2. Chapter 2

Chapter 2

J ames Ayles, Baron Hastings, stood at the edge of the field, his keen grey eyes surveying the assembled farmers and farmhands. The late summer sun beat down upon them, casting long shadows across the freshly ploughed land. A gentle breeze rustled through the nearby trees, carrying with it the scent of earth and green things.

Before the group, a man in a crisp black suit gesticulated wildly; his voice rising and falling as he expounded upon the virtues of some newfangled drainage method. James observed the dubious expressions on the faces of his tenants, their weathered brows furrowed in scepticism.

"And so, gentlemen, by implementing this innovative system, you'll see a marked improvement in crop yield within the first season!" The man in black concluded with a flourish.

A low murmur rippled through the crowd. James caught fragments of hushed conversations, peppered with words like "nonsense" and "waste of time". He suppressed a sigh, running a hand through his dark hair.

"Any questions?" the suited man asked, his enthusiasm undimmed by the lukewarm reception.

Silence fell over the gathering. James could practically feel the weight of unasked questions hanging in the air. He cleared his throat, drawing all eyes to him.

"Perhaps Mr Hodgson might share his thoughts?" James suggested, nodding towards a grizzled farmer near the front.

Hodgson tugged at his cap, clearly uncomfortable with the attention. "Begging your pardon, m'lord, but we've been draining these fields the same way for generations. Why change now?"

The man in the suit launched into another explanation, but James tuned him out. He studied the faces of his tenants, noting their barely concealed frustration. They were good people, hardworking and loyal. They listened out of respect for him, but their patience was wearing thin.

James felt a familiar tightness in his chest. He wanted to do right by these people, to ensure the estate prospered for the sake of his daughters. But change was a delicate thing, especially in a community as rooted in tradition as this one.

"That's enough for today," James interrupted, his voice carrying across the field. "Thank you for your time, gentlemen. We'll discuss this further in private."

Relief washed over the crowd as they began to disperse. James caught snippets of conversation as they passed.

"Right waste of an afternoon, that was."

"The Baron's a good sort, but this new-fangled nonsense..."

"My granddad would be rolling in his grave if he heard all that rubbish."

James watched them go, a mixture of fondness and frustration warring within him. The estate had to move forward, but how could he convince them when they were so set in their ways?

James watched the last of his tenants disappear into various cottages and barns, their grumbling voices fading into the distance. The weight of responsibility settled on his shoulders like a physical burden, and he exhaled slowly, his eyes scanning the fields stretching out before him.

The land looked parched, even after the recent rains. Two years of poor harvests had left their mark, not just on the soil, but on the faces of his people. James could see the worry etched into their weathered features, the fear of what another bad year might bring.

He ran a hand over his face, feeling the rough texture of his burn scar beneath his fingers. The memory of fire flickered at the edges of his mind, but he pushed it away. There were more pressing concerns than old wounds.

Starvation. Poverty. The words echoed in his head, grim spectres that haunted his every decision. James was no stranger to loss, but the thought of failing those who depended on him sent a chill through his body despite the warmth of the day.

He turned away from the fields, his boots crunching on the dry grass as he made his way back towards the manor. The new drainage system could make all the difference, he knew that. But convincing the farmers to embrace change was like trying to move a mountain with his bare hands.

James's face was clouded with concern as he walked, his mind churning over the problem. He was a man of few words by nature, preferring action to lengthy speeches. But perhaps that was part of the issue. His tenants needed more than just a silent, brooding landlord. They needed reassurance, guidance.

The thought of opening up, of sharing his concerns and hopes with them, made James's stomach clench. He'd kept people at arm's length for so long, it was second nature now. But if it meant the difference between prosperity and ruin for his estate, for his daughters' future...

James paused, looking back over his shoulder at the fields. The sun was setting now, casting long shadows across the land. In the fading light, he could almost see the ghosts of better years past, of abundant harvests and content faces.

With a quiet determination, James set his jaw and continued towards the manor. He had decisions to make, and they couldn't wait. The fate of his people, his legacy, hung in the balance. As was his habit, he walked with his head down and tilted slightly to the side. It was a posture unconsciously done these days to minimize the view of the burned side of his face.

