EMILY BARNET
Entangled with the Earl of Dunmere - First Chapters - Preview
CHAPTER ONE
“This above all: To thine own self be true, and it must follow, as the night the day, thou canst not then be false to any man.” – Hamlet, Shakespeare
To thine own self be true. To thine own self be true. Elias thought this over and over again as he tried, and failed, to get comfortable at his father’s desk.
Elias had dispensed with wearing the traditional black armband of mourning. Anybody who claimed to truly mourn Lord Frederick Warrington, the late Duke of Dunmere, was, to put it mildly, untruthful.
But I am not like him, Elias reminded himself, as he did a hundred times a day, and picked up the first piece of paper on the pile his steward had left out for him. Running an estate was not an easy business, and Elias had long considered himself to be quite inadequate to execute his duties.
“You are a stupid boy, Elias! How could I have sired such a dull-witted child! It makes me sick to look upon you.”
Familiar words came surging back into his mind, like bile might come up into the throat after a too-heavy dinner. Clenching his jaw, Elias banished the words, concentrating instead on reciting a sonnet in his head. Literature was excellent for banishing unpleasant thoughts, provided a suitable piece was chosen.
No sooner had he focused on the paper than he heard the distant the distant thrum of approaching footsteps. There was a muffled shout, with a discernible urgency in the words. Elias rose to his feet and braced himself for somebody to come charging into his father’s office.
Not Father’s office, he thought angrily. It’s my office!
The footsteps continued past his doorstep leaving him feeling a little deflated.
I might as well see what’s going on.
Gingerly poking his head out into the hallway, Elias just caught a glimpse of a pair of grubby boot heels disappearing through the next door down the hallway. That was Thomas’ office.
“He isn’t there,” Elias called.
There was a long silence, then a middle-aged man stepped warily out into the hallway, eyeing him with suspicion.
The man was dressed like a labourer, clutching a battered cap in one dusty hand. Elias didn’t recognize him.
“I beg your pardon for disturbing you, milord,” the man mumbled, directing his gaze to the ground. “I needed to speak with Mr. Harris.”
“He’s over in the north fields, I believe. But perhaps I can be of some assistance.”
The man blinked, horrified. “Oh, n-no, milord. The previous earl never liked to be bothered with our nonsense, as he said.”
Elias kept a steady smile on his face. “Well, I am the new earl, and I am quite different, you see. Why don’t we start by you telling me what is exactly the nature of the problem?”
The man wavered a little, seeming to come to a decision.
“It’s Mr Tate.”
Elias did in fact know Mr. Tate. He was the foreman, a close friend of Thomas’ and a most trustworthy man. At that moment, he was overseeing the construction of a new bridge spanning a nearby river.
“He’s hurt, sir,” the man ploughed on determinedly. “There was an accident. I didn’t see it myself, but there was a most terrible crack, and he’s almost crushed. We can’t get the beam shifted off him, and I was sent to fetch Mr. Harris.”
Elias breathed out slowly. This was the first labouring accident they’d encountered, and his first crisis as earl.
How I handle this matters a great deal.
“Go and find Mr. Harris,” he instructed. “He’ll bring more people. In the meantime, I shall go and see what help I can offer.”
The man blinked, clearly taken aback. “I-I’m not sure what you can do, milord.”
“Nor am I, but I suppose we shall find out, won’t we?”
Imbued with a new sense of purpose, Elias strode out of the house, following the curve of the river. Close to his home, the river was narrow and shallow, like a stream, but it widened rapidly after that and soon became wider and deeper, with powerful currents. In rainy weather, it was impassable, hence the building of the bridge.
He saw the commotion up ahead, and broke into a jog.
The bridge was taking shape, a skeletal wooden outline extending over the river, but the heavy work was taking place the near bank. He observed that there was no work in progress at that moment as the men had gathered together in a cluster around one part of the stone bridge.
They turned as Elias approached, eyes widening. A ripple of murmurs broke through the crowd.
“It’s the earl!”
“What’s he doing here?”
“Probably here to tell us to get back to work.”
They parted to allow Elias to stride through. He could feel their eyes on him, dozens of pairs, all staring. Judging.
I’m not like him, he reminded himself. You’ll see. All of you will.
At the center of the knot of people, a may lay sprawled on his back. Bits of broken masonry littered the ground around him. Elias was no builder, but it was clear that some accident had occurred with parts of the wall having fallen away. A thick beam, almost as wide as a tall man, was lying at an angle on the ground, half of it was supported by a chunk of broken stone. The man was pinned underneath it. Even from where he stood, Elias could see that the stone was cracking. Soon, it would break, and the beam would come crashing down flat to the ground, crushing the man underneath it.
The man, of course, was Mr. Tate.
“Stay back, Lord Dunmore!” Mr. Tate rasped.
“Why is no one helping him?” Elias gasped, hurrying forward, but Mr. Tate held out a hand.
“Your lordship I speak in earnest,” the man managed, his voice tight and pained, no doubt from the tremendous pressure on his chest. “There aren’t enough of you to lift this beam, and more stone is falling. It’s too dangerous. I told them to stay back, and you’d best stay back, too.”
Elias paused, glancing around. The men were whispering amongst themselves, clearly distressed.
“Well, I am the Earl of Dunmore, Mr. Tate,” he said at last. “You cannot tell me what to do. I don’t expect anyone else to risk their lives, but I shall try at least to lessen the pressure on you. Assistance is on the way, I give you my word.”
