The Blue Rose Regency Romances: The Culpepper Misses Series 1-5 Page 2

  Flimflam and goose-butt feathers.

  Brooke tamped down a heavy sigh. Each structure on the estate, including the house, needed some sort of repair or replacement: roofs, shutters, stalls, floors, stairs, doors, siding...dozens of items required fixing, and she could seldom muster the funds to go about it properly.

  “Another pair of cows struggling, you say, Mr. Mabry?”

  Concern etched on his weathered features, Mabry wiped rain droplets from his face as water pooled at his muddy feet.

  “Yes, Miss Brooke. The four calves born this mornin’ fare well, but two of the cows, one a first-calf heifer, aren’t standin’ yet. And there’s one weak from birthin’ her calf yesterday.” His troubled gaze strayed to the window. “Two more ladies are in labor. I best return to the barn. They seemed fine when I left, but I’d as soon be nearby.”

  Brooke nodded once. “Yes, we mustn’t take any chances.”

  The herd had already been reduced to a minimum by disease and sales to make ends meet. She needed every shilling the cows’ milk brought. Losing another, let alone two or three good breeders...

  No, I won’t think of it.

  She stopped pacing and forced a cheerful smile. Nonetheless, from the skeptical look Mabry speedily masked, his thoughts ran parallel to hers—one reason she put her trust in the man. Honest and intelligent, he’d worked alongside her to restore the beleaguered herd and farm after Papa died. Their existence, their livelihood, everyone at Esherton’s future depended on the estate flourishing once more.

  “It’s only been a few hours.” Almost nine, truth to tell. Brooke scratched her temple. “Perhaps the ladies need a little more time to recover.” If they recovered. “The calves are strong, aren’t they?” Please, God, they must be. She held her breath, anticipating Mabry’s response.

  His countenance lightened and the merry sparkle returned to his eyes. “Aye, the mites are fine. Feedin’ like they’re hollow to their wee hooves.”

  Tension lessoned its ruthless grip, and hope peeked from beneath her vast mound of worries.

  Six calves had been guaranteed in trade to her neighbor and fellow dairy farmer, Silas Huffington, for the grain and medicines he’d provided to see Esherton Green’s herd through last winter. Brooke didn’t have the means to pay him if the calves didn’t survive—though the old reprobate had hinted he’d make her a deal of a much less respectable nature if she ran short of cattle with which to barter. Each pence she’d stashed away—groat by miserable groat, these past four years—lay in the hidden drawer of Papa’s desk and must go to purchase a bull.

  Wisdom had decreed replacing Old Buford two years ago but, short on funds, she’d waited until it was too late. His heart had stopped while he performed the duties expected of a breeding bull. Not the worst way to cock up one’s toes...er, hooves, but she’d counted on him siring at least two-score calves this season and wagered everything on the calving this year and next. The poor brute had expired before he’d completed the job.

  Her thoughts careened around inside her skull. Without a bull, she would lose everything.

  My home, care of my sister and cousins, my reasons for existing.

  She squared her shoulders, resolution strengthening her. She still retained the Culpepper sapphire parure set. If all else failed, she would pawn the jewelry. She’d planned on using the money from the gems’ sale to bestow small marriage settlements on the girls. Still, pawning the set was a price worth paying to keep her family at Esherton Green, even if it meant that any chance of her sister and three cousins securing a decent match would evaporate faster than a dab of milk on a hot cookstove. Good standing and breeding meant little if one’s fortune proved meaner than a churchyard beggar’s.

  “How’s the big bull calf that came breech on Sunday?” Brooke tossed the question over her shoulder as she poked the fire and encouraged the blaze to burn hotter. After setting the tool aside, she faced the overseer.

  “Greediest of the lot.” Mabry laughed and slapped his thigh. “Quite the appetite he has, and friendly as our Freddy there. Likes his ears scratched too.”

  Brooke chuckled and ran her hand across Freddy’s spine. The dog wiggled in excitement and stuck his rear legs straight out behind him, gazing at her in adoration. In his youth, he’d been an excellent cattle herder. Now he’d gone fat and arthritic, his sweet face gray to his eyebrows. On occasion, he still dashed after the cattle, the instinctive drive to herd deep in the marrow of his bones.

