Mary Nichols - Winning the War Hero's Heart

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.