Before Mr. Tate could respond, Elias hurried over, crouching down beside him. He jammed his shoulder under the beam and pushed upwards with all of his might.
It did not budge the beam an inch. Sweat began to stand out on Elias’ forehead. His boots dug into the ground. There was an ominous cracking noise above him, and an instant later, a fist-sized piece of stone bounced off the ground.
“His lordship’s correct,” somebody muttered. “I’m not going to stand here and merely observe.”
A burly man with a scraggly beard came shouldering out of the crowd, scowling terribly. It was he who had spoken. Barely sparing a look for Elias, he squatted beside him, shoving his shoulder under the beam too.
“It isn’t moving at all,” Elias panted, sweat stinging his eyes.
“We won’t move it, you and I,” the man responded grimly. “Even with all the men here, we couldn’t lift it. We need horses, ropes, and pulleys to get it up enough to save him. But if enough of us try, we can lift it enough so that the poor fellow can breathe.”
More men joined in, clustering around the trapped man on the ground, straining against the implacable beam. It did seem to move, if only an inch, and Mr. Tate drew in deeper breaths. Other men rushed for water, levers, or went to see if help was coming. One man took off at a run to face Mrs. Tate, to fetch her if the worst should happen. Another went for a physician, although if the beam crashed down, there would be no need for a physician to declare the poor man dead.
“You shouldn’t be doing this, your lordship,” Mr. Tate whispered. “We’ve had enough changing of earls lately.”
“I am not going to leave my last dying breath here, and nor are you,” Elias responded at once. “To keep up our spirits, shall I recite a poem?”
There was an immediate chorus of groans. It rather shocked Elias – his recitations were very popular in literary salons – and it seemed to shock the men, too. Perhaps sharing the weight of a bone-crushing beam to save one’s companion was something of a bonding experience.
“Careful, lads,” the burly, bearded man hooted. “You’ll hurt his feelings!”
There was laughter at that. Strained laughter, but laughter nonetheless.
We are all in this together, Elias thought, and despite the fact they clearly had no appreciation for poetry, he allowed himself a brief smile.
“You are wretches, one and all,” he stated with a grin, and there was laughter from all.
And then Thomas came, hurrying along the road with a thick coil of rope and a grim expression on his face. More men came along behind him, with levers, pulleys, and horses.
Things moved quickly after that. Ropes were wound around the beam, horses harnessed, and teams of men hung onto the ropes. Somebody tapped on Elias’ shoulder, and he gratefully rolled out from under the crushing weight of the beam. His heart was in his mouth, half-expecting the beam to come crashing down.
But no, the ropes held. Inch by torturous inch, the beam was hauled up and up, until a group of men grabbed Mr. Tate under the arms and hauled him unceremoniously out. Then the beam was allowed to fall, with a tremendous, earth-shaking thump that dislodged a few more chunks of rock.
As Elias scrambled backwards, he slid on something and found himself landing ungracefully on his backside. Glancing down, he spotted a filthy leather pouch sticking out of the mud. Assuming it was something one of the men had dropped, he snatched it up, retreating with the others to a safe distance.
The physician hurried over. It was clear that Mr. Tate was hurt, but not fatally so. He lay on his back, groaning, while his companions clustered around him.
Time for me to go, Elias thought, with a pang of regret. He would have preferred to have stayed and chatted with the men, but he was still not one of them, was he? Best to leave them alone.
He turned to go, only to hear his name called.
“Lord Dunmore!”
Thomas came hurrying after him, red-faced and covered in a sheen of sweat.
“Thank you, my lord. The men say that you were instrumental in encouraging them,” Thomas said, smiling. “Mr. Tate will live, I am positive.”
“That is a relief,” Elias nodded.
He and Thomas were roughly the same age. Thomas was eight-and-twenty, whereas Elias was close to this thirtieth birthday. Irritatingly, Elias’ hair had already begun to turn silver at the temples, threading through the black. He had never considered himself handsome, but no doubt his looks suffered greatly when he stood beside Thomas.
Thomas was tall and broad-chested from his years as a naval man, blond hair curling immaculately, a pair of large brown eyes peering out from a sunburnt, freckled face.
Elias, on the other hand, was more wiry than stocky, with sharp features, a square face, and cool blue-green eyes. His father’s eyes, unfortunately. He had not spent much time in Society, but he suspected if he joined a Season, he would find that ladies pursued him for his title and his wealth, rather than his person.
A rather disappointing thought.
“Oh, good heavens, it almost slipped my mind,” Elias added, taking out the leather pouch. Now that he got a look good at it, he saw that it was some sort of coin-purse. The leather was good quality, despite the dirtiness, and there were some odd markings printed in the corner. Initials perhaps?
He handed it over to Thomas, who frowned down at it.
“What’s this?”
“Doesn’t it belong to one of the men? I assumed somebody had dropped it.”
Thomas shook his head. “I don’t know anyone who carries a coin purse like this, and it’s a rather good-quality one. We’ve been extremely careful with this stage of the building. As you can see, it’s dangerous. Only the labourers I have personally chosen are allowed to work on this site.”
“Well, then, whose is this?”
Thomas shrugged. “My apologies, your lordship, but I cannot say.”
Elias stared down at the pouch, nibbling his lower lip. He thought back to the scene of the accident. He remembered thinking how strange it was that Mr. Tate’s work, generally so careful and meticulous should cause such an accident.
