The Two Lords of Wealdhant Manor (3 page)

“How are you enjoying the promotion to butler?” Algernon asked his former valet. Mr. Cullen laid out a fresh suit upon the bed and then came over to help Algernon out of his coat, resuming his valet duties without hesitation.

“Quite well,” Mr. Cullen answered him. “How did you survive three days without a valet?”

“I spent more time in shirt sleeves than I care to admit,” Algernon grimaced. “Coats never seemed such trouble before!”

“I told you that you ought to engage a new valet before I left,” Mr. Cullen scolded him.

“Trouble and money,” Algernon said. “And me still in that awful garrett. Absurd to have a valet there. I still think you ought to have abandoned me, but here we are, and I’m grateful that you didn’t.”

“Here you are, lord of a muddy manor in rural Lincolnshire,” Mr. Cullen agreed, a teasing note in his voice as he helped Algernon into the fresh coat and trousers.

It brought a smile to Algernon’s face, grateful as ever for his butler’s friendship. “Here I am indeed. Better than being lord of a cell in a draughty debtor’s prison, don’t you think?”

“A significant improvement,” Mr. Cullen concurred. “And perhaps you’ll be able to sleep better here, as well.”

“Yes, Cullen,” Algernoon agreed, and yawned. “I do hope so.”

“There you are, sir. I’ll see to your muddy things. Shall I send up tea or sandwiches for you?”

“Not quite yet, I’m far too curious to sit still. Do you suppose that anyone will mind if I explore a bit?”

“It’s your house, Mr. Clarke. You may do as you please.”

“So it is! Lord of the manor, I am. How odd. Very different from being master of a mid-sized townhouse in London, don’t you think?” Algernon drifted over to the window, expecting more rough moorland, and startled at what he did see.

There was a beautiful formal garden, all neatly-maintained paths and trimmed hedges, surrounded by a low wall. Off to one side, he could see an orchard, laid out in a neat quincunx pattern. The trees were bare in winter, but both garden and orchard were clear of the sort of wild overgrowth which Algernon had expected.

“Here, now, Cullen! What’s this?”

“The garden, sir?” Mr. Cullen asked, coming to his side.

“It’s kept! Surely this is more than three days work—and don’t tell me you’ve seen to the garden when those stairs are in such poor condition.”

Mr. Cullen frowned out the windows at the pristine gardens. “Nothing has been done with the landscaping, sir. I haven’t engaged a gardener.”

“Then how is it that the hedges are trimmed?”

“I don’t know,” Mr. Cullen admitted. “I can only imagine—perhaps one of the locals has a fondness for gardening.”

“That’s quite the intensive hobby to take up,” Algernon said, although he admitted to himself that he really had no idea how much time and effort it took to maintain a formal garden. They stared out the windows side by side at the carefully manicured gardens. “They’re beautiful, Cullen. Find out who sees to it and hire them formally, will you? Whoever it is—they clearly know their business.”

“At once, sir,” Mr. Cullen said.

After dismissing him, Algernon lingered another few minutes by the window to admire the elegant gardens, and then went to explore the rest of the manor. As he stepped into the hallway and shut the bedroom door, the silence of the place closed heavy and thick around him. It felt as though he was the only inhabitant of Wealdhant. His seven servants must all be engaged throughout the house, cleaning and repairing the old manor, but they were all far enough away from the master suite that he could hear none of it.

Hesitating on the once glorious but now worn and moth-eaten rug in the hallway, Algernon felt like a child astray in the vast and unfamiliar manor, as though he might intrude upon some private secrets around any corner.

Shaking off the spell, he reached for the nearest doorknob and opened it. This was his house now, and had been abandoned for nearly a century. Any privacy or secrets belonged to persons long dead, perhaps his own ancestors.

The first doors he opened were all on rooms hung with cobwebs. There weren’t even sheets or dust cloths over the old furniture. It was all left as it had been, as if the inhabitants had made a swift departure and the servants hadn’t cared or lingered enough to shut the house up properly.

Dust and cobwebs swathed across fireplaces and draped down from the four-poster beds. More than one window-pane was broken, scattering leaves and devastation across the old floors and carpets. In one room, the rain and ruin that had come through the window had rotted the boards enough that Algernon could see through to the floor beneath. He peered curiously down into the hole until the board he was standing upon gave an alarming crack that sent him retreating swiftly back to the safety of the hallway. Feeling foolish about the near-disaster, Algernon decided it would be best
not
to mention the event to Mr. Cullen, who would surely give him a chiding for it.