  Another shudder shook her. Why was she so blasted cold today? She relented and placed a good-sized log atop the others. The feeble flames hissed and spat before greedily engulfing the new addition. Lord, she prayed she wasn’t ailing. She simply couldn’t afford to become ill.

  A scratching at the door barely preceded the entrance of Duffen bearing a tea service. “Gotten to where a man cannot find a quiet corner to shut his eyes for a blink or two anymore.”

  Shuffling into the room, he yawned and revealed how few teeth remained in his mouth. One sock sagged around his ankle, his grizzled hair poked every which way, and his shirttail hung askew. Typical Duffen.

  “Devil’s day, it is.” He scowled in the window’s direction, his mouth pressed into a grim line. “Mark my words, trouble’s afoot.”

  Not quite a butler, but certainly more than a simple retainer, the man, now hunched from age, had been a fixture at Esherton Green Brooke’s entire life. He loved the place as much as, if not more than, she, and she couldn’t afford to hire a servant to replace him. A light purse had forced Brooke to let the household staff go when Papa died. The cook, Mrs. Jennings, Duffen, and Flora, a maid-of-all-work, had stayed on. However, they received no salaries—only room and board.

  The income from the dairy scarcely permitted Brooke to retain a few milkmaids and stable hands, yet not once had she heard a whispered complaint from anyone.

  Everybody, including Brooke, her sister, Brette, and their cousins—Blythe, and the twins, Blaike and Blaire—did their part to keep the farm operating at a profit. A meager profit, particularly as, for the past five years, Esherton Green’s legal heir, Sheridan Gainsborough, had received half the proceeds. In return, he permitted Brooke and the girls to reside there. He’d also been appointed their guardian. But, from his silence and failure to visit the farm, he seemed perfectly content to let her carry on as provider and caretaker.

  “Ridiculous law. Only the next male in line can inherit,” she muttered.

  Especially when he proved a disinterested bore. Papa had thought so too, but the choice hadn’t been his to make. If only she could keep the funds she sent to Sheridan each quarter, Brooke could make something of Esherton and secure her sister and cousins’ futures too.

  If wishes were gold pieces, I’d be rich indeed.

  Brooke sneezed then sneezed again. Dash it all. A cold?

  The fresh log snapped loudly, and Brooke started. The blaze’s heat had failed to warm her opinion of her second cousin. She hadn’t met him and lacked a personal notion of his character, but Papa had hinted that Sheridan was a scallywag and possessed unsavory habits.

  A greedy sot, too.

  The one time her quarterly remittance had been late, because Brooke had taken a tumble and broken her arm, he’d written a disagreeable letter demanding his money.

  His money, indeed.

  Sheridan had threatened to sell Esherton Green’s acreage and turn her and the foursome onto the street if she ever delayed payment again.

  A ruckus beyond the entrance announced the girls’ arrival. Laughing and chatting, the blond quartet billowed into the room. Their gowns, several seasons out of fashion, in no way detracted from their charm, and pride swelled in Brooke’s heart. Lovely, both in countenance and disposition, and the dears worked hard too.

  “Duffen says we’re to have tea in here today.” Attired in a Pomona green gown too short for her tall frame, Blaike plopped on to the sofa. Her twin, Blaire, wearing a similar dress in dark rose and equally inadequate in length,
flopped beside her.

  Each girl scooped a drowsy cat into her lap. The cats’ wiry whiskers twitched, and they blinked their sleepy amber eyes a few times before closing them once more as the low rumble of contented purrs filled the room.

  “Yes, I didn’t think we needed to light a fire in the drawing room when this one will suffice.” As things stood, too little coal and seasoned firewood remained to see them comfortably until summer.

  Brette sailed across the study, her slate-blue gingham dress the only one of the quartet’s fashionably long enough. Repeated laundering had turned the garment a peculiar greenish color, much like tarnished copper. She looped her arm through Brooke’s.

  “Look, dearest.” Brette pointed to the tray. “I splurged and made a half-batch of shortbread biscuits. It’s been so long since we’ve indulged, and today is your birthday. To celebrate, I insisted on fresh tea leaves as well.”