“What do you believe caused the accident?” Elias found himself saying.
Thomas lifted an eyebrow. “I couldn’t say, your lordship. Do you think it could be…” he trailed off, not wanting to say the word. Sabotage. “I intend to investigate, as a matter of course.”
“Thank you, Thomas. And come to me at once with your findings, won’t you?”
***
Thomas came to the study an hour later.
“You were right,” he said quietly, letting himself in. “The beam had been half sawed through and left to inevitably snap later. It was indeed sabotage.”
Elias let out a long, ragged sigh, coming out from behind his father’s oversized desk. It really was too large for the room. He would have to give it some thought as far as changing it eventually was concerned. It was peculiar to think that at one time, he was forbidden from half of the rooms in this house, and now he owned them.
“Sabotage. What next, then? Do we inform the authorities?”
“I suppose we must,” Thomas shrugged, folding his arms across his broad chest. “But we have no evidence beyond that pouch you discovered. Should the authorities begin to pry and raise a great stir by asking questions without discretion…?”
“… the saboteur will go to ground,” Elias muttered. “I suppose you have a point there. What should we do, then? Investigate ourselves?”
“Can you think of any reason anybody might wish you harm, your lordship?”
Elias was silent for a moment, carefully not answering. Thomas’ eyes sharpened, his gaze narrowing. He would notice the hesitation, of course, but there was nothing Elias could do about that.
“If you plan to investigate,” Thomas said at last, once it was clear that Elias was not going to speak, “I would suggest that you visit Breton’s Bookshop.”
Elias lifted his eyebrows. “I love a good novel as much as the next man, Thomas, but distraction is the last thing I need at this moment.”
There was a tap on the door, and Mrs. Poole peered into the study.
“Your tea, Lord Dunmore. Shall I serve it now?”
“That would be most agreeable, I am much obliged.”
Mrs. Poole was a round-faced, round-bodied woman of about fifty. She had been the housekeeper here at Dunmore House for as long as Elias could recall. He was extremely thankful she was there to keep the house running smoothly. His meals were served on time, his clothes laundered, the parlours dusted and generally the running of the household was efficient. He was totally relieved of any dealings concerning the tasks in his home.
She slipped into the room, setting down the tea-tray on the desk. Elias was glad to see that she’d added an extra teacup for Thomas. It was no hidden secret that he had few friends that he could sit down and share a drink with.
“I am talking of Miss Breton, actually,” Thomas continued.
“She runs a bookshop? It’s unusual for a woman to own such a business.”
“It is her father’s shop, I believe, but his health has taken a turn for the worst lately. So, I suppose you could say that she runs it herself, yes. My point is the bookshop is most popular in these parts. People are always going in and out. It’s a font of gossip. She might be able to help our investigation.”
“Ha!” Elias snapped, his voice brittle. He couldn’t help it, but Cecilia jumped to the front of his mind, immaculately beautiful and entirely contemptuous. “I’d rather not involve a woman in my investigation, thank you.”
There was a brief silence. Mrs. Poole straightened up and fixed him with a clear, reproving stare.
Elias flushed, glancing away. “I only mean that Miss Breton will doubtless have her own concerns, and her own aims in such an investigation. Not to be offensive, Thomas, but the woman sounds like a gossip.”
“A gossip? No, I shouldn’t think so. Just because people gossip to her does not mean that she gossips.”
“Oh no? I know her type well. A pretty face hiding a propensity for manipulation, and opportunism masquerading as intelligent discussion.”
There was another long silence. Thomas glanced away, visibly uncomfortable. He cleared his throat.
Mrs. Poole’s gaze was burning into the side of his face.
You fool, Elias thought tiredly. You’ve undone all the good you did this morning. Now they think you’re a fool who despises women.
“I had no intention…” he began, but Mrs. Poole interrupted.
“I must say something, Lord Dunmore,” she said shortly. “Indeed, I have watched you grow from a mere babe, and I find myself utterly perplexed as to where you have acquired these beliefs. No doubt there are some women who act in such a way, but Miss Breton is not one of them. It’s unjust to speak of her in that way.”
Elias’s face turned into a deep crimson.
“You’re correct,” he said at last, his voice quiet. “I hope I have not offended you both.”
“I’ve known Miss Breton for many years,” Mrs. Poole continued, her voice firm and even. “She’s no gossip, but she is intuitive, insightful, and most helpful. I believe that if you ask for her assistance, she’ll give it to you. With all that is happening, I imagine she might appreciate a distraction.”
Elias opened his mouth to ask what, exactly, was happening to poor Miss Breton, but he had no opportunity. Mrs. Poole, having said her piece, picked up the tea-tray and left the room, leaving a silence behind her.
Sighing, Elias ran a hand through his hair. “I should not have said that. It was unkind. But really, Thomas, she does sound like a gossip.”
Thomas bit his lip. “She isn’t. But of course, it’s it is most definitely your decision, your lordship. Rest assured, I’ll be investigating this matter, too.”
Elias nodded. “Thank you.”
“Will you consider what I’ve said, though? You ought to talk to Miss Breton. She’s surprisingly insightful.”
Elias did not believe that including a gossiping, bored young lady playing at keeping a shop would improve his chances of getting to the bottom of this sabotage. However, Thomas was staring at him with such a hopeful expression that he could not say no.
Perhaps Thomas has a fancy for the girl himself.
“I shall take it into consideration,” he said at last, smiling. “I can promise you that, at least.”
