The Rake's Rainbow (7 page)

And why did that question surface now?
he cursed moments later, for his mind refused to let it go unanswered. The ensuing reflections were far from comfortable. To his chagrin, he discovered that the Honourable Thomas Mannering was a useless fribble.

Had he accomplished anything in five-and-twenty years? 

Unfortunately not. A third of his lifetime gone for nought. He had put in the expected time at Eton and Oxford, enjoying his studies enormously but reluctant to admit to such an unfashionable pleasure, producing adequate but unexceptional work lest he be singled out by the tutors. Why was he hesitant to appear different?  Such cowardice did not uphold the honor his ancestry demanded.

From school he had embarked upon life in the
ton
, sowing his oats with wild abandon, rapidly acquiring a reputation as one of London’s more charming rakehells, but as he never seduced innocent maidens, society smiled indulgently on his rumored prowess and welcomed him with open arms. Espousing both the dandy and Corinthian sets, he sparred, fenced, and tested his marksmanship at Manton’s. He lounged at his clubs, gamed, and attended innumerable sporting events. He wasted uncounted hours on dressing, driving through the park, exchanging endless
on-dits
, and doing the pretty to society’s denizens.

And none of it was worth a damn. He deliberately ignored the months of Alicia, and shuddered at the abysmal aftermath of her rejection. But how had he allowed himself to drift so aimlessly?  Unlike most of his friends, he was not heir to a title and fortune, so he had nothing to wait for. Why was he wasting his life? 

He could no longer postpone addressing the problem. It was true that he had often considered raising horses, but he had never taken the idea beyond the dreaming stage. Nor, in spite of inheriting Crawley five years since, had he spent even a minute assessing its condition, discussing its problems, or planning its future. He had left all decisions in the hands of a bailiff he did not know and a man of business he did not supervise. He shuddered at his own negligence. If the two were robbing him blind, it was no more than he deserved. And he knew next to nothing about agriculture. Yet in twelve months’ time, Crawley would represent his entire fortune.

He tried to honestly evaluate what he saw, rapidly discovering that there was no point in making mental notes of urgent problems. Everything constituted an urgent problem. He would require a week to obtain even the broadest overview. Instead, he sought any sign of good news. That the stables were marginally acceptable was due to the estate’s sole groom. Two of the tenants seemed knowledgeable and willing to try modern innovations. And several cottage industries flourished in the village.

But bad news predominated. The farms were in deplorable condition, with families housed in hovels, walls and outbuildings derelict, and little noticeable attempt to improve crop yields or livestock. His own acres were in worse shape. And the sight of the grounds in full daylight was enough to make the sturdiest heart quake. Without a gamekeeper, vermin abounded. The drive was all but washed out. The gardens formed impenetrable thickets capable of hiding follies. Even the lake was choked with deadwood and weeds. In low spirits, he returned to the house for luncheon. Would Caroline be speaking to him after viewing the devastation that was now their only home? 

But lunch proved a milestone in their developing relationship. Both weary after a long morning, they exchanged formal greetings and concentrated on food. Yet once Peters retired, Thomas turned his attention to his wife.

“What think you of the house?”

“It will be quite delightful,” she responded diplomatically.

“But not for a long while.”  He grinned. “Be honest.”

“If we are being frank, it is deplorable,” she agreed. “You must join me in praying for sunshine – lots of sunshine.”

“And why is that?”

“January is hardly suited for spring cleaning, sir. What did Tibbins say about the roof?”

“The damage occurred in last week’s storm.”  He frowned as he recalled the bailiff’s hesitation at the question.

“Is he generally reliable?” she probed. Tibbins was clearly not carrying out his duties, yet Thomas had employed him for five years.

But she needn’t have worried. He laughed. “Do not ever fear the truth, wife,” he admonished. “I have never really talked with Tibbins, but after half a day in his company viewing the estate he has supervised, I judge him lazy and inept. I will keep him on only until I learn enough to take charge myself. How bad is the roof?”

