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“I see, master,” Wonicot replied levelly. “That would account for it then.”
Gabriel picked up a slice of bread and dipped it into the bowl of mutton stew.
“Sally said to tell you that Lord Appleby sent down his man o’ business last week,” Wonicot went on, producing a bottle of claret from the basket, with a glass—one of his grandfather’s good ones.
“Did he now?” growled Gabriel.
“Told us he was intending to sell. Saw no reason to hang on to it, he said, a poorly place like this. Needs too much money to put it right, he said. Might be best all round if it were pulled down and leveled.”
Although Gabriel didn’t reply—he didn’t trust himself to—the older man seemed to sense his feelings. “No need to worry yourself, sir,” he soothed. “You’ll find a way to get the manor back again, and then everything will be right as rain. Your grandfather used to say that things had a way of sorting themselves out for the best.”
“You have more confidence in me than I have in myself, Wonicot. I can’t even frighten a weak and feeble woman into giving me the letter.”
“That’s ’cause you’re a gentleman, master,” Wonicot explained. “You’ve been brought up to be kind to women, so it goes against your grain to frighten them. And I wouldn’t call Miss Dupre weak and feeble. She’s got a look in her eye, that one.”
Gabriel grinned.
Pleased to see his spirits recovered, Wonicot fussed about the table, pouring the claret.
“Sally wants to know if you’ll be coming over to the manor for breakfast in the morning, Master Gabriel?”
“Tell her I will. I wouldn’t miss her cooking for anything.”
“She’ll be pleased. Although…are you sure Miss Dupre won’t recognize you, master?”
“I’m sure, Wonicot. I’m looking forward to ‘meeting’ her.” He chuckled.
Wonicot appeared doubtful but he didn’t argue. “Very good, master.”
“And remember who I am, for God’s sake. No ‘master’ in front of the minx.”
“As you say, ma—” He stopped himself.
Gabriel watched him totter to the door. Appleby was going to sell his birthright, his inheritance, his life. As long as he could remember, he’d seen himself as the master of Wexmoor Manor, carrying on the long tradition of Langleys who had resided here. The monetary worth of the place was immaterial—Gabriel wasn’t a poor man—but in other ways it was priceless. But it wasn’t just he who would be affected; there was Wonicot and his wife and all the others who depended upon Gabriel for home an
d hearth.
Just as Wonicot opened the door to leave, someone else came rushing in. They collided.
“Gabriel—” the name burst out of her before she realized it was Wonicot she’d sent reeling back. She stopped, embarrassed. Young, slim, and pretty, Mary Cooper had light hair and a sweet smile, and she’d been in love with Gabriel ever since he could remember. He had a fair idea what she was doing here and he wished she wasn’t.
Wonicot was frowning at her, blocking her way into the cottage. “What are ye doing here, Mary Cooper?” he scolded. “This is no place for a girl alone.”
“I was finished,” she retorted sulkily, “and Mrs. Wonicot herself said I could go.”
“Go to bed, I’d reckon, not out into the night.”
“I wanted to see master,” she said, with a shy glance at Gabriel.
Thank God Wonicot was here, he told himself. Times had changed. Gabriel remembered how, when he was many years younger, he’d thought no girl could be lovelier than Mary Cooper. They had kissed and cuddled and whispered sweet nothings, but fortunately his grandfather had seen what was happening and informed Gabriel in no uncertain terms that he would not countenance his grandson ruining the servants. Later, when he went to school and to London, he’d met and kissed many other women, and his childish infatuation was forgotten. But Mary had never forgotten; she still loved him.
He supposed it was flattering to be the subject of such single-minded and unswerving affection. Gabriel tried to be kind and patient, but sometimes he wished she’d find someone else to lavish her affection on.
“Mary,” he said with a smile, “I thank you for thinking of me, but Wonicot is right. You must go back and—”
“I’m to be her maid, you know,” Mary interrupted, with a little bob of a curtsy and a giggle.
“Miss Dupre’s maid?” Gabriel said, raising his eyebrows.
