Page 11 of The Earl's Reluctant Artist

The sun bore down hard upon the roof of the estate’s old accounts shed as Tristan wiped beads of sweat off his brow. The smell of hay and dust filled his nostrils and the air almost at the same time, a feat he wasn’t especially accustomed to.

He sat behind a chair and let his eyes settle on the estate ledgers before him, then he looked out at the queue across his desk and huffed a sigh of frustration.

Standing by his side, his hand tucked behind his back, was Gideon, who did not exactly look happy to be there either.

Tristan exhaled one more time and let his eyes drift to the rafters above.

The rays of the sun were a giant distraction, and he was certain that the people standing before him could feel it as well.

Tristan tapped his quill impatiently against the paper on the table, his eyes rolling to the back of his head.

“Are you all right, my lord?” Gideon asked, stepping forward.

“As all right as one can be,” he responded. “I still cannot believe he made me come out here.”

Gideon glanced sideways. “Your grandfather did insist it was part of a landowner’s duty.”

Tristan scowled. “Part of a landowner’s torment, more like. I did not return from years at the hunting lodge just to weigh the worth of chickens and coins. This is an utter waste of my time.”

“Someone must do it,” Gideon reminded him.

“Yes, but it ought to be anyone but me.” He scratched a sharp line into the ledger, nearly tearing the page. “What am I to gain from counting every penny and every animal these people offer? There are better uses of my day.”

Before Gideon could answer, a woman approached the table, clutching a small purse in one hand and a chicken in the other. Tristan and Gideon exchanged knowing glances before turning back to look at the woman.

She gave a nervous bow of her head before holding out the bird. “My lord, I have brought the rest of what I can. Please accept it.”

Tristan arched a brow, looking at the chicken suspiciously. “This?”

“Yes, my lord,” the woman responded.

Tristan opened his mouth to speak, but the chicken’s wings flapped suddenly, and in the same moment it escaped her grasp, flying straight up into the rafters. A flurry of feathers filled the shed, and the startled tenants ducked immediately.

He swore under his breath as the creature landed with a thud against the roof, then tumbled down to the ground with a strained squawk.

The woman scrambled to scoop it up again, red-faced with shame. “I…I am sorry, my lord. I meant no trouble. But that is all I have. You will still take it, will you not?”

Tristan leaned back in his chair, studying her. “The only thing you have?”

She nodded quickly, stroking the bird as though it might calm both of them. “Yes, my lord. I worked as much as I could to raise the rest, but there was not enough. This was the only substitute I could bring.”

For a long moment, Tristan said nothing. His quill rested against the page, idle. Then he exhaled and pushed the ledger away. “Take it with you.”

The woman’s eyes widened. “My lord?”

“Keep it,” he repeated, his voice curt. “You will not need to pay again next month either.”

The woman’s lips trembled with relief. “You are very kind, my lord. Thank you.” She bowed and hurried out with the chicken clutched tight to her chest.

As the murmurs in the line quieted, Gideon folded his arms and looked squarely at Tristan. “I cannot believe you just did that.”

Tristan shrugged. “It was the easier choice. I have no use for a chicken flying around in the carriage. Imagine it leaping about every time the horse galloped.”

“You mean to tell me that is your reason?” Gideon pressed, his voice skeptical.

Tristan nodded.

“Your only reason?” Gideon pressed.

Tristan kept his eyes on the ledger. “What else would it be?”

“Pity, perhaps?”

“Convenience,” Tristan corrected sharply. “If we gave way to pity for every soul who failed to pay, Evermere would collapse into ruin within the year. Sentiment does not balance accounts.”

“I know that,” Gideon responded, his eyes still narrowed. “I was only trying to see if you do as well, my lord.”

“I do,” Tristan responded, his voice just as sharp.

Gideon studied him for a moment longer, but said nothing, though the corner of his mouth twitched as if he was not entirely convinced.

The next tenant came forward, an older man this time. His hands were rough with years of work; he bowed low before speaking.

“My lord, forgive me. I have nothing to offer this month.” His voice shook, and Tristan studied him further. “My only farm horse died last fortnight, and without it I could not manage the fields. Nor could I pay a farmhand to help. I ask only for more time.”

Tristan lowered his gaze to the open ledger, scanning the notes until he found the name. “Mr. Jones, is it?”

The man nodded.

“It says here you have missed payments the last two months as well,” Tristan said, his voice even. “I imagine your horse was still alive then.”

