It was clear that feeding the animals, especially horses, over the winter, was going to get even more expensive. Fortunately, Farmer Curtis had advised that they reserve a few fields to grow mangel-wurzels, beetroots, as forage for the livestock. These were even hardier than the cold-weather rye intended for the humans.
With the farmhands ready to work, the fields needed dressing before the crops could be sown. The soil had rested during its fallow years and was sure to be fertile, but it had become hard-packed over time. Trevor set a first crew of laborers to breaking it up, turning the soil and aerating it, while a second crew dug out irrigation channels.
When these were cleared, he had them tend to the old fishing pond, which would be restocked with several varieties of edible fish.
He set another half dozen men to fixing fences and cleaning out the old dovecote to prepare for the animals and birds he would soon purchase. Repairs were also done on the large sheds where the sheep would be sheltered in winter—the usual time for the ewes to bear their young. By spring, the meadows would be full of frolicking lambs.
Meanwhile, the Nelcott boys led a contingent of village children on a mission into the wooded acreage of the Grange to gather twigs and fallen branches to be bundled up and laid aside for kindling. Papa walked through the forest with the children, making sure they stayed out of harm’s way, especially when they neared Tom Moody’s ramshackle cabin on the far edge of Trevor’s property.
Papa reported that when he knocked on Mr. Moody’s door, the place had been abandoned. Apparently, the troublesome drunkard had deemed it prudent to move on.
More canal boats came laden with supplies. One brought a great mound of coal, which was divided up among the residents—a gift to the village from the fat, jolly Earl and Countess Stokes, who were amused at Trevor’s project.
Sir Phillip and Lady De Geoffrey were not to be outdone. When another barge arrived carrying roof tiles, bricks and mortar, paint and brushes enough for all the men to use, just as the work on the fields was finishing up, Sir Phillip took it upon himself to supervise the massive effort to repair the exterior of various villagers’ homes.
Lord Windlesham looked on with his usual detachment, sitting astride his horse and idly smoking his pipe while Sir Phillip minded his tidy list of repairs to designated houses with the careful attention of a former law clerk.
Lady De Geoffrey and even Lady Windlesham joined in the community’s effort, shamed, perhaps, into casting aside their complacency. No longer was it possible simply to sit by, judging and complaining, fretfully waiting for somebody else to solve the village’s problems.
Their Ladyships now joined in the general effort with gusto, commanding a joint army of their own female servants to help sort out the dark, moldy, chaotic interior of the elderly Pottfords’ home.
As it turned out, the only thing strong enough to stand up to Mr. Pottford’s hoarding impulse was the iron will of Lady Windlesham herself.
Grace had to give her credit. The busybody baroness succeeded where everyone else had failed. On Her Ladyship’s unyielding orders, the ancient Mr. Pottford finally parted with many square yards of his horrid, rotting junk.
Most of it was duly burned, the army of marching maids carrying it out by the armload, and throwing it onto the fire. When Grace came to view their progress after three days, she was amazed to see floor space and light coming through the windows, which the tireless maids were now washing.
She also called on Miss Hayes but had to let herself in, for her knocks went unheard over the loud piano scherzo coming from the parlor. “Hullo?” She found her blind friend seated at her newly tuned instrument, playing a duet with a smiling bald man who turned out to be the piano tuner.
He seemed charmed by Miss Hayes, and Grace was most intrigued to hear that it was his third visit to her house in a fortnight. Well, well, she thought.
Leaving the musical pair alone, she returned to her main task of coordinating the various groups, smoothing out conflicts, and making sure everyone had what they needed. Shortfalls were brought to the attention of the commander, but other than brief meetings, she saw little of Lord Trevor.
Her own time was divided between keeping the village children out of the way while their homes were being fixed, or drying their tears after Dr. Bowen-Hill had lined them up to give them their smallpox inoculations.
She also spent many hours lending her own needle to the women’s sewing campaign. While the men readied the farm and fixed the houses, the women mended curtains to help keep winter drafts out of windows and whipped up new sets of warm clothes for those whose garments had grown threadbare.
