Page 14 of The Summer Country

“Peverills—what?” Mr. Davenant looked as confused as Emily felt.

“My grandfather left it to me,” explained Emily, who was beginning to feel as though she ought to have that embroidered on her forehead. What her grandfather had left her, it appeared, was a confusing mess.

A challenge, she corrected herself.

Mr. Davenant drove his fingers through his fair hair, making his hat skew at an odd angle. “Forgive me. I don’t understand. We knew it had been purchased, of course, but . . . that was over twenty years ago.”

“Twenty,” echoed Emily.

Her grandfather had bought the plantation over twenty years ago and let it sit empty, fallow. Her grandfather, who squeezed a shilling until it squeaked in pain, who lectured the kitchen maids on waste and prided himself on driving only the canniest deals and hardest bargains.

And then he had left it to her, ruined fields, house, and all.

Mr. Davenant was still speaking. “No one’s appeared or said a word since. So you can see why it comes as a bit of a surprise to me to find a claimant on the doorstep. And such a charming one,” he added belatedly, with an attempt at a smile.

“Not a claimant,” corrected Dr. Braithwaite. “An owner.”

“Have you turned lawyer as well as doctor, Nat? But I do beg your pardon, Miss Dawson. I didn’t mean to offend. It was a poor choice of word.”

“An understandable one under the circumstances,” said Emily, since Mr. Davenant’s distress begged reassurance. She shook herself back to the present. “I haven’t the slightest notion why my grandfather did what he did, but I can assure you, the papers are all in order.”

“So it seems we are neighbors—of sorts.” Mr. Davenant squeezed the brim of his hat between his hands, the gears of his mind visibly turning. “The house isn’t habitable, of course. We might have told you if you’d asked. . . .”

“I did tell her,” said Dr. Braithwaite drily.

Emily cast him a quelling look. “Is there anywhere on the property that is habitable?”

“The bookkeeper’s house,” said Mr. Davenant automatically, and then, quickly, “But you can’t be thinking of living here! There aren’t any of the amenities to which a lady might be accustomed.”

He hadn’t the faintest idea of what she was accustomed to. “Not all ladies require damask drapes and velvet cushions.”

“You’ll have a hard time finding help,” interposed Dr. Braithwaite unhelpfully. “The house is accounted haunted.”

“I’m not afraid of ghosts, Dr. Braithwaite. Or hard work.”

“There’s certainly plenty of that,” said Mr. Davenant, smiling at her in a way that invited her to join in. “You should know you can call on Beckles for any help you might need.”

“That’s very kind of you,” said Emily, taken aback. “You don’t even know me.”

“We’re a small community and a close one,” said Mr. Davenant. “You’re the owner of Peverills now.”

He was the first person who hadn’t assumed she would be selling as rapidly as possible, and Emily was inordinately grateful to him for it. “Thank you. I may need more help than you know. I’m profoundly ignorant when it comes to agriculture.”

Mr. Davenant pulled a wry face. “I should have liked to be more ignorant. It’s my grandmother who loves the land. I’ve tried to love it, for her sake, but . . . What am I thinking? This is hardly a salubrious place for discussion.” He looked earnestly at Emily. “Must you hurry back to town? I would invite you to take your potluck with us at Beckles. . . .”

“I should have liked to, but my cousins are waiting.” Emily glanced back toward the carriage. “We have an engagement in Bridgetown this evening, a reception at the governor’s house.”

“You’ve plenty of time, yet. I hope I haven’t offended with the lack of formal invitation. I know my grandmother will wish to make your acquaintance. And that of your party, of course.”

“I advise you to accept Mr. Davenant’s invitation,” said the doctor, taking advantage of Emily’s momentary silence. “Beckles is famed for its hospitality. You wouldn’t want him to be behindhand in his attentions.”

“Less so now than in my grandfather’s day,” he said with a self-deprecating dip of his head, “but we try as best we can to maintain the old standards. I can promise you a cool drink, at the least.”

“You make it very hard to refuse,” said Emily. “I must consult my cousins. . . .”

“Certainly. My grandmother will be delighted. As am I, of course.” Mr. Davenant seemed so relieved that Emily didn’t have the heart to tell him that she hadn’t quite accepted. It appeared that, by omission, she had. “I cannot promise what you are accustomed to in England, Miss Dawson, but we shall be delighted to have you share our meager meal.”

“By which he means,” said the doctor, “that you may expect a banquet.”