Page 5 of Marrying a Reluctant Lady
He sat down at the desk and opened the household accounts. Mr. Barrow, the steward, had kept the accounts for Owen’s entire life. He was used to his neat, spidery writing, and he deciphered it easily. He swallowed hard at the totals the man had filled in for the month.
“It’s not possible.”
Owen was just one man of modest taste, and he supported a household staff of six: Mr. and Mrs. Crane, Mr. Barrow, two maids and a gardener. No other earl had such a tiny staff, but still, somehow, the money was going out steadily every month at a rate that alarmed him.
It was the debts, Owen thought miserably. Even before Papa passed, Ivystone had been beset with creditors. Papa had built on new rooms, spent lavishly, and furnished the place, not realizing that he didn’t have the money for the renovations—he’d thought Grandfather’s money was safe.
“I hate this place,” Owen whispered, teeth clenched.
It was through trying to fix the debts that Papa and Grantham had died. They’d been on a mission to France to try and invest in French wine when the ship sank. Owen hated Ivystone even more because of it. Without the debts, withoutIvystone, his only parent and his big brother—who was his only real friend besides Leonard—would be here. The place had taken his dignity, his wealth and the life of all those he cared about. Sometimes he thought he’d do better to abandon it and run to Ireland where Uncle Gerald might take him in, but he couldn’t bring himself to abandon the place when Papa and Grantham had died to try and save it.
They had died to save this place, and he hated it because of it.
He looked up from the books at a noise outside. He cleared his throat, recognizing that someone was knocking. Perhaps it was Mr. Crane. He could bring some coal for the fire—it was freezing in the room.
“Come in,” he called softly.
“My lord?” Barrow greeted him carefully, opening the door a crack. His thin face was cautious, and Owen swallowed hard.
“Yes?” Owen demanded. He had hoped to see Mr. Crane, his butler, not the steward, who only ever seemed to tell him about his debt and how they struggled.
“Are you occupied, my lord?” Barrow asked politely.
“Yes, Barrow, just a bit” Owen said, regretting the ironic reply the instant he said it. It wasn’t seemly to joke with the servants or the steward, even a bitter sort of joke. “Is there something from Mr. Stannard?” He was their London solicitor. Owen had hoped he could help them resolve some of the debt, but so far, after almost a year of attempts, it seemed there was no way to tread around it.
“No, my lord,” Mr. Barrow said smoothly. “I have the accounts from Mrs. Crane for the household. And a letter, my lord.” He held it out. It was in an envelope without a seal, and Owen guessed it was from a business, with another sum he’d have to pay someday.
“Put it there,” he answered, trying not to let any anger show.“I’ll read it later.”
“My lord, the creditors come daily,” Mr. Barrow said tightly.
“I know.I know,” Owen replied angrily. He tried to keep his voice level. “I will read it later, Barrow. Thank you,” he added, as he took the book up again, trying to focus on it.
“Yes, my lord,” Barrow murmured, and stepped through into the hallway.
As the door shut, Owen let out a sigh. He didn’t like Barrow. He never had, much, though he had to admit that the fellow worked tirelessly. There was something superior in his eyes when he looked at Owen, even though his manner was always quiet and polite. He bit his lip, shivering. He stood to stoke the fire, his gaze moving to a portrait of Papa and Grantham.
“I wish you were here,” he said, unsure if he was sad or angry. His father and Grandham stared out at him, Papa’s brown eyes focused on the horizon, Grantham’s gray ones amused as if he was watching the painter with just a touch of humor. Owen felt pain stab through his heart. Grantham was always like that—quiet, but amused by everything.
Owen stoked the fire, sorrowful and angry.
“Damn these creditors,” he swore. “I don’t know what to do.”
He spoke aloud, as though his father or Grantham were there. Grantham’s face swam in his thoughts. He hadn’t seen him clearly in his mind for months. His face was long and square, squarer than Owen’s, and his eyes were gray. He had the same dark hair. It seemed as though Grantham was right there in front of him, and that brought him a sense of peace. Grantham had always had good advice. He felt as though his brother was there, advising him and as he felt that peace flood through him, he heard another knock at the door.
“Come in,” he called briskly.
“My lord.” It was Mr. Crane, his butler. His strong, longish face bore a smile, but his brow was creased and hischeerful manner seemed somewhat subdued. “I am sorry for the interruption. May I disturb you?” He stayed where he was in the hallway, looking in hesitantly.
“Of course, Mr. Crane. Come in, please,” Owen insisted. He felt better seeing him: He’d always liked Mr. Crane. He was older than Owen by at least a decade, and trustworthy.
“A coach just drew up outside, my lord.”
“Did you see a badge on it?” Owen inquired. He hardly ever got visitors. He felt a tingle of curiosity, something he had not felt for months.
“It was decorated with the Haredale insignia, my lord.”
“Oh.” Owen felt his spirits lift even further. Lady Haredale was his aunt, his late father’s sister, and one of the few people in the world with whom he could truly talk. “I’ll come down directly.”
