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

“For the time being, your duties will involve keeping the Shearwater seaworthy and filling in as help here in the house until I can hire more staff. Keep in mind I will be hiring a new steward to run the estate in my absence, and you will answer to him.”

“Yes, sir. I’ve never worked in a house though. I don’t know the job.”

“Don’t worry. There are several ladies present who have taken it upon themselves to tidy up the place, and I’m certain they could make use of both your height and your strength. Report to the kitchens to Mrs. Chapman, and inform her that you are here to make yourself useful.”

When he’d gone, the reverend indicated the chair in front of the desk. “May I?”

“Of course.” Charles took his seat, lacing his fingers on the blotter.

The reverend arranged his long limbs, crossing one leg over the other. “That’s a good thing you did. I had no idea his grandfather had died or that he’d come from Cornwall, though with a name like Enys, it seemed likely. You got more information out of him in those few minutes than I have managed in months. Not that he gave much opportunity. He prefers to be alone, and I think he has a habit of sneaking off when he spots me on the horizon.” Dunhill ran his fingers along the arms of the chair. “How soon do you anticipate bringing in your new steward?”

“Hard to say. Ideally, I’d have a new man here within a fortnight, but that might be pushing things. I could be called away at any moment, and I want things on an even keel here.”

“Called away?” He uncrossed his legs and leaned forward. “For how long? Or do you anticipate having your headquarters in London?”

The man certainly was curious. Small village, probably prone to gossip. The comings and goings of the landed gentry would always be of interest.

“I am a naval officer. I will resume my career at the first possible moment. The new steward will look after the estate and report to me.”

“I see.” Dunhill steepled his fingers. “Please forgive my inquisitiveness. The villagers tend to take their cues from the occupant of this house, and I’m sad to say that your predecessor was not one to darken the doors of the church with any regularity. I hoped you would be a frequent attender, for your own soul’s sake, but also as an example to your tenants and the villagers. You are a God-fearing man, are you not?”

Charles supposed it was in a preacher’s handbook somewhere that they must ask that question of every new parishioner. “I am. I shall certainly attend when I am in residence, but I hope not to be here often. The title and the estate were thrust upon me, and between inheriting the earldom, recovering from wounds suffered in battle, and the cessation of the war, my naval career is in a bit of disarray.”

“Of course. Perhaps I can suggest a good man from the village to act as your steward? I confess that while I am a friend of Halbert Grayson’s, and I like him very much, I have always wondered why the old earl appointed him steward in the first place. Grayson isn’t known for his decisiveness, nor—I hope you’ll forgive me saying so—his stewardship nous. But a new steward, someone already familiar to the tenants and the villagers, might be the most seamless transition rather than bringing in someone from the outside who won’t know our ways.”

“Do you have a suitable candidate in mind?” He had his own ideas, but it wouldn’t hurt to hear what the preacher had to say.

“Will Owens might be a good choice. He’s a solicitor, but there isn’t much call for that sort of work this far from a city. He came home a few months ago to care for his ailing mother, and he’s been scraping for clients. He’s a good man with a keen mind.”

A solicitor. Charles mulled the idea.

“I’ll give it some thought.” He glanced at the half-finished letter on his desk, and it must have signaled to the preacher that he had work to do and was being kept from it. The lean man unfolded himself from the chair, and Charles rose as well.

“Perhaps I could send Will Owens along for an audience?”

“I’ll let you know tomorrow after church.” Charles shook Dunhill’s hand, trying to ignore his satisfied smile. He certainly seemed pleased that Charles would be in attendance at church on the morrow. Charles supposed it was important to the clergy that as many people attended as possible, but surely his presence at the services wouldn’t make that much difference?

“Oh, I cannot believe I almost forgot. There were letters for you delivered to the coaching inn.” Dunhill withdrew two envelopes from inside his coat.

This close up, Charles noted the fine cloth and tailoring of the reverend’s clothes. Preaching must pay well in these parts for him to have such fine attire. Perhaps the fellow was vain about his appearance and put most of his salary toward his wardrobe. Charles had known naval officers like that, impoverishing themselves when it came to buying new uniforms.

“Thank you.” He glanced at the letters, and a jolt of excitement shot through him. The top one was from the Admiralty.

He saw Dunhill to the door before tearing into the letter in the front hall. Quickly he took in the words. “Yes!” He pumped his fist in the air. “Finally.” Rereading from the beginning, he allowed satisfaction and hope to build in his chest.

Charles felt someone watching him and anticipated spying one of the little girls on the landing. Though they had only been at Gateshead a few days, they tended to pop up where he least expected them. But it wasn’t Penny or Thea or Betsy. Halfway up the stairs, Sophie stared down. She wore a blue frock,