The Indebted Earl by Erica Vetsch (love letters to the dead TXT) 📕

his back straightening. “The estate comprises the entire peninsula. There are steep cliffs and a cove where boats shelter.” Half a coat of arms glinted on the gate. When closed, the gates must form the entire shield.

Odd that he was coming to a family home he’d never seen before, and now he owned it. Not just owned it, but was the titled lord of this manor. What must he be thinking?

The road serpentined around the low hills. Stone walls bordered pastures and fields, and here and there a copse of trees nestled in the cleft of a small valley. Crofters’ cottages and barns dotted the fields. The estate certainly looked large and prosperous.

They topped the last rise, rocked down a slope, and turned in an arc that took them along a circular drive. Sophie couldn’t see much of the house, being on the far side of the carriage when it came to a stop. Stone, a row of windows, a heavy door. On her side of the coach, in the center of a circle of grass, a fountain sat dormant. From the middle of the fountain rose a moss-splotched statue of a young boy raising his hand to feed a bird perched at the tips of his fingers, wings outstretched.

But the fountain itself was choked with debris, stagnant water filling a few inches of the pool.

A shame it had been so neglected. It was quite lovely. Perhaps it could be restored.

Captain Wyvern climbed out of the carriage, and punctilious as always, helped the ladies. When Sophie’s feet hit the gravel, the breeze off the sea tugged at her skirts. She put her hand atop her bonnet and looked up at the house.

Stark came to mind. Cold gray stone, dark slate roof tiles, peeling white trim around the windows. A forest of chimneys rose into the sky, and the dark, heavy front doors looked as if they belonged on a Spanish prison.

The house appeared solid enough, but it had an air of abandonment about it, sitting like a stodgy rectangular block, with no trees or gardens or even ivy to soften its bulk.

Mamie adjusted her dress, blinking in the sunlight. “This isn’t a cottage. I thought we were going to a cottage.”

Sophie tucked her hand into Mamie’s elbow. “It’s all right. We’re visiting Captain Wyvern’s new home first. We’ll get to a cottage soon.” She should probably call him Lord Rothwell now, but through Rich’s letters she had known him for so long as Captain Wyvern, she could hardly imagine him as anything else.

He put his hat on and clasped his hands behind his back, rocking on his toes as he surveyed the house as if assessing a new command. His frown deepened.

With a squeal of protest, the massive front door opened, and a pair of sharp brown eyes skewered first Sophie and then Mamie, before his stare fell on Mrs. Chapman. “Who’s there and whacha want? We don’t need no maids around here. The staff is full.”

Mrs. Chapman, who had been adjusting her lace cap, jerked her chin.

Before she could retort with the sharp side of her tongue, the captain stepped forward. “I am Captain Charles Wyvern.” He paused. “And the present Earl of Rothwell.”

The man blinked rapidly, his tongue darting out to lick his lips, something calculating in his eyes. “Your lordship. We didn’t know you were coming.” He tugged his forelock and bent at the waist in a sharp bow, going from belligerent to obsequious in a flash.

“And you are?”

“Halbert Grayson, sir.” He gripped the edge of the door as if the ground had shifted beneath his boots. “I’ve been steward here for six years.” His head bobbed with each word.

“Perhaps we might be allowed to come inside?” The captain’s voice was dry as attic dust.

“Of course, of course.” The short man stepped back, making ushering motions.

“Ladies?” Captain Wyvern indicated they should precede him.

Their footsteps echoed on the wooden floor. In ages past, the floor had been painted, but now it bore the scuffs and scrapes of much use, the wood grain showing through the leaves and flowers that had been stenciled on the planks.

Dark paneling covered the walls, and tapestries much in need of cleaning hung from a picture rail. The entire place felt gloomy and untended, as if it had been closed up since the reign of George I.

The steward yanked off his cloth cap, and with a swipe, removed a layer of dust from the table in the middle of the hall.

“Place is a bit done in at the moment. The old earl was a bit of a Tartar, and he ran the housekeeper and maids off a few months before he met his end. Wasn’t nobody but me left when he died, and I can’t take care of everything.” He spread his hands. “I woulda left too, he was that mean, but I couldn’t abandon him.”

“I thought you said you had no need of maids?” Mrs. Chapman dragged her finger along a ledge and showed the dark smudge to the steward. “I could employ a dozen girls for a solid week here and still not finish the job.”

“I can’t be spending his lordship’s money or hiring people without leave. The magistrate said I had to wait until he heard back from London about who would be taking over the place before I made any transactions. Haven’t even been able to draw wages myself. Now you’re here, sir, you can set things right.” He held his hat against his chest. “Things haven’t been right at Gateshead for a long time, not since the old lord got sick, but with your leave, I can start getting the estate back on a good footing.”

His eyes pleaded. He ducked his head, the picture of humility. He must have been worrying whether he would catch the blame for the condition of the estate and whether the new earl would keep him on. Sophie could sympathize with his position, but something about the man made her wary.

Charles removed his hat,