Page 10 of The Devil to Pay

Then he remembered one of the many little digs Miss Davenport had delivered him since he began writing, especially the scathing words of her last review, and steeled his spine.

Will Dixey was a short, wiry fellow with bristling side whiskers and an air of suppressed energy. There was no conversation, just a terse instruction to grab a shovel and a barrow and follow him.

Llun-y-mynydd—which Jules had since learned translated as The Mountain’s Picture—loomed over them like a gentle giant as dawn broke, an imposing manor house that looked beneficently down upon the undulating farmland of the Welsh marches. It appeared Miss Davenport took her gardens seriously, for even in the dim light of a grim February morning, Jules had to admire the series of vistas and lovely walks that had been created about the house. Though compared to the mighty Beverwyck or any of his father’s or his own properties, it was hardly on the same scale, it was a large, handsome building, and obviously well maintained and run.

Mr Dixey led them to a piece of ground about an acre in size and surrounded by walls, one of which was opened with archways that led to other parts of the garden, and on the opposite side, a wrought iron doorway. The walls looked to be newly built, and everything inside them was bare, save for a surface of scrubby grass and weed. The patch of unprepossessing ground had been stuck all over with small wooden stakes. Strings ran between them, marking out shapes on the ground.

“Right. This is the layout of the mistress’ new rose garden. All the sections within the shapes need to be stripped of turf and dug over. If you go through that arch and turn right, follow the path and you’ll see where the turf is being disposed of. When you’re done, there’s a pile of well-rotted manure you’ll need to dig in too. Got it?”

Briggs touched a finger to his cap and nodded. “Got it, sir.”

Dixey glanced at Jules, then back at Briggs. “Does he understand?”

Briggs cleared his throat and nodded as Jules seethed inwardly but managed to hold his tongue.

“Oh, yes, sir. He understands, all right. I’ll keep a close eye on him, though, don’t worry.”

Dixey nodded and strode off as Briggs turned back to regard Jules.

“Want to go home yet?” he asked mildly.

Jules picked up the shovel, cast Briggs an unloving look, and set to work.

Chapter 4

General Davenport,

Please find below the outstanding balance for the two hunters recently purchased at Tattersalls. Payment is due by the end of the month.

We are, Sir,

Yours faithfully,

H, Butler & Co.

―Excerpt of a bill (one of many) made out to General R. Davenport, care of his daughter, Miss Selina Davenport.

20th February 1845, Llun-y-mynydd, Monmouthshire.

Selina tapped the edge of her teacup with the spoon, silencing the raucous breakfast table as no one was fool enough to make her raise her voice. Freshly scrubbed faces turned in her direction and she gave a nod of approval.

Jacob, at eighteen, was the eldest of her younger siblings, and a studious, fiercely intelligent boy who would spend all day with his head in a book if given the chance. He ought to have been at university by now, but a severe bout of whooping cough two years earlier had weakened his lungs, leaving him susceptible to all manner of ills and chills, and it had been thought best if he remains at home for another year.

“Jacob, you’ll go through the accounts with me this morning, if you please,” she said, in a tone that brooked no argument.

She was perfectly capable of keeping and balancing the accounts herself, but a bit of real-life experience was essential for a boy who lived with his head in the clouds.

“Yes, Lina,” he said gloomily, poking disconsolately at his porridge.

“Don’t sulk,” she instructed. “We’ll be done in an hour if you don’t get distracted. Abigail, put the book down. How many times must I tell you, not at the breakfast table?”

“Oh, but Lina, the hero has just—”

“I don’t care what the hero has just done,” she said severely, though she knew full well, having read the book herself the previous week. At sixteen, Abigail was an adorable little widgeon and fancied herself a Gothic heroine in the making. “You will pay attention. Mrs Parry is sorting the linen today. You will help her and share anything that needs mending between the three of us.”

“Oh, but….” The protest died on Abigail’s pretty face. “Yes, Lina,” she said, satisfying her indignation by scowling into her cup of chocolate.

Selina sighed. She really ought to confiscate that novel, for Abigail was daft enough to believe such lurid tales could really happen in real life, but there was little enough fun to be had in these remote parts, especially at such a dismal time of year. She did not like to be such a killjoy, nor to spend her days rallying them all into busying themselves, but the place would fall to wrack and ruin, and the children run wild if someone didn’t take them in hand.