CHAPTER TWO
“There are few people whom I really love, and still fewer of whom I think well. The more I see of the world, the more am I dissatisfied with it; and every day confirms my belief of the inconsistency of all human characters, and of the little dependence that can be placed on the appearance of merit or sense.” – Pride and Prejudice, Jane Austen
Anne swept a duster over one of the top shelves. A cloud of dust and pieces of cobweb rose up, showering over her. Anne was too well-practiced to cough and therefore held her breath until the dust cloud fell. She would sweep it up later.
Clara had offered to do the dusting, which was very kind of her, but Anne had not taken her up on the offer. After all, Anne was the one who knew which shelves were particularly fragile and might collapse under a too-vigorous dusting. It was easier, in reality, to do it herself.
The bell above the door tinkled, and Anne automatically glanced towards it. It was not a customer who stepped through the door, but Clara. She clutched a tub of brass-polish in one hand and a dirty cloth in the other. No doubt the brass plaque outside the shop, reading Breton’s Books, was gleaming brighter than the sun. The inside of the shop might be dirty and dusty, nonetheless, Clara refused to allow the plaque to lose its shine.
“The new orders haven’t arrived yet, then?” Clara remarked.
Anne shook her head. “He’s late, as always. The other booksellers give him impressive tips, I believe, and so he prioritises them. Apparently, our home-baked gingersnaps did not have the same appeal.”
Clara rolled her eyes. “The man’s a fool. Your gingersnaps are excellent. Uncle Henry practically devoured them all himself.”
Anne had to chuckle at that. “That means nothing. I recall how bad my baking was in the first years after Mama died. Papa doggedly ate his way through whatever I had to offer and swore blind that it was delicious. His declarations, I am afraid were fabrications of the truth.”
“Tut-tut, Anne! To speak of your own Papa that way! I am making tea, would you care for some? I shall take some up to Uncle Henry.”
“Thank you, Clara.”
The shop was comprised of the shop floor, of course, the largest room in their entire rickety building. It was not square, but irregularly shaped, almost like a horseshoe, with a veritable maze of bookshelves. A jumbled array of books lay higgledy-piggledy upon the floor when there were no shelves available, although Anne did her best to keep some semblance of order in the chaos. At the center of the horseshoe was a long, low counter, behind where the kitchen and storage area which was hidden by a well-patched curtain. It was in this room that Clara was making the tea. Anne could hear the squeal of the kettle and imagined Clara scraping out the remains of the leaves from the teapot.
They would use the leaves again, of course, drying them out and stewing them again. Papa insisted upon using the fresh leaves for guests. Privately, Anne thought that if they used the old tea leaves for guests, they might receive some sorely-needed presents of tea, and perhaps even sugar.
But Papa would not like that, of course. She banished the thought and concentrated on dusting the rest of the shelves.
Clara was at least a head taller than her cousin, with broader shoulders and stronger arms, and would certainly be the better choice for dusting. However, she was also rather heavy-handed, and Papa had always worried about her clumsiness around the more valuable books. Thus, Anne did not ask her to help with dusting or handling the books. Clara did not mind. She enjoyed a good novel, like anybody else, but did not hunger for books as Anne and her dear uncle did.
“Tea is ready,” Clara called from the other room. “Put down the duster and come have a sip of it, I beg you Anne. You’ve been on your feet since dawn.”
Anne was too tired to argue, and came shuffling behind the curtain. There was not a great deal of space, and so Clara had set down the tea-things on a small table with three chairs crammed in around it. Of course, Papa’s chair was not used much these days, as the stairs – steep and rather uneven – were proving troublesome for him.
On cue, Papa’s dry, racking cough echoed from upstairs. Anne tightened her lips.
“Should I take Papa’s tea before we begin?”
“Drink yours first, or else you’ll let it go cold,” Clara said firmly. “I know you, Anne. I happen to know you haven’t had breakfast either, and Uncle Henry would be upset to believe that you were not taking proper care of yourself.”
Anne sighed, dropping down into her usual seat. The legs were uneven, meaning that the chair shifted constantly beneath her whenever she moved. One day, it would likely collapse entirely, being more woodworm than wood.
She took a sip of tea – weak, over-stewed, and without milk or sugar – and eyed her cousin over the rim.
“His condition appears to be worsening, do you not agree?”
Clara stiffened. “Let’s not speak of it, Anne. Uncle Henry will recover his strength, I’m sure of it.”
Anne was not so sure, but Clara seemed determined to dodge the subject, so Anne let it pass.
The two of them did not resemble one another despite the fact they were cousins. Clara was of a robust, strong-looking build, whilst Anne was clearly petite and rather too slender. She possessed a gentle paleness making her quite prone to burning dreadfully at even a mere hint of the sun’s rays, whereas Clara was blessed with a fine olive complexion. Miss Clara even boasted a square, evenly-featured facial structure as in comparison to Anne’s more pointed face.
There were some similarities, however. As both women possessed almond-shaped hazel eyes, fringed with long lashes, they even shared the innate habit of a habit of crinkling up their eyes when their smiled until they almost disappeared.
They were also exactly the same age, give or take a month. Five and twenty, both of them. It was a rather chilling age, as it was the time when people began to refer to a lady as a spinster and view her future with pity rather than promise.
Clara glanced up at her cousin, and narrowed her eyes. “You are worrying again.”
“I am not.”
“You are. You always screw up your nose in that way when something concerns you. Well, out with it.”
