise, but decided not to comment. If she was beginning to look more favourably on him, that was all to the good. If they could work together and not on opposing sides, who knew what they could achieve? But he decided not to say that either.

They stopped outside her door. ‘Thank you for your escort, my lord,’ she said, wondering if she ought to invite him in for refreshment, but decided that would be going too far. She could almost see the curtains twitching in the house across the road. Instead, she held out her right hand.

He took it in his firm grip. ‘Good afternoon, Miss Wayland. Take care now and if you need me, I am yours to command.’ And with that he lifted the back of her hand to his lips.

Even through her thin glove, she could feel the warmth of his gentle kiss coursing through her and ending up in her cheeks. She was sure they were flaming. Was he simply being polite and behaving as a gentleman would to a lady? But she was not a lady and the situation in which they found themselves was not an occasion for the formal niceties of society. Oh, how she hoped the curtain twitchers had turned away at that moment.

She retrieved her hand, bade him a hurried farewell and fled indoors, leaving him staring at the closed door.

He shrugged, fetched out his cape and put it on before mounting and cantering away in the rain. Had they or had they not established a rapport? He could not be sure. Nor was he sure why it mattered to him, except that, in spite of his father, she did have some influence through her newspaper and it was as well not to call down her wicked wit on his own shoulders, or he would never succeed in winning the men round.

On Monday he would take the carriage and visit James. He hoped his friend would act for him in the matter of the market gardens. And, if he could not persuade his father to change his mind, James might be agreeable to advising Miss Wayland over the accusation of defamation. It was strange how important it was to him that she should not be convicted, but he told himself severely it was only his sense of justice.

They were both in church the following morning; Miles with his parents in their pew at the front, Helen in the body of the church with Betty beside her. Neither acknowledged the other. The lengthy sermon was all about knowing one’s place and not aspiring to rise above it. A woman’s role was to look after the home, to do good works and not set herself up as equal to a man. Helen smiled, realising it was aimed directly at her. She wondered if the Viscount, whose tall back was three rows in front of her, was smiling, too. The Earl was nodding vigorously as if he agreed with every word, having no doubt instructed the rector in his duty to point out the errors of his flock—and one in particular.

Helen did not linger about the churchyard afterwards, not only because it was another miserable day and everyone was hurrying home, but because Sunday was the day she did her accounts, prepared bills and planned the week ahead. Edgar Harrington was still learning and needed help with laying out the advertisements and copying some of the more important pieces from the London papers and she would spend some time with him the next day.

The accounts done, she fell to musing on the Viscount’s idea for the market co-operative venture. Could it work? Would the men work together, or would there be lazy ones who would not pull their weight and others who worked harder than the others, but received no greater return? Viscount Cavenham undoubtedly meant well, but had he considered that? It would take a great spirit of willingness on everyone’s part to bring it to fruition. And how would men like Blakestone react? It did not suit his purpose to have contented workers. She wished now that she had never printed his poster.

It reminded her it was still in the window of the shop. She went downstairs and removed it. Standing with it in her hand, she looked about her. The room was a large one and contained Edgar’s desk and a large table at which she sometimes worked and where customers brought their advertisements and announcements to be printed in the paper. There were a few bookshelves, which housed some of her father’s books. She noticed a well-thumbed one about the laws of slander and libel— she ought to study that—an English grammar, a copy of Johnson’s dictionary, a book of maps, a timetable for the coaches leaving the Three Cups for London and Norwich each day and a bible. They hardly filled the shelves. And yet upstairs in what had been his study there were stacks of books on any number of subjects. And in her own room there were books she had bought or been given as presents throughout her childhood and growing up, some instructive, some purely romantic stories. Everyone should have access to books, she mused, and ran upstairs.

She was up and down the stairs all afternoon, bringing down books and arranging them on the shelves in the shop. Here was a veritable library and she would make it available to the townspeople. It might be that some of the men who were out of work could learn a new skill from one of them. And even if they did not, they might lose themselves in the printed word, adding to their education. She sat down and sketched out a notice to put in the window. The books would be loaned free so long as they were returned within two weeks in good condition. She stopped when Betty came to tell her that supper was on the table.

Immediately afterwards she returned to her task and made out individual cards for each book so that she could keep track of who had borrowed it. It kept her busy well into the evening and stopped her thinking of Viscount Cavenham and the strange effect he had on her. But as soon as she was in her bed that night, she found her thoughts returning to him unbidden.

