The Two Lords of Wealdhant Manor (13 page)

“Certainly, sir. What is it?”

“Jasper,” Algernon said, staring sightlessly off across the moor. “Jasper Waltham. Who is he?”

“Who is he?” Mrs. Underwood repeated, apparently startled by the question. “Well, he’s… he’s the… He’s a Waltham, I suppose.”

“And what is a Waltham, Mrs. Underwood?”

“I don’t know, Mr. Clarke,” Mrs. Underwood said, frowning in uncertainty. “The Walthams see to the grounds and the estate. They have for as long as anyone can remember. Jasper’s father before him, and his grandmother. I’ve heard that there were Walthams before that, but…”

“But you don’t know?” Algernon finished for her, and sighed.

“There’s a… it’s not much told anymore, but when I was a child I remember…”

Interested in the old legends about Wealdhant, Algernon sat straighter. “What is it?”

“My grandmother told me that the first Mrs. Waltham—or the woman who called herself that—well, she, my grandmother said… she was Ruth. Ruth Allesbury, six years after the house was abandoned. Or a woman with her same dark hair and proud carriage. She called herself Mrs. Waltham, never Ruth, and she brought with her a baby. I think that’s how the story went, after all.”

“Ruth came back—Ruth…” Algernon’s brow furrowed. “
Ruth
was the eldest daughter. If Jasper’s her heir, the land ought to be his.”

“Mayhap,” Mrs. Underwood agreed. “But what can anyone do to prove it? A woman alone with a baby came from nowhere and settled in the groundskeeper’s cottage. Never called herself Ruth. My grandmother said… well, the story was that Mrs. Waltham was half-wild, or half-mad. But her daughter was sensible enough. I knew her. Miss Waltham. Sweet young thing, and well-liked in town, for all that she took after her mother and turned up a baby without a husband. But they always took proper care of the grounds, and… in my memory, they were always treated as the… well, you’ve seen how people treat Jasper. We’re fond of him. Protective of him, even, for all he can be a bit gruff. I don’t think most people know the whole story behind why we call him Lord Jasper. He acts the part often enough, and that does for us.”

“So Ruth, at least, survived whatever happened that night. And she came back.”

“I don’t know, Mr. Clarke,” Mrs. Underwood said, and sighed. “I don’t think even Jasper proper knows. The first Mrs. Waltham, whoever she was… I’ve seen the old portrait of Ruth, after all, up in the gallery.
That
Ruth was proud, not wild or mad. I don’t think that whatever of Ruth returned was the same as that proud young lady.”

“What happened that night, Mrs. Underwood? Do you know?”

Mrs. Underwood frowned and clasped her hands. “The way I heard it, sir, Sarah was pregnant, and it was the old earl her father who had got the baby on her. The girls lived in terror of him, and Sarah threw herself down the stairs in order to be rid of either the baby or herself. It didn’t quite work, not all the way, and I heard that poor Sarah was at the bottom of the stairs, mangled and dying slow, and Ruth took up the hunting rifle and put her out of her misery like a lamed horse. And when the wicked old earl began to rage at her, Ruth lifted the rifle and put the next bullet through his skull.”

Algernon stared into his cup. “Aren’t there any records about it? What the authorities found?”

“I don’t know. The old earl
was
the authority, in these parts. I think the locals simply left the old manor empty and never spoke of it. If there was any record or inquiry, there would have been some official action as to the old building. It would have reverted to the crown and there would have been some new authority installed in Wilston. But there wasn’t. Because we kept it quiet.”

At the bottom of the steps, Mr. Cullen had just finished fastening his own small trunk on the back of the carriage. He looked expectantly up at Algernon.

“Thank you for the story, Mrs. Underwood,” Algernon said, getting to his feet and handing her the empty cup. “And the tea. I hope… I wish you the best, Mrs. Underwood, and it was an honour to have you in my employ.”

“It was an honour to serve, Mr. Clarke. Do take care of yourself, sir.”

