Chapter 21
Over the course of the next few days, they settled into a routine, and in the warmest hours of an otherwise blustery day, Charlotte and Henry were spending time in the back garden when Rebecca approached and curtsied. “Mr. Welbourne asked me to come tell ye that Mr. Greenwood’s arrived. I’ve shown ’im into t’ parlor, and ’e’s waiting for you there. I’ll take Master ’enry if ye like.”
Even though she had been anticipating Mr. Greenwood’s arrival for the better part of the day, Charlotte’s nerves tightened. This one conversation would not only give her a much more accurate picture of the estate’s current situation, but it would aid her in making future decisions.
Charlotte handed Henry to Rebecca and headed back toward the kitchen entrance. As she made her way down the kitchen corridor to the screens passage, she smoothed her mourning gown and patted her hair into place.
She knew nothing of Mr. Greenwood, other than Roland had hired him after her father died. She’d never even met him. As she stepped from the great hall to the parlor, a tall man with graying black hair she could only presume to be Mr. Greenwood turned to face her.
She stifled a groan at the sight—the condescending pinch of his nose and his stilted smile. He appeared dour and colorless. Expressionless and cold. Mr. Greenwood presented himself just as every other soberly clad, pretentious man Roland surrounded himself with had.
“Mr. Greenwood,” she greeted stiffly.
He bowed low. “Mrs. Prior.”
“It was good of you to come so quickly.”
“Indeed, I apologize that it took me this long to arrive. I was tending to another one of your husband’s properties to the south of here. I was sorry to hear of Mr. Prior’s death. Very sad news indeed.”
She ignored how the calculating expression behind his hooded eyes belied his words. It was as if she were back in Wolden House, weighing every word a man spoke, trying to gauge his level of truthfulness.
“You must not be from Blight Moor, Mr. Greenwood. I grew up here, and I confess your name is not a familiar one.”
He shook his head. “No, ma’am. I’m not from the area. I hail from London.”
She frowned. “Then how is it you came to oversee this property and its tenants?”
“I managed another property for Mr. Prior. He asked for my assistance.”
“I see. I trust by now you are acquainted with the tenants and that you visit them regularly?”
“I visit them quarterly, per our agreements.”
“And what do you make of them?”
He shrugged a wiry shoulder and then produced a leather-bound tome from his satchel. “You will see for yourself when you review the ledger. Most of them are behind on their payments. We had to evict two families just last month for default.”
“Two families?” Charlotte stiffened. “Which ones?”
“The Swans and the Cullens.”
At the mention of the name Cullens, her heart lurched. The older farmer and his family used to sit in the pew behind her own family at church. Mr. Cullen’s laugh had been deep and hearty—his gap-toothed smile contagious.
She narrowed her eyes. “And I assume Mr. Prior was aware of this?”
“Of course.”
Annoyance at his cavalier nonchalance and arrogant coolness wound its way through her. As a result, she could not control the sharpness tingeing her tone. “And this house? Was Mr. Prior aware of the disgraceful state of it?”
“He was. He visited here just last spring. He told me he wanted to let it, but there has been no interest.”
“Surely there has been no interest because of the deplorable condition. It is quite an undertaking as it is! Why have repairs not been made? I assume you inspected the house periodically. There is a gaping hole in the roof in the servants’ quarter, for heaven’s sake.”
“Mr. Prior indicated it was to be repaired by winter,” Mr. Greenwood responded flatly. “He did not specify a date.”
“Well, winter will shortly be upon us, will it not?” She took the ledger from the man and opened it. The haphazard penmanship looked like foreign writing. The words and numbers made sense to her, but it would take a great deal of time to really understand the full scope of what she beheld.
But she would not admit to that.
Instead, she focused her attention on what she could learn. “I do not recall tenants being evicted when my father managed the estate. How do you account for it now after so many years of success?”
“A very late frost,” he mused at last, “the summer before last took out a great deal of the orchards on the Cullen property. As you can see, they had been behind on rent for quite some time.”
“There must be more to it than that. Not all the tenants have orchards and crops. There must be other reasons.”
Mr. Greenwood shook his head. “You’re quite right. About half the farmers raise sheep, and under the arrangement your father made with Mr. Prior, the wool is being shipped to Leeds for processing. The charges are high, but under the agreement between your late father and Prior Mill, they must, as tenants, process their wool and textiles there or face additional charges.”
She stiffened as the meaning of what was said sank in. “My father never would have agreed to such strict terms.”
“Well, to be fair, the arrangement has been modified since your father’s passing. It seems that when your husband gained control of the property, his solicitors adjusted the rental agreements.”
The heat of anger consumed her. “Could he do that?”
Mr. Greenwood shrugged. “He who owns the land can do whatever he wants.”
The sickening realization that her husband had been taking advantage of the very people she’d grown up with drizzled over her. All the work her father had done, ruined. By Roland. “And the other tenants?”
“The others grow wheat and barley. They are faring better than the sheep farmers, but their profits are down as well.”
“Why?”
“A similar situation. An agreement is in place with Clarett Mill, but it is a good way away. The travel to get it there and back adds time and money.”
“Is there no closer option?”
“Apparently years ago some of them used to conduct intermittent business at the Welbourne Mill, but unfortunately it is no longer an option.”
Anthony’s uncle’s mill.
She closed the ledger.
She had hoped for good news, but instead of feeling optimistic, she was overwhelmed. “And what are the tenants saying? Are they satisfied with the state of things?”
He scoffed, doing little to hide his pretension. “Would you be satisfied with numbers like this? Some have forfeited their holdings and have moved for jobs in Leeds and other bigger cities. We’ve not had a single person interested in the available farms, when at one time a queue of people were waiting to get in. Times are hard, not to mention unpredictable.”
“Yes, times are difficult, but then again, my father ran this estate for many years and in the midst of other trials. Quite successfully, I might add. The Cullens and the Swans are proud, hardworking people. So I am curious to know what we could have reasonably done to assist them.”