“Nothing, Clara, nothing. Truly, I am too busy today to indulge in self-pity.”
“Aha! So you are feeling sorry for yourself about something.”
Before Anne could respond, the bell above the door tinkled, heralding another customer. Or, hopefully, the deliveryman with the new books.
Wincing an apology to her cousin, Anne left her half-finished tea and swept back out onto the shop floor.
It was not the deliveryman. It was a woman of about fifty, with a mass of improbably black curls hanging over her forehead and a truly monstrous straw bonnet on her head.
“Mrs. Harrow, good day to you,” Anne greeted. “If you have come for your Mrs. Burney novel, I am afraid it has not yet arrived.”
“Oh, no, dear, I came to tell you the news,” Mrs. Harrow’s eyes bulged as they always did when she had an interesting story to tell. “Oh, and a little packet of sugar. My housekeeper ordered too much from the grocer. It shall only go to waste.”
She handed over the sugar in a careless, rather hurried way. Feeling colour rush to her cheeks, Anne murmured thanks and slipped the parcel into her apron pocket.
She knew quite well that Mrs. Harrow had bought the sugar especially for them but phrased it in such a careless way so that it did not seem like charity.
Papa had quite a horror of charity. Receiving charity, that is, as he had given out charity in vast amounts when times were a little better for the Breton family.
“Well, you recall the new earl, installed in Dunmore house?” Mrs. Harrow continued; eyes alight.
Anne frowned. “If you are here to tell me that he is worse than the old earl, I declare I would rather not know.”
“Ah, that’s just it! He’s a different creature entirely.”
Anne found this hard to believe. The previous earl’s cruelties were well-known. He was particularly vicious to his servants and raised the rents without mercy. If a family were late with their payments even on one occasion, he would have them thrown out into the streets. He loved to hunt and would kill any creature that came in his way, even dogs and cats that were kept as pets. Once, whilst consumed by a drunken rage, he had beaten a maid so badly the girl almost died.
No, the earl was a thoroughly hated man in the town, and Anne had no reason to believe that his son would be any different. After all, if he had been raised by such a man as himself, how could he be different?
“I see you are not convinced,” Mrs. Harrow stated. “Pray, permit me to divulge this information. You recall the bridge being built, the one designed to span the river? Well, there was an accident, and a beam fell on Mr. Tate.”
She gasped. “Not Mr. Tate! Oh, I do hope he is not seriously hurt!”
“Fear not, my dear, he’s practically unharmed. He ordered away all of the labourers so that they would not be crushed by falling masonry. Then, the young earl arrived, and Mr. Tate told him the same. Well,” Mrs. Harrow breathed in, looking almost triumphant, “well, the young earl dismissed that at once. He went straight over to the beam pinning Mr. Tate down and attempted to lift it. Of course, they could not, but they were able to stabilise it and keep it from crushing the poor man. The steward, Mr. Harris, arrived with reinforcements, and the long and the short of it was that Mr. Tate was saved.”
Anne was a little taken aback by this. It was true, the old earl would never have considered batting an eyelid at such a tragedy and would have allowed Mr Tate to perish unceremoniously. He would only have complained at losing a valuable worker, and then thrown the man’s wife out of their house when she could not pay the rent.
“Well, I am greatly relieved he did the right thing,” she managed at last. “But anybody would have done that. He deserves no applause for doing the right thing.”
Mrs. Harrow chuckled, shaking her head. “Goodness, my dear, you are quite cynical. It’s true, we shall have to keep an eye on him, and hope that he is as kind as I believe he will be. Nevertheless, I am of the opinion that this new earl will be a much better man than the previous one.”
Anne snorted. “Perhaps, but that is not much of a compliment. I cannot think of any men as evil as the old earl.”
Mrs. Harrow pursed her lips, glancing away. “Indeed, it may be as you say, my dear. Tell me, how is Mr. Breton faring?”
“He sleeps poorly,” Anne answered frankly. She tucked her hands behind her back, curling her fingers into tight fists to keep her composure. “He coughs often, although the medicine Doctor Traft recommended soothes him a great deal. And he is so weak these days, he hardly leaves his bed.”
There was a brief silence after that. There was not, Anne supposed, much that one could say to such a thing.
Clearing her throat, Mrs. Harrow took a step forward.
“When my own dear husband was suffering through his last illness,” she stated, choosing her words carefully, “a neighbour of mine visited daily. She said once that she did not know what to say to me but did not want us to sit in silence. She said was silence was good to soothe the soul and allow easy thought, but in my case that was not much good for me. So, she told me gossip. Stories about people we knew, even stories about people I did not know. Anything. Everything. I came to enjoy our visits. I hope… I hope that my visits give you similar comfort. Although perhaps you may be I am a foolish old woman,” she added, laughing with an effort.
Anne found that a lump had lodged in her throat.
“Nothing can be further from the truth, Mrs. Harrow,” she answered at once. “You know how highly I esteem you.”
Mrs. Harrow sniffed, lifting a lace-edged handkerchief to dab at her eyes.
“Thank you, my dear. You know, what people so callously deem gossip is often nothing more than women talking. Oh, speaking of which, I have another piece of gossip that may make you look a little more kindly on the young earl. He is an ardent lover of Shakespeare. He’s said to have brought quite the library with him from London. Poetry books, novels, history books, encyclopaedias, a globe – quite the collection!”
