He did not know who he was without it. His first steps had been made along the teeming Philadelphia docks. He’d spent his childhood in that busy, dizzy atmosphere, learning arithmetic in the counting houses and how to read from warehouse manifests. He’d grown to manhood on board his father’s ships, learning every aspect of the shipping business with sweat and tears and honest labour. His adult life had been comprised of an endless search for new markets, new imports, new revenue. For years he had worked, struggled and prepared for the day that he would take the helm of the family business.
And now he never would. So, yes—he had grabbed on to his anger with both hands and held tight. But it was an unaccustomed affliction, and it had grown heavier and more burdensome with each passing week. It would be a relief indeed to set it aside, but was he ready?
Not quite. Portia had been convincing last night. Something inside him wished to believe her, but he had a need to question her closely, and a rising desire to compare stories.
I need your help, she’d said, and she’d mentioned something about her own dilemma. It set his mind awhirl, with curiosity and, worse, a growing sense of suspicion. His father’s heavy-handed manipulation blared loud and obvious, but could Portia truly have been unaware of her part in it?
As he’d already done hundreds of times, Mateo dragged his memory for details of the thwarted marriage scheme Leandro Cardea and the Earl of Winbury had attempted nearly nine years ago. Their timing had been preposterous. Mateo had been completely occupied with his sleek new schooner, and the opportunity for fortune, glory and adventure that privateering would give him and his crew. The notion of a marriage had been his father’s last, desperate attempt to steer him from that course. Ever the rebel, Mateo had laughed at the idea—and at his father’s clumsy choice of a bride.
Portia Varnsworth? A girl-child she’d been, with plenty of pluck, but no more appeal than a younger sister. At the time he’d hoped she’d been just as incredulous as he. He’d written to her with that assumption, and certainly her response had reassured him. She was far too young to contemplate such a thing, she’d replied, and entirely too caught up with a landscaping project on her father’s estate. And there was the Season for her to look forward to the following year. Mateo had sighed in relief and promptly forgot the entire scheme.
But he had thought of her occasionally, over the years. He remembered her shy smile and her willingness to listen. He’d been surprised and curious at the news of her marriage, and sympathetic when he’d heard of her husband’s death. Had anyone asked, he would have confessed to remembering her fondly.
Until the day he’d sat in the solicitor’s office and heard that his father had left the controlling interest in Cardea Shipping to her. Instead of leading the family legacy into the future, he would be working for Portia Varnsworth.
Mateo’s shock had been complete. Doubt and suspicion had sprouted like weeds in his mind. And if he hadn’t been so angry, he would have laughed at the—once again—impeccable bad timing of the thing.
At the thought he urged his mount to a quicker pace. Whatever the outcome of this meeting, someone had to quickly take control of Cardea Shipping. Ahead must be the lane that would take him to Stenbrooke. He took the turning, but after only a few minutes’ travel he found himself distracted. Gazing about him, Mateo realised that, of a certainty, there was one thing about his childhood friend that had not changed.
Portia Tofton, née Varnsworth, was a gardener. Digging, planting, pruning, cutting, Portia had never been happier than when she was covered in muck. Looking about, it became clear that she had continued to indulge her beloved pastime here at Stenbrooke.
The lane he followed led first through a wooded grove, immaculately kept and dotted with the occasional early-blooming clump of monk’s hood. Eventually, though, the wood thinned, giving way to a sweeping vista of rolling hills. Ahead the path diverged. To the left, over the tops of a grouping of trees, he caught sight of a peaked roof. On the right nestled a jewel of a lake, edged with flowering shrubs and spanned by a rustic stone bridge.
Mateo marvelled at the beauty of the scene. Then he spared a moment’s empathy for the hardship some sea captain had endured in transporting the obviously exotic specimens.
He shook his head. The landscaping work here was awe-inspiring. Surely Brown or Repton had had a hand in it. Had Portia kept this up herself after her husband’s passing? But of course she had. Care and attention to detail were evident in every direction.
It was ongoing even now, he noted, catching sight of several labourers grouped on the far side of the bridge. Standing thigh-high in the lake, they were repairing one of the arches, judging from the steady ring of hammer against stone. He watched them idly until he reached the fork in the lane, and then he turned his mount’s head in the direction of the house.
Until suddenly his brain processed what his eyes had just seen. He hauled on the reins, startling the animal, and spun him swiftly around. Raising a hand, he cast his best weather eye towards the lake again. Yes. One of the labourers had moved to the edge of the stone pedestal and into view. A labourer in skirts.
A sharp bark of laughter broke free. Yes, he mused, men did die. Enterprises failed, empires grew and nations were born. Mateo had learned that lesson the hard way. One had only to look about with an unjaundiced eye to know that change and upheaval were the only persevering truths in this life.
Perhaps that explained, then, why he should be struck with unexpected delight at the odd tableau before him. It was something of a relief to discover that some things never did change.
The ghost of a smile flitted about his mouth. It was even more of a relief to once again find pleasure in a simple, unexpected moment. He let the stranglehold on his anger slip—just a little—and spurred his mount towards the lake.
Chapter Three
‘That’s done it now, Mrs Tofton.’
Portia’s ears still rang from the blow of the mallet. Her foreman’s voice sounded tinny and distant, though he loomed close by her side.
‘You can let go. That’s the last one.’
She did, shaking out the strain in her arms and stepping back. The damaged pedestal of her stone arch bridge was nearly repaired, she saw with satisfaction.
‘Aye, that does it,’ Newman echoed her sentiment. ‘A bit of mortar and it’ll be right as rain.’ He turned as another man splashed up. ‘We’ll not be needing another block after all, Billings. You can throw that one back in the cart. We’re nearly done now.’
Billings turned, but cast a resentful eye back towards the bridge. ‘Can I be gettin’ back to the orchard now? New branches don’t train themselves.’
‘Yes, of course.’ Portia grasped her water-logged skirts and started back towards shore, as well. ‘Thank you, Billings. I am sorry I had to tear you away from your trees.’ She sighed. ‘Perhaps next year we shall be able to hire some more permanent labourers.’
‘Aye, well, and if you do, let them waddle after Newman here. I’m fine alone in the orchard, but if you be wantin’ a crop this year or next, you’ll be lettin’ me get on with me work.’
‘Oh, go on, you old crosspatch,’ she said, smiling over her shoulder at him. ‘Newman, can you finish up on your own? I suppose I must get back to the house and change before our company arrives.’
‘You’ve left it a bit late.’ Billings shifted his burden and spat casually into the water.