Chapter Four

W hen Lord Braithwaite appeared at Black Hill the following day, Cornelius was up to his knees in a ditch and felt a sudden twist of his stomach, like a schoolboy caught in some misdemeanor who knows the game is up and he is about to be punished.

"Good day, Vale!" Braithwaite greeted him. "Sorry to disturb you, but I hear you are looking for good men. This is Rob Smith, son of one of my own respected tenants, former soldier. Would you happen to have a place for him?"

Cornelius almost laughed. He was not embarrassed to be caught covered in mud, laboring beside his workers. Instead, he had expected to be harangued for overfamiliarity with the earl's sister, which was untrue, unfair, and ridiculous in reality, whatever flights of fancy his imagination indulged.

"I can give you a few days' work," Cornelius said to Smith. "But I can't guarantee you anything beyond that."

"I'll take it," muttered Smith. Nudged by Braithwaite, he remembered to tug at his cap. "Thank you, sir."

"Well, you can start by taking my place here," Cornelius said, suddenly cheerful. "I have to see a man about some cows."

"Thanks, Vale, I appreciate it," Braithwaite said, though he seemed in a hurry to be off, almost shame-faced. Which was a curiosity for another day.

After his talk with Mr. Daubin at the ball, Cornelius had hoped to have the Black Hill cows already returned from neighboring Cloverfield, and Daubin's sheep off the top meadow. Since nothing had changed, he collected his horse and rode over to again confront Norrie, the Cloverfield steward.

Reluctantly, almost as though they were his own property, Norrie eventually allowed the removal of the cows, but Daubin's sheep still ate their heads off on the Black Hill meadow.

"It's not your field!" Norrie almost shouted at Cornelius when he remonstrated with him.

"Oh, nonsense." Cornelius glared at him. "It is clearly marked on every local map for hundreds of years."

"But it won't be on the next one. Sir George, your father, sold the meadow to Mr. Daubin. Look." For the first time, Norrie thrust a document under Cornelius's nose. The signature at the bottom certainly looked like his father's.

Infuriated, he rode back to Black Hill and went to see Barton, his father's old steward.

Although paid faithfully during all the years of the family's absence, Barton had neglected the estate quite shockingly for at least ten years. Which hardly endeared him to Cornelius, who could not abide the wasting of good land.

Barton was getting on in years, of course, and after forcibly retiring him, Julius was inclined to overlook the negligence—no doubt from guilt that neither their father nor he had paid any attention to Black Hill for fifteen years. Their father had pursued his diplomatic career, largely abroad, while Julius had been almost constantly at sea with the Royal Navy.

Barton had never invited Cornelius into his cottage. All their business had been conducted in the office at the big house. But on this occasion, Cornelius stepped deliberately over the threshold, and Barton was obliged to show him into the tiny parlor. Considering the state into which the land had fallen, Barton's cottage was very neat and tidy and pleasant. No leaky roof or cracked windows here.

Throwing himself into one of the upholstered chairs, Cornelius said abruptly, "I need your help, Barton. Did my father really sell the top east meadow to Daubin?"

"Believe he did, sir."

Cornelius scowled. "Why?"

Barton shrugged. "Couldn't say. I just did what he told me."

"Really?" Cornelius said sardonically.

"Really," Barton said.

"And how exactly did he instruct you to sell the meadow?"

"By letter, of course."

"Do you have the letter?"

Barton scratched his head. "Don't know that I do. But the documents of sale are in the office."

"I have found no such things. Nor is it in the account ledgers."

"You must be looking in the wrong place. I'll come up in a day or so and find them for you."

"No," Cornelius said, jumping to his feet. "Come now."

For a moment he thought Barton would defy him. After all, he might have been granted a pension, but he was no longer employed at Black Hill. But after a tense moment, Barton inclined his head and led the way to the front door, where he collected his hat and coat.

It was not a long walk up to the house, although Barton made heavy weather of it. Cornelius walked beside him, leading his horse rather than riding him, and asked more questions about Daubin.

"When exactly did Daubin buy Cloverfield?"

"Oh, must be four or five years ago."

"He has some good land there," Cornelius allowed. "Makes it work for him."

"That he does. Takes no nonsense from his tenants, either. Evicts them if they don't pay. Only a matter of time before ne'er-do-wells like Fred Gaffney are gone for good."

Cornelius frowned. "Wastrel he might be, but I like Gaffney. He has a big family, does he not? In fact, his daughter is our new parlor maid."

