“But wasn’t he pleased?” Mrs. Bentley asked, following Gwen back to the library with Sir Trevor’s coat bundled in her arms. Gwen had found her in the butler’s pantry, a small room just off the dining room that held the china and silver service and served as a place to keep the food warm after it had been carried from the kitchen in the outbuilding. “Does he approve of what we’ve done with the house?”
“He will,” Gwen promised, pulling on her own green coat and cinching the ribbon under her breast. “Just give me a day.”
“I’ll be happy to give you all the time you need, dearie,” the little housekeeper replied with a sad smile. “I really have nowhere else to go.”
Neither did Gwen and her father. She’d lived her entire life in that gatehouse. Her mother had married, given birth and died there. Her father was only now beginning to find himself again after her death. Blackcliff Hall, Blackcliff village, St. Martin’s Church—they were all Gwen had ever known. Leaving was unthinkable. The very idea robbed her of speech, set her stomach to cramping.
Oh, but Sir Trevor had to be made to see reason! This house was their last chance to keep the village together in the coming years. A great house had hunting parties in the autumn, Christmas parties in the winter and house parties in the spring and summer. Visitors toured the area, ordered food from the George, bought laces and writing paper and gloves from the village shops, left money to thank the servants.
A great house had gardens that needed tending, horses to care for, carriages to manage. It needed maids and footmen and cooks, perhaps even a governess and nursemaid if the master’s family was increasing. Blackcliff would keep them all together.
But only if Sir Trevor was happy enough with the place to make it his home.
Why had her father emphasized the negative? A shame she couldn’t have stayed while he had made his report. She could have corrected mistakes, shown Blackcliff in a better light. She knew how to manage the estate; she’d followed her father about his duties since she was a child, taking on more of a role each year as her father and Colonel Umbrey aged.
But even if she had stayed with her father this morning, she knew she had to be careful how much she helped him. He needed to feel useful; he needed to take back his place in the community. Surely that would get him over this depression he continued to fight. Right now, though, she just had to make sure his dismal report didn’t affect her plans for Blackcliff.
She marched into the library, prepared to counter any argument Sir Trevor might mount, but he came around the desk to meet her and Mrs. Bentley with a polite smile. He even bent over backward to allow the little housekeeper to shrug him into his greatcoat.
“Is there something special I can cook you for dinner, then, sir?” she asked as he straightened, her big brown eyes looking up into his.
He adjusted his coat across his broad shoulders. “I’m sure whatever you have will be fine, Mrs. Bentley.”
She nodded, then leaned toward Gwen. “The salmon, I think,” she whispered. “And pudding. I don’t know a man who doesn’t like pudding.”
Gwen could only hope the housekeeper was right. At the moment, it seemed that Sir Trevor liked little about Blackcliff. But she was about to change all that.
Please, Lord, let me change all that!
“If you’d be so kind as to follow me, Sir Trevor,” she said, then held her breath.
But he nodded, motioning her out the door ahead of him.
Emboldened, Gwen led him through the manor and onto the lawn before the fell.
How could he fail to appreciate the view? Gwen loved autumn at Blackcliff. The cool air was moist and tangy. The black rock made the fiery rowans and oaks and the russet ash stand out in sharp relief. With so much color, the ugly charcoal-colored piles of wad tailings around the mouth of the mine halfway up the slope were barely noticeable.
She paused, turning to him. “You like to ride, don’t you?”
He raised a brow as if he hadn’t expected the question. “Indeed.”
She pointed along the foot of the fell. “There’s an excellent path along there. If you head west, it will take you to the top of the dale. East will lead you down the dale into the Lockhart estate. The squire and his son are bruising riders, too. I’m sure they wouldn’t mind you jumping a few fences.”
“At least they have fences,” he replied.
So much for riding. Lord, guide my words! Show me what he’d find good here!
Then a verse came to her mind: Come, and let us go up to the mountain of the Lord.
The mountain! Of course. “And you have Blackcliff,” she replied, turning to head for the well-worn footpath up the fell. “This way.”
“This isn’t necessary,” he said, though she felt him behind her.
“It is entirely necessary,” she insisted, lifting her skirts to clamber up the rocky path. Behind her came a thud and a grunt, and she turned to find him on one knee, sliding backward on the rocks. She reached out a hand and grabbed his coat, slowing him. Oh, but he was a solid fellow! She teetered on the rock, perilously close to falling herself. Lord, help me!
Her gaze met his and, for a moment, she thought her panic had infected him, as well. Then his eyes narrowed as if in determination, and he surged upward, caught her and pulled her into the safety of his arms. Gwen stood, wrapped in his embrace, her chest against his ribs, blinking up at him.
“I can see why you thought this would improve my perception of Blackcliff,” he said, gazing down at her. His mouth curved up in a smile.
Heat flushed up her, and she disengaged from him. “Actually, you’ll find the view from the top is much better.”
His smile turned sad. “You’re wasting your time, I fear.”
“Then I shall apologize sweetly for taking you out of your way,” Gwen replied. But she started resolutely upward once more and heard the rocks rattle under his boots as he followed.
They climbed in silence for a while, the sounds of their footfalls quieted by the still air. The brambles along the path were turning a peachy orange, their berries almost as dark as the ground. Did he appreciate the show? A falcon soared by, nearly eye level with them. Did he see its majesty?
Apparently not, for he asked, “Why do you stay? Why do any of you stay?”
A simple enough question, for Gwen. “It’s home,” she told him, breath starting to come in pants. “My father’s here. My friends are here. But there’s more to it than that. You’ll see in a moment.”
With a last push, she reached the top. Sharp slabs of shale lay piled on the ground like dirty dishes on a footman’s tray. The air was cool and just as sharp, stinging her cheeks, tugging at her curls, whistling as it passed. Trevor drew up beside her, standing tall into the blue, blue sky.
Gwen spread her arms and turned in a circle. “Look around you, Sir Trevor. Everything you see is yours.”
He turned slowly, eyes widening. The crimson of autumn gave way to the white of new snow on the upper peaks in the distance. They had only a dusting now, like sugar on cinnamon loaves, but they’d be all white before winter’s end. Their forested sides ran down to clear brooks and wide fields. Gwen linked one arm with his and pointed with the other.
“Your land extends to the top of the next peak. See that stream in the valley between the two? It’s filled with salmon. You’ll have some for dinner tonight.”