What sort of a man was he? How sincere? What did he have to gain by his championing of the unemployed men? She found it hard to believe the Earl’s son did not have an ulterior motive, but if he did, he hid it well. Why had he kissed her hand? He knew she did not have the social standing for such a gesture. Was he a rake, someone who took his pleasures among the lower orders, knowing no one would blame him? Hating his father as she did, it was easier to believe ill than good of the son. Her father, if he had been alive, would most certainly caution her about putting her trust in such a one. Her brain told her one thing, her heart another. Viscount Cavenham was helpful, generous and caring. He worried about the widow and her garden, about Jack Byers and the out-of-work soldiers and labourers, about preventing bloodshed and rebellion, and he was concerned that she should be safe. Those were not the attributes of a bad man. Was he as confused as she was about their respective roles? Surely her father could not have been wrong?

It was a question that would never be answered now. Sighing, she turned over to try to sleep.

Miles sat in James Mottram’s office the following morning, discussing the market-garden project with him. James listened carefully and agreed that it was a worthwhile idea and he would help him all he could. It was after that discussion was finished that Miles told him about his father’s threat to sue Miss Wayland for libel. ‘I cannot persuade her to retract and my father is determined she shall be punished,’ he finished. ‘They are both being stubborn about it, but Miss Wayland has most to lose. I doubt she can afford a heavy fine and I cannot let her go to prison.’

‘Why are you so concerned? Newspaper proprietors are notorious for stirring up dissent. It is what sells their papers.’

‘I know that, but the trouble is, I agree with every word she says.’

‘So you want me to defend her?’

‘Yes, if it becomes necessary. As far as I know she has not yet been issued with a summons and my father might have a change of heart, though I doubt it.’

‘It seems to me, my friend, that you are going to find yourself stuck between the devil and the deep. Is she worth it?’

It was a question he had been asking himself over and over again. Why was he so concerned? Why risk his father’s wrath in a cause that could not be won? His mother had asked him to consider her because the Earl in a temper was something to be avoided for her sake. But he still wanted to help those in need. The ex-soldiers and out-of-work labourers were in need and so was Miss Wayland, even if she would not admit it. It was, he told himself, no more than that. He realised James was waiting for an answer to his question. Was she worth it? ‘I think so,’ he said, then added, ‘but I do not want her to know who is paying for her defence if a case should come to court; she is obstinate and independent enough to refuse it.’

‘Then I must be as philanthropic as you are,’ James said with a smile. ‘First I must give away land I do not own and provide tools, materials and seeds to a group of men I do not know, then I must defend a young lady who, by all accounts, is as stubborn as you are, from a charge for which there is no defence. You ask a lot, my friend.’

‘I know, but you will do it, won’t you?’

‘For you, anything.’

‘Good. And you will own the land because I propose to sell it to you for the princely sum of one guinea.’

‘Why?’

‘Because if the men know I own the land, they will be wary about accepting the idea. I want to stand apart from it. The only condition I make is that you use it for the common good.’

‘And the seed and equipment?’

‘I will open a bank account in the name of the society …’

‘What name will that be?’

‘I have not yet decided. I shall ask the men. It is, after all, their project.’

‘Very well. I will wait to hear from you again.’

‘Another thing,’ Miles added as an afterthought. ‘Have you discovered who owns Ravensbrook Manor?’

‘Yes. Lord Brent. He lives in Cambridgeshire. I have written to him asking if the house is on the market; further than that I did not go. If he thinks you are keen to buy, he will undoubtedly ask a fortune for it and in my opinion it is not worth it, the state it is in. I have had no reply so far.’

Miles thanked him, took his leave and caught the stage back to Warburton and the Three Cups where he had left his mount.

He was riding out on to the road past Wayland’s shop when he noticed Miss Wayland putting a notice in her window. He dismounted and went over to read it. She had seen him and gave a little nod in acknowledgement. He bowed in response and went closer to scrutinise the notice, then, tethering his horse to a post, he went inside.

He doffed his hat. ‘Miss Wayland, good afternoon.’

‘Good afternoon, my lord. What can I do for you?’

‘Nothing, I thank you. I was intrigued by your offer to lend books.’

‘Do you need to borrow a book, my lord?’ She knew that was not at all likely, but could not think why he should come into the shop, unless it was to torment her.

He laughed. ‘There are enough books at Ravens Park to stock a dozen libraries.’ He went over to the shelves to peruse some of the titles. ‘A very eclectic mix,’ he said. ‘And some of them must be valuable. Are you not afraid they will be stolen? The temptation to keep them or sell them to buy food and clothing will be great. And even if they are returned, they might be covered in dirty fingermarks, with the corners of the pages turned down.’