  Brooke would have preferred to ignore the day.

  Three and twenty.

  On the shelf. Past her prime. Long in the tooth. Spinster. Old maid.

  She’d relinquished her one chance at love. In order to nurse her ailing father and assume the care of her young sister and three orphaned cousins, she’d refused Humphrey Benbridge’s proposal. She couldn’t have put her happiness before their welfare and deserted them when they needed her most. Who would’ve cared for them if she hadn’t?

  No one.

  Mr. Benbridge controlled the purse strings, and Humphrey had neither offered nor been in a position to take on their care. Devastated, or so he’d claimed, he’d departed to the continent five years ago.

  She’d not seen him since.

  Nonetheless, his sister, Josephina, remained a friend and occasionally remarked on Humphrey’s travels abroad. Burying the pieces of her broken heart beneath hard work and devotion to her family, Brooke had rolled up her sleeves and plunged into her forced role as breadwinner, determined that sacrificing her love not be in vain.

  Yes, it grieved her that she wouldn’t experience a man’s passion or bear children, but to wallow in doldrums was a waste of energy and emotion. Instead, she focused on building a future for her sister and cousins—so they might have what she never would—and allowed her dreams to fade into obscurity.

  “Happy birthday.” Brette squeezed her hand.

  Brooke offered her sister a rueful half-smile. “Ah, I’d hoped you’d forgotten.”

  “Don’t be silly, Brooke. We couldn’t forget your special day.” Twenty-year-old Blythe—standing with her hands behind her—grinned and pulled a small, neatly-wrapped gift tied with a cheerful yellow ribbon from behind her. Sweet dear. She’d used the trimming from her gown to adorn the package.

  “Hmph. Need seedcake an’ champagne to celebrate a birthday properly.” The contents of the tray rattled and clanked when Duffen scuffed his way to the table between the sofa and chairs. After depositing the tea service, he lifted a letter from the surface. Tea dripped from one stained corner. “This arrived for you yesterday, Miss Brooke. I forgot where I’d put it until just now.”

  If I can read it with the ink running to London and back.

  He shook the letter, oblivious to the tawny droplets spraying every which way.

  Mabry raised a bushy gray eyebrow, and the twins hid giggles by concealing their faces in the cat’s striped coats.

  Brette set about pouring the tea, although her lips twitched suspiciously.

  Freddy sat on his haunches and barked, his button eyes fixed on the paper, evidently mistaking it for a tasty morsel he would’ve liked to sample. He licked his chops, a testament to his waning eyesight.

  “Thank you, Duffen.” Brooke took the letter by one soggy corner. Holding it gingerly, she flipped it over. No return address.

  “Aren’t you going to read it?” Blythe set the gift on the table before settling on the sofa and smoothing her skirt. They didn’t get a whole lot of post at Esherton. Truth be known, this was the first letter in months. Blythe’s gaze roved to the other girls and the equally eager expressions on their faces. “We’re on pins and needles,” she quipped, fluttering her hands and winking.

  Brooke smiled and cracked the brownish wax seal with her fingernail. Their lives had become rather monotonous, so much so that a simple, soggy, correspondence sent the girls into a dither of anticipation.

  My Dearest Cousin...

  Brooke glanced up. “It’s from Sheridan.

  As is oft the case when wagering, one party is a fool and the other a thief,

  although both may bear the title nincompoop.

  ~Wisdom and Advice—The Genteel Lady’s Guide to Practical Living

  What maggot in Heath’s brain had possessed him to set out on the final leg of his journey to Esherton Green on horseback when foul weather threatened? The same corkbrained notion that had compelled him, the Earl of Ravensdale, one of the most eligible lords on the Marriage Mart, to miss the peak of London’s Season in exchange for a saddle-sore arse.

  He pulled his hat more firmly onto his head. The bloody wind tried its best to blast every last drop of rain either into his face or down the back of his neck, and he hunched deeper into his saddle. Fat lot of good that did.

  The sooner I’ve finished this ugly business with the tenant, the sooner I can return to London and civilization.

