“I fear she is quite shy, Vicar, and reacts as such when people focus on her. We sought ways for her to feel calm in company.”
“Pah!” croaked Grimslee. “Sounds like she needs a sound beating and a school for correction.”
The young Mr Slater nervously chuckled. “Oh, goodness, you shouldn’t joke, Lord Grim…” No one else joined in and he cleared his throat. “It wasn’t a joke?”
“No,” said Grimslee, pitch-black eyes narrowing. “I never joke.”
Marcus cleared his throat. He’d once thought nothing could be worse than that carriage journey home to the Lakes after his time in London.
“Your ward?” Grimslee muttered. “Have you a suitor in mind?”
He frowned. “She’s fourteen.”
“Marry her off as soon as you can. My cousin Lord Harris is hunting a wife.”
“He’s in his sixties. And has gout.”
“Your point? Our daughter married Blakley. Fifty-eight years to his name but with two hundred acres to the west and robust loins. Thought you were seeking to expand your own acreage?”
Marcus thought of Dinah’s youth and vibrancy sold off for a couple of fields. “My ward will marry whom she chooses.”
Grimslee’s brow wrinkled. “Crockett must be mistaken about you.”
Silence fell, and Marcus cast a glance at Charlotte who was peering to the cracked ceiling architrave. Her expression appeared innocent enough…until he noticed her lips trembling.
Mercifully, the creaking butler announced the commencement of dinner and they all filed in as if for the reading of a will.
An elbow nudged his side.
“This could have been your future.” Charlotte winked. “In a few years.”
His lip quirked. “I’d never water down my wine.”
Although truth be told, he did have to admit a certain unease within.
Grimslee’s tenant houses were in a state of disrepair and he evicted non-payers within a fortnight. Known to be a miser, everyone loathed him and no one would work for him except the desperate.
Marcus had never been that bad, surely?
Grimacing, he recalled Widow Brockbank whom he’d instructed to vacate her tenant cottage within a month.
They all sat upon non-cushioned chairs, Charlotte opposite, while a soup was brought forth. White and thin with floating…
“Well,” cried the young Mr Slater, joyfully raising his glass. “Here’s to Christmas. I’m so glad to attend an event where I can become better acquainted with my new neighbours. Anyone fond of fishing?”
Lord Grimslee’s lip rippled. “This isn’t about Christmas,” he hissed. “Or being neighbourly. And certainly not fishing. It’s about business. Shawdale is undoubtedly here to discuss the deal he’s negotiating with my cousin. The vicar wishes a contribution to church roof repairs – it’s no, by the way. And you are here because you have a five thousand a year income and want to know where to invest it.”
“Actually,” Marcus found himself saying with glass in hand, “I agree with you, Mr Slater. Here’s to meeting new neighbours. Welcome to the Lakes. I hope you may call upon me soon? We could talk of investment, if you wish to?”
“Oh, oh, yes.”
“Good. And I… I used to pass a pleasant afternoon fishing. Haven’t been in years but I’m sure all the equipment is somewhere. We could try the Rothay River.”
“I would enjoy that.” Mr Slater smiled. “And this inheritance is all rather…daunting, to tell you the truth.”
“I also inherited when young and made more than a few mistakes…” He glanced up to Charlotte’s soft smile. Mr Slater reminded Marcus of himself all those years ago – young and trusting – and Grimslee would doubtless hoodwink the chap into investing too deeply.
Charlotte’s foot reached out to his under the table. He was sure she meant it as a simple gesture of understanding but it caused every muscle to tense in unrelenting desire and want.