Giving her a weak smile, Algernon made his way down the steps and climbed into the carriage.

C
airkby was
as dirty and depressing as it was lively and burgeoning. Algernon lingered by the edge of the train platform, looking back across Cairkby in the direction of Wealdhant. He could look almost straight down the tracks, which pointed toward Wilston and the manor.

Algernon didn’t know if Jasper would be able to negotiate for the modified route. He certainly had little enough leverage with which to negotiate. Even the threat of flooding might easily be avoided simply by building a low framework bridge up off the ground for that section, which could certainly turn out to be less costly for the railway than going around.

It didn’t matter. There was nothing he could do, and it was no longer his concern. He wasn’t the Lord of Wealdhant, after all. Jasper and Mr. Sutton had seen to that.

Turning away with disgust, Algernon returned to where Mr. Cullen was waiting on the train platform. “Devil take him,” Algernon muttered, casting himself down upon the empty bench.

“Mr. Waltham?” Mr. Cullen asked, by way of clarification.

“The same. I should hardly be surprised by such betrayal.” Algernon huffed. “He is damnably, maddeningly honest, and hasn’t the slightest inkling of comprehension in his mind on the matter of
tact
. No, always must say what he’s thinking, brashly so. And if he thinks the railway has made a mistake, he must track down the evidence and provide it to them. No matter if it will be devastating to his own interests!”

“It is unfortunate that Mr. Waltham selected this course,” Mr. Cullen agreed.

“Unfortunate!” Algernon said. “It’s downright foolish. And it helps none that Jasper is devilishly stubborn. He’d determined right from the start that he wanted me gone. And then to… to, well, to make me think that we were friends! Quite bosom companions. Seems to me now that what he wanted was to be Lord of Wealdhant and he’d got the idea in his head that if he played to my… my weakness, he should be able to influence me. More fool him!”

“Indeed, sir.”

“I suppose it might have worked, if I hadn’t had Mr. Sutton’s threats over me. I wanted to—I thought Jasper and I were… we were allies. Of a sort. But once he could not make use of me to his satisfaction, he got rid of me! That callous, cruel
brute
.”

“If it is true, Mr. Clarke,” Mr. Cullen said, “that you aren’t the heir, it would have come out eventually. We can seek further proof, if you like.”

The prospect was tempting. There might be some records in Nottinghamshire or in his father’s old papers—now lost along with his father’s former town house, but possibly not yet discarded by the new owner—which could hold some possibility that his great-grandmother Tabitha was in fact Tabitha Allesbury of Wealdhant Manor. Algernon chewed his lip as he thought it over, but eventually sighed. “No. I fear Jasper is right. If I am entirely honest, Cullen, I suspect that Mr. Sutton and the Coxholt-on-Hugh Railway company found the first Tabitha, Sarah, or Ruth within a hundred miles of Wealdhant whose descendants could be turned up and reasonably exploited. In fact, I rather expect that they’ve already another candidate or three who they shall trot out in order to get their railway built in short order. Plenty of Tabithas, Sarahs, and Ruths in England, after all.” Algernon grimaced. “In fact, I fear I may have to admit to myself that I was chosen precisely on the account that my straits were dire and might be exploited to the railway’s advantage. Not because my claim was any greater than anyone else’s.”

He sighed, discouraged by that probable reality of his situation. “If the railway’s aim had truly been to find the heir, they might easily enough have put Jasper in the role. But they could not, because Jasper was so resolved to fight them that they picked me and sent me out to … well, to take him in hand, I suppose.” A sad smile twitched at Algernon’s lips. “Like a recalcitrant villager.”

Mr. Cullen looked puzzled. “Sir?”

“Never you mind, Cullen. One of many insults which I directed toward Mr. Waltham.” Algernon huffed. “And not undeservedly so. He is… he is so infuriatingly bull-headed! And—and!”

“I know, sir,” Mr. Cullen said.