He had lost track of the hallways and corridors he’d taken when he stepped into a grand portrait-hall. The centre was filled with a collection of exquisite marble statues in the Roman style. Even under their veils of dust, Algernon estimated each of them to be worth hundreds or thousands of pounds.

Along the walls of the gallery were displayed formal portraits, most of them hundreds of years old. His ancestors, perhaps. Algernon stopped to consider a sixteenth-century gentleman in a wide ruff, lifting his chin and matching the man’s pose. He didn’t recognise any similarity in the features, and didn’t think that the old English earls would recognise a half-Indian boy as their heir.

“Suppose you have to, old boy,” Algernon whispered to the old portrait.

Near the end of the portrait gallery, he found a stern-faced old man in mid-eighteenth century garb, scowling down at Algernon. The name on the portrait read, “Sir George Allesbury, Ninth Earl of Wealdhant Manor.”

Algernon compared his nose to the nose in the portrait. The earl’s nose was longer than Algernon’s, with a more pronounced bridge, but something of the straight line of the nose seemed familiar.

The final portrait in the row was a formal painting of three young women. The youngest seemed little more than sixteen, while the oldest was no more than twenty-five. They all sat or stood stiffly in the portrait, and did not smile, but for all that, the painting was well-executed enough that Algernon could spy some distinctions in their personality.

The youngest was the most lively of them, with dusky blond hair loose around her shoulders even though she ought to be old enough to have it piled upon her head like a grown woman. She sat with chin high and a little bit of playfulness in her demeanour, as if she had only paused for a moment to be admired before darting off on some adventure or flirtation.

Next to her was her sister, paler blond hair done up in an elegant arrangement of curls. Her head was bowed, fixed demurely upon her needlework.

Most striking was the oldest, who wore her dark hair pulled back and tied at the nape of her neck like a boy. She gazed boldly at the viewer, dark eyes arresting and a little bit accusatory. Algernon stared at her, feeling as though she was blaming him for some wrong or cruelty.

A chill draft blew across the back of his neck and he startled, having a brief, wild fancy that some cold hand had brushed him. Spinning around, he scanned the gallery, but there was nothing to see but the weighty, judging faces of his possible ancestors.

He looked back at the painting, hoping that his ancestress was the playful, charming one, although the thought seemed too impolite to say aloud to their painted faces.

Wanting suddenly to be away from the accusation and judgement of the portraits, Algernon darted out through the next door into a crowded hall of stuffed hunting trophies. The mounted heads of elk and bears gazed down on him with glassy eyes, which was only slightly less unnerving than the watchful eyes of his ancestors.

“Mr. Clarke?”

Algernon spun, finding that it was the maid-of-all-work, Miss Wotton, who had come to find him. She curtseyed, keeping her eyes downcast. Algernon wondered if that was her habit or if she was being particularly respectful in a polite effort to not notice how she had startled him. “Yes, Miss Wotton?”

“There’s a gentleman—well, it’s Mr. Waltham, you see—here to see you.” She bobbed another curtsey. “Sir.”

It was clear that she was not accustomed to serving gentry, even such suddenly risen gentry as the merchant-born Algernon Clarke. He seemed to recall that she was one of the locals that Mr. Cullen had hired, which also explained how she knew whoever this Mr. Waltham was.

“Thank you, Miss Wotton.”

“I showed him into the study, Mr. Clarke.”

“Oh! Very good, Miss Wotton.” Algernon nodded.

She turned to leave.

“Miss Wotton!” Algernon said, following after her into the hallway.

The maid turned back and blinked at him with wide, dutiful eyes. “Sir?”

“Ah, um.” Algernon ducked his head sheepishly. “Where is the study?”

Miss Wotton coughed and pressed her lips together, evidently amused. “This way, sir,” she said, and briskly set off down the corridor.

The study turned out to be just off of the front hall, a handsome little room with an expensive mahogany desk and smart shelves full of books and what might even be accounts and ledgers. Algernon resolved to go through them, allowing himself only a brief scan of the room before fixing his attention upon the gentleman waiting in the centre of the room.

