ruined gardens and he certainly did not want to have to justify himself to irate young ladies with fierce hazel eyes. Who the devil was she? Not gentry, that was evident from the simple way she dressed and the way she did not mind that grubby child dirtying her clothes, but none of that detracted from her proud demeanour. She had defied him and that was something he was not used to and his first reaction had been anger. But what she had said had troubled his conscience, not that he could do anything to prevent his father running the hunt over his own land. He was a law unto himself and as far as he was concerned owning the land and the cottages meant he also owned those who dwelt in them.
Did the defiant Miss Grey Gown come under that heading? She had undoubtedly saved the child’s life and, in his opinion, its mother should not be the only one who was grateful because his father, as Master of the Hunt, should also give thanks that his dogs and horses had not trampled the little one to death. Had he even been aware of her or the child as he hurtled through the garden after the dogs?
And what on earth had the woman meant by saying ‘I intend to make it my business’? It sounded like a threat, but how could a mere nobody, who could not be more than five and twenty, threaten someone like the Earl of Warburton? Miles was suddenly and inexplicably afraid for her.
He was walking his horse, deep in thought, and did not at first notice the man sitting on the milestone on the edge of the village. His attention was drawn to him when he stood up and took a step towards him, his hand outstretched. ‘My lord …’
Miles pulled up. The man was in rags and painfully thin. ‘Byers, isn’t it?’ he queried, not sure the vision who confronted him could be the big strong man who had once been employed as a gardener at Ravens Park.
‘Yes, my lord.’
‘What happened to you, man?’
‘I came back from the war and there was no work to be had and my wife and children had gone to live with her sister. Will you give a coin or two to tide me over and help feed my little ones, my lord?’
Miles could tell how difficult it was for him to beg.
‘Why did you not go back to Ravens Park when you were discharged?’ he asked.
‘The Earl had given my place to someone else, the cottage, too. He would not take me on again.’
‘I am sorry to hear that.’
‘I was a good worker,’ Byers went on. ‘No one ever found fault with what I did; I served my time for king and country and that’s all the thanks I get for it.’
‘I can understand your bitterness,’ Miles said. ‘But the garden at Ravens Park could not wait on your return, you know. And gardeners expect to be housed.’ He paused. ‘Did you see the hunt come through just now?’
‘Yes, nigh on bowled me over, it did. Why do you ask?’
‘It ran over Mrs Watson’s garden and wrecked it. If you go and put it right for her, I’ll pay you. Better than begging, don’t you think?’
‘Yes, my lord.’
‘Off you go, then. When it’s done, come to the house and ask for me. I’ll have your wages for you.’
The man touched his forelock and Miles trotted on towards Ravens Park. Jack Byers wasn’t the only one unemployed in the area. There were other ex-soldiers begging on the streets and they were adding to the agricultural labourers who were out of work on account of the dreadful weather ruining the crops. Times were bad for everyone, especially in a countryside that depended on farming for a living. He ought to try to do something to help, but what? Handing out money was not the answer.
He shook the problem from him as he cantered up the drive towards the house. His father, who had been Viscount Cavenham at the time, had had it built just before he was born, to replace an older building that had fallen into disrepair. It was meant to celebrate his marriage and his earldom. Miles’s mother, Dorothea, only daughter of Earl Graine, was a catch for any man because of her ancient lineage, far superior to that of the Cavenhams. She was beautiful but frail and completely dominated by her husband. He was not physically violent towards her, but his tongue lashings often left her in tears. Miles loved his mother dearly and wished she would learn to stand up for herself. But he understood why she did not. She had been brought up in a culture in which the husband was head of the household and should be deferred to in all things and it distressed her when Miles argued with his father.
Their disagreements were usually over the way the Earl treated his people. He was like a petty king whose subjects were expected to bend the knee and obey his commands under pain of destitution. That only worked so far; sooner or later the people would rise up and rebel. Miles had seen what had happened in the army if an officer ruled by fear. It did not make for a happy and willing force, whereas justice tempered with mercy and a willingness to share in the men’s hardship worked wonders for morale.
The last straw had been when Miles had defended the boot boy from a beating on account of his lordship’s boots not being as shiny as he thought they should be. He had suffered the beating instead of the lad, which he did not regret, but as soon as he was old enough he had left home to join the army. He had come home to find his mother even more cowed than before and was shocked by how frail she seemed. Many a time he had bitten his tongue on a sharp retort for her sake. But it would be difficult to keep silent about the way Mrs Watson and Jack Byers had been treated.
Helen was taking her leave of Mrs Watson when Jack arrived to say he had been bidden to set her garden to rights.
‘Who bade you do it?’ Mrs Watson asked.
‘The Viscount. He said he would pay me.’
‘Then he’s not as black as he’s painted.’
‘It’s no more than you’re due,’ Helen put in. ‘But it should have been the Earl who ordered it.’
‘Don’t matter who ordered it,’ Byers said. ‘I’m glad enough of the work, though it won’t get me my old job back.’
‘Why did you lose your job?’ Helen asked.
‘I went to war. It weren’t as if I wanted to go, but the Earl hinted that if his son went, then I should not lag behind. I’d be a coward if I did. And then when I come back, my job had gone to someone else and the cottage with it. My wife and family had been turned out and gone to live with her sister in Warburton. She’s only got a small house and they’re cramped for room. I’ve been sleeping out o’ doors.’
‘You put my garden to rights and you can sleep in my outhouse,’ Mrs Watson said. ‘It’s dry and there’s straw for a bed. I’ll give you a blanket.’
‘Thank you kindly, ma’am.’
‘I’ll come back tomorrow and see how you got on,’ Helen said as she bade them goodbye.
She would ask Jack Byers to tell his story and she would talk to other ex-soldiers; she would have something to say about the Earl and his guests riding roughshod over other people’s gardens and their feelings. It would fill a page of the Warburton Record and perhaps she could stir up some influential consciences. She was already composing the article in her head as she walked the three miles back to Warburton.
Warburton was a bustling little market town with two churches, a chapel,
