Page 87 of The Tempting of Thomas Carrick
As was the case elsewhere in the manor, the focus was on comfort rather than on fashion; deeply cushioned armchairs, well-stuffed leather chairs and sofas, and side tables with lamps abounded. The parquet floor was covered with a series of large, oriental rugs, their deep jewel tones adding a luxurious richness to the ambiance. The wide hearth hosted a cheery little fire, just enough to keep the natural chill of the stone walls at bay. Thomas limped down the room, his gaze roving the many bookcases lining the walls. All were packed with tomes, most leather-bound and showing signs of use. It was clear that this was no formal reception room but a room a large family actively used.
The desk Marcus had mentioned sat across one corner, facing down the