"Must be how he came up with the rent money last minute. Norrie was already on his way to evict the lot of them when Gaffney waved the money under his nose."

It struck Cornelius that Barton seemed to know more detail about goings-on at Cloverfield than about the land he had been paid to manage for almost two decades. Also, a parlor maid's salary would hardly cover her father's rent. At best, she had staved off eviction for another few weeks.

"You've changed everything," Barton said twenty minutes later, in an accusing kind of voice, as he surveyed the rows of ledgers in the bookcase, and the cabinet full of documents. "How am I supposed to find anything in this?"

"Imagine how I felt," Cornelius said wryly, remembering the chaos he had found here only a few months ago.

Barton did not appear to hear. Instead, he went to the cabinet, raking through the first drawer. Cornelius already knew it wasn't there because he had searched it from top to bottom. Impatiently, having a mountain of other things to do, he wondered if he should leave Barton to the search, but he knew the man would merely leave again and they would be no further forward.

At long last, Barton scratched his head. "Where's the outside correspondence gone?"

"What do you mean?"

"Anything to do with land that's not Black Hill. I usually shoved it in here." Barton tugged open a small drawer in the small desk next to the large cabinet. Cornelius had glanced through the contents of the drawer some time ago, but it consisted merely of old correspondence about other people's farming methods, most of it from the last century. He sighed in frustration as Barton pulled the handful out and rifled through it.

Then Barton pulled something out of the pile with an air of triumph and spun about to present it to Cornelius with a somewhat sarcastic bow.

Frowning, Cornelius snatched it from him.

It was indeed a copy of the same document Norrie had shown him, an agreement, transferring the top east field from Sir George Vale's ownership to Daubin's. It was signed by both parties and witnessed by Barton and Norrie.

Flabbergasted, Cornelius leaned back against the large desk. "Why on earth did my father do that?"

Barton shrugged. "Needed the money, I reckon, and we can get by without that field."

"Actually, it would have been damned useful," Cornelius snapped. "How did my father sign this?"

"I posted it to him as he asked, when the solicitors had drawn it up. He sent it back, and Mr. Daubin signed too."

Cornelius shook his head in irritation. "The amount he was paid for it is wildly below its value. What was he thinking of?"

Barton scratched his head. "Don't reckon he cared much for the old place. Never came home." None of you did . The words hung in the air, an unspoken rebuke.

"Thank you," Cornelius said with difficulty. "At least I know where we stand now."

It was only later, when he showed the document to Julius, that he wondered what the devil it had been doing among papers about implementing new agricultural methods.

*

The annoyance was lost for a few days in trying to solve the mystery of the apparently wild horses careering over Black Hill at night and threatening the already shaky harvests. The twins had seen them two nights in a row. On the third, Julius took the matter in hand, and, having discovered the horses were in fact being driven by men, he injured his bad leg trying to capture one, who promptly escaped. Aubrey did manage to capture one of the horses, which wasn't wild at all, although neither was it well cared for. However, since that was the last incursion of the horses, Cornelius quickly lost interest again.

On Sunday, he went to church with the rest of the family except Julius. Cornelius did not always attend, but on this occasion he admitted to himself he wanted to see Lady Alice again. His poem about her remained in his chamber, untitled. He was uncertain about it, and he told himself that was why he wanted to see her again, to avoid any excessive sentimentality in his work.

He wondered what she would say if she read it. Would she laugh? Criticize his choice of words and form? Dismiss it as overly romantic drivel? Would she be flattered to be asked her opinion? Would she blush and look shy? Or storm at him about something trivial he had not noticed?

Smiling to himself as he entered the packed little church in Blackhaven, he saw her at once in the front pew reserved for the Earl of Braithwaite and his family. She was bending over a small child seated between herself and her sister, playing some finger game with him. It was yet another facet of her character, and she looked so unexpectedly sweet that his stomach seemed to turn over with more longing than lust…

No. It was lust. He had felt it at the ball too, when he held her in his arms for the waltz. And later, it had certainly been among the wild surge of emotions when she played the pianoforte.

Fortunately, she did not see him as he followed his siblings into a pew on the other side of the aisle. He sat on the end and, feeling the tingle of being observed, glanced across the aisle. Cecily Armstrong—Lady Morgan—smiled uncertainly and inclined her head in greeting. Cornelius nodded curtly and, with some relief, faced the front as the vicar emerged from the vestry.