That did impress Anne, at least a little bit. But then, books were so very perfect – Shakespeare especially – it was no surprise that an educated man enjoyed them.
I wonder if he’s read Miss Austen’s work.
She banished this thought. It did not matter whether the earl had read Anne’s favourite author. Even if he was a decent sort of man, which she doubted, it would impact her life very little.
“Well, on that note, I shall leave you,” Mrs. Harrow said, cutting into Anne’s thoughts. Waving her handkerchief, she departed from the shop, the bell tinkling behind her. The wind caught the door, slamming it rather hard, and Anne flinched.
A book balanced precariously on the space between shelves slid out, landing with a resounding thump, throwing up a cloud of dust. Sighing, Anne moved over to the fallen object to assess the damage.
The spine was not broken, nor any of the pages torn, which was good. The book was not a particularly valuable one, only a dusty and likely outdated history tome.
Anne picked it up, intending to find it a proper place on the shelves. As she did so, a single, folded piece of paper slid out from under the cover and floated slowly down to the ground, seesawing in the dusty air.
Well, now. What have we here?
She picked it up, unfolding it. It was no doubt a bookmark, left to mark the last reader’s place, but the paper was so very fresh and new. Perhaps she ought not to have read the note, but when one reads, one does it without thinking.
It was a simple enough message.
First step complete. Wells next.
What followed was a complicated sign, something she first took to be a mistake, a scribble on the page. Setting the book aside, Anne held the paper up to the light, squinting. Aha! It was not a scribble, but a signature. The letters S and G were twined together.
Initials, then. What does this mean? Is it a note regarding some personal project? I don’t recall seeing anyone touch that history book, but we do have plenty of customers who fiddle amongst the shelves and don’t buy anything.
She stared down at the mysterious note for an instant. Could it mean something?
No, of course not. She was being silly. Sighing to herself, Anne thrust the piece of paper into her apron pocket besides the sugar, deposited the history book back on the shelves, and retreated into the kitchen.
The tea-things had been put away, only her cooling tea had been left out for her. Clara was not there. Turning towards a narrow, twisting staircase, Anne strained her ears. Sure enough, there was Clara’s cool, muffled voice coming from upstairs.
Something like tension knotted itself in Anne’s chest, but she refused to allow herself to think of it. Biting her lip, she began to climb the stairs.
The upstairs part of their home was divided into two portions. Papa had insisted upon taking the smaller room so that Anne and Clara could share the larger. The rooms were divided by a thick curtain pinned to the ceiling and the floor. It did not offer much in the way of privacy, but it was more than some families had.
Clara and Anne’s room was a mess, strewn with clothes and books much like a wilderness. Neither of them had made their beds.
On the other hand, Papa’s room was pin-neat. Now, Anne was glad that he had the smaller room, because the chimney came through that room, giving him a little heat during the cold months and the long nights.
Papa sat up in bed, propped up by pillows, blankets tucked in around him. He was not a tall man, and had always been rather spare, but in the past few years he had become almost skeletal. His breathing rasped, but he continued, determinedly, to draw breath, for which Anne was most relieved.
She was not sure if she could ever manage without Papa.
Clara sat beside Papa in the easy chair, a sketching book open on her lap. She was doing a charcoal drawing, judging by the smudges on her fingers. She glanced up briefly at Anne, offering a faint smile, and returned to her work.
Papa’s eyes lit up when he saw Anne. He took a long sip of tea, and patted the side of the bed.
“Come sit with me, Annie. You work entirely too hard.”
“There is much to be done, Papa,” Anne responded, perching on the edge of the bed. “How are you feeling?”
“Ah, well enough. Have the books been delivered yet? It’s their time of the week, is it not?”
Anne bit her lip. “Not yet, Papa.”
He frowned. “Ah. You must offer the deliveryman a little extra money, you know. To be sure he comes to us first, otherwise he may well run out of the popular books.”
She swallowed thickly. “I am not sure we have spare money for that, Papa.”
His face fell, and Anne cursed herself for a fool.
“Well,” he said, rallying, “when I am well again, we’ll do what we can to make the shop do better. Eh? What do you say?”
The lump in Anne’s throat was back, but she forced a smile.
“Yes, Papa. I’d like that.”
“Good. Now, tell me everything you’ve heard about this mysterious young earl.”
CHAPTER THREE
“All is not well; I doubt some foul play; would the night were come!” – Hamlet, Shakespeare
It was early in the morning, and mists curled over the land in a way they never had in London. Elias’ lodgings had been in a less salubrious area of the city, where the roads were rarely swept and rubbish amassed in the alleyways. The gutters ran with grease and filth, which froze in winter and reeked to high Heaven in summer.
Here, on the land that was his, the air smelled sweet and fresh, even though it was late spring and London would be beginning to adorn its traditional pungent stench by now.
There was a faint dusting of dew on the fields. Elias had noticed it the day before and seen how the sun quickly burned it away as the morning progressed. Now, however, the grass shimmered with the morning dew. He couldn’t quite decide where the mist was coming from, whether it was climbing down from the trees on the hill or just seeping up out of the ground. It shifted like a living thing, tendrils crawling over the grass, swallowing up everything in its wake.
Steady on, fool, he thought. It’s not a living thing. It’s mist.
Now that he’d gotten an uneasy feeling, however, it was not so easy to shake. Shaking out his shoulders, Elias turned his collar up against the early morning cold and began to walk a little faster. Rumour had it that rain would set in later. Lots of it. He supposed that now he lived in the countryside, the weather would affect him somewhat more than it had when he lived in his London apartments.
