Deborah Hale - A Gentleman Of Substance

“And I…that is, we…don’t want you to go. So it’s all settled. If anyone gives you trouble, do as you like with them. Tell Lady Phyllipa to go whistle for her tray. Give Reggie a good smack if you catch him in the pantry. I’ll stand behind you completely.” Drake hoped his cook would mortally offend Phyllipa into leaving Silverthorne posthaste.

The pedestal clock in the entry hall chimed nine. Drake bowed to Mrs. Maberley. “If you will excuse me, I must be off now. Thank you for bringing these matters to my attention.”

Minutes later as he rode away from Silverthorne, Drake added yet another black mark against his wife to the rapidly growing list.

“That man!” Phyllipa chuckled as she reentered the breakfast room. “You mustn’t mind him, Lucinda. He’s been too long a bachelor—that’s his trouble. I can tell what you are thinking, my dear, but it simply isn’t true. Drake is not the least bit ashamed of you. You mustn’t on any account think that is why he refuses to take you to London. What matter your humble origins or your rustic manners? Your beauty and sweetness of temper more than compensate for those deficiencies.”

Ashamed of her? Lucy felt the blood drain from her face, leaving behind a frigid mask. For weeks now, she had tried to follow Lady Phyllipa’s advice and mold herself into the kind of wife a man in his position needed. For her baby’s sake, she owed Lord Silverthorne that much. Had he offered a word of encouragement? Recognized and applauded her efforts?

Hardly. The more strenuously she tried, the more quietly antagonistic he became. She had grown to detest his frosty politeness and his look of silent censure. Now to discover he was ashamed of her. If her husband had returned to the breakfast room at that moment, Lucy would have throttled him!

If she stayed a moment longer, she feared she might throttie Lady Phyllipa in her cousin’s place. “Please excuse me, Cousin Phyllipa.” Lucy pushed away from the table. “I feel the urgent need of fresh air. I believe 1 will take a walk.”

“Not to visit those common people in the village, I hope,” Phyllipa cautioned. “What would the viscount think of his wife consorting with those so far below her new station?”

Of all the strictures imposed by her position, this rankled Lucy the worst. She longed to stop by Mrs. Sowerby’s cottage for a talk or drop in for tea at the vicarage. Apart from Sunday matins, she’d scarcely seen her father since her marriage. She’d invited him to Silverthorne of course, but Phyllipa made them both feel so ill at ease. In recent weeks, he’d begun to turn down her invitations on various pretexts. Perhaps it was just as well, thought Lucy. Though she didn’t want her father to worry on her account, she was hardpressed to keep up the pretense that all was well in her new life.

“I don’t plan on going into Nicholthwait.” Lucy strained to keep her tone civil. “I only mean to stroll in the garden and sit under the great elm.”

Phyllipa squinted in the direction of the windows. “The weather does look unusually clement. Perhaps I shall join you in the garden this morning. Get a taste of this fresh air and see if I can fathom why you and Drake are so addicted to it…”

Lucy heard no more, for she was out the door before Lady Phyllipa finished speaking.

Returning to her bedchamber to fetch a shawl, Lucy deliberately took a roundabout route. In the main gallery of the east wing, she paused for a moment beneath a portrait of Jeremy Strickland, aged sixteen. Even then, his features had shown the promise of manly beauty. The artist had managed to capture that engaging light in his eyes. Lucy almost fancied he was looking out at her from the painting, knowing she was carrying his child, understanding how much she still loved him.

How hopeless her love had seemed when he was a poised and handsome young man of sixteen and she, a timid, graceless adolescent adoring him from a worshipful distance. She had lived for his school holidays, gazing raptly at him in church every Sunday morning, prowling the fringes of the estate praying for a glimpse of him. Year after year.

Then one day, long after she had stopped hoping for it, the miracle had happened. She had not even heard he was home. Hurrying back to the vicarage from picking wildflowers, she’d collided with Captain Strickland on a wooded path by the lake. He had called her by name, and for the first time, he had truly looked at her.

“There you are, ma’am.” The housemaid’s voice shattered Lucy’s bittersweet reverie. “Lady Phyllipa’s looking for you.”

Lucy touched a finger to her lips. “You haven’t seen hide nor hair of me, Mary. Is that clear?”

The girl raised her eyebrows knowingly. “Odd. Could’ve sworn I saw her ladyship. Must’ve been a shadow.” She glanced up at the portrait of Jeremy. “What an awful shame about poor Captain Strickland. We so miss his high spirits around here.”

Feeling her eyes begin to sting in an ominous fashion, Lucy turned away without another word. She now understood why Jeremy had chafed under the tyranny of his formidable brother. She must stand up to this unfeeling despot and she must do it now. Otherwise she and her child might never know a moment’s unfettered happiness.

He had not been at High Head colliery for more than half an hour, when Drake scented something foul in the wind. And it was not the miners. Oh, they weren’t a promising lot by any means, shifty and evasive in answering his questions. Irritatingly servile, yet obviously mistrustful of his intentions as the new owner.

Only the mine’s overseer, an affable fellow named Janus Crook, appeared ready to be the least bit forthcoming.

“This here could be a real going concern, your lordship, if you don’t mind my saying so. That’s a good vein we’ve tapped.”

Drake cocked an eyebrow. “The previous owners assured me of that as well, Mr. Crook. However, through my inquiries I’ve discovered High Head has been steadily losing money for some years. How do you account for that?”

The overseer’s rather prominent ears turned scarlet. “Not my place to criticize my betters, your lordship, seeing as the previous owners was gentlemen like yourself.”

“Save your breath, man.” Drake did not try to hide his exasperation. He knew what the fellow was hinting at, for he’d seen it often enough in his other business ventures. Scions of indebted noble houses trying to raise some capital by dabbling in business ventures they knew nothing about. Arrogantly refusing to take the advice of smart young chaps like Janus Crook, whom they considered their social inferiors. Drake didn’t care a tinker’s damn for those pompous fools. What he regretted was the damage done to the local people.

“You’ll soon discover I run a much tighter ship, Mr. Crook. I won’t tolerate waste or corruption. I demand loyalty and an honest day’s work, but I believe in paying for it.”

Grinning with indulgent tolerance at his new employer, the overseer shook his head. “A noble goal, your lordship, but if you don’t mind my saying so, I think you’re wasting your concern on these louts.” He jerked his head toward the office window, and the miners milling about outside. “As shiftless and surly a lot as you’d ever want to meet. They stole the last owners blind. If you ask me, I’d say sack the lot and bring in a new crew.”

Drake could scarcely believe what he was hearing. “Where can these people go if we dismiss them?”

“Not your lookout, is it governor? Leeds. Sheffield. Who cares, eh? Long as they’re not being a drain on your operation.”

Drake drew himself up to his full impressive height. “Much as I appreciate your advice, Mr. Crook, that is not how I do business. My policy is to keep Westmoreland folk at home. Pay a man a fair wage, treat him with respect and he will be your ally in the quest for success. Another point on which I won’t compromise is safety. I’ve heard rumors of dangerous conditions at High Head.”