Tristram Grant was a very decent man, unexpectedly young and dashing for his role, but there was no denying he brought in the congregation and generally entertained them too. His sermons always had a point, but it was made with a light touch and enough humor to make at least some of his flock think and act for the better rather than merely sink into shame beneath the burden of their sins.

Or, at least, that was how Cornelius usually felt. On this occasion he was too aware of Cecily a mere yard away from him. And of Lady Alice, happily oblivious with her beautiful, noble family.

It was a theme of much of his poetry—the huge gulfs that exist between people. He had never felt it so much as now, when the girl who would not marry a lowly steward sat so close to him, and the noble lady who deigned to argue so very far away…

He was glad to emerge from the church into fresh air, passing the Countess of Braithwaite and Mr. Winslow, the magistrate, who seemed to be discussing Julius's wretched horses.

Broodingly, Cornelius toed a stone in the path while he waited for his siblings to stop gossiping, though he was in no hurry to return to the carriage. Glancing up, he saw Lady Alice parting from another young lady, and on impulse he moved toward her. He wanted to speak to her again, although he had nothing to say.

"Cornelius."

He paused, blinking at the lady suddenly in his path, blocking his view of Alice Conway.

"Lady Morgan," he said, bowing. "Excuse me."

"Oh, Cornelius, wait," she pleaded. "I have so much to say to you."

Painful memory tugged at his heart. "I cannot imagine what," he said coldly.

"What is done is done. I cannot change that."

His lips twisted. "There is no need to state the obvious. I cannot imagine you mean me to understand that you would if you could."

A flush stained her cheeks. "There is no point. I merely wish to ask how you are."

"I am well, thank you. How are you?"

Instead of answering, she returned, "I hear you are stewarding your family's lands now."

"My brother's."

"Are you happy?"

"Deliriously," he said with savage flippancy. "Are you?"

As soon as the words were out, he saw that she was not. Beyond his own remembered pain, he finally saw hers. He did not want to get involved again. He did not want to revisit the ache of her marriage to another man. He wanted to draw around him the shield of his new life, the peace he had found at Black Hill without her.

And yet he could no more walk away from her pain than that of an injured animal.

"What is it?" he asked more gently. "Has something happened?"

Unshed tears filled her eyes. "Jack does not love me."

I could have told you that before you threw me over to marry him . Keeping the bitterness at bay, he said, "I'm sorry. I'm sure he does in his own way. How could he not love you?"

"Oh, Cornelius, I am so unhappy," she whispered.

A year ago—only a few months ago—this would have made him fiercely, angrily glad, so great was his hurt and sense of loss. He would have done anything for her, given up everything and run away with her. Now he was aware mostly of pity.

He took her elbow, turning her away from any watchers in the churchyard.

"Jack is not faithful and his mother despises me," Cecily blurted. Her eyes lifted to his in total misery. "I know now that I married the wrong man."

*

Alice might not have seen Cornelius enter the church, occupied as she was with her small nephew, but she certainly noticed him taking his seat beside his family. Goodness, there were a lot of them, even without the imposing, one-eyed sea captain, Sir Julius. Alice's gaze ran over the stern-looking major who had danced with Helen, and then a slight, even more handsome, if somehow decadent, young man.

There were also three extremely beautiful ladies, including the widowed Mrs. Maitland, whom Alice vaguely remembered from an encounter in Hyde Park several years ago, and a ridiculously identical boy and girl of around fourteen or fifteen who could only be twins.

The family spilled over one row and onto the end of the next, where Cornelius sat. Across the aisle, a lady had fixed her gaze on his face.

Something sharp and sour clawed at Alice's stomach. Dear God, why had it never entered her head before that he was married? From his poems, he was clearly no stranger to the joys and pains of love…

Singing was one of her joys in the Sunday service, but today, she did so rather mechanically, and for once paid little attention to Mr. Grant's sermon. Had she lost Cornelius Vale before she had even won him?

The thought shocked her. He was not some prize in the town fair! And Alice had already decided she would never marry. Why was she even thinking of Cornelius Vale in that way? Just because he was also Simon Sacheverill.

I want to win his friendship, she told herself firmly, and that was certainly more comfortable, although again, as on the night of the ball, she remembered waltzing in his arms and how it had made her feel. How looking at him made her feel. Well, looking, the decorous touching of gloved hands, and the loose embrace of the waltz were all miles away from the intimacies of marriage.