Deflating, Algernon leaned back on the bench and frowned miserably. “We are ruined, Cullen.”

“I thought you were going to board a ship to India. And possibly take up piracy.”

“And so I am!” Algernon clenched his fist, spirit returning almost as swiftly as it had flagged. He sat up and scowled with determination in the direction of Wealdhant, mind whirling briefly with images of himself in the role of Pirate King, carrying out thrilling adventures across the globe. Adventures which would no doubt involve some sort of serious romance with a wealthy prince from a foreign land. A wealthy prince who would be certainly much more handsome than Jasper. Algernon’s scowl deepened.

“Cullen,” Algernon said, dismissing the phantasies as he glanced over at his valet-cum-butler. “See here, Cullen. You ought to stay.”

“Stay!” Mr. Cullen exclaimed in shock.

“Certainly. I cannot afford to retain you, as we both well know, and you cannot earnestly mean to join me on a ship. You should perfectly well despise it. And, after all, what about Miss Wotton?”

“Miss Wotton is charming and will find someone better suited soon enough,” Mr. Cullen said, tone firm. “I cannot stay here, Algy. There won’t be enough options of work for a valet or butler of my quality. I’ll go to London with you. And, when we must, we shall part ways there.”

“Right you are, Cullen,” Algernon said, disheartened.

He rested his chin on his hands as he mulled over his situation, remaining like that as the train arrived and passengers and baggage were unloaded from it. As they boarded the train and took their seats, Algernon tapped his finger against his thigh, gazing out the window until his thoughts solidified themselves into words. “There must be something I can do.”

“Do about what?” Mr. Cullen asked, distracted from his novel.

“Wilston. Wealdhant. The railway.”

“Something
you
can do?” Mr. Cullen repeated.

“I’ve spent the past week researching railway law. There will be more books in London. Law libraries. Inheritance and land. I’m certain I can find something relating to this situation. Something to save Wealdhant. Something to make the railway’s advance a little less awful for the inhabitants. The railway brings plenty of prosperity and opportunity—it could be good for Wilston, if we could only obtain enough pressure to force them to build along the modified route…”

“I thought it wasn’t your concern, sir,” Mr Cullen said.

“It… well, you see, it…” Algernon pursed his lips. “I feel as though I owe it to the people of Wilston. They were kind to me. And… and Jasper…”

Algernon’s gaze dropped to his lap, feeling an ache of loneliness and loss.

Mr. Cullen kept quiet.

“If I could get the modified route, somehow, do you suppose… I don’t know, Cullen. Was his friendship with me only feigned to take advantage of my position?”

“Mr. Clarke,” Mr. Cullen said. “I don’t think Jasper is capable of feigning anything, attraction least of all.”

Laughing in surprise at the statement, Algernon smiled a little. “I suppose that’s true. We might be rather well suited, if we could ever keep from quarrelling. But I do think that … if we were allies, we should only bicker pleasantly. Which I quite enjoy, when it comes to Jasper.”

Mr. Cullen rolled his eyes toward heaven, which earned another laugh from Algernon.

“I’m going to try, Cullen. I shall find a way.” Algernon nodded with determination, lifting his chin once again and fishing out William Hayes’
The Law of Real Property
from his bag.

“What about your ship to India, sir?” Mr. Cullen asked.

“I suppose… well, I suppose it shall have to wait.” Algernon opened the book but left it on his lap, furrowing his brow in thought.

“And…” Mr. Cullen hesitated. “And your debts, sir?”

Clenching his jaw, Algernon looked away out the window. “I’ll sort out something, Mr. Cullen. I will. I don’t know how, but I’ll find a way. It shall all work out for the best, and we’ll… I’m certain we’ll be all right.”

Mr. Cullen didn’t respond.

Algernon fought down a miserable wave of self-doubt.
Another failed venture. This will make the fourth in a row. And piracy apt to see me drowned or hanged, if the debtors don’t catch me before I reach the docks.

