A number of us subscribed to the venture two years ago, to build a new road running around Dyke’s Ridge. The old road, you see, dips down very steeply past Oldroyd Farm to cross the ford, but the valley bottom is almost a bog. In winter the road is well nigh impassable. We hope the new road will improve trade to the town.’
‘Unfortunately it has not done so yet,’ observed Mr Keighley.
‘No,’ agreed Sir John. ‘Last year’s bad harvest means trade in Stanton has been very poor and we have not yet recovered our costs.’
Samuel Havenham sighed. ‘I had hoped we would have turned a profit by now.’
‘You could always sell your share in the venture,’ suggested Lucas.
Havenham shook his head. ‘No, no, we shall come about. Besides, the subscription was not so much an investment for me as for my daughter. A little something for her when I am gone.’
His neighbours cried out at that and declared they hoped Mr Havenham would be with them for many years to come.
‘If you are interested, Monserrat, there are several of us who might wish to sell on our shares to you,’ called a bewhiskered gentleman from the far end of the table.
‘Aye,’ cried Scanlon. ‘You may have mine with pleasure. I haven’t seen any improvement to business in Stanton or recovered my costs yet.’
Sir John waved one hand in a placating gesture. ‘Be calm, gentlemen. Once the mail coach begins to use the new road next summer our fortunes will improve, trust me.’
‘Perhaps Mr Monserrat has more patience than I,’ retorted Scanlon. ‘What do you say, Monserrat, would you like to take my shares off me?’
‘I will consider it.’
‘I think he is better keeping his funds to restore Burnt Acres,’ laughed the bewhiskered gentleman.
Lucas raised one black brow in enquiry. ‘Burnt Acres?’
‘Morwood Manor. Burnt Acres is what we’ve called that land for more years than I care to remember.’
‘Oh?’ Lucas kept his face impassive. ‘Why is that?’
‘Goes back to when the house burned down five-and-twenty years ago,’ explained Sir John. ‘Owner and his wife lost their lives in the fire.’
‘Aye, sad business.’ Mr Scanlon shook his head. ‘It followed a particularly dry spring. Burning debris from the house was caught up by the wind. It set fire to the surrounding trees and the gorse. By morning the house was a ruin and everything around it was scorched and blackened.’
A chill was spreading through Lucas, but he forced himself to ignore it. He asked his next question with studied indifference. ‘What caused the fire?’
Rishworth shrugged. ‘Angus Dutton was the magistrate then, so I am not familiar with the details, but no one knows for sure. It is thought it started in a bedchamber—the mistress of the house was a foreign lady from warmer climes and didn’t like this northern cold. She insisted on a fire in her room, day and night, at all seasons.’
Lucas, my love, come and read with me by the fire.
Samuel Havenham shifted in his chair. ‘Let us hope Mr Monserrat will bring some happier memories to the place.’
Their host signalled to the butler to fill the glasses again. ‘You’ve taken on a deal of work there, sir,’ he remarked.
‘Aye, but it’s brought some much-needed employment to the town,’ remarked Mr Scanlon. ‘Isn’t that so, Mr Monserrat?’
‘Yes, I use local labour where I can.’
‘Good for you, sir. And where are you staying while all this work is going on at Morwood?’ asked the bewhiskered gentleman. ‘I haven’t been there for years, but I understand the house is merely a shell.’
‘It is. I am staying at the Red Lion.’
Rishworth chuckled. ‘Ah, then let me warn you to watch out for the ladies, sir. The Red Lion holds the monthly assembly, and with you living there, they will expect you to attend.’
‘Aye,’ laughed another who had reached the roistering stage and was banging the table. ‘They’ll have you marked down as a dance partner and maybe more, if they have daughters to marry, eh, Sir John?’
Their host laughed. ‘I ain’t looking for a husband for Celia yet, but her mother is no different from the rest, looks upon every single man as a possible catch. Sorry to put it so bluntly, Monserrat, but there it is…’
Lucas smiled and shrugged and the conversation moved on, growing louder and more boisterous as the brandy and port flowed freely. By the time Sir John led them back to the drawing room to join the ladies, many of the gentlemen were decidedly rosy-cheeked. Lucas had drunk comparatively little and as the gentlemen ambled their way out of the dining room he hung back to wait for Samuel Havenham. Slowly they crossed the hall together.
‘I hope my neighbours’ little jests did not offend you,’ said Havenham in his mild way. ‘They are as good a set of gentlemen as one could hope to find, but the wine and the brandy, you know…’
‘I understand,’ said Lucas. ‘I am pleased at the warm welcome I have received since I came here.’
They were entering the drawing room and Lucas observed that Annabelle was watching him from across the room. A wry smile tugged at his mouth. There was one person whose welcome had been anything but warm. Havenham was still talking and making his way slowly but surely towards his daughter. Lucas wondered if he should excuse himself and move off, but an inner demon kept him beside the older man.
‘We have not done much entertaining of late at Oakenroyd,’ said Samuel. ‘My health, you know. I keep very much to the house during the winter months, but your coming puts me in mind of my obligations. Annabelle, my love, I was just saying to Mr Monserrat that we should hold a dinner. What do you say?’
‘Of course, Papa. Perhaps at the end of May. The weather will be more settled then and that will give me time to arrange everything. I do hope you will be able to join us, Mr Monserrat.’
She was clearly accustomed to playing hostess for her father. Her response was cool and collected, although Lucas noted how she avoided his eyes.
‘May? We cannot wait nearly two months to invite our new neighbour to dinner,’ objected Havenham.
‘Papa, I cannot possibly organise something in any less time. Invitations will need to go out and guests must have time to reply, then Mrs Wicklow must open up the guest rooms, and Cook, you know, will need notice to prepare.’
‘Yes, yes, I quite see that is the case if we are going to have a grand dinner, but in the meantime Mr Monserrat must take pot luck with us. Next week. A man cannot dine every night at the Red Lion!’ He touched Lucas’s arm. ‘Come as soon as you wish, sir. Name your day. You will find Belle keeps a very good table, you will not go hungry. And if truth be told her efforts deserve more appreciation than I can give them.’
‘You are very good, sir, and I will take you up on your invitation, gladly.’ He felt rather than