‘I shall know who has borrowed each book and can remind them if they do not return them,’ she said. ‘As for dirty fingermarks, I would rather see a well-thumbed book than a pristine one. Books are meant to be read.’

‘Is this another of your crusades—to get the populace reading?’

‘Why not?’

‘Why not, indeed? It is certainly safer than writing defamatory articles in your newspaper. I suppose it is no good trying once more to persuade you to retract.’

So that was why he had come! ‘Not in the least.’

He realised it was said out of bravado, nothing more; she did not want him to know how worried she was. But he could tell from those expressive eyes that she was. ‘Then I pity you, for I cannot see how you can defend your action.’

‘I do not need your pity, my lord. I shall do very well without that.’

‘Then I shall not waste it on you. Good day, Miss Wayland.’ He replaced his hat on his head and left, wondering why he had even bothered to speak to her when she was so stubborn.

She could have told him she had decided to set the record straight over the widow’s garden and how restitution had been made, though she had perhaps spoiled it from his point of view by implying it was done as a result of the publicity it had been given. The paragraph had been added to the account of the meeting on the common where she had said it had been the timely intervention of Viscount Cavenham that had saved the situation from becoming a bloodbath. ‘It is to be hoped that the return of the Earl’s son from the war will herald a change in attitude of those who have a responsibility towards lesser mortals over whom they hold sway,’ she had ended. It was the closest she was prepared to go to admitting there was some good in the Viscount without, in any way, mitigating the behaviour of his father.

Miles rode out to the far side of the village on Wednesday morning to look at the land he meant to hand over to the workers. His father had no interest in it and it had been left uncultivated while he had been away and had become overgrown with bushes, brambles and rough grass. It would need a concerted effort on everyone’s part to make it fertile. In the meantime, the men and their families had to live. There was so much more to the endeavour than he had first envisaged. He would have to finance it for at least a year, paying for everything the men needed and giving them enough money to live on until they could make a profit. His personal fortune, inherited, along with the land, from his maternal grandfather, was not huge, but fortunately his own needs were few. If the purchase of Ravensbrook Manor came to fruition, he might have to think again, but as such a move was not imminent, he did not regard it.

He called on Mrs Watson on his way home to tell Byers the project was to go ahead and there he encountered Miss Wayland again, interviewing Jack about his war service. He could see nothing controversial in that and joined in with a few of his own reminiscences. Their conversation of the day before was not mentioned, though it was in his mind. He wished he had not offered her pity; it was the last thing he should have done— sympathy, perhaps, but not pity.

‘Tell me about Waterloo,’ she said, doing her best to concentrate on Jack, though the presence of the Viscount was making her unaccountably nervous. Something intangible was drawing her to him and she did not know how to account for it or how to resist it. ‘I believe Wellington said it was a close-run thing. And Napoleon Bonaparte fled the scene when he realised the day was lost.’

‘So he did,’ Miles said. ‘I saw him briefly on a mound above the battle and then he was gone in that great coach of his.’

‘He abandoned it to escape by ship, but it availed him nothing,’ Jack said. ‘He was forced to surrender and the coach was brought to London to be exhibited. Have you seen it, Miss Wayland?’

‘No, it is some years since I was in the capital. What happened when the battle was over and you came home?’

‘Nothing happened, miss, nothing at all. Not even a thank-you, much less a job.’

‘But we hope to remedy that,’ Miles put in. ‘My friend is going forward with his plans to give all those who want it a strip of land to work in conjunction with others. The land is in poor heart, but can be made good and there is a barn that can be made into living accommodation for those who are homeless. The first year the project will be financed by my friend, but after that you must make it profitable.’

‘Then we must pray for good weather,’ Jack said.

‘Are you going to tell me the name of this benefactor now?’ Helen asked.

‘No. He does not wish it revealed.’

‘Then we must respect his wishes, but it will be good to publish some good news, even if we cannot say who is at the heart of it.’

‘And if you drop a single hint that you think you know his identity, I shall take steps to have you stopped,’ he said, looking sharply at her, making her more than ever convinced she knew.

He had left her talking to Jack and Mrs Watson and ridden home for nuncheon. The Wednesday edition of the Warburton Record had just been delivered and his father was hidden behind it. Miles kissed his mother’s cheek and bade his father good morning before helping himself to food from the dishes on the sideboard. He began eating, waiting for his father to come out from behind the paper.