Page 77 of Gentleman Jim

Maggie recalled accompanying her father to see Mr. Entwhistle when she was just a little girl, barely out of leading strings. While Papa had talked with his steward, Mrs. Square had plied Maggie with candied fruit and sugared biscuits.

“Poor little lamb,” she’d used to say. “And you with no mother to look after you.”

Maggie hadn’t liked to be babied, not even then. She’d preferred to remain with her father. To listen to the adults talking—or arguing, which was more often the case where Papa was concerned.

“Miss Honeywell!” Mrs. Square cried. “Bless me. What a sight for sore eyes you are. Oh, but this does bring me back—”

“Enough of that, Mrs. Square,” Mr. Entwhistle said as he ushered Maggie into the cottage’s small parlor. A pair of overstuffed chintz armchairs were arranged in front of a curtained bow window. A low table stood between them. “Fetch some tea for us, and then leave us be. Miss Honeywell and I have estate matters to discuss.”

Once the tea tray had been brought in, and Maggie had poured them each a cup, Mr. Entwhistle settled down to business. He held nothing back from her. He told her about the recent expenditures for improvements to the tenant cottages, and repairs to the water wheel at the mill. About the increase in earnings for this years’ crops. And about the benefits of joining with the Burton-Smythe estate.

“It’s what your father always hoped for,” he said from his seat in the armchair across from Maggie. “Both estates working together as one. It’s why we’ve managed to get better prices this year. It’s all owing to the Burton-Smythes. Sir Roderick in particular. He always did have a level head. Never allowed any emotion to get in the way of business.”

Unlike her father, he might have said.

Maggie returned her teacup to the tea tray. “People loved my father.”

“Aye, he was a rare character. A good friend, and the best sportsman for miles. No one had a better eye for horseflesh than Squire Honeywell.”

“Yes, but I’m talking about the estate. About the management of Beasley Park.”

Mr. Entwhistle took a sip of his tea before slowly clinking his cup back into its saucer. “I often find, Miss Honeywell, that some things are better left unsaid.”

She suppressed a flare of irritation. “Come, sir. You needn’t spare my feelings. I value a bit of plain speaking. It’s why I came here today.”

He was quiet for a moment. “Very well. To put it plainly, then. Your father was not an easy man to do business with. The Honeywell temper, you know. It’s legendary around these parts.”

“Not in a bad way, surely.” Maggie waited for him to reply, but Mr. Entwhistle remained silent. A knot of anxiety formed in her stomach. “I know he could be difficult, but people made allowances. It was something of a joke, wasn’t it? The way he lost his temper? I always found it amusing.”

“Oh yes, we all had a laugh about it now and then, but when dealing with estate matters—matters of business—a temper like that is no laughing matter.” He took another sip of tea. “Sir Roderick, on the other hand, has a nice steady temperament.”

For an instant, Maggie forgot herself. “Sir Roderick is thoroughly disagreeable.”

Mr. Entwhistle took her outburst in stride. “He’s not a pleasant man, I grant you. Not one you’d like to share a pint with down at the tavern. But he’s a reliable sort, the same man on one day as he is on the next. In business, men come to count on reliability. They trust it.”

“And what about his son? What about his temperament?”

“Master Fred? He does have his moods, right enough. But still…” Mr. Entwhistle seemed to consider. “He keeps it out of estate business. And the Burton-Smythe name is respected around these parts. People like continuity. Makes ’em feel safe.”

“It’s my name that provides the continuity, not his. As a Honeywell—” She stopped short. “But I suppose the Honeywell name doesn’t carry as much weight here as I thought it did. Never mind that my father single-handedly built Beasley Park into the estate that it is today.”

Mr. Entwhistle gave her a look of sympathy. “The Honeywell name still carries weight. People were fond of your father. They’re fond of you, as well. But unlike Master Fred, you—”

“What?” she demanded.

He shrugged. “You’re a lady.”

Maggie was temporarily rendered speechless. The fact that she was a female had never made a difference before. At least, not when it came to Beasley Park. As a girl, she’d accompanied Papa all over the estate. Had learned at his knee how to run it—how to care for it—as he did. No one had ever treated her differently because of her sex. She’d been Papa’s right arm. His chosen successor. Or so she’d believed until the day his will had been read.

“An unmarried lady at that,” Mr. Entwhistle added. “Most folks would prefer to deal with a man.”

“Well that’s just… That’s just ignorance, is what it is. Any one of them should know by now that I’m as capable as a man. More capable than Frederick Burton-Smythe. More to the point, Beasley Park is in my blood. It’s…it’s my birthright.”

Mr. Entwhistle sighed. His heavily lined face was the picture of an old retainer on the verge of delivering some very bad news. “You must understand, Miss Honeywell, after your illness, you quite disappeared from public life. During those years, what with your mourning and—”

“I hadn’t much choice on that score. First Papa died, and then my aunt. Would the villagers have rather I flouted the rules than adhered to them?”

“No, but—”