The Rake. Mary Jo Putney

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      The day turned out to be even more tiring than anticipated. The new seed drill Alys had bought was temperamental, to the unconcealed delight of the laborers who were only too willing to say that the fool contraption would never work. Having considerable aptitude for mechanical things, Alys got the device to perform after an hour of crawling around underneath it on the damp earth.

      She spent the rest of the day covered with dirt, too busy even to stop for lunch. Merry, bless her, had sent Dorset blue vinny cheese, ale, and the local hard rolls called knobs, which Alys ate while riding to the sheep pasture to check on the health of some lambs that had been sickly.

      By the end of the day, the scoffers were reluctantly conceding that the seed drill was effective. They liked it even less now that it worked. Alys was hard-pressed to keep her tongue between her teeth. It had been a continuing battle to get these taciturn males to accept her orders, and even after four years of proof that her modern methods worked, every new idea was a battle. Damn them all anyhow! she swore as she rode home, the spring sun setting and a sharp chill in the air. There wasn’t another estate in Dorset as productive, nor another landowner or steward that provided for displaced workers the way she did.

      Sometimes she wondered why she bothered.

      When she returned to the steward’s house, Rose Hall, Merry was embroidering demurely in the parlor and the boys had not yet returned from school. Alys took a quick bath and changed to a dark blue wool dress. Then she joined her ward for a glass of sherry and a quick glance through the post. As Merry laughed at the misadventures with the seed drill, Alys came across a letter franked by her employer, the Earl of Wargrave.

      Frowning, she slit the wafer and opened the letter. Most of her communications were with the estate lawyer, Chelmsford, rather than the earl. She had never met either of them, of course. If one of those respectable gentlemen learned that the steward was female, she would surely lose her situation.

      The old earl had never left his principal seat in Gloucestershire, but the new one was young, active, and conscientious. She worried that someday he might turn up unexpectedly. Luckily, on his one visit to Strickland, he had given enough warning for her to decamp with the children, leaving a message that illness in the family had called her away. She left a stern warning to everyone at Strickland not to reveal her sex.

      After a week by the sea in Lyme Regis, Alys had returned to find that no one had betrayed her secret, the books had been carefully inspected and approved, and Wargrave had left a complimentary letter that included several intelligent suggestions for her consideration. The man may have spent most of his life as a soldier, but he was clearly no fool. Apart from that one visit, Wargrave had left her alone to run the estate as she saw fit. It had been an ideal arrangement, and she’d hoped that matters would continue unchanged indefinitely.

      Her thought must have been unlucky. Alys inhaled sharply as she read the letter. Merry looked up from her embroidery questioningly. “Is something wrong?”

      Alys gave a brittle smile. “I knew I should have stayed in bed this morning.”

      Merry set the hanks of silk thread in her workbox and crossed to Alys’s side. “What has happened?”

      Silently Alys handed the letter over. Lord Wargrave wished to inform Mr. Weston that Strickland had been transferred to his cousin, Reginald Davenport. He had no idea what his cousin’s plans for the property were. However, the earl had been most impressed by Mr. Weston’s abilities. Should matters not work out with the new owner, Wargrave would be delighted to find him another steward’s position, perhaps running Wargrave Park itself. Apologies for the inconvenience, etc., etc.

      “Oh, dear,” Merry said softly. “This could complicate matters somewhat.”

      “That is one of the greatest examples of ladylike understatement I have ever heard.” Alys stood and began pacing around the room in long, angry strides.

      “Perhaps it will make no difference,” Merry said hopefully. “I believe I’ve read of Mr. Davenport. Isn’t he some kind of sportsman? Perhaps he’ll live in London and collect the rents and never come down here.”

      “It’s one thing for Lord Wargrave never to visit when Strickland is just one of a dozen estates. But if this is the only property Reginald Davenport has, he’s bound to come down here occasionally. For the holidays. House parties for friends. Hunting. He may decide to live here part of the year.” She came to a halt in front of the fireplace and stared at the flickering yellow flames. “There is a limit to how many ailing relatives I can invent to escape from him.”

      Merry frowned. “You do have a contract.”

      Alys shrugged as she lifted the poker from its brass stand. “A contract isn’t much better than the will to uphold it. Davenport could make my life so miserable that I won’t want to stay.”

      “Isn’t it possible that he might want to keep you on? You’ve done wonders with the property. Everyone says so.”

      “Much of the hard work has been done.” Alys stabbed at the blameless hot coals with the poker. “Any reasonably competent steward could run it profitably now.”

      “Mr. Davenport won’t find anyone more competent than you, or more honest, either!”

      “Probably not. But that doesn’t mean he won’t discharge me anyhow.” Alys had heard of Reginald Davenport, though most of the tales were not fit for Merry’s young ears. A rake was hardly likely to have advanced ideas of a woman’s abilities.

      It was so unfair! Feeling her hands curl into fists, she forced herself to relax.

      Still seeking a silver lining, Merry said, “If Mr. Davenport doesn’t want you, you can work for the earl elsewhere. Wargrave Park would be quite a plum.”

      “How long do you think his lordship’s offer would stand after he learned that I’m a woman?” Alys said bitterly, her hands beginning to clench again.

      “Perhaps you could disguise yourself as a man,” Merry said with a twinkle. “You’re certainly tall enough.”

      Alys glared, momentarily tempted to box her ward’s ears before the girl’s humor penetrated her mood. With a wry smile she said, “How long do you think I could get away with a masquerade like that?”

      “Well . . .” Merry said thoughtfully, “perhaps ninety seconds? If the light was bad.”

      Alys chuckled. “The light would have to be very bad indeed. Men and women simply aren’t shaped the same way. At least not after the age of twelve.”

      “True, and you have a very nice shape, no matter how hard you try to disguise it.”

      Alys snorted. Merry stoutly maintained that her guardian was attractive, a campaign that was more a tribute to her kind nature than her good judgment. Her comment now was intended as a distraction, but Alys refused the bait. “Even assuming that Lord Wargrave is radical enough to hire me, my supervision is needed at the pottery works. We can hardly move that to Gloucestershire. And it would be a pity to take the boys from the grammar school when they are both so happy there.”

      Even Merry’s golden curls drooped a bit before she replied, “I think you are making a great many bricks out of precious little straw. Mr. Davenport may not come down here for a long time, and when he does, he might be delighted to keep you on to spare himself the work. All we can СКАЧАТЬ