His landlady had promised to hold his rooms for a month or two, ‘just in case’, she’d said. In case of what, he’d wanted to ask. I’m an earl. I can’t avoid that, any more than my father could have avoided leaving the role to me.
If there’d been a way, I’m sure he would have managed it. He hated me, until the very end. At least the feeling was mutual.
Cecilia had seen his apartments, but only once. She held a profound aversion to place, every single part of it. With hindsight, of course, he could see that the problem was deeper than that. It wasn’t his rooms she hated, exactly, but what they represented – his position. Or lack thereof. Rich gentlemen did not rent rooms in London. Rich gentlemen already owned homes in London.
Hadn’t Cecilia said reiterated that she would only enter into matrimony with a rich gentleman? He had paid no heed. He had thought he was the exception. He had truly believed at the very least, that she could learn to adjust, or that his father would eventually decide to give him an allowance after all.
He had been wrong about all of those things.
A low-roofed stone cottage loomed out of the curling mists, which seemed to pull away from the walls of the house. He was on the right track, then. The path he was following grew thinner and rockier, pitted with holes and with ill-defined borders.
I ought to get a proper path paved through this village.
Movement at the window caught his eye. Pausing, he glanced over to see a line of small faces peering out at him, eyes large and noses pressed against the windowsill. Children, of course, no older than nine, all staring at him with such amazement that he might as well have been a unicorn tramping through their village.
“Good morning to you,” Elias said, making a neat bow. “Tell me, am I indeed on the path that leads to the well?”
“You don’t want to go there,” the oldest piped up, a round-faced girl with long, unbrushed hair. “The water’s bad.”
“I am fully aware of that and that is why I have come to investigate.”
Before Elias could answer, there was a shuffling from behind the window, and angry whispering. One by one, the children were yanked away. Last of all, a thin-faced woman appeared, and forced a nervous smile.
“Beg pardon, your lordship. High spirits.”
“That’s quite all right. I only wondered…” Elias trailed off as a curtain was pointedly yanked across the window, blocking his view. He sighed and carried on following the path.
He was probably going the right way.
As it transpired, he found himself in what appeared to be a village square. In warm weather, the earth must be hard-packed and firm, but at the moment it was muddy and miry, the ground shifting and churning under his boots. Thinking mournfully of his newly polished Hessians, Elias ploughed through the mud towards the center of the square.
The village well loomed up from the earth like an eruption, crudely built and lopsided. It was made of old stone, with a small, thatched roof above it to shelter the water. A rusty winch was rigged up, a rope wound around it, and a bucket tied to the rope.
Elias had never drawn his own water, of course. He imagined that somebody coming to get water for the day would lower the bucket, fill it, and then pour the bucket’s contents into their own pail, which they would carry home. He thought uneasily of the bath he’d had the previous night. How many buckets had that taken?
Enough of that. You’re here for a reason.
Ducking under the low roof, Elias peered over the edge and into the depths below. He couldn’t see much, of course, beyond the glitter of water. There was naught for it, then.
Gingerly lowering the bucket over the lip of the well, Elias let it fall. Splash. Applying himself to the winch handle, he began to haul it up again, slowly but surely. It was heavy. He could manage it, of course, but when the bucket was only halfway to the top, his shoulders had begun to burn. Not to mention, the hard winch handle which was digging unsparingly into dug into his palms.
His labours had gathered quite an audience. Various villagers had come out of their homes and were watching him at a distance. Some of them carried pails or wooden buckets and watched him hopefully.
The bucket, overflowing and painfully heavy, finally reached the top of the well. Elias was aware that if he let go of the winch to haul it to safety, it would fall down at once, and he would look extremely foolish. He was obliged to hold the winch in place with one straining arm and use the other to haul the bucket over the lip of the well.
He just about managed it, although most of the water had spilled in the process.
That, however, did not matter, as the water was clearly undrinkable. Staring down into the bucket, Elias’ heart sank.
There was a thick layer of mud and sediment in the bottom of the bucket, and a layer of filth coated the top of the water. It was something oily and foul-smelling, as if manure had been emptied into the well. Surely it should be cleared out, however? A well couldn’t possibly be standing water.
Dipping a finger dubiously into the water, Elias lifted it to his nose and sniffed.
Ugh. It smelled of metal, too. He’d intended to taste it himself, just to be sure, but decided firmly against it. Pushing the bucket over the lip of the well, he let it fall.
“Beg pardon, your lordship,” somebody said, and he turned to find a grey-haired woman approaching him. She had sharp, keen eyes, and wore a gown that seemed too big for her, as if it had once fitted but then she had lost a great deal of weight. “Is the water fit to drink yet?”
Elias bit his lip. “I am afraid not. Nobody must drink from this water, not even animals. I imagine you will get very sick.”
She sighed, shoulders sagging. “I see.”
“Do you have any idea how this might have happened?”
The woman shook her head. “Seemed to happen overnight. I took water yesterday evening, and it was as fresh and clean as you like. This morning, it’s not fit to drink.”
“Has this ever happened before?”
“No, your lordship. We’re baffled.”
Elias glanced at the crowd around them. Some people were shuffling nearer, and some children were craning their necks to see him, being shushed and pushed away by their parents.
The young earl. That was what they called him. He’d heard it, on occasions.
“Can you find water elsewhere?”