Algernon’s face brightened with a smile when he realised that his visitor was the same broad-shouldered gentleman that he had encountered in the marketplace, handsomely formed with rugged features, dark blond hair, and brown eyes. His apparel was very thoroughly soaked through, and still somewhat muddy, which evidently did nothing to help his mood, if the dark scowl on his face was any indication.

Surprised by the intensity of the scowl, Algernon faltered on the threshold of the study, smile fading confusedly as he faced his guest. “Ah, good afternoon, Mr. … Waltham, was it?”

I
t was
no surprise that the unwelcome new inhabitant of Wealdhant was the charming and handsome gentleman he had met in the market.

Of the two of them, at least Mr. Clarke was less muddy, having changed out his suit for another very fashionable and very flattering suit of charcoal grey. Jasper chafed to be at a disadvantage in his wet and muddy apparel, but he had no intention of putting this off until later. Whatever shenanigans had resulted in Mr. Clarke moving in to Wealdhant Manor could not be allowed to continue.

“Yes,” he answered, drawing himself up to his full height and glowering further because his full height was not quite commensurate with Mr. Clarke’s full height. “I would say that it was a pleasure to meet you, Mr. Clarke, but under the circumstances I can’t really express as much. I don’t know what misconception has brought you to Wealdhant, but I must insist that you vacate the premises at once!”

Mr. Clarke startled at that, pressing a hand to his throat in shock, and quickly shut the study door so that they could speak more privately. “Vacate! On what authority, Mr. Waltham?”

“On the authority that Wealdhant Manor is not yours, and I would like to know what you think you’re about!”

“I beg to differ, Mr. Waltham!” Mr. Clarke objected, striding forward in order to return his glares more heatedly. “Waltham Manor
is
mine, you see, I have been discovered as the heir.”

“There isn’t an heir!” Jasper corrected him, bristling with anger. “What nonsense. After all these years!”

“In fact I am,” Mr. Clarke retorted, casting his glance around the room and seizing upon a portfolio set upon the desk top. “Here, look here, sir. I am the great-grandson of Mrs. Tabitha Cropper, nee Miss Tabitha Allesbury, of Wealdhant. The title of Earl of Wealdhant is extinct, but I think you will find that I am, in fact, the heir!”

“Who the
devil
is Mrs. Tabitha Cropper?” Jasper demanded, taking the papers and looking them over irritably. They seemed to be official, even though there was no significant connection, to his eye, between Tabitha Allesbury and Tabitha Cropper. And he couldn’t help but notice that more than half of them had the name of
Mr. Sutton, Esq., Coxholt-on-Hugh Railway Company
referenced as executor or solicitor.

“I’ve just told you that,” Mr. Clarke insisted, entirely indignant about the subject. “She was married in Nottinghamshire, as you can see here—”

Jasper narrowed his eyes, uncomfortable with the degree to which Mr. Sutton and the intruding railway had a hand in Mr. Clarke’s inheritance. “Nothing here says the slightest thing about her being Tabitha Allesbury!”

Mr. Clarke slammed the portfolio down irritably on the desk and rounded on him. “And who the devil are you, then?”

Jasper had the brief, wayward thought that Mr. Clarke was really rather attractive while he was in a temper. Puffing his chest, Jasper glared him down. “I am Jasper Waltham, and it is my responsibility to see to the estate.”

Staring at him for a moment, Mr. Clarke seized a book seemingly at random from the nearest shelf, and slammed it upon the desk beside the portfolio. It exuded a massive cloud of dust which puffed out around Jasper and settled on his wet clothing. Jasper closed his eyes in long-suffering irritation.

“A very impressive job of seeing to the manor that you’ve been doing, Mr. Waltham,” Mr. Clarke suggested. “What exactly is it that you see to? Managing that the dust levels remain at a depth of no less than two inches?”

Jasper glared wrathfully at him. “I see to the
grounds
, Mr. Clarke. Neither I nor anyone has been within this house in a hundred years.”

“I can quite see that!” Mr. Clarke snapped, and then suddenly deflated. “Wait, you see to the grounds?”

“That is what I said,” Jasper said, bristling in puzzled defence at Mr. Clarke’s change of manner.

“They’re beautiful,” said Mr. Clarke.

Not in the least expecting that, Jasper blinked at him. He took pride in his work with the gardens and the orchard, and it had been years since he’d received a genuine compliment upon them. Aside from the orchard, he suspected that most of the inhabitants of Wilston considered his care with the gardens to be an odd eccentricity on his part.