At last came a day of celebration, when the fences were ready and the animals arrived on the canal boat. With them came great burlap sacks of seeds—rye and beetroot. The whole village marched in triumph to the Grange, Trevor at the head of them, laughing and leading one of the cows; his dog Nelson was ever at his heels, as was Calpurnia, which Grace tried to ignore.
The doves were released into their round stone turret and thirty chickens into their coop, along with their brightly plumaged rooster. The sheep and goats skipped into their new pasture ahead of twenty lumbering cows. Everyone cheered, astonished at the progress they had made in such a short time.
As Grace looked around, scanning the faces, she saw hope, so long absent, shining on each familiar countenance.
God bless you, Trevor Montgomery,
she thought with a lump in her throat.
And finally, the time had come for planting.
She watched him walking through his fields among the people, personally making sure that the seeds they had worked so hard for were safely tucked into the waiting ground.
The women had prepared a few straw scarecrows, each one humorously made to resemble certain villagers, including Papa. Amid much laughter, these were staked into the fields to keep the birds away.
Grace shook her head to herself. Thistleton was hardly the same place. It looked better, tidier, the storefronts sparkled with bright windows and fresh paint, roofs everywhere freshly thatched or newly shingled.
A new vitality had infused the entire village.
People greeted each other with a vigor and cheer no one had seen for years. When Sergeant Parker announced he was marrying Mrs. Nelcott, Trevor threw the pair a party at the Grange.
The daylong celebration had the air of a church picnic, with music, games for the children, and each family bringing a favorite food. Farmer Curtis’s contribution was a barrel of his homemade whiskey, which was tapped at dusk.
Grace and Callie watched as he handed off cups of it to Marianne to pass out to Sergeant Parker and his men.
“What is she doing here?” Callie mumbled.
Grace shrugged. “Maybe she’ll find a husband, too,” she replied, noting that every one of Sergeant Parker’s soldiers seemed eager to volunteer.
Then again, it probably wasn’t marriage that the soldiers had in mind.
“Look at her, preening. She loves the attention,” Callie said.
Grace raised an eyebrow, hearing this particular accusation from the lovely blonde who had to be the center of attention at all times.
Nevertheless, she had to admit that the raven-haired Marianne did seem to be in her element, surrounded by men. She tossed her head, her dark eyes flashing, and made no-doubt-scandalous remarks as she passed out cups of liquor to the soldiers.
“Maybe some women are just meant to be whores.”
“Callie!” Grace exclaimed.
“Well, it’s true! You want to pretend everyone’s good at heart, Grace, but they’re not. Her for instance. She’s a harlot. Fortunately, she has no effect at all on Lord Trevor,” Callie added in satisfaction, nodding at their host.
Grace said nothing of the conversation she had had with Marianne on that very topic.
“
He’s all yours,
” Marianne had teased her.
Unfortunately, Calpurnia seemed to have other ideas about who he was destined to belong to. “It’s not fair,” the girl remarked, still staring at Trevor. “Why is it all right for the likes of Marianne to do all sorts of unspeakable things with any of those men, when decent ladies like us are not even allowed to give a worthy gentleman a kiss?”
Grace clenched her teeth. It did not take any sort of genius to know which gentleman Callie was thinking of.
She dropped her gaze, struggling over whether or not to say something. No words of wisdom came.
Though she loved the girl like a sister, she could not deny that the sense of rivalry between her and Callie was growing ever keener—at least in her own mind.
Indeed, Grace did not like herself very much for the resentment she had begun to feel toward the vain but bubbly innocent. Jealousy did not comport at all with her notion of who she
was.
Certainly, she did not want to be angry at Callie. But how could the girl be so vain and selfish as to assume straightaway that Trevor was hers for the taking? That what she wanted she
must
have, no matter how anyone else felt?
Ultimately, however, Grace kept her mouth shut because she didn’t want to fight, especially not at a party.
Oblivious to all but her own desires as usual, Callie suddenly elbowed her with a chuckle. “Look at him over there. Isn’t he darling?”
And, of course, he was.
