Trevor felt like standing a little taller. He offered them all a polite smile, in keeping with his new role of lord of the manor. “I am the one honored, I assure you.”
An approving murmur ran through the crowd. Gwen stepped aside, and an aisle opened between him and Icarus, who stood, head high, as if deigning to receive the attention bestowed upon him.
Trevor rather felt the same. He strolled down the center, nodding to this person and that, all the while keeping an eye out for the man who’d taken Icarus from him the night before or any of the men he had crossed in London. No one looked the least familiar. In fact, they were thin-faced and weary, as if living this close to the fells sapped their strength.
An older woman in a faded skirt curtsied to him. “Welcome to Blackcliff, sir. If you’ve need of a maid, my Becky’s a hard worker.” The plain-faced young woman next to her stared at him with worshipful eyes.
Gwen laid a hand on the woman’s arm as if in encouragement. “Sir Trevor will be making decisions on staffing soon, I promise. Send Becky up to me tomorrow, Mrs. Dennison, and I’ll find work for her.”
The woman’s blue eyes filled with tears. “Oh, thank you, Miss Allbridge.”
Trevor suddenly felt as if fine threads were being woven around him, tying him to this place. He wanted to shake them off, demand his independence. He had come north to learn what Blackcliff Hall could do for him, not what he could do for it.
Mrs. Dennison licked her lips. “And while you’re making plans for the place, sir, I hope you’ll see fit to reopen the mine.”
Silence fell, stretched. They were all watching him. He wouldn’t have been surprised had they been holding their breaths. But this was one question he felt perfectly comfortable answering.
He smiled at the woman. “If there’s a producing mine on my land, you can be sure I’ll have it opened.”
Another cheer went up. Hats were launched into the air. Couples embraced. Mrs. Dennison was openly crying now.
Gwen Allbridge grabbed his arm and yanked him toward Icarus.
“Now you’ve done it,” she said, dark eyes narrowed. “If I were you, I’d ride hard for the Hall and not look back.”
Chapter Four
Of course, Sir Trevor ignored her advice. In fact, Gwen was beginning to think the baronet was not going to be an easy gentleman to manage.
He kept his head high as his horse stepped away from the inn, the crowd cavorting along behind him as he made his stately way up the winding, tree-shaded lane. He must know the hope he’d given them—their faces glowed and their praises rang to the fells. Walking beside him, she could look up at his face—calm, dignified, with the barest hint of a smile lingering about the curve of his lips. He obviously had no idea that what he’d promised was impossible.
Oh, Lord, please keep them from hating him when he has to tell them the truth!
At least he wasn’t gloating, she thought as they approached the wrought-iron gates of Blackcliff Hall. However much of a challenge he offered her in keeping the estate going, he had to be a better owner than Colonel Umbrey. The colonel had always been capricious—the house too warm one day, too cold the next; salmon his favorite and least favorite meal by turns. He’d only grown more strange as the years had passed. Look at how he’d cast off his faithful valet, discharged her father and holed up in his bedchamber.
But even he had understood that the mine was closed.
The villagers stopped respectfully outside the gates, their rousing cheers following Gwen and Trevor up the curving gravel drive. The trees edging the estate boundary quickly hid them from view. From the direction of the gatehouse came a single, questioning bark: Dolly, protesting being left behind. She hated it when Gwen locked her in the kennel behind the stone gatehouse. Gwen would have liked nothing better than to lean against Dolly’s warm side, particularly as Gwen was a bit sore from the night’s exertions.
But she knew the mastiff had no place in the morning’s activities. This morning was all for Sir Trevor.
As they continued up the drive, other noises faded until the loudest sound was the crunch of Icarus’s hooves against rough gravel. The autumn breeze brushed Gwen’s cheek, set the trees along the drive to rustling. Leaves of bright red and deep russet drifted down across the emerald lawn.
“How long has Blackcliff been sitting?” Sir Trevor asked.
Did it look so terrible to him, even in the daylight? True, the stone fountain below the sweep of the drive stood empty and clogged with fallen leaves, but that was easily fixed. “About six months,” Gwen replied. “Colonel Umbrey refused all callers the last three months of his life, and he wouldn’t allow any changes to the estate. But the mine’s been closed for over a year. The surveyors said it was too dangerous to work.”
There—she’d said it. She cast him a quick glance to see how he might be taking it. The smile on his handsome face was even more noticeable.
“Surveyors can be mistaken,” he said.
So could he, but Gwen was suddenly very glad his education was one thing she could leave to her father.
Rob Winslow was waiting in front of the gray stone manor to take Icarus. She’d picked Rob purposely. He was tall, his strapping frame showed well in the brown coat and breeches that had been the livery of the previous master, he knew something about horses being the son of the village blacksmith and he’d play the role for no other pay than her thanks. He touched his brown forelock as Sir Trevor reined in, then quickly took charge of the horse.
Sir Trevor watched him, green eyes narrowed, until he’d disappeared around the house for the stables.
Gwen swallowed, feeling the chill in the air. “He’s not the one who took your horse yesterday, is he?”
“No. That man was much older and considerably thinner. That was my impression, at least. He was wearing a cloak.” Sir Trevor shook himself and started up the stairs. “I thought you said the groom had been discharged.”
“He was,” Gwen said, pacing him to the door. “Rob, that is Mr. Winslow, is merely filling in until you settle on your staff.”
He raised his dark brows over his aristocratic nose. He’d taken out his key, but she reached around him for the door. “No need. My father’s already opened the house. You did ask to meet with him this morning.”
He cast her a look. She could not tell what he was thinking, but she found herself holding her breath as he pushed open the door and strode inside.
Margaret Bentley was waiting to take his coat. She was the one person Gwen had qualms about. Oh, she looked the part of housekeeper with her snowy hair bound in a coronet about her round face and her motherly girth swathed in black bombazine covered by a pristine white apron. But she had no experience as a cook for anyone other than her six children and husband, all of whom had passed on.
“Welcome home, sir,” she said in her gentle voice as she reached up to help Sir Trevor with his multi-caped greatcoat. She had to stand on her tiptoes to pull it off. As she dropped back down, she peered at Gwen around his waist, brows up and mouth pursed in an O of awe.
“This is Mrs. Bentley,” Gwen said. The little woman straightened as Sir Trevor turned to eye her. “She’s acting as housekeeper and cook.”
Mrs. Bentley bobbed a curtsy, puddling Sir Trevor’s coat against the floor as she did so. “A pleasure, sir. Mr. Allbridge is waiting in the library, and I’ve started the teakettle on the boil. Is there anything else I can do for you?”
“No, thank you,” Trevor replied. “And tea would be most welcome.”