Page 14 of The Derbyshire Dance (Kendall House #3)

Chapter ten

Charlie

B el woke the next morning with a smile on her face.

Despite her annoyance at Aunt Lucy’s matchmaking ways, she had to admit that she’d enjoyed herself yesterday.

Mr. Lymington had been a gentleman—amusing, quick-witted, and generous in everything except his claim to her cat.

Despite her competitive play at cards, he had won the game of piquet and taken her dowdy cap away with him.

If his boasting words were to be believed, he intended to stuff it in the kitchen grate at Audeley House that very night.

It had been the perfect Sunday afternoon.

Often, when the weather was fine and there was work outdoors Bel wanted to be doing things—making Sunday feel like a day of drudgery.

But Mr. Lymington’s companionship had filled the time pleasantly.

She could not see spending time with him on a regular basis when there was real life to be lived and real work to be done, but perhaps he would not be so bad as a holiday friend .

She decided that his claims of rakishness had been vastly overrated, for he had said nothing untoward to her during their play at piquet. And other than a penchant for flirtation, he seemed to have no more bad qualities than most men.

Still smiling, Bel slipped out from the bedclothes and weighed her options for how to spend her day.

She could dress in trousers and inspect tenant roofs with Jer and Tam.

Or she could dress in a gown and sit in the parlour and see if Mr. Lymington would appear.

There had been no promises made, but she suspected that if the weather remained fine, Mr. Lymington might call again.

He certainly had nothing else to do with his time in Derbyshire.

Feeling a little foolish, Bel dressed in a navy-blue dress that fit her more closely than her usual brown and grey gowns.

She could see Aunt Lucy grinning at her, every time she thought her niece’s back was turned.

At least she could redeem the time by doing some bookkeeping.

Eschewing the parlour, she went into the little room—barely larger than a closet—that served as her office.

Taking a newly sharpened quill, she updated the household expenses and the costs associated with the livestock.

Around mid-morning, Bel’s anticipation was rewarded by a knock on the door.

Apparently, Mr. Lymington had been too eager to wait for normal calling hours.

Leaving her office, Bel smirked as she waited for Jenny to usher in their temporary neighbour.

But instead of Nigel Lymington, the parlour was invaded by the stoop-shouldered Harold Brownlee.

“Mr. Brownlee,” said Bel, standing to greet him. “To what do I owe the pleasure?” It was not the same pleasure as she had been expecting from a witty stranger, but she did not dis like Harold Brownlee.

“Sit down, Bel, my girl. Sit down.”

Bel complied, wondering if Mr. Brownlee had come to offer his steward’s services yet again to help bring her sheep to market. Mentally, she began to compose a second refusal.

“I know you’d rather avoid the topic,” said Mr. Brownlee, leaning forward in his own seat, “but I’ve come to talk about Charlie.”

“What is there to talk about? We still have no news from him, but everything is in order here. When he returns home, he’ll find a tidy sum in the bank and a healthy flock in the field.”

Mr. Brownlee looked nonplussed. “Yes, well, you’ll recall that I’m one of the executors for your parents’ estate.” He cleared his throat. “Come New Year’s Day, it will be a full seven years since Charlie’s been gone.”

A rising sense of dismay began to fill Bel’s breast, but she tried to quash it with an overabundance of optimism in her tone. “He always did let his adventures keep him out too long to come back home in time for dinner.”

“Bel,” said Mr. Brownlee gravely, “I don’t think he’s coming back this time. Seven years is a long time. And by law, seven years is long enough that he can legally be declared deceased.”

“What poppycock!” said Bel. “I suppose he could be declared that, but there’s no reason to do so—”

“But there is. If Charlie is dead, as seems most likely, then this land and this house should be inherited by you.” Mr. Brownlee paused. “You can stop worrying so much about maximising profits for Charlie and worry about living your own life.”

“My life suits me quite well.”

“Come now, my girl. You should be going to parties. Visiting London. Finding a husband.” Mr. Brownlee shook a crooked finger at her.

“Leave the sheep and the muddy fields to old men like me.” He breathed in loudly, as if preparing for an announcement of great significance.

“I’ve instructed my man of business to appeal to the courts for a declaration of presumed death. ”

“Mr. Brownlee!” Bel rose to her feet. “I give you no permission to do any such thing.”

“I don’t need your permission, my gel. By making me executor of their will, your parents gave me that power.

” Mr. Brownlee rose to his feet as well.

“The newspapers were not sanguine about the possibility of survivors, and your father was doubtful himself that Charlie would ever come back. The appeal will go through in the New Year.”

Bel’s fingers, calloused from outdoor work, clenched themselves involuntarily. “No. Please. No.”

Mr. Brownlee’s stooped shoulders moved towards the door. “I am sorry to see you so upset, but it’s best for everyone. Your tenants deserve a living landlord, and you deserve a chance at life.”

Stunned into silence, Bel allowed Harold Brownlee to say his farewells and exit the parlour. The door shut with the thud of finality.

Charlie was still coming back, wasn’t he?

Not even Aunt Lucy’s doubts had been able to shake her confidence in her brother’s return, but Harold Brownlee had used all his weight to stamp out the embers of hope she had carefully kept burning over the last seven years.

His threatened “declaration of presumed death” hung over her head like a sword on a string.

She didn’t know anything for certain anymore.

Bel looked down at her navy-blue morning gown, a shockingly frivolous choice given how today had turned out.

She hurried upstairs to her bedroom and, straining her arms to reach the fastenings, stripped off the dress and tossed it onto the bed.

Then, pulling on a pair of worn trousers, a cambric shirt, a woollen vest, and the shapeless brown coat of a farm labourer, she hurried downstairs and out into the grey December.

Jer and Tam were already thatching a roof, but she would go to the barn.

The barn would be quiet. The barn would help her think.