From Waif To Gentleman's Wife

‘Always,’ Ned affirmed, the glow her presence kindled in his own heart tainted by an envy he could not quite subdue. He’d been drawn to Sarah Wellingford the moment they’d met. Had his good friend Nicky not already established a claim on her, he’d have pursued her himself.

‘Thank you, kind sirs,’ she replied with a twinkle, making them both an exaggerated curtsy. ‘Nicky, Aubrey won’t settle for his nap until you kiss him goodnight. Ned, can you spare him for a few moments?’

‘Of course.’ Turning to Nicky, Ned said, ‘Go see your son. I’ll wait here, making inroads on your brandy and contemplating solutions.’

‘The demands of fatherhood,’ Nicky said with a sigh Ned didn’t believe for a moment, knowing Nicky adored his little boy as much as he loved his wife. ‘I’ll be back shortly.’ His wife on his arm, Englemere walked out.

Ned watched them leave together, trying to suppress another swell of envy.

Barred from courting the one woman he’d ever cared for, a countrywoman who might love and esteem a simple gentleman farmer like himself, would Ned ever find another lady Sarah’s equal? Bitterness stirred in his gut. After his recent disillusionment over Amanda, he’d be much less likely to believe it if he ever again encountered one who appeared to be as worthy of his loyalty and affection as his friend’s wife.

Unwillingly his mind caught on the image of the vivacious, charming Amanda. He thought he’d found the lady he’d been seeking when her father, Lord Bronning, a fellow agricultural enthusiast he’d met years ago at the annual meeting at Holkham, had invited him to visit his estate after last autumn’s meeting. Ned had been immediately taken with the bright gold hair, mischievous blue eyes and sparkling wit of Bronning’s country-born, country-bred daughter. Nor had she discouraged him, he recalled, his lip curling.

Oh, no, she’d immediately come forwards to monopolise his attention. Insisting to her papa that she be his guide on walks and drives around her father’s property, she’d impressed him with her knowledge of the estate and entertained him with her needle-sharp commentary.

His scowl deepened. She’d also fired him to a simmering passion long denied, with the subtle brushes of her fingers against his body, her deliberate, stroking touches to his hands and arms and shoulders, her jutting bosom and moistened lips. Lonely after having lost the company of his two best friends, one happily wed to a girl Ned cherished and the other, Hal Waterman, occupied with his investments in the north, he’d let lust and neediness persuade him what he felt for Amanda was love. And offered for her hand.

Thank a kind Providence he’d first made a formal application to Lord Bronning! To his own chagrin and that gentleman’s embarrassment, her father confessed apologetically that his Amanda, terrible flirt that she was, had vowed to him she would marry none but a wealthy gentleman of high title who, since she’d had enough of rural living, resided for as much of the year as possible in London. Pretty as his little scamp was, Lord Bronning added with fatherly pride, he had no doubt she would accomplish that goal when his sister introduced her in town next Season.

Grateful to at least have been spared the humiliation of having the lady refuse him to his face, Ned had swiftly hied himself home. And vowed in his turn that, being neither as rich as Hal nor as high-born as Nicky, he would be cautious indeed before ever again casting his bruised heart into the matrimonial ring.

Dismissing with irritation that painful episode, he forced his thoughts back to Nicky’s problem. Though Ned wasn’t accounted truly wealthy, his assets tied up as they were in land rather than coin, he did well enough, and managing land was a passion that had never disappointed him. From the first time he’d met like-minded individuals at Coke of Norfolk’s Holkham Hall meeting, he’d devoted all his time and energy to implementing the ideas discussed there and persuading his tenants to adopt the latest and most efficient agricultural techniques.

But even advanced agricultural practices weren’t always enough to stave off disaster in these hard times, he mused, frowning. The cost of the enclosures essential to modernise agriculture had fallen most heavily on those least able to bear them, the poor farmers who held little beyond their plots of ground in the old commons and wastes. With the drastic fall in the price of wheat and corn, even a well-managed small property could fall into difficulties. The fate of those on a poorly managed one could be grim indeed.

Nicky was right; it was the duty of the local landowner to help his tenants prosper and see that those forced to sell their small plots found employment at a reasonable wage. He was right about the difficulty of the endeavour, too. Rectifying the effects of a long period of mismanagement under current conditions would pose a difficult challenge even for one of Ned’s experience and expertise.

By heaven, right now he could use a challenge, something to distract him from the lingering bitterness over Amanda and keep the loneliness at bay.

The idea flashed into mind just as Nicky walked back in.

‘You’d had time to mull over the situation,’ Nicky said, pouring himself another fingerful of brandy. ‘What advice do you offer?’

‘Sell Blenhem Hill,’ Ned replied. ‘It’s too far away for you to oversee properly, forcing you to depend on an estate agent of uncertain expertise, and it’s reputed to be in poor condition anyway.’

‘Sell it?’ Nicky echoed. ‘Now? With land and crop prices falling like a duck full of shot, who would be fool enough to purchase a failing agricultural property in the restive Midlands?’

Ned smiled. ‘I would.’

Chapter Two

If one means to try a new crop, best to start broadcasting the seed, Ned had always thought. Which was why he found himself ten days later jolting along in Nicky’s crested travelling carriage down the rutted lane to Blenhem Hill.

Trusting the legal niceties of the sale to the expertise of their respective solicitors, Ned had proposed to Nicholas that he take over the management of the property immediately. His friend agreed, and, upon learning that Ned, who had already completed preparations for spring planting on his several holdings in Kent, meant to go to Blenhem directly from London, Englemere insisted he borrow his travelling carriage so as to make the journey in greater comfort.

