She resisted the urge to prove herself further—to fight a one-sided battle and convince him that the estate could be run prosperously. Such an argument would only serve to bolster her pride, for it would likely fall upon deaf ears. There was one final question that needed to be asked—which would determine the future for Henry and her both. “And the estate itself? Does it turn a profit?”
He blinked at her, as if surprised the question was posed so bluntly.
The few times she had asked Roland about the Hollythorne House holdings he silenced her, declaring he was too busy or he did not have the facts before him, all the while claiming that a competent man was overseeing it and that no harm would come to it.
Growing annoyed, she tilted her head to the side. “Is there an income to it? Does the estate have debt? Surely, you can tell me that.”
“It enjoys a modest income.” He took the ledger from her, flipped through the pages, and pointed to a number. “There are the profits and there are the expenses.”
At this revelation, simple as it was, she could finally breathe. The sum was moderate, but at least money was coming in. This amount, combined with what she would get from Roland’s will and Henry’s trust, would be a step in the right direction.
But there was still a great deal of work to do.
“Leave this with me,” she said. “I wish to examine it. And before you go, there are a couple of tasks I would like you to see to for me. My servants are temporary. I will be hiring a staff, and I prefer to engage local workers. Can you spread the word? And I should like you to accumulate a list of the gristmills and wool mills within a reasonable distance. I will not force our tenants to send their goods so far for processing.”
He raised his brows, as if entertained that she would have an opinion.
“And another thing, we will need a glazier to repair the windows and a carpenter out for the roof as soon as possible. Hollythorne House must be restored, and if you cannot make the appropriate arrangements, I will have to find someone who can.”
She would not be deterred or underestimated, and with her current state of mind, she dared him to challenge her. It was easy to blame the man before her for the ills that had befallen the Hollythorne estate, but in truth, it was not Mr. Greenwood’s fault. He was merely following orders. Roland was the one who had lied to her—turned a blind eye to her family’s estate and chosen not to enforce a better standard of upkeep.
It had been just one of many deceptions, and she would do whatever was necessary to set it to rights.
Chapter 22
The persistent rain and lingering fog from the previous day had dissipated, leaving nothing but a few wispy clouds in an otherwise azure sky. The chilliness had, for the moment, passed, and the remaining breeze carried what might very well be the last bit of warmth until spring. Charlotte took Henry out to the garden once more, determined to enjoy the rest of the afternoon, despite the fact that her conversation with Mr. Greenwood weighed heavy on her mind.
It had not even been a week since her arrival, and already she’d been tested and stretched in ways she’d not anticipated. She pressed her fingertips to the iron gate to open it and walked through, intent upon ignoring the frustrations. Instead, she allowed her mind to wander and imagine the picture this garden had painted a decade ago when her mother was still living.
Martha Grey had been so proud of the intricate boxwood paths and the roses that would, at times, cover the entire wall with blooms. Together they would spend countless spring and summer hours in this space to pass the time when Father would visit tenants. With the rich memories bolstering her spirits, she carried her son to the sundial in the garden’s center and traced the copper numerals with her finger.
How she wished her mother could have met Henry. She would have adored how his ruddy cheeks were kissed by the moorland breezes and how the wind tousled his soft curls. He laughed at a falling leaf that had blown down and caught on the sleeve of her pelisse, and the sheer wonder and amazement in his reaction filled her.
This was what she was fighting for—she could not forget—the freedom to spend time with her son and let him grow up loved and cherished, just as she had been.
But as she stepped to the garden wall to take in the view of Blight Moor, the enormity of what she was taking on also was not lost on her. Just as she wanted to revive the beauty of her mother’s garden, she equally wanted to honor her father’s passion for the estate. And that meant finding a solution to the problems the tenants were facing.
After passing an hour in the garden with Henry, she prepared to return to the house but slowed when she spied Anthony walking alongside the property’s outer wall.
Their conversation, not to mention the sharpness of her tone, from the previous day in the parlor had stayed with her. His words of the past stirred up emotions she thought long buried. She realized now that she’d never properly come to terms with her feelings regarding his departure all those years ago. But what could be done? As soon as Silas rescinded the order for the watchmen to be here, Mr. Timmons and Anthony would pack their belongings and return to Leeds, and Anthony would, once again, be absent from her life.
Regardless, it was becoming impossible to look on him with the indifference she’d employed when they first arrived. Like it or not, his presence—his appearance and the manner in which he looked at her—was very slowly waking parts of her that had long been asleep.
He shifted direction and began walking toward her.
She needed to speak with him about her plan to attend church services the next day, but such a conversation seemed odd without addressing her curt response to him following Silas Prior’s visit.
Why did she seem unable to control her reactions and emotions around Anthony and speak more tersely than intended?
“I was hoping to speak with you,” she said as he approached.
He gave no response, just stepped closer to her and stopped. No doubt he was uncertain of the rules presiding over their interactions, given her brusque words in the parlor.
“But before I do, I believe I owe you yet another apology for my behavior to you in the parlor.”
His dark eyebrows rose, and he removed his hat from his head.
How fickle he must think her.
Indeed, how fickle she felt. She’d always had such agency over her actions and behavior, but his effect on her was unexpected.
“I was wrong to prevent you from saying what you wanted to say. I fear my emotions had gotten the better of me.”
“You were upset. Anyone would have been.” The wind caught the folds of his neckcloth and tousled his sable hair. He squinted slightly as the sun emerged from behind the clouds. “You have nothing to apologize to me for, Charlotte.”
The use of her Christian name caught her off guard.
It was so personal. So intimate. So reminiscent of another time.
He continued. “In truth, it is I who should apologize. I overstepped my bounds by bringing up a past that is no longer relevant.”
No longer relevant.
The statement, surprisingly, stung.
“Well then,” she forced a masking smile, “we can agree that this is a situation we never thought we would find ourselves in and give ourselves grace as we navigate it.”
But even as she spoke, the words did not feel right. For what was going on in her head did not match what was going on in her heart.