Much better to let them think she’d had a falling-out with the man whom she was pretending to have wed.
Mary shielded her eyes against the sun’s reflection as she gazed up at the front of the manor house. The days were already shortening, and they’d had their first frost. Not surprising as they had barely had a summer at all. Soon the Harvest Festival would be upon them.
When she’d arrived at Rose Hill, her first tasks had been to order every single window washed and the climbing roses cut back. After that, she and the steward, Mr. Stuttart, had gone over the accounts, debating various ways to raise the estate’s income. She had also hired more servants. Locals this time.
Grandmamma had been right. There was a great deal of work to do here. Shortly after arriving, Mary had vowed to do everything she could to earn her keep. Maybe then she wouldn’t feel so guilty for the ruse, and if she really were Rose Hill’s mistress, she would ensure the estate was in good repair. Aside from that, behaving in any other fashionmight cause unwanted speculation. Mary sincerely hoped Mr. Featherton who owned Rose Hill never found out about her deception, or if he did, she would be long gone, and untraceable.
Thinking of one Mr. Featherton caused her to remember Mr. Kit Featherton. Mary sat back on her heels. Although they had never been properly introduced, during her one full Season, she had dubbed him Mr. Perfect. Perfectly dressed, perfectly mannered, a perfect dancer, and perfectly able to ignore her. The only time he had come close to her was when they happened to come together during the course of a minuet or a country dance. She sighed. Every time his gloved hand had touched hers, she’d felt a tingling sensation. He had caught her gaze, holding it as if he wished to spend more time with her. Yet he never did. He was the only gentleman she had wanted to dance attendance on her who did not. Of course, he had no need of her dowry, nor did he care that she had been the Incomparable of the Season.
Turning back to the matter at hand, Mary was less sanguine about Eunice’s idea to attend church and be on friendly terms with the neighbors. Yet she was right. It would have appeared odd for them to remain in seclusion and it would have caused talk. Instead they became part of the community. Mary found it odd that after the first introductions, no one had asked about Mr. Featherton, not even the staff. On the other hand, having her aunt with her as a companion was as strong a sign as she could give that her husband was not expected to begin living at Rose Hill anytime soon.
Leaning heavily on his cane, Mr. Stuttart hobbled out the front door and directed his attention up. “It does look much better, my lady.”
She studied him quickly. Poor Mr. Stuttart had had one illness or injury after another. He appeared to be doing better now. She followed his gaze. Once the roses had been cut back, the house and roof had been cleaned. Mary smiled. “Yes, it does. It is amazing how a little work can yield such an improvement.”
“Speaking of yields, I have the numbers from the apple and pear sales. That idea you had to get all the local farmers together made quite a difference.”
It had been the practice of her father’s to combine produce from the local farms, marketing it as a whole. There was much less chanceof anyone being undercut that way. Rose Hill had been barely self-supporting, and she hoped to increase the earnings per acre so that much-needed repairs on the estate could start being made before a roof fell in, or a family suffered because the estate could not afford renovations to its tenants’ houses.
If the worst were to occur, and she was found out, Mary could point to the improvements she’d made.
CHAPTER THREE
Mid-March, 1817, Featherton House, London
Kit sat behind the desk of his study in his father’s house on South Audley Street. He’d always found it easier to meet with his man of business here than in his own rooms. That worthy, Mr. Baxter, now sat across from Kit.
Baxter rubbed his nose. “I can’t account for the difference, sir.”
Kit glanced at the column of numbers concerning a minor property he had owned for several years, but had not visited since his first and only inspection. Despite last year’s bad weather, the small estate had shown an increase in profits at harvest time, and now there had been more income from an unexpected source. “Whose idea was it to plant winter rye?”
“It would have to have been Mr. Stuttart’s.”
Kit wondered what had got into the steward that after so many years he was making drastic changes to the property. The stimulus in the estate’s revenues had allowed improvements to be made to the house and tenants’ cottages. “You said that Stuttart wouldn’t allow his wages to be raised?”
“No, sir. He said the extra was better spent on the estate and village.”
This was all extremely strange. Kit had never known estate managers to be particularly philanthropic. It was almost as if the man had become a new person. Kit shrugged. “Very well, let me know if he changes his mind.”
Baxter placed his hands on the chair arms. “I will. If you’ve no further questions right now . . .”
“You’re free to go.”
“Thank you, sir.”
Leaning back in his chair, Kit tried to form an image of Rose Hill and could not. Perhaps he’d been remiss in not visiting the property, though he had given the steward a great deal of latitude in handling the affairs. This was the first time there had been a surplus. Well, as the man had written, pouring it back into the estate was probably the best idea. After all, Kit certainly didn’t need the blunt.
He should make a point of planning a visit sometime in June after the Season wound down. He was tempted to go now. Unfortunately he’d promised his parents he’d start looking for a wife this year.
An image of laughing gray eyes floated through his mind.
Last year, Kit had been to every entertainment in both the main and Little Seasons and had not seen her. His inquiries about Barham produced the information that he was not coming to Town unless his vote was needed in the Lords.
Perhaps he should write to Barham, but God only knew how Mary’s brother would take that, and Kit did not wish to approach the issue of Lady Mary in a letter. He could have stopped in at Barham’s estate, but had not done that either.
Kit should have danced with her when she’d come out, yet how could he have known back then that years later she’d still be the only woman he was truly interested in, and she had always been surrounded by her court, never seeming to notice him. Nevertheless, he should have approached her or searched for her before now.
The devil.