The woman nodded slowly. She had a direct way about her and looked him straight in the eyes. Elias liked that. “There’s a stream which flows through the village. I went up myself to make sure it was clean, and it is. But it’s a good, long walk from here, and through the forest, no less. It’s a difficult journey to make with a bucket of water, even during the daytime.”
Elias thought of how his arms had stung hauling up that bucket and nodded.
“Yes, it will be difficult. Rest assured; however, I will get to the bottom of this.”
The woman blinked up at him, seeming quite taken aback. “Will you, your lordship?”
Before Elias could respond, he heard himself being hailed. Glancing up, he saw Thomas gently shouldering his way through the crowd, smiling and nodding at a few acquaintances.
“Good morning to you, Doreen,” he said to the old woman, nodding in greeting. She nodded back.
“I wish I could say it was a good morning,” the woman Doreen responded wryly.
Thomas chuckled. “Not to worry. His lordship and I will manage this. Could you possibly clear away the crowd, so we can fully assess the situation?”
Doreen nodded, and moved towards the group of people, waving her arms. Within a few moments, they were alone.
Thomas spoke again. His voice was heavy and almost angry, a stark contrast to the jovial tone he’d used with Doreen.
“The valves are blocked. That explains the sediment in the water, and why none of this dirt is washing away. There’s some filth in there, too. I imagine that somebody had filled up this well with as many foul things as they could find. A child hauled up a dead, rotten jackdaw in his bucket of water this morning. That was when they first realised that the water was bad.”
Elias shuddered. He could smell the foulness coming off the water below, drifting up the long, thin well and creeping over the lip. Like mist, perhaps.
“You believe it’s a deliberate piece of sabotage?”
Thomas nodded. “I do. Water represents life. Every family in this village visits this well at least once a day. It is easy to reach, and the winch makes hauling water a trifle easier.”
How difficult was it before the winch? Elias thought, bewildered. Aloud, he said, “Doreen told me there is another stream where they can fetch water.”
“That is,” Thomas sighed, “but it’s a mile to the east, through difficult forest roads. There are old and infirm people in this village who will struggle to make the journey. Doreen is one of them. Her husband is crippled and keeps to his bed, and her eyesight is poor.”
Elias mulled this over, clenching his jaw until his teeth clicked together. The obvious question to this matter was, of course, why. Why would somebody damage a village’s water source? Not anybody who lived here, undoubtedly, as they would only hurt themselves in the process.
While we’re investigating, however, families are going without water, he thought, sighing.
“Gather some men together,” Elias said aloud. “Our workers or even men from the village. Have them collect large barrels of water to store here, where they are easy to access. I doubt we’ll be able to provide enough for the whole village, but it will at least help those who are ill or elderly.”
Thomas nodded approvingly. “I agree that is a sensible choice. In the meantime, how should we proceed with the investigation? I’ve already talked to some of the locals, and nobody seems to have seen anybody loitering by the well last night. However, if the deed was done in the dead of night, the whole village would have been asleep.”
Elias sighed, raking a hand through his hair. “I’m not certain on how to proceed. I promised Doreen I would investigate the matter, but if I don’t produce any results, I’m entirely useless as an earl.”
Thomas gave a wry smile. “Compared to your father, you’re an absolute angel.”
“Don’t mention the man. And anybody would be an angel, compared to him. Ask more questions, Thomas. Somebody must have seen something. I shall accompany you.”
Thomas hesitated, just for a moment, and Elias lifted an eyebrow.
“You don’t want me to come.”
Thomas bit his lip. “The villagers were very impressed with your assistance in helping Mr. Tate, but they’re still a little wary of you. You’re an earl and a stranger, and your predecessor used to flog children that he caught picking up firewood on his land. Do you understand my point? They’re suspicious, and naturally so.”
Elias tried his best not to be hurt at this. Thomas was right. It was natural.
“Of course. I understand. They’ll speak more freely without me around. Thank you for your honesty, Thomas.”
Thomas gave a half-bow, and turned to go. However, he paused, glancing back over his shoulder.
“Did you visit Breton’s Books yet?”
“No, I have not,” Elias responded, a little testily. “I haven’t got time.”
Thomas only shrugged, not seeming to notice Elias’ sharp tone. “Very well. It would be beneficial, I believe.”
He didn’t stop to argue, turning on his heel and striding away. Elias was left alone again, standing by the ruined well. He turned, peering over the lip and down at the foul water below.
You’ll amount to nothing, Elias Warrington. Your father will probably live until he’s ninety, and so you’ll never be an earl until you’re decrepit yourself. How could you ever have thought you would be enough for me?
He closed his eyes tightly, resisting the urge to press his hands over his ears, childishly, to block out the words. That would not work, of course, as the words came from inside his own head. Even now, years later, he could still hear the spiteful tinge in Cecilia’s words.
Lost in his own thoughts, Elias was not quite sure what made him look up. But look up he did, and he found himself staring straight at a figure in the woods.
It was impossible to tell if it was a man or a woman from that distance, swathed as they were in a dark green cloak, blending in well with the greenery. Of one thing he was sure, however – the cloaked figure was looking straight at him.
The moment he blinked, the figure had vanished, and the figure was gone, so suddenly that Elias wondered whether he had imagined it.
He prayed that he had, but the feeling of unease refused to dissipate.
I hope you enjoyed the preview of “Entangled with the Earl of Dunmere” which is my new Regency novel! Stay tuned for the rest of the book!