Page 3 of The Tempting of Thomas Carrick
It was precisely that understanding that made Bradshaw’s letter so difficult to comprehend.
Not the details—they were plain enough. Bradshaw—Thomas could easily picture the burly man; he’d met him on and off over the years—wrote that, despite the season, by which he meant the planting season, being so advanced, no seed stock had as yet been supplied to any of the estate’s farmers.
Frown deepening, Thomas looked unseeing across the room while shifting his mind from shipping times and the effect of the seasons on transport, and delved into his memories to recall the impact of the march of the seasons on the land. The Carrick estate lay in the western lowlands, in Galloway and Dumfries. It was already late to be sowing, surely?
Refocusing on the letter, Thomas read again Bradshaw’s plea that he—Thomas—should intercede with Manachan over the matter of the seed supply.
“Why can’t Bradshaw speak with Manachan himself?”
That was what Thomas couldn’t understand. If there was a problem on the estate, then as laird of the clan, Manachan was the person to take that problem to. He always had been, and Thomas had never known any of the clan to feel the least reluctance over approaching his uncle. For all his fearsome reputation outside the clan, within it, Manachan was held in high esteem and, indeed, affection. He might be a cantankerous old bastard on occasion, but he was theirs, and to Thomas’s certain knowledge, Manachan had served the clan faithfully and had never, ever, let them down.
Manachan would fight to his last breath for the clan.
That was the role of the laird, one Manachan had been born to; it was the principle on which he’d lived his entire life.
Admittedly, Manachan was now ailing somewhat and, over the past year, had allowed his eldest son, Nigel, to assume some of the day-to-day running of the estate. But Thomas couldn’t imagine Manachannotkeeping his hand on the tiller, much lessnotkeeping abreast with all that was going on in the clan.
Thomas had learned of the change in estate management via letters, several from Manachan—although, now Thomas thought of it, none in recent months. A brief missive had come from the estate’s solicitor, and one from Nigel himself. Also a note from Nolan, Manachan’s second son, and one from Niniver, Manachan’s only daughter, inquiring when Thomas next planned to visit. None of those communications had spelled out the change, but rather had alluded to it.
Thomas hadn’t visited Carrick Manor for the last two years—the years during which he’d been trying, and failing, to steer his life forward—for the simple reason that Lucilla Cynster lived at Casphairn Manor, in the Vale of Casphairn, which abutted the southern border of the Carrick estate.
Ever since his fifteenth birthday, whenever he’d visited, he had—one way or another—run across Lucilla. Sometimes just to see, on other occasions to interact with. He would never forget the Christmas Eve they had shared, trapped by a blizzard in a tiny crofter cottage.
The last time he’d been at Carrick Manor, they’d met at the local Hunt Ball and had chatted and waltzed—and it seemed he would never forget that experience, either.
In order to forge ahead along his defined life path, he’d sought to expunge his memories of Lucilla by avoiding her—which had meant avoiding the Carrick estate.
Bradshaw’s letter suggested that something on the estate wasn’t quite as Thomas had thought. But was that fact, or was it Bradshaw’s interpretation? Or was it Thomas’s interpretation of Bradshaw’s interpretation?
Thomas pulled a face. He scanned the letter one last time, then tossed the sheets on his blotter. He stared at them, aware of the thick letter from the shipping captain waiting for him to open it and learn what exciting possibilities the New World might have to offer Carrick Enterprises…
Abruptly, he pushed back from the desk and stood.
When push came to shove, clan came before company.
He shrugged on his greatcoat, then glanced out of the window. The wind had increased; he picked up the hat he’d left on the stand the week before and strode out of the office.
In the foyer, Mrs. Manning wasn’t at her desk; she was doubtless taking dictation for Quentin or Humphrey. Dobson was beside his counter. When he looked up, Thomas met his gaze.
“I’m going for a walk.” The handsome clock on the wall above the pigeonholes showed the time as just before noon. “I’ll probably find lunch while I’m out. Please tell Mrs. Manning I’ll be back in plenty of time for the meeting with the Colliers.”
Dobson nodded. “Aye, sir.”
Thomas pushed through the outer door and went quickly down the stairs, then stepped out into the bustle of Trongate. He let his feet take him where they would—he knew the town so well he didn’t need to think of where to go, but simply what he needed.
Right now, he needed space, and air, and reasonable quiet in which to consider the likely possibilities and weigh his options. Down by the river, on Low Green above the banks of the Clyde, seemed appropriate to that part of his brain that directed his feet. He strode down Trongate, turned right into Saltmarket, and followed the pavement south toward the steel ribbon of the river.
His mind already juggling the possible implications of Bradshaw’s assertions—assertions that hadn’t exactly been spelt out—he was only dimly aware of those around him as he paced down the street.
But one voice reached through his abstraction and jerked him to awareness.
“I don’t know. It’s brown, after all. Why are they all brown this year?”
Thomas halted so precipitously the messenger following at his heels ran into him.
The boy bounced off, ducked, and muttered an apology, before scurrying around Thomas and continuing on.
Thomas barely noticed, his gaze riveted by the two men standing before the wide window of a gentleman’s outfitter; they were discussing the hats arrayed behind the glass.