“Critical,” she rejoined with relief. His words indicated a trust in her judgment that established the beginnings of a partnership. “Judging from the water damage on all floors in the east wing, the leak is large and has been growing for at least a year. Perhaps longer. I did not examine anything in detail so cannot begin to guess how extensive the rot is.”

He groaned. “At least three tenant cottages must be replaced, with significant repairs necessary to the rest. I cannot in good conscience allow those people to spend even one more year in such squalor.”

“I suppose Tibbins has not gotten around to planning the spring planting,” she commented dryly.

“He would undoubtedly follow the same plan as he has for each of the last ten years. I wonder that he still coaxes forth any yields. As near as I can tell, the man never heard of crop rotation. Even the tenants complain of his inflexibility.”

“There was an interesting book published last spring, titled
Improved Field Cultivation Techniques
. Have you perchance read it?”

Guilty at the reminder of his not-so-youthful follies, he grimaced. “I have not been myself this past year, remember?  Who wrote it?”

“Unfortunately, I do not recall, though the squire has a copy and could certainly tell us. I merely skimmed it, so I cannot trust my memory for details. But it might make a good starting point for planning.”

“I must ride in to Banbury tomorrow and will check the booksellers. If they don’t know, then you can write the squire. I would take you along, but my carriage and horses will not arrive until the end of the week. Have you any commissions?”

“Several. I will put together a list.”  She paused. “I have made other discoveries since we arrived. It seems the maids Sarah and Polly are not officially employed here. Tibbins refused to authorize indoor staff beyond Peters, Mrs. Peters, and Mrs. James.”

He glanced up in surprise. “Then why are they here?  Without notice, they could hardly have been brought in for our benefit.”

“True. But Peters and his wife long ago took upon themselves – I suspect to relieve boredom – the task of training area girls and boys to be domestic servants and helping them find suitable positions. Tibbins is unaware of the practice. But I like the idea and wish to continue it.”

“Certainly. This is yet one more negative to lay at the man’s door. Tibbins will not remain much longer.”

Encouraged by this reaction, she voiced yet another idea she had formulated that morning. “I could not help noticing the deplorable condition of the grounds. With planting due to start so soon, the tenants will be busy in the fields. What think you of hiring former soldiers to make a start on clearing?  We had many of these poor men near Sheldridge Corners. They cannot find jobs, nor can most return to combat because of their injuries. But many are able to do moderately heavy work, especially where there are no time constraints as would exist in planting or harvesting.”

He bit off an equivocation and turned her suggestion over in his mind. Many veterans littered the streets of London, men in the tattered remains of uniforms, who lacked an arm or leg or worse, and were reduced to begging to stay alive. Like most of his peers, he had pointedly ignored them, but her appeal prompted him to consider their plight. How would he survive similar deformities?  He could easily have acquired them. Second sons frequently turned to the army for their livelihood. Without Crawley, he might well be on the Peninsula.

“An excellent idea,” he agreed. “I will inquire about area men while in town tomorrow and see what labor may be found.”

“Thank you, Thomas. May I turn out the library while you are gone?  Or would you prefer the drawing room?  Both need much more than today’s cursory cleaning.”

“The library will be fine. Best to finish in there before I find myself neck-deep in paperwork.”  He grinned.

“So I thought. And I will put together a preliminary list of essentials that we can discuss tonight.”

Thomas rose and helped her from her seat. “Until dinner then, Caroline. I must spend the afternoon trying to make sense of the estate records.”  He raised her hand to his lips, sending shivers up her arm.

* * * *

That day set the pattern for the following week. They ate all meals together. The evenings passed in amity in the library. Thomas alternately perused estate records and devoured the agriculture and horse-breeding books he had purchased in Banbury. He discovered a hitherto unsuspected interest in estate management. But the more he learned, the angrier he became with his great-uncle for dissipating a prosperous property and at Tibbins for abusing what was left.