Tightening his grip on his book, Algernon pushed his doubts away and focused his mind on reading.

T
he estate was
quiet with Algernon gone.

Jasper hadn’t realised how much Algernon’s presence had done to make the grounds of Wealdhant seem lively and interesting. In his absence, everything had turned to grey. A veil of clouds hung over the bare February moors, and the house marked the landscape like a gravestone.

Wealdhant was shut up once again, empty and cold. The shelves of books that they’d sorted were sitting unread, the cleaned rugs were accumulating fresh dust, and the mice would be busy renewing their claim upon the upholstery of the house.

Mrs. Underwood had been the last to leave. She’d turned the key in the lock upon the front door, and handed it to Jasper for safekeeping.

Once she’d made her way down the length of the manor drive, there remained only the windy silence of the moors and the heavy, waiting silence of the empty manor. Jasper sat upon the steps and listened to the tired creaking of the house at his back.

If Algernon was destitute, then the money he’d used would have to have come from either the railway or the estate. The railway had no reason to be so generous, particularly when Algernon was little more than a temporary measure for them to get their tracks onto the estate. It suggested that there was money still somewhere held for the Wealdhant estate, waiting on another heir.

He expected that the railway would turn one up quickly enough. And then this whole disaster would start again. He was only prolonging the inevitable, unless he could come up with a better option.

Putting his back to the manor, he headed south along the drive. The gate was in better condition, no longer choked with weeds or hanging from its hinges, but the rust still lay thick enough that it couldn’t be closed. Jasper paused with his hand on the gate, looking back at the abandoned manor.

It was a bitter old place, gothic beauty warped and wizened into an ugly, unfriendly pile. Algernon’s renovations had only begun to make the interior livable, and had not yet begun to make any aesthetic repairs to the exterior. He wondered what Algernon might have made of the place, if he’d stayed. The bones of the manor were still good, and what he had seen of the structure and foundation had been sound.

Jasper’s hand clenched upon the gate. He didn’t know if Algernon would have made it into a country estate worthy of hosting parties, with a light in every window and music in the ballroom, or if he would have kept the obscure, rural beauty of it, a quiet and proud grande dame ruling over the moors. He’d never had the chance to ask if Algernon wanted to fill the house with children, or if, once everything was settled, he’d become a gentleman scholar. All he’d known of Algernon was his sense of adventure and his spirited temper.

Annoyed at himself for becoming lost in purposeless reverie over things that would not be and therefore could not matter, Jasper resumed his southward journey, quickening his pace up the rise of the hill toward Cairkby so that he could see the encroaching tracks.

Without Algernon, he’d lost what little hope of influence he had over the railway. Everything would change again once they found a new heir or shuttled the property back to the Crown so that Parliament would bestow it for them.

At the top of the hill, Jasper drew up short, staring at the dull grey line of locomotive tracks. They stretched further than they had before, almost to the border of Wealdhant, and a work crew continued at their business. The tracks pointed unerringly toward the original route laid out, with apparent certainty that they would have their railway line without modification. It seemed recklessly confident, especially since Jasper intended to see to it that the line was re-routed, and they would have to re-lay their current stretch of tracks.

Anger rising, he strode down the slope of the hill beyond, straight toward the work crew by the railway tracks. “See here, what do you think you’re doing?”

Pausing at their work, the crew looked at him in confusion. One of them strode forward, the same foreman who Jasper had spoken with before.

“We’re laying these tracks, sir. The railroad owns this land.”

“Well, you’re laying them along the wrong route. The land of Wealdhant has not yet been bought, and will not be bought unless the route is revised.”

“Oh, I don’t see as to that, sir. The land must be sold, and will be sold. They’ve an Act of Parliament, see…”

“To the devil with your Acts of Parliament! The railway must go around. I’ll not have it cutting through the prime farmland of Wilston.”

