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

Sophie’s favorite place.

Why did it please him that his new property exhibited some of the same traits as the place she loved? God willing, he wouldn’t be here long enough to enjoy it, which meant Lady Sophia would not either.

At the cliff edge, a wooden platform and staircase jutted out. The staircase turned back on itself three times before ending on the sand far below. Charles had a good head for heights, having learned to climb the ratlines of a sailing ship at a young age, but he approached the first landing with care.

Like everything on the estate, the steps were in need of repair. They cupped and curled, separating from the nails holding them to the stringers. Salt air and sunshine were hard on wood. The railing seemed sturdy enough, but a thorough inspection and restoration were in order for the entire structure. Hopefully, the small village would boast a carpenter fit for the job. Finding one would be a task for his new steward.

The cove lay before him, two long arms of land arcing out in an embrace. At the base of the cliff, in the center of the arc, a long pier jutted into the water, and a sloop rocked gently alongside. The boat he’d been told about. She would bear some investigation. Near the foot of the pier, a covered shed listed, in worse condition than the staircase. Charles made his way down to the beach, pausing for a moment to listen and inhale. Brine, wet sand, fresh air, seabirds, the slap of water against a hull.

Peace.

Remembering the ladies waiting atop the cliff, he studied the rough face. He found several places where the rock had given way and crashed to the beach, leaving piles and shards of rubble. Closer to the water, the shore was smooth-packed sand with a few pebbles. No evidence that the rock falls reached the sea. Ribbons of seaweed marked where the tide had pushed in. The ladies should be safe enough as long as they stayed away from the cliff face.

When he reached the top once more, he found the girls seated in a circle on the grass. Lady Richardson showed Betsy and Penny how to braid daisy stems into a wreath. Thea lay back on the grass, limbs askew, like a rag doll.

“That one looks like a badger.” She pointed to a cloud. “And that one looks like a squashed pillow.”

“I rather thought that one looked like the Prince Regent.” Lady Sophia shielded her eyes against the afternoon sun. “How was your climb? Are we permitted to go down?”

“The stairs are safe enough, though we’ll have to take care. Once we’re on the sand, you must all stay away from the cliff itself. There have been a few rock falls, though I don’t know how recent.” He offered her his hand and helped her rise. “Miss Thea, you will go down with me, holding my hand the entire time. Lady Sophia, if you will take Betsy?”

Penny helped Lady Richardson to her feet and nodded to Charles that she understood that she would aid the elderly woman.

Thea talked the entire way, asking questions and not waiting for answers before heading in a new direction with another query. He was reminded of her sister’s claim that Thea’s tongue was hinged in the middle. Once they were on the sand, Charles let go of Thea’s hand, and she made straight for the water.

“Can you swim?” he asked.

“I don’t know. I’ve never tried.” Her words drifted back over her shoulder.

“Then until you learn how, don’t get wet. I’m not in the mood to rescue you.” Swimming lessons. Girls who lived by the sea should know how to swim in case of an emergency.

He paused. These girls didn’t live by the sea. They were merely guests here until he could find a school to take them.

“Can I at least look for shells?” She planted her fists on her skinny waist, tilting her head as if exasperated with his strictures.

“As long as they’re on the beach and not in the water, be my guest.” With the rest of the ladies now safely on the sand, he headed toward the boat. At last, an environment in which he could feel at ease. Being with women, regardless of age, was well outside his comfort.

The sloop, the Shearwater, named after the seabird, he supposed, rocked gently on its mooring lines, stern facing the shore. Someone must care for the boat, because it was the first thing on the estate in decent repair. The sails were furled tightly and tied properly, and the ropes all looked fairly new. Someone had spent some time sanding and caulking the deck. The lines fastening the boat to the pier were long enough to allow the boat to rise with the tide when it came in. Whoever the caretaker was, Charles sensed it wasn’t Grayson. Nothing about the man spoke of ability around boats.

Burlap bags filled with straw or grass lined the edge of the dock to keep the boat from hitting the pilings. He hauled on a mooring line and pulled the sloop close before stepping over the padding and onto the deck. Tight, well-kept rigging and a sturdy mast, and when he looked into the bilges, very little water sloshed around. A trickle of excitement went through him. Perhaps if he were here long enough, he could take her out for a quick sail, just to get the feel of her. It had been a long time since he’d handled the tiller on a boat of this size.

The seas were calm, and the boat rocked only slightly, but he had no trouble keeping his balance. She was a trim little craft. He would enjoy sailing her in the coming days.

The boat shed looked a different situation. Listing slightly, with rafters showing in places where the shake shingles had blown or rotted off, the weathered boards looked fit for a bonfire. He climbed out of the