Darlington and C.J. exchanged a look.
Mrs. Rivers lowered her head and dropped a shallow curtsy. “Forgive me, your lordship, but with so little activity at Delamere nowadays, I fear the staff has little else to do but gossip.”
“I am Cassandra Jane Welles, Mrs. Rivers.” C.J. extended her hand to the housekeeper, who, now fully awake, was studying the young woman’s strange attire, wondering why she should be swathed in the earl’s cloak. “It is my fault entirely. His lordship graciously indulged my thoughtless whim. I am sorry we have disturbed your slumber.”
“Charming young lady, sir, if I may say so. So, she is not to be the new mistress of Delamere?”
Darlington sighed. “Alas, no. I . . . promised . . . Miss Welles a tour of the estate,” the earl began.
“Not without a cup of tea first,” replied the motherly housekeeper. “And you cannot come all this way from town without showing Miss Welles some of the rooms.”
Not immune to Mrs. Rivers’s gentle powers of persuasion, Darlington agreed to escort Miss Welles on a tour of the main house. C.J. thought of Catherine Morland visiting Northanger Abbey. Carrying lit tapers, up the sweeping staircase they climbed, past full-length portraits of the former earls of Darlington and their wives—including two Gainsboroughs of Percy’s parents and a glorious Romney of Percy himself. On the second floor of the manse, Darlington opened a set of double doors onto a ballroom that rivaled the size and splendor of the one in Bath’s Upper Rooms.
“I cannot allow as this is proof of financial ruin,” C.J. said, admiring the chandeliers of Austrian cut-crystal and the highly polished parquet.
“The only visitors this room has seen in several years are the parlor maids,” the earl replied. “We cannot afford to entertain as we once did. The ballroom is of no more use to me now than a fallow field of wheat.”
They returned to the top of the staircase and entered the room opposite the ballroom. Where the walls were not lined floor to ceiling with bookshelves, they were hung with richly colored Gobelin tapestries.
“Quite a library you have here, your lordship,” gasped C.J.
“My father’s. Greek, Latin, Hebrew,” Darlington said, pointing to various Moroccan leather-bound collections. “A lot of use they were to Delamere.”
“Why do you sneer? Surely you still value his books greatly, because you have so lovingly preserved them.”
“They’d be best used for tinder at the moment.” The earl sighed regretfully. “My father’s cherished volumes do not put bread in the mouths of my tenants, Miss Welles. These scholarly works may be of use one day to a museum, but they avail me little at present. Come, I shall show you the . . . less glamorous aspects of my estate.”
By the time they reached the foot of the central staircase, Mrs. Rivers had lit a cozy fire in the parlor off the grand foyer and poured two steaming cups of Earl Grey for the master and his guest, who, having thus fortified themselves, set out to view the remainder of the property.
Once past the pristine confines of the manor house and its verdant terraced parklands, in the dim pre-dawn light the world became a muddy, dreary gray. The coachman cursed while the horses balked, anxious about pulling the carriage over the rutted, slippery ground. After riding for what seemed like miles, they stopped before a large, gabled cottage.
Darlington pointed from the coach window at the trellised ivy façade. “This is my steward’s home.”
“Quite quaint.”
“Mr. Belmont deserves all the charm of the English countryside that we can afford to provide. He works like the very devil to keep our heads above water. After Huggins was discharged, it took a strong leader to take the matters of the estate in hand. You will see what I mean, Miss Welles, as we drive farther along.”
On either side of the road, C.J. noticed tremendous stretches of open fields. In the moonlight they looked like giant silver carpets.
“You see?” Darlington remarked, gesturing at their immediate surroundings. “That one was wheat . . . and the one on the right was rye.”
“Both fallow?” C.J. asked.
“If the fields were fallow, they would be ploughed and harrowed and we would be able to use the soil next year. No, Miss Welles, the land you are presently looking at is barren. Not enough nutrients in the soil, Belmont tells me.”
Soon they came upon a village of sorts, although the streets, such as they were, remained unpaved. C.J. could smell the damp thatch from the roofs of the cottages, which seemed surprisingly cramped together given the tremendous expanses of land encompassing the estate. The noise of the approaching barouche created something of a commotion. Candles, torches, and lamps were lit, and a few curious tenants ventured out of doors, buttoning and tying on their breeches over their blousy muslin nightshirts.
Darlington gave the signal for the coach to halt. He and C.J. descended from the carriage and knocked on one of the cottage doors.
They were greeted by a family of six: the head of the household brandishing a hunting rifle; the mistress, wailing babe in arms, realizing that it was the master who had come to call in the dead of night; and three more youngsters, all of whom seemed to be under the age of twelve. None of them smelled as though they routinely bathed. Their bare feet were callused and dirty. C.J. peered past the doorway into the cottage. In the single room on the main floor of the house, she spied a hodgepodge of hand-hewn furniture, wooden trenchers and pewter mugs left unwashed on a rough wooden table; and in the center of the floor, a homemade hobby horse and a legless rag doll took pride of place.
“Cor, you near frightened the wits out of meself and the missus!” exclaimed the tenant farmer, who replaced his gun
