That ended when Mother died. The moment Cousin Hiske crossed our threshold, she stopped me making ale, declaring it to be the work of a sloven, not the daughter of a high-ranked merchant. I’d argued, of course I had, but as with all the other debates I fruitlessly entered into with Hiske, I lost that one as well. When Father returned home after one of his voyages, I complained, but he upheld Hiske’s order, as he did any new rules my mother’s cousin introduced. After that, like most of the townsfolk, we purchased our ale from the friary. Occasionally, if the monks were slow to deliver or the road to the friary impassable, we’d buy from one of the brewsters in town. None of it ever tasted as good as Mother’s ale.
The gates to the manor house were open and we entered slowly, Shelby’s hooves crunching across the gravel that covered the large open space between the outer walls and the entrance to the house. I’d been here once before, when I was much younger, but there was little I recalled. More like a castle than a house, it rose three stories and had turrets at the north and south ends, a battlement with crenellations and arrow loops joining them. Liveried servants ran forward to take Shelby’s head.
The massive front door stood open and a tall, smoke-haired man with a fine dark tunic, bright hose, and pointed shoes stepped forward. Helped from the cart by one of the younger men, I waited as the older one descended the steps. Behind me, Adam was given directions for the cart and invited to dine in the servant’s hall. Glancing over my shoulder, I gave him a reassuring smile. He nodded slowly, his eyes reminding me he was only a short distance away should I need him.
“God bid you welcome. Are you Mistress Anneke Sheldrake?” said the older man with a bow.
“I am.”
“I’m Evan Underwood, his lordship’s seneschal. If you would follow me, Mistress Sheldrake, his lordship attends you in the solar.” Without waiting for a reply, Master Underwood turned and strode into the house.
Taking a deep breath, I followed, trying not to let the grand facade with its gray stone blocks, towering chimneys, long mullioned windows, and knotted wooden doors intimidate me the way they must surely have done when I was a child. Nonetheless, my heart was racing as I stepped inside the imposing entrance.
Master Underwood waited for me at the base of a large staircase and I fell into step behind him as we ascended. The air grew warmer as we climbed, and the scent of lemon and honey enveloped us.
The door to the solar was open and Master Underwood announced my presence as he stepped aside and, with a half-bow and sweep of his arm, invited me to enter.
I gulped, my throat dry. I walked into the solar.
* * *
Two things struck me. The first was how big the room was compared to our humble solar at home, and how richly yet tastefully decorated. There were rugs on the walls and wooden floors, and chests and cabinets displayed objects both familiar and strange—ornate boxes, jeweled bowls, shining handled daggers in decorated sheaths, as well as instruments better suited to a ship or guild master’s office. I recognized a brass astrolabe. Servants stood around the room, awaiting their master’s whim. In the center, facing the windows, were three huge chairs and two beautifully carved stools. From the largest chair rose Lord Rainford.
Tall and lean, he had a head of thick, dark brown hair streaked with silver. As I drew closer, he made no attempt to hide his attention and I felt my face burn. I raised my chin and, while I knew I should have lowered it modestly, decided to offer his person the same sort of examination. His doublet was a deep blue with a high white collar and was inlaid with pearls. His legs were encased in vermilion hose and his boots were of soft brown leather. Altogether, he gave the appearance of wealth and artlessness, but I knew the trouble, let alone expense, that would have gone into his ensemble.
As I studied his lordship’s face, a second realization occurred. If ever I’d held any doubts about what my mother had told me the night she died, they were instantly dismissed. In Lord Rainford’s dark gray eyes, high cheekbones, and prominent nose, I saw my brother forty years hence. Even in the way his hair grew from his forehead. Anger flooded my body as I thought how this man had so callously discarded our family—especially now I knew for certain that the connection between us was more intimate and complicated than business alone.
Standing before him, I curtsied, making sure I showed due respect. Apart from the servants, we were alone. Unconventional, but then, my chaperone was in the kitchens and Lord Rainford either didn’t think to supply one or thought it unnecessary. I knew he was a widower, the third Lady Rainford having died, like my mother, in childbirth. Provided with three sons from his previous two wives, his succession was assured.
Taking my hand as I straightened, his eyes narrowed. “Mistress Sheldrake. I must say, apart from the hair, you’re very like your mother. You have her eyes . . .”
I drew my breath in sharply and resisted the urge to touch my face. “Many who knew her make a similar observation, your lordship.”
Releasing my hand, he grunted and indicated I should take the chair next to his. He waved a footman over and offered me a goblet of wine. I thought to refuse, simply because I wanted a clear head, but knew it might be construed badly, so took it reluctantly.
His lordship gestured, his many rings catching the light. “It’s watered.”
I took a sip. It was sweet, soothing on my throat. I felt his lordship’s eyes upon me again.
“I confess, Mistress Sheldrake, that your letter aroused my curiosity, something that has not been stirred for a very long time.” A finger stroked the rim of his wine cup absentmindedly. “But before we get to the reason for your visit, let me offer you my sincere condolences for your loss. Your father was a hardworking man and it will be very difficult to replace him.”
The lack of compassion in his tone took me aback, but I remembered my manners. “Thank you,” I said, feeling tears prick the back of my eyes. They came from a place of injustice, not grief, and I worked hard not to let them fall. How dare this man acknowledge my father’s value yet be so swift to leave us destitute?
“You said in your missive that you wished to discuss a business proposition with me,” said his lordship. “I’m trusting your note wasn’t simply a ruse to get in the door and throw yourself on my tender mercies. Because that will not work with me, Mistress Sheldrake. Others have tried and they always fail.”
I drew in my breath. This man did not waste time. Neither would I. “I’ve not come here under false pretenses, your lordship. Master Makejoy has made clear the nature of your business relationship with my father.” My tone was cold, distant. I’d the distinct feeling that if I showed my emotions, my proposition would be rejected outright. “I wish to talk to you about Holcroft House and its lands, which, I understand, along with his—I mean your—ships, Papa leased as part of your agreement.” I reached over and set down the heavy goblet. I needed my wits about me.
“He did. It’s a long-standing arrangement, Mistress Sheldrake, one that goes back over sixteen years. It protected me and ensured that your family was comfortable and your father’s . . . compliance. Since he is now dead, I no longer need to assure myself of that, do I?”
I drew my breath in sharply. Compliance? So much for suppressing my agitation.
“But I do need to acquit the losses your father’s”—he searched for the right word—“recklessness has caused. I cannot afford to be charitable. Business is business, and one cannot manage estates the extent of mine, nor fulfill obligations to king and country, if we allow the passing of a worker, even a valued one, to impact upon processes. Your father agreed to these terms. I’m simply abiding by them as well. Do you understand?”