She shuddered. She had no reason to care whether he was married or not. She never would be. In fact, only yesterday, she and Helen had taken a huge step toward the independence they had always dreamed of by secretly hiring the theatre in Whalen, the nearest town, in order to show Helen's paintings and hold an evening recital of Alice's music. That was where her future lay. If they could only go abroad, then they could be incognito, like Sacheverill, never upsetting their family as they made their own way in the world…

Still, as she followed her family down the aisle after the service, she refused to look in Cornelius's direction, though she could not resist casting a quick glance at the woman opposite him. She was fiddling with her prayer book and her gloves and didn't notice. But she was young, surely no more than two or three and twenty, and pretty, with smooth, perfect white skin and tragic, sad eyes.

Just the sort of woman to inspire love in a poet …

During her few words with the vicar, his wife, and his small, lively daughter, Alice was aware of the Vales emerging en masse and diverging to speak to different groups of people. And Cornelius was again speaking to the beautiful lady.

"Is that lady married to one of the Vales?" Alice asked Kate, the vicar's wife, who always knew everyone in Blackhaven.

"Oh, none of the Vale men are married. She is Lady Morgan, merely visiting so that her mother-in-law may take the waters. Her husband is Sir John Morgan—he has land in Yorkshire. Charming man, so far as I can recall." Kate, a former toast of the ton and darling of the scandal sheets, also knew everyone everywhere. "They do seem to be having a terribly intense conversation," she added.

Just then, Lady Morgan dropped a minute curtsey and hurried after an older lady stalking to the gate. Cornelius gazed at them for a moment, his face unreadable.

Suddenly, he turned his head, and Alice refused to look away. She nodded civilly, and he touched the brim of his hat. And then one of his sisters—Mrs. Maitland—took his arm, and Alice's attention was seized by an old friend glad to see her back in Blackhaven.

*

" I know now that I married the wrong man. What can I do, Cornelius? I should not ask it of you, but I am desperate. Please help me. "

His thoughts were in turmoil. Was Cecily asking him to run away with her? Or to fix her marriage? Whichever, he was fiercely glad she had asked. It felt like justification for his pain over the last two years. And yet he knew in his heart he could never play second fiddle, which was surely all he could ever be to Cecily.

No, she wanted his help with Sir John, that was all. After all, if you loved someone enough to marry them, surely that love did not truly vanish? His own aching heart testified to that.

The following day, Cecily's problems vanished to the back of his mind when he found a letter waiting for him at his solitary breakfast. It was crumpled and dirty, the scrawled direction almost illegible. It looked as if it had come from a battlefield rather than from his publisher in London.

The reason for that became more obvious when he broke the seal and read the date at the head of the letter. It had been written three months ago—round about the time, probably, that he had first met That Girl, the Lady Alice. His rueful smile froze.

He jumped to his feet roaring, " What? "

A maid and a manservant bolted into the room to see what the problem was. Ignoring them, Cornelius scrunched the letter in his hand and stormed off to the estate office at the back of the house, leaving his breakfast untouched.

"What the devil do I do now?" Throwing himself into the chair by his desk, he smoothed the letter out and read it again.

Galsworth, his publisher, wrote that Simon Sacheverill had been invited, by no less a personage than the Countess of Braithwaite, to read his poetry at a gathering at Braithwaite Castle in June. In fact, on Saturday! Since this event was bound to be one of the best attended outside the capital, it was, apparently, a wonderful opportunity for Sacheverill's career and his financial situation. His publisher had had no hesitation in accepting on his behalf.

No wonder Alice had seemed so bewildered by his determination to remain incognito. She must have known about this, that his true identity was about to be revealed to his family, his neighbors, the world in general.

Well, it won't be .

Pulling a sheet of paper toward him, he dipped his pen in ink and began to write.

Mr. Sacheverill presents his compliments and deepest respects to the Countess of Braithwaite.

While honored by her ladyship's flattering invitation to read at her party, which has only this day been made known to him, he must sadly decline on the grounds of prior commitments. Mr. Sacheverill therefore begs her ladyship's forgiveness and apologizes most profusely on behalf of himself and Mr. Galsworth for the misunderstanding.

He remains her most humble servant,

S. Sacheverill.

Satisfied, he replaced the pen in its stand, sanded the letter, folded it, and sealed it with a plain splash of wax. After inscribing the countess's direction on the front, he seized his hat, stuffed the letter in his pocket, and set off for the stables.