Despite the daunting description of what probably awaited him at Blenhem Hill, with the coach now so near its destination, a rising excitement buoyed Ned’s spirits. He might be hopeless at the capricious game of love, but one constant he knew to his bones—the feel of richly scented loam between his fingers, waiting for one of skill and patience to nourish it, tend it, woo from it a bounty of tasseled corn or waving wheat.

Land in good heart was honest, rewarding one’s care with a harvest that varied only according to the vagaries of the weather. Soil did not look upon you sweetly one day, offering up a fine stand of wheat or beans or corn, and the next, turn to weeds and bramble. Even poor ground, thin and rocky or soggy with clay, could be improved through the use of well-tested techniques. Yes, a man knew where he stood with his land. It was never fickle like a woman’s smile or changeable like a lady’s whim.

He also relished the opportunity to work with the tenants, both at Blenhem and in the surrounding neighbourhood. Farmers, especially in lean times, were often loath to change practices that had been handed down for generations. Coaxing them to try different methods that Ned knew would yield healthier soil and better harvests, thereby increasing their income and security, would bring him a satisfaction far greater than a mere increase to the rent rolls and a chest full of coins in his estate office.

At that moment, the vehicle bounced into another pothole and came down hard, almost throwing him off his seat. Catching himself with a grimace, Ned reflected that perhaps travelling by horseback, as he’d initially intended, would have been more comfortable than the barouche after all, despite the soaking rain in which they’d set out from London.

He was about to signal the coachman to halt and call for his horse, being led behind the coach by his groom, when the explosion of a pistol discharged at close range blasted his ears.

Before the reverberations stopped ringing, Ned plastered himself against the squabs, seeking the thin protection of the coach wall as he peered out of the window. ‘John! Harrison!’ he called to the coachman and his valet, riding on the box beside the driver. ‘Are you all right?’

Scanning the surrounding forest through the small coach window to try to determine from whence had come the shot, as he awaited a reply, Ned scrabbled for his own pistol, left negligently in a corner of the coach after their stop at the last inn. But who could have imagined they would encounter highwaymen here, on this isolated lane far from any town?

‘Winged Mr Harrison,’ the coachman called back.

Before Ned could enquire any further, a small party of masked men led by a rider on horseback emerged from the thick woods to the left.

‘Nay, don’t reach for yer blunderbuss,’ their mounted leader cautioned John Coachman. ‘If’n we’d wished to kill ye, ye’d be dead. Our quarrel’s not with you, but with that fine gent cowering inside.’

Raising his pistol, the man fired, blasting a hole through the centre of the crested door. The ball whizzed past Ned’s knees and buried itself into the opposite door panel. ‘That’s for the vote and General Ludd. Death to mill owners and tyrants!’

‘Aye, hurrah for General Ludd and death to tyrants!’ his companions cheered, waving their arms in the air.

Out of the corner of his eye, Ned saw one of the band raise his pistol and sight it. Not sure whether the man meant to target him or the unarmed servants sitting exposed on the box, Ned quickly levelled his own weapon and fired.

The gunman cried out and grabbed his shoulder, dropping his pistol, which discharged as it hit the ground, sending a stray ball whining into the cluster of men. While the leader’s horse reared in panic, the group scattered.

Controlling his mount, the leader rode over to his injured follower, steadying him before he could fall. Looking back over his shoulder at Ned, he snarled, ‘You’ll pay for this!’

‘Not if you swing for it first,’ Ned retorted as the leader signalled another of the group to pull along the injured man, then trotted after his followers back into the thick greenery from which they’d emerged.

While the sounds of their passage through the woods receded, Ned tossed down his empty pistol and jumped out of the coach. ‘Harrison, how badly are you hurt?’

He looked up to see the valet clutching his left wrist, grimacing as the coachman inspected it. ‘Grazed only, Sir Edward,’ he replied through gritted teeth.

‘Lost a bit of blood, but the ball didn’t penetrate the bone,’ the coachman announced. ‘Bless me, Sir Edward, I be powerful sorry! Caught me napping, me old musket too far away even to grab afore they halted us. What’s the world coming to, when honest folk can’t travel a country road without being set upon? ‘Tis a blessing they left you yer purse without murdering us all!’

‘They weren’t after my purse,’ Ned replied, leaning into the coach to retrieve a flask of brandy and hand it up to Harrison. ‘Drink,’ he instructed the valet, who had gone white about the lips and looked definitely unsteady. ‘It will ease the burn and help settle your head.’

The groom, who’d succeeded in quieting Ned’s frightened horse, ran up. ‘Sure enough they would’a robbed us, Sir Edward, if’n you hadn’t scared them off.’

Ned shook his head. ‘There were five of them, by my count, and probably they had more weapons. They must know I would have handed over whatever they asked for to prevent further bloodshed. Besides, they were cheering for “General Ludd”.’

‘General Ludd?’ Harrison repeated. ‘You mean … they were Luddites? I thought all that nonsense ceased after the arrests and hangings in 1814.’

‘There’s been a revival of frame-breaking attacks since Waterloo. We’re not so far from Nottingham, which has always been in the thick of it,’ Ned replied, frowning.

‘Thugs and vermin is what I call ‘em,’ the coachman pronounced. ‘Should be hung or transported, the lot of ‘em. As I expect they will be, once you report this to the nearest magistrate!’

‘Whoever they were, I believe they’ve got safely away,’ Ned said. ‘Richard—’ he turned to the groom ‘—help Harrison to that fallen log.’ He gestured towards the wood’s edge. ‘You and John walk the horses while he recovers himself before we must jostle him the rest of the way to Blenhem Hill.’

After a token protest that he was all right, the valet let himself be assisted to the ground, where he walked on wobbly legs to sit on the mossy tree trunk. Leaving the man sipping at the brandy flask, Ned paced the road, pondering what to do next.