in a handsome income that allowed their owners to live in luxury, most often in London.
The Blackcliff estate had only a few hundred acres, the vast majority taken up by that hulking rocky mountain. Blackcliff Fell didn’t offer enough pasture for more than the most hardy of sheep. There were no tenant farmers; there was nowhere for them to farm. As the owner of the land on which the village and church sat, Trevor received rent from each cottage and shop, based on the yearly income. Unfortunately, with the mine closed, there was precious little income to be had.
“But you claim the mine was prosperous,” Trevor had said, trying to keep the frustration from his voice. “Why shut it down?”
“It wore out,” Allbridge had said in his rusty voice. Trevor wasn’t sure if his accompanying sigh was for the situation or Trevor’s question. “We even had a man killed from falling rock. That fall buried the biggest vein of wad.”
Trevor frowned. Why couldn’t it have been gold or silver? “Wad? Is that what we mine?”
“Aye, sir. Was used to cast His Majesty’s cannons, I hear. Now they use it to fill pencils.”
The fellow must mean graphite. Trevor had heard it came principally from Cumberland. “What’s the market?”
“Generally good. The mines at Borrowdale can only produce so much. Seems there’s always more demand.”
A demand he couldn’t meet with a mine too dangerous to work. “Why did the villagers act as if it were my decision to reopen the mine?” he pressed.
“People will do most anything to feed their families,” his steward had replied. “They didn’t want to believe the surveyors the colonel had in.” He’d cast Trevor a sidelong look that made Trevor think of his daughter. “I suppose the villagers were hoping you were the type of gentleman who was willing to invest in his mine.”
He’d have been more than happy to invest, if he’d had a penny to spare. He had plans for the income this estate should have produced—a house, a carriage, a wife of noble birth and decent marriage settlements, a place among good Society, respected, admired.
“I’d like to read the surveyor’s report,” he’d told his steward, but it had not been among the records Allbridge had brought for Trevor’s perusal. His steward had promised to locate it as soon as possible.
Until then, Gwen’s father had recommended that Trevor look over his estate. Allbridge made it sound as if Trevor might discover something worthwhile, something valuable that would make him wish to stay. What man in his right mind stayed on a lifeless rock?
“You haven’t tasted your tea.”
He turned at the sound of Gwen Allbridge’s warm voice. She was standing in the doorway, her fiery hair the one spot of brightness in the room. She’d taken off her green coat and wore a white apron over her green-checked cotton gown. She looked industrious and competent. He felt neither. His feelings must have shown on his face, despite his best intentions, for her brows rose, and she hurried into the room.
“What’s wrong?” she demanded. “Was the tea not to your liking? Mrs. Bentley thought you’d favor the souchong but that smoky smell isn’t for everyone. Or did we miss a spot when we were cleaning?”
Trevor forced a smile for her sake. “I wasn’t thirsty, after all, and the house seems immaculate. You almost make me believe in miracles.”
“Almost?” she teased, cocking her head and endangering the pile of curls on top.
He felt his smile slipping and returned his gaze to the black, unforgiving mountain. “I had hoped for better news from your father.”
He heard her suck in a breath, then the rustle of skirts as she hurried around in front of him.
Her brown eyes were imploring. “He hasn’t had to give a report in months. I’m sure if you allow him a little time, he’ll do better.”
She seemed to take it personally that anything might not be to his liking. “You mistake me,” he assured her. “I find no fault in your father. He came straight to the point, a trait I admire.”
“Then what?” she begged.
He could not stop looking at that mountain. It dwarfed the house; it blighted his hopes. “I simply could not like the truth.”
She angled her head to look up into his eyes. “The truth? That the village is overjoyed you’re here? That you have a venerable home you can be proud of? That you will make an excellent master for Blackcliff? How can you not like those truths?”
“They were not truths I expected,” he replied. In the face of her optimism he was beginning to feel like a spoiled child. Yet she could not know how important wealth and consequence were in his world. “There is nothing for me here.”
Her eyes widened as if in shock, and she drew herself up, once more all righteousness. “Nothing? What nonsense! You, sir, are coming with me.” She strode for the door, and he turned to watch her, surprised by the sudden change.
“I’ll ask Mrs. Bentley to fetch your coat,” she threw back over her shoulder. “We’re going for a walk, and then, sir, we will see about this nothing!”
She was out the door before he could argue. But then, he doubted she’d have listened if he’d tried.
Nothing? How could he call Blackcliff nothing? Blackcliff was her home; Blackcliff was her world. More, it was the world of every man, woman and child in the village, and it had been for generations. He should be happy to be welcomed, stranger that he was. He should be overjoyed to learn what he’d been given here.
“But wasn’t he pleased?” Mrs. Bentley asked, following Gwen back to the library with Sir Trevor’s coat bundled in her arms. Gwen had found her in the butler’s pantry, a small room just off the dining room that held the china and silver service and served as a place to keep the food warm after it had been carried from the kitchen in the outbuilding. “Does he approve of what we’ve done with the house?”
“He will,” Gwen promised, pulling on her own green coat and cinching the ribbon under her breast. “Just give me a day.”
“I’ll be happy to give you all the time you need, dearie,” the little housekeeper replied with a sad smile. “I really have nowhere else to go.”
Neither did Gwen and her father. She’d lived her entire life in that gatehouse. Her mother had married, given birth and died there. Her father was only now beginning to find himself again after her death. Blackcliff Hall, Blackcliff village, St. Martin’s Church—they were all Gwen had ever known. Leaving was unthinkable. The very idea robbed her of speech, set her stomach to cramping.
Oh, but Sir Trevor had to be made to see reason! This house was their last chance to keep the village together in the coming years. A great house had hunting parties in the autumn, Christmas parties in the winter and house parties in the spring and summer. Visitors toured the area, ordered food from the George, bought laces and writing paper and gloves from the village shops, left money to thank the servants.
A great house had gardens that needed tending, horses to care for, carriages to manage. It needed maids and footmen and cooks, perhaps even a governess and nursemaid if the master’s family was increasing.