The foreman hooked his thumbs into his waistcoat pockets and leaned back on his heels. “If you intend to make a nuisance of yourself, sir, you are standing on land owned by the Coxholt-on-Hugh Railway Company, and interfering with company business.
Government-sanctioned
company business. Shall I have you escorted off the property?”

Jasper bristled with fury at the threat of being thrown off railway land when they were in
his
native region and infringing upon his home.

“You cannot proceed,” Jasper said. “The ownership of Wealdhant is in question and therefore the land cannot be sold.”

“It must be sold,” the foreman repeated, “and will be sold. Good day to you, sir.”

Clenching his jaw in rage, Jasper wheeled about and returned to the relative safety of the Wealdhant estate. If—when—the railway encroached upon Wealdhant lands, he would see them in court for it. But Mr. Sutton knew that already, and had evidently sent no word to cease work. He must be still entirely confident of his company securing the lands, and likely in short order.

Which meant Jasper had likely deposed Algernon to no avail.

Straightening his hat, Jasper strode back toward the manor, reaching the front steps before he realised that he had no purpose to be there. Algernon wasn’t within and wasn’t ever coming back. The railway would provide some other trumped-up heir, or the Crown would seize the lands, and Jasper would never see the interior of the house again. Worse, another heir might make good on one of Algernon’s empty threats to replace him with a fashionable gardener from London. In addition, they might evict him and his sisters from their home.

And none of them would be charming, laughing, reckless Algernon Clarke.

Jasper took the front door key from his pocket and turned it in the lock.

The house within was silent as a crypt. Jasper shut the door softly behind himself.

A draught from nowhere skittered down the stairs, playing with the light of the high front windows like a swirl of unseen leaves.

“I want him back,” Jasper said to himself, eyes unfocused toward the spot where the shafts of light played across the stairway balustrade. He swallowed thickly, feeling heavy with regret and self-loathing.

If Algernon were here, would he chide me for a fool? Would he listen, now that I know why and how Mr. Sutton was using him as a pawn?

The old family bible was upstairs in the library.

“Her name,” Jasper said, with a sigh of frustration even as he realised what he had to do, “was Tabitha
Millicent
.”

H
e had forgotten
how loud it could be in London.

Babies cried at all hours of the night. Dogs barked, men shouted, women wept. The air was thick with smog that tasted like salt, soot, and rotten fish.

Algernon didn’t sleep. Light from the street slanted in through the ill-fitted boards of his garrett room. The same garrett room where he’d been before.

He’d tried going to the townhouse where he’d grown up. His father’s townhouse, lost now. All of Algernon’s adventure and whimsy had come from his father, and the risky business decisions likewise. By the time his father had died, the family had been deep in debt, and plague took his mother a year later. He’d thought he’d gotten past missing them, but now that he’d lost everything anew, the sorrow and loneliness weighed in his belly like a stone.

His mother’s hands had fluttered as she spoke, as if every conversation was a dance.

His father’s sideburns had grown out big and bushy, peppered with grey and brushed proudly to stand at their full length.

Algernon rubbed his hand over his face, aching with loneliness.

Even Mr. Cullen had gone. Algernon had sent him off.

It hurt worse because he had refused to go, again and again, until Algernon had at last said, “Go, Cullen. I don’t want you to see, when they drag me off to prison.”

Mr. Cullen had gone, out of respect for Algernon’s dignity.

And it hurt, because it meant even Mr. Cullen believed there was no hope left. No salvation, no way out of his debts. He’d be locked away in a debtor’s prison, set to work in miserable conditions until his debts were paid—or until he died.

Algernon ran his tongue over his teeth and reached for his little stack of law books set by the bed in hopes that they would drive away thoughts of how long one might be expected to live in the Queen’s Prison.

There were footsteps on the stair below. Algernon lifted his head and listened. One set. He would have expected two. Bow Street Runners and debt collectors usually traveled in pairs, in case of resistance.

The footsteps hesitated every so often on the stairs as they climbed up toward the top floor garrett. Algernon fancied that the footsteps—and whoever they bore forth—were reluctant, bringing some news that they didn’t want to divulge.