James strode towards the manor, his hands clasped tightly behind his back, lost in thought. The weight of his responsibilities pressed down upon him, each step feeling heavier than the last. He pondered the challenge of convincing his tenants to embrace change, the risks of another poor harvest, and the uncertain future that loomed before them all.

So engrossed was he in his musings that he failed to notice the approaching figure until she was nearly upon him. Mrs Turnbell, his housekeeper, bustled up the path, her face flushed and her usually neat white cap askew.

"My lord," she called out, her voice strained. "I must speak with you at once."

James halted, surprised by her sudden appearance and the clear agitation in her manner. "What is it, Mrs Turnbell?"

The housekeeper drew herself up, her chest heaving with exertion and what James suspected was barely contained frustration. "I regret to inform you, my lord, that your girls are simply unmanageable. I cannot... I will not mind them any longer."

He blinked, momentarily at a loss for words. The girls had always been spirited, yes, but unmanageable? And to have Mrs Turnbell, who had been with the family for years, refuse to look after them...

"Surely it can't be as bad as all that," James said, trying to keep his voice level despite the worry gnawing at his insides.

Mrs Turnbell's eyes flashed. "With all due respect, my lord, it is precisely that bad. You've no idea the sort of mischief they get into these days. Why, just this morning, I found one of them—well, it won't bear repeating, but suffice to say, if they were my children, I'd—"

"Thank you, Mrs Turnbell, I believe I understand the way of it." James felt a headache building behind his eyes. Reflexively, he turned away slightly, his jaw working. He had known the girls were becoming more difficult to handle, but he had hoped... what? That the problem would simply resolve itself? He suppressed a sigh, acutely aware of Mrs Turnbell's expectant gaze.

James felt his jaw tighten as he considered Mrs Turnbell's words. Surely, this was just a passing phase. The girls were growing, testing their boundaries. It was natural, wasn't it?

"Now, Mrs Turnbell," he began, trying to keep his voice calm and reasonable. "I'm sure it's not as dire as all that. Perhaps if we—"

But the housekeeper cut him off with a sharp shake of her head. "Begging your pardon, my lord, but it is precisely that dire. I have my own duties to consider, and I simply cannot be chasing after your daughters at all hours of the day and night."

James felt his shoulders sag slightly. He knew Mrs Turnbell was right, but the thought of admitting it aloud made his throat constrict. "What would you suggest, then?" he asked, though he feared he already knew the answer.

"A governess, my lord," Mrs Turnbell said firmly. "Someone who can devote their full attention to the girls' education and behaviour."

James drew up short, his whole body tensing at the suggestion. A governess, a stranger in his home, privy to their private lives, to the girls' vulnerabilities? The very idea made his skin crawl.

He opened his mouth to refuse outright, but his eyes caught sight of the bare fields stretching out beyond the manor grounds. The dry, cracked earth seemed to mock him, a stark reminder of all that hung in the balance. His mind began to wander, calculations of crop yields and potential losses clouding his thoughts.

"My lord?" Mrs Turnbell's voice cut through his distraction. "What shall I do about the girls?"

James blinked, forcing himself to focus on the matter at hand. The fields could wait. For now, he had to address this more immediate concern. But even as he tried to formulate a response, he could feel his attention slipping away again, drawn inexorably back to the problems of the estate.

James felt the weight of Mrs Turnbell's words settle upon him like a yoke. His mind raced, torn between the pressing concerns of the estate and the immediate issue of his daughters' behaviour. He opened his mouth to speak, but Mrs Turnbell, her patience clearly at an end, cut him off.

"My lord, if you won't consider a governess, then I'm afraid there's only one other option," she said, her voice firm. "The girls will have to be sent away to finishing school."

The words hit James like a blow to the chest. His breath caught, and a cold, creeping fear gripped his heart. The thought of his daughters leaving, of being sent away from him, was unbearable.

There wasn't much that he feared; the idea, though, of his girls being taken from him, was one that never failed to make him break out into a cold sweat underneath his crisp linen shirt.

He felt his face harden, muscles tensing as he struggled to maintain his composure. The scar on his face pulled a little tightly as he worked to keep his expression blank, a stark reminder of loss and the fragility of life.