The man looked stricken but admitted, “Yes, my lord. But the harvest was too poor. I had just enough to scrape by, to put food on the table. Nothing more.” His voice dropped lower.

“I have taken a job in the marketplace now, one that promises decent pay. By next week, I will have the money. All of it. I promise you.”

Tristan leaned back slightly, weighing his words. The man’s shoulders sagged in a way Tristan couldn’t help but feel terrible about. At last, he closed the ledger with a deliberate hand.

“Next week,” he repeated.

“Yes, my lord.”

“Very well. You may go. Report the sum then.”

The man’s face lit up, and relief washed over him. “Thank you, my lord. Thank you. You will not regret it.” He bowed deeply before hurrying away, gratitude spilling from every step.

Gideon smirked as the man disappeared. “And what was that, then? Convenience again?”

Tristan shot him a sidelong look. “Do not start.”

Gideon only grinned wider.

“How many more?” Tristan asked, rubbing a hand over his temple.

Gideon leaned to peer down the line stretching toward the door. “About twenty more, I should think.”

Tristan groaned and let his head fall back against the chair. “God help me.”

The line shuffled forward again.

***

Tristan pushed through the doors, grateful to be back in the manor one more time.

“Good God, I never believed there was a time I would look forward to that cold interior air,” he said, dusting his shoes at the entrance while Gideon walked gently behind him.

“It does put things into perspective, does it not, my lord?”

Tristan turned and opened his mouth to speak but then a rhythmic noise broke into his hearing. It sounded jagged and rough, like a hammer banging hard into a wall. Gideon heard it as well because his head seemed to shift toward the direction of the sound.

Tristan frowned. “What in God’s name is that noise?”

Gideon adjusted the papers tucked under his arm. “That must be the workers. They started this morning on the reconstruction for Lady Vale’s atelier.”

Tristan’s brows rose. “They are here already?”

“Yes, my lord. Mrs. Yarrow was quick to set things in order. They seem to have made good progress.”

Tristan turned in the direction of the noise. Gideon tried to speak behind him, but the noise was either too loud or his valet was never audible in the first place, but he followed the noise anyway.

Soon, he halted and stood by the doorway, watching the room ahead of him get a complete change. The men inside worked with full energy, and the smell of polish clung to the damp air.

The leader of the crew spotted him immediately and came forward, cap in hand. He bowed quickly. “My lord. I was just about to send word. We’ve run into a small matter.”

Tristan folded his arms. “What’s the matter?”

The man gestured toward the half-bared wall. “We’ll need to replace this section here. We can go with plaster, which is what was there before, or we can use a finer lime finish instead. The plaster is the cheaper choice, and is easy to set.

The lime, on the other hand, takes longer, costs more, and requires a bit of care to get right. My advice, if I may, is plaster. It’ll hold well enough, and the lady will hardly notice the difference. She won’t be spending long hours in here, after all.”

Tristan’s expression sharpened. “Which was here before?”

“The plaster, my lord.”

Tristan glanced at the wall, then back at the man. “Would that not be harsh on her eyes when she is at work? The light here will reflect poorly on it, will it not?”

The man chuckled, shaking his head. “Well, maybe, but with respect, she won’t be here often enough to notice.

Ladies have other matters to tend to, as you well know.

Embroidery, attending balls, entertaining guests, and all that.

She won’t be keeping herself locked away painting for hours. The plaster will be enough.”

The words hung in the air, and Tristan inhaled sharply. Gideon’s gaze flicked to him at once, as if knowing what was coming.

Tristan took a slow step forward, his eyes narrowing. “I do not suppose you are dictating what Lady Vale may or may not do with her time, are you?”

The worker’s face lost its ease, the humor slipping away. “No, my lord, of course not. I meant only—”

“Because, sir,” Tristan cut in, his voice low but edged, “that would be a gross overstepping of your boundaries.”

The man swallowed hard. “I only meant, between the two of us—”

Tristan spoke over him again, sharper now. “You will use the lime finish. If the cost requires increasing your payment, then submit a request for it. But do not presume to decide what my wife will or will not notice.”

“Yes, my lord.”

“And do not make insinuations about how she chooses to spend her hours, either. Not in my hearing. Am I understood?”

The man’s shoulders hunched as though bracing himself. “Yes, my lord. Very well. We will proceed with the lime. My apologies.”

“Good.” Tristan’s tone left no room for further debate. “Carry on.”