She paused, then went on, “It seemed sensible all around. We all thought it would give Robbie time to learn how to manage the estate.”
“Including what it takes to safely corral goats,” Cynster drily remarked.
“That would be the least of it,” she returned acerbically. “Robbie’s only twenty and rides well, but that’s the limit of his country expertise. Hopper and the farmworkers, orchardmen, and herdsmen know what’s needed, or so I’ve been assured, but they—like me—have been run off their feet trying to keep up with things”—she drew breath, raised her chin, and looked at Cynster challengingly—“since we realized Uncle Humphrey wasn’t able to anymore.”
He studied her, then prompted, “What happened?”
“Nothing dramatic—that was part of the problem.” She thought back to their arrival and the weeks and months after that. “When we first took up residence here, Uncle Humphrey seemed quite normal—to us and everyone else. Emma has known Humphrey for most of her life, and she didn’t see or sense anything amiss. None of the staff suspected a thing, and as you probably know, most of the senior staff have been at Bigfield for decades and are very loyal to and protective of my uncle. Not even Vickers, who has known and worked closely with Humphrey for most of Humphrey’s adult life, had any idea my uncle’s mind was failing. As you saw, physically, he’s still quite hale and whole, and at first, it was just minor things—slips of memory that anyone might make—like calling Robbie by my father’s name. His condition came on gradually, and we strongly suspect that Uncle Humphrey grew quite adept at hiding his difficulties.”
She paused, then continued, “Eventually, we realized that, at times, Humphrey actually thought Robbie was our father—that during those times, Humphrey was living in some version of the past. Vickers now believes Humphrey had some sense of his failing faculties, and that was why he was so insistent we left London and came to live with him.”
“He foresaw his own decline?”
“So Vickers thinks. He may well be right. There are still days when you might imagine Humphrey is back to his former self, but the next day, he’ll have retreated again.” She gestured toward the conservatory. “You’ve seen how he is—he lives more in his memory than in the real world.”
Cynster looked genuinely perturbed. “I can’t believe my parents didn’t sense something was wrong.”
She smiled faintly. “Humphrey rallied when they visited—he made a huge effort to stay focused. There are times when he can manage that, but as the days pass, more and more, he simply can’t bring his mind to bear.”
Cynster held her gaze for a long moment, then stated, “You’re trying to hide your uncle’s decline from the neighborhood.”
She tipped her head. “Not so much from the neighbors as from the agents the estate deals through—the ones who purchase our fleeces, fruits, and crops.” She watched Cynster closely as she said, “According to Hopper, if Humphrey’s condition becomes widely known, then with no experienced man to step into his shoes, when it comes to selling our produce, there’s a good chance the estate will be taken advantage of.” She paused, trying to gauge his reaction. “Vickers agrees, so I’m trying to hold the fort here and cope with the day-to-day decisions while Robbie does his best to learn the ropes from the ground up, as it were.”
From the awareness and concern Cynster allowed to show, she concluded that Hopper and Vickers hadn’t been wrong. She rubbed her forehead, where her earlier headache lingered. “We all, Vickers included, thought Robbie would have five years at least to learn how to manage the estate before, eventually, taking over from Uncle Humphrey. But things didn’t fall out that way, and we’re all doing our best to manage the situation as well as we can—meaning as Humphrey would have wanted and expected.”
When Cynster said nothing but stared frowningly into space, she more waspishly stated, “I assure you we will cope—one way or another. And now, if your curiosity is satisfied, perhaps you’ll allow me to get on with these projections.”
Quite where her spurt of temper came from, she couldn’t have said, but she was certain of its target.
Christopher heard the underlying anger in her words, presumably due to having been forced to reveal such information. She wasn’t the sort to relish being forced to do anything, much less acknowledge such a weakness in an uncle she plainly cared for.
But her revelations had left him with a lot to think about; he needed time to sort through all the ramifications. In the circumstances, he decided to accept her dismissal, regardless of how snippily it had been delivered.
He got to his feet. “Thank you for being so frank.”
She met his gaze and, he suspected, fought not to narrow her eyes.
He hid a smile, but then sobered. He hesitated, then felt compelled to say, “Our families have known each other for decades, and the manor and Bigfield House have always supported each other through any adversity. If we at the manor can render any assistance in this instance, know you have only to ask.”
She searched his eyes and, presumably, confirmed his sincerity. With a graciousness that was singularly remarkable given the ribbons bobbing about her ears, she inclined her head. “Thank you for the offer. If we have need of assistance, I’ll remember it.”
He noted that she didn’t say she would ask for his help, but he’d said what he’d needed to say, and so had she. He nodded in farewell. “I’ll see myself out.”
She didn’t leap to her feet and insist on showing him to the door. She remained where she was and, with a direct and level gaze, watched him leave.
Once in the corridor and out of her sight, Christopher shook his head.
He passed through the hall and walked out through the open front door, into the afternoon sunshine. A groom stood waiting at the bottom of the steps, holding the reins of Christopher’s gray hunter, Storm. After taking the reins and thanking the lad, Christopher stepped to Storm’s side—and paused.
Despite his initial expectations evoked by her doll-like frippery, Miss Ellen Martingale had displayed not the slightest sign of harboring even the faintest interest in him.
Given her status as an unmarried young lady beyond her first blush, that alone was odd.
Yet compounding that oddity, she’d shown no sign of wishing to investigate the searing attraction that had flared so unexpectedly between them.
Indeed, she’d done her level best to pretend that attraction didn’t exist.
After a moment spent reviewing their recent interaction, Christopher softly snorted, stuck his boot in the stirrup, and swung up to the saddle. He settled, lifted the reins, and urged Storm down the drive.
He might have thought he was losing his touch, but he knew it wasn’t that. No. It was Miss Ellen Martingale.
She was a strange bird—one quite different from any other lady of her station. From any other lady he’d ever met.
Chapter 2
The following afternoon, Christopher was, once again, on Storm’s back. The big gray needed frequent exercise, and Christopher found an hour of riding over his fields to be an excellent way of keeping up with developments.