He skimmed his thumb along the pages of the book, wondering. It wasn’t Mr. Cullen’s tread upon the stair. He would have recognised those.

Nor Jasper’s, which would be heavier and less inclined to hesitation or doubt—folly though it was to think that
Jasper
, of all people, would have troubled to seek him out in London.

The footsteps reached the top of the stairs and scuffed uncertainly in front of Algernon’s door.

Scarcely decent in shirt-sleeves and waistcoat, Algernon watched the door and waited.

His visitor knocked.

It could be no henchman or bellwether, not if they hesitated in such a manner. Algernon set his book aside and got out of bed, crossing to the door in stocking feet to see who had come.

Mr. Sutton stood upon the doorstep, hat in hand, looking quite red with flustered indignation. “Mr. Clarke.”

“Mr. Sutton,” Algernon said in shock, gaping at him for several seconds before he stood aside and gestured at the interior of his cramped little room. “Do come in.”

Sweeping into the room, Mr. Sutton clutched his hat tighter and lifted his chin proudly. “Mr. Clarke.”

“Mr. Sutton,” Algernon repeated. His guest seemed to be having trouble getting to the purpose of whatever he’d come here to say, so Algernon fetched his coat and began the process of struggling into it while the railway solicitor composed himself.

“It seems that there has been some mistake,” Mr. Sutton began.

Algernon turned toward him, interest increasing. There were only a few possibilities that would have brought Mr. Sutton alone to his doorstep and resentful about it. “A mistake, Mr. Sutton?”

“Additional evidence has come to light,” Mr. Sutton said. “Regarding your claim upon the Wealdhant estate.”

Algernon took a step forward. “Additional evidence?”

“It seems—well, you see—your ancestress, Mrs. Tabitha Cropper, who listed her maiden name as Mills, which was taken as proof that she was
not
Tabitha Allesbury… Well, the additional evidence would seem to suggest that Mills was Tabitha Allesbury’s
middle
name.”

“Her middle name! What evidence is this, Mr. Sutton? How was it found?”

“Some old family bible from Wealdhant listing the Allesbury family tree. The Treasury Solicitor is satisfied as to its authenticity.”

Busying himself with tugging on his boots, Algernon froze as comprehension dawned upon him. “Tabitha Mills!”

“Yes, that’s right.” Mr. Sutton set his satchel upon the desk and began taking out papers from it.

Jasper was the only one who knew about the old bible they’d found, with the hard-to-read
Millc
. after Tabitha’s name. He was also one of the only people who could possibly have access to it. But it was impossible that Jasper would have provided it to the railway, since that would have required Jasper to
lie
for him.

What could I do? It’s the truth, Algernon.

Shoving his foot the rest of the way into the boot, Algernon went to look at the papers Mr. Sutton had brought.

“The Treasury Solicitor has legitimised your claim, Mr. Clarke. You are the legal owner of Wealdhant, and the heir of the Allesbury line.” Mr. Sutton offered him a quill pen. “Which means it falls to you to finalise the sale of the land for the railway.”

Algernon took the pen. “And I hope there won’t be any more mix-ups to evict me?”

Firming his lips into a tight line, Mr. Sutton stood straighter. “There cannot be. The crown has recognised you as the legitimate heir.”

“Excellent.” Algernon set down the pen and went to fetch his stack of books. “Then I believe I have some modifications to make to your route.”

“Modifications!” Mr. Sutton exclaimed.

“Oh, perfectly within the allowances of the Act of Parliament, don’t worry. I must allow you the land for your railway, for the betterment of England, but the law does stipulate that reasonable accommodation must be made as to the route.” Algernon smiled at him, delighted by his new bargaining power as the lawful heir to Wealdhant. “I’m sure that once you see the proposed modifications, you’ll agree that it is a much more reasonable route for the railway.”

“Certainly, Mr. Clarke,” Mr. Sutton said through gritted teeth.