Trevor was coughing and laughing after sampling Farmer Curtis’s famous firewater. “God, that’s strong!” He thumped himself in the chest with his fist.
“Then you’d best have some more!” Farmer Curtis replied.
The men laughed heartily, and Grace smiled, but Callie turned away from the sight of Marianne twirling from man to man. “How jealous George would be if he could see his little harlot with all of Sergeant Parker’s men!” she said with a scowl.
Grace seized upon the girl’s mention of her former beau; it was the first time in weeks that Callie had brought up that particular topic. She chose her words with care. “I wonder what George would have to say about all that’s been happening,” she ventured with a probing, sideways glance.
Callie snorted in disdain. “It’s his own fault for missing it. By all rights, George should’ve been the one to start all this work long ago. He
is
the heir of the highest-ranking local lord, after all. He could have easily taken it on himself. Instead, Lord Trevor’s done his work for him. But that just goes to show that Lord Trevor is a man. George is just a boy.”
“Trevor does have ten years on him, to be fair,” Grace pointed out. “That’s a lot of life experience, not to mention all sorts of training in leadership.”
“Precisely. But how long does it take a man to grow up? I’m tired of waiting.”
Grace couldn’t argue with that; indeed, Callie’s words reminded her of the beautiful Laura Bayne, who had given up waiting for Trevor after being betrothed to him for a few years.
Before she could think of anything wise or comforting to say, she saw her father beckoning her over to welcome the Pottfords to the party. The ancient pair would no doubt need a little help getting situated, so Grace took leave of Callie and went to greet them. She was eager to find out how they were adjusting to their newly uncluttered home.
Callie remained sitting alone beneath the big old oak tree, watching the maids light the paper lanterns strung up around the party as twilight fell.
Soon, Grace was fetching chairs and plates of food for the Pottfords, but in the midst of assisting them, she happened to glance over toward the oak tree, only to spy Calpurnia walking briskly toward the farmhouse by herself.
Something in the girl’s posture made Grace instantly sense trouble.
Her words trailed off in midsentence; she swept the surrounding grounds with a quick, curious glance.
She noticed that Lord Trevor was no longer in sight, drinking with the men. She did not see him anywhere.
Of course, it was growing dark, but he was not among the villagers sitting around the bonfire; he was not among the people dancing or clapping in time with the music; nor did the glowing paper lanterns reveal his muscled silhouette anywhere on the green.
He must have gone inside, she thought. And when Calpurnia also disappeared into the house, a dire suspicion suddenly bloomed.
Good God! Bold Calpurnia was about to make her move! If Lord Trevor was discovered alone in a room with the brazen debutante—even if he behaved like a perfect gentleman—he’d have no choice except to marry her.
Grace blanched. “Would you excuse me?” she blurted out, already on her way to try to avert a disaster.
“Something wrong?” Papa called after her with a frown.
“No, no, I-I’ll be right back.” She rushed off, shocked at her own raw jealousy, but still, she was not about to let that bratty girl rope Trevor into marriage.
After all he’d done for the town, at least he deserved to choose his own wife.
But Callie was so infatuated with him, and had been from the start, that Grace would not put it past the headstrong belle to try to snare him in a compromising situation, just so she might win him for her own.
Something had to be done, and right away.
“Kenny! Denny! Quickly! Would you boys please come over here and help me with something?”
The twins heard her call and came bounding over. She leaned down to give them their instructions in a confidential murmur, then sent them running off into the house: her little spies.
Heart pounding, Grace folded her arms across her chest and waited in a nervous state of guilt for exactly two minutes before she followed the boys into the house.
Marching inside, she felt like a liar but wore what she hoped looked like an innocent expression on her face.
“Kenny? Denny?” she called, feigning ignorance as she stepped into the house.
“Up here, Miss Grace!” one twin yelled down the steps after a moment. She glanced up the staircase as the boy waved to her over the railing, not from the second but the third floor. “We’re up here!”
Grace nearly choked on a sudden rush of fury. This was worse than she had thought! The third floor was usually where the bedchambers were located.