  The road from the village—if one deigned to grace the rutted and miry track with such distinction—lay along an open stretch of land, not a single sheltering tree in sight. He hadn’t spotted another living thing this past hour. Any creature claiming half a wit laid snuggled in its nest, den, or house, waiting out the foulness. He’d seen two manors in the distance, but to detour to either meant extending his time in this Godforsaken spot.

  People actually chose to live here?

  Hound’s teeth, he loathed the lack of niceties, abhorred the quiet which stretched for miles. The boredom and isolation. Give him London’s or Paris’s crowded and noisy paved streets any day; even if all manner of putridity lined them most of the time.

  Despite his greatcoat, the torrential, wind-driven rain soaked him to the skin. Heath patted his pocket where the vowel proving his claim to the farm lay nestled in a leather casing and, with luck, still dry. He’d barely spared the marker a glance at White’s and hadn’t taken a peek since.

  Reading wasn’t his strong suit.

  His sodden cravat chaffed unmercifully, and water seeped—drip by infernal drip—from his saturated buckskins into his Hessians. He eyed one boot and wiggled his toes. Bloody likely ruined, and he’d just had them made too. Stupid to have worn them and not an older pair. Wanton waste and carelessness—the calling cards of sluggards and degenerates.

  Ebénè snorted and bowed his head against the hostile weather. The stallion, unused to such harsh treatment, had been pushed to the end of his endurance, despite his mild temperament. The horse increasingly expressed his displeasure with snorts, groans, and an occasional jerking of his head against the reins.

  “I’m sorry, old chap. I thought we’d beat the storm.” Heath leaned forward and patted the horse’s neck. Black as hell at midnight when dry, now drenched, Ebénè’s silky coat glistened like wet ink.

  The horse quivered beneath Heath and trudged onward through the sheets of rain.

  Indeed, they might have outpaced the tempest if Heath hadn’t lingered at breakfast and enjoyed a third cup of Turkish coffee at Tristan, the Marquis of Leventhorpe’s, home.

  Leventhorpe actually enjoyed spending time at his country house, Bristledale Court. Heath couldn’t understand that, but as good friends do, he overlooked the oddity.

  Reluctance to part company with Leventhorpe hadn’t been Heath’s only excuse for dawdling. Leventhorpe had proved a superb host, and Bristledale boasted the latest comforts. The manor house’s refinement tempted far more than venturing to a rustic dairy farm with the unpleasant tidings Heath bore.

  He’d won the unwanted lands in a wager against Sheridan Gainsborough. The milksop had c
ontinued to raise the stakes when he didn’t have the blunt to honor his bet. And it wasn’t the first time the scapegrace had been light in the pocket at the tables. To teach the reckless sot a lesson, Heath had refused Gainsborough’s I.O.U. and demanded he make good on his bet.

  When the sluggard offered a piece of property as payment instead, Heath had had little choice but to accept, though it chaffed his sore arse. A tenant farmer and his family would be deprived of their livelihood as a consequence. No one—including this dairyman, months behind in his rents—should be put out of his means of income because a foxed dandy had acted rashly.

  Now he owned another confounded piece of English countryside he didn’t need nor want. He didn’t even visit his country estate, Walcotshire Park. With a half dozen irritable servants for company, he’d spent his childhood there until fifteen years ago when, at thirteen, he’d been sent to boarding school. Instead, Walcotshire’s steward tootled to Town quarterly, more often if the need arose, to meet with Heath.

  A ripple of unease clawed his nerves. He shifted in the saddle. Discomfort inevitably accompanied thoughts of The Prison, as he’d come to regard the austere house, a scant thirty miles from the path Ebénè now plodded.

  For a fleeting moment—no more than a blink, truthfully—he contemplated permitting the farmer to continue running the dairy. However, that obligated Heath to trot down to the place on occasion, and nothing short of a God-ordained mandate would compel him to venture to this remote section of green perdition on a regular basis. Not even the prospect of Leventhorpe’s company. The marquis would be off to London for the remainder of the Season soon enough, in any event.

  Heath had experienced enough of country life as a boy. The family mausoleum perched atop a knoll overlooking the cemetery held more warmth and fonder memories than The Prison did. The same could be said of his parents buried there. A colder, more uncaring pair of humans he had yet to meet. He wouldn’t have been surprised to learn ice-water, rather than blood, flowed through their veins.