With a herculean effort, James forced his features into a mask of stern resolve. When he spoke, his voice was low and controlled, betraying none of the turmoil within.

"Very well, Mrs. Turnbell. I will... consider candidates for a governess."

The words tasted like ash in his mouth, but he knew it was the only way. He would not, could not, send his girls away. The risk was too great, the potential for loss too devastating to contemplate.

Mrs. Turnbell nodded, relief evident in her posture. "A wise decision, my lord. Shall I begin making inquiries?"

James gave a curt nod, not trusting himself to speak further. As Mrs. Turnbell hurried away, he turned his gaze back to the fields, his mind already grappling with this new challenge. A governess. A stranger in his home. But better that than the alternative, he thought grimly. Better that than losing his girls forever.

James made his way back to the manor, his mind still wrestling with the prospect of hiring a governess. As he approached the grand oak doors, he noticed an unusual stillness about the place. No sounds of laughter or running feet echoed through the halls, no shrieks of childish delight rang out from the gardens. The silence was, in his experience, rarely a good sign.

With a weary sigh, he pushed open the door and stepped into the cavernous entrance hall. The quiet seemed to press in on him from all sides, broken only by the soft ticking of the grandfather clock in the corner.

"I hereby declare," James called out, his voice echoing through the house, "that any guilty parties involved in mischief-making who present themselves in my study within the next ten minutes shall be shown leniency."

For a moment, the silence persisted. Then, from somewhere deep within the house, a barely suppressed giggle broke free. James recognised it instantly as Julia's, his lips twitching despite himself. That girl could never quite contain her mirth, even in the direst of circumstances.

"And what terms are you offering for this... amnesty?" Augusta's voice floated down from above, cool and measured. James tilted his head, trying to pinpoint her location, but his eldest daughter remained hidden from view.

"Full amnesty," James replied, his tone firm but not unkind. "No punishment. A clean slate, as it were."

There was a pause, during which James could almost hear the gears turning in Augusta's head. Then, primly, she spoke again. "Very well. We accept your terms, Father."

James sighed heavily as he retreated to his dressing room, his boots echoing on the polished floors. Not bothering to ring for his valet, he shrugged off his brown jacket, still warm from the afternoon sun, and changed into a fresh shirt and waistcoat. The weight of the decision he'd made pressed upon him, but he steeled himself for the conversation ahead.

Returning to his study, James was unsurprised to find his twin daughters standing before his desk, the picture of innocence. Julia fidgeted slightly, her eyes darting around the room, while Augusta stood perfectly still, her gaze fixed on him. They wore matching light blue pinafores with halos of golden-red curls that refused to stay plaited.

He sat behind his desk, eyeing them sternly. "Girls," he began, his voice low and measured, "your behaviour of late has been... concerning."

Julia opened her mouth to protest, but James silenced her with a look. Augusta's eyes narrowed almost imperceptibly.

"Your tendency to act like wild boys rather than young ladies has left me with no choice," James continued. "I've decided to engage a governess to... civilise you."

The words hung in the air for a moment before both girls erupted in protest.

"Father, you can't—" Julia cried.

"This is completely unnecessary—" Augusta began.

James held up a hand, and the room fell silent once more. He met each of their gazes in turn, his expression unyielding. "This is not a discussion," he said firmly. "I am informing you."

Augusta, ever the strategist, spoke first. "You said we wouldn't be punished," she said with just the hint of a pout.

James felt a flicker of pride at her quick thinking, even as he shook his head. "This is not a punishment, Augusta. It's... it's an opportunity. An opportunity to learn, to grow, to become the young ladies I know you can be."

The words tasted hollow in his mouth, and James wondered if he truly believed them himself. He watched as his daughters exchanged glances, a silent conversation passing between them.

"May we go, Father?" Julia asked, her voice uncharacteristically subdued.

James nodded, and the girls filed out of the study, closing the door behind them with a soft click.

Alone once more, James leaned back in his chair, running a hand over his face. He hoped, desperately, that he had been truthful in his words to Augusta; that this governess, whoever she might be, wouldn't be a punishment for all of them.