Caroline spent these evenings sitting quietly before the fire, mending linens and draperies. She was always willing to discuss estate problems, but rarely initiated a conversation, knowing that he was wrestling with a host of new concepts. Though she had spoken to the squire several times about estate management, she had not studied the subject herself, so she refrained from offering her own views. Ladies were not expected to be knowledgeable and she did not want to endanger their developing friendship by setting herself up as an expert. Instead she limited her input to common-sense statements and an occasional pertinent question that pointed his thinking in interesting new directions. She discovered that he possessed a lively mind and a keen sense of humor. These attributes and a week of hard work with no drinking went a long way toward earning her respect.

Days found Thomas riding over the estate and Caroline supervising a truly gargantuan cleaning effort. She had been forced to scale back her plans. There was simply too much to do. Roofers arrived to repair the leaks, but Thomas agreed to postpone other work on the east wing. She closed it off and concentrated on the rest, praying daily for continued dry weather. A dozen powerful men beat carpets from dawn to dusk, raising enormous dust clouds. An even larger army toiled indoors. Men stripped or reattached wallcoverings and shifted furniture. Women scoured, waxed, and polished. Lamps doubled their output of light with the advent of clean chimneys. Satinwood paneling in the hall and library glowed. Windows sparkled and furniture gleamed.

By week’s end the drawing room, dining room, and morning room were places of welcome despite fraying draperies, worn carpets, and appallingly bare walls. Most of the west wing and the central block was clean and aired, though she had made no attempt to decorate or even make habitable the bulk of the rooms. But in an attic she discovered a set of French furniture that had graced the drawing room some fifty years earlier, its condition better than the heavy, worn pieces preferred by Uncle Bertram. In like manner she moved a better carpet into the breakfast room, undamaged draperies to the dining room, and found several almost-matching pieces suitable for her own rooms.

Her most surprising discovery was a lovely pianoforte in the drawing room. With the manor’s history of neglect, she had expected nothing beyond a derelict harpsichord. But though it was badly out of tune, it seemed in excellent condition. In her only personal extravagance since her marriage, she spent an entire afternoon tuning it and repairing several stuck keys. Music was both her greatest love and her most striking accomplishment.

After a week of nonstop labor, she celebrated with an afternoon of playing. She had her own music, of course, but had discovered a cabinet holding other pieces, many of them new to her. Lost in a Haydn concerto, she did not notice Thomas’s amazement as he halted in the doorway. Nor did she see the pain that marred his face before he fled the room. Thus she did not worry when his evening’s study lengthened so that she fell asleep long before he stumbled up to bed.

On his part, Thomas had been shocked when he’d returned early to the manor. The last thing he had expected was finding that his wife was an accomplished musician. Not that he disliked music. To the contrary. Alicia was an exquisite pianist, and he had spent several memorable evenings listening to her entertain guests. This was yet another thing he had banished to a mental attic when he lost her. He could never enjoy music again.

His first thought upon hearing the concerto was that an angel had dropped in to pay its respects, immediately followed by the painful memory of Alicia’s golden head bent over a keyboard. Worse was the realization that the musician was his wife, his ears proclaiming her more accomplished than anyone he had ever heard.

He fled.

How could he entertain such an idea?  Alicia was the most exquisite musician in the world, better than the most talented professional. She could charm the birds from the trees or induce the stars to dance in the heavens. Caroline could not be that talented. It was merely shock that she played at all. Anger burst through him. She should have mentioned this. Her secrecy was hardly in keeping with her agreement to be honest. Instead, she had sprung her skills as a surprise, forcing him to make the comparison he had sworn to avoid.

Confusion reigned.

He was still young, and though he had enjoyed countless women in his five-and-twenty years, he understood little of the fair sex beyond the purely physical and still considered life in absolute terms. From the beginning he had known Alicia was perfect, an angel surpassing all others – her beauty unmatched, her wit enchanting, her talents divine. His acceptance of a leg-shackle was possible only when he decided to admire her from afar while he gouged out life with an imperfect wife. But perfection was impossible for a mere mortal. To find others with abilities that even approached hers reduced Alicia to human terms and revealed his own foolishness. Thus came his anger at Caroline for shaking Alicia’s pedestal. He had reconciled his loss and accepted his fate, but his wife was unwilling to live a life of relative contentment. She chose to challenge his love head-on.