Page 39 of Miss Determined
Heyward swiveled keen blue eyes on Trevor. “Precisely, Gavin, Mourna, Mrs. DeWitt senior… Lissa became the unpaid steward when her father began failing. Now she’s the man of the house. The family, staff, and tenants are fine with that.”
“You are not fine with that.” For which Heyward was to be commended. No wonder Amaryllis had been tempted to snatch a kiss for herself by the stream, if the rest of her life was so much drudgery and duty. Trevor well knew how unappealing such a prospect could be.
“I have little power to intervene where the DeWitts are concerned,” Heyward said. “I offered Lissa a loan—she would be insulted by a gift of money—and she refused. Said she doesn’t need cash so much as she needs to get the solicitors out of the picture, and only the right husband could do that effectively.”
“Miss DeWitt doesn’t speak well of the family lawyers.”
“Smithers and Purvis. Elegant offices in the City, I’m told, titled clients dropping by on fine days, a pedigree among the partners that doubtless goes back to the conqueror’s royal weasels. I pay my nominal rent to them, and if their correspondence is any indication, they are self-important poseurs.”
For the same firm to represent both landlord and tenant was probably unethical, now that Trevor considered the matter. That conflict could perhaps be waived by the parties, though Trevor had certainly not waived it. More to the point, if Smithers and Purvis felt free to abuse the trust of a marquess, how much less respect would they show a household of ruralizing, untitled women?
“Will you be returning to London soon?” Heyward asked, apropos of nothing Trevor could discern.
“My plans are flexible. At some point, I am expected back in London, but I’ve yet to find a property in the shires that will suit my beer-making ambitions. I don’t suppose you are interested in leasing me some acres?”
“Why beer, Mr. Dorning? Everybody makes beer.”
Trevor rose, because he’d promised Sycamore a detailed look at some budgets, and those budgets yet resided mostly in Trevor’s head. Also because Heyward felt no compunction to limit his questions to the weather and Trevor’s state of health, and despite Heyward’s peculiarities, he was no fool.
“Everybody drinks beer,” Trevor said as Heyward also got to his feet. “I thought I’d give winemaking a go and spent years studying the various Continental vineyards. Then I noticed that the Germans make both excellent beer and good wine. I became interested in the beer, some of which is nigh ambrosial. High-quality wine is delightful, but beyond the reach of many of us. John Bull should always be able to enjoy a good pint, and I want to offer him an excellent pint.”
That speech was both spontaneous and true, to Trevor’s surprise.
“My acres are all spoken for,” Heyward said, “but Twidboro has plenty of good bottom land along the river, and the ladies need income. They’ve put that ground mostly into pasture, so you’d have to break sod, but sooner or later, one should rotate from pasture to crops and back again.”
Heyward would know all about that, while Trevor had much to learn. He liked Heyward, though—liked the unapologetic left-handed handshakes, the honesty, the protectiveness toward the DeWitts, the curiosity toward all things agricultural.
Heyward had also, in a quiet way, put Sycamore Dorning in his place, which was difficult to do. Amaryllis had managed the same feat, though without any semblance of subtlety.
“Thank you again for a fine meal and for good company,” Trevor said as Heyward handed him his hat. “I will see the handkerchief returned to Miss DeWitt.”
“Try to save that errand for tomorrow, Dorning. A man ought to bring some dignity to the business of esteeming a particular woman.”
“Ah, but the lady inspires eagerness, Heyward. Wish me luck.”
Heyward’s smile came again, a little merrier and lighting a sober countenance for more than an instant.
“Luck, then, and you will need it.”
Trevor jaunted down the steps and collected his mount from the stable lads. He was trotting back to Crosspatch, in charity with life, if a little troubled by the need to sort out a few muddled factual prevarications with Amaryllis, when he nearly fell off his horse.
Phillip Heyward’s smile was familiar because it was, to the last detail, the masculine version of the same smile captured in the portrait of Trevor’s own mother.
“You’re going too fast, Diana!” Caroline’s accusation bore a hint of inchoate tears, audible even in the next room. “Allegro doesn’t mean vivace or prestissimo. You always want to show off!”
“You simply can’t keep up,as usual,” Diana shot back. “You didn’t study your part, and now you want me to plod along and ruin the music.”
The bickering continued while Amaryllis tried to stitch a border of pink lace onto one of last year’s bonnets. Pink wasn’t preferred for redheads, but Amaryllis liked it, and they had plenty of pink to work with.
“Your grandfather and I always did enjoy the four-hands pieces,” Grandmama said, her embroidery resting in her lap. “He’s wicked good at the pianoforte and manages to jostle me in the most distracting manner. Grandpapa prefers Mozart to Clementi for a rollicking duet.”
Lissa sewed a few more stitches, debating, not for the first time, whether to take issue with Grandmama’s lapse into present tense regarding a man who’d played nothing but a celestial harp for years.
“Why did Clementi have to write so many pieces in C major?” Lissa mused. “Diana does go too fast, and then she can’t manage the hard parts at the tempo she chose for the easy parts.”
“A common failing in life. Your brother’s horse apparently distinguished himself with some speed earlier today, and yet, the colt’s education in other regards has not kept pace with his innate talents.”
Luncheon had come and gone, and Lissa had hoped that the particulars of her morning hack had escaped the notice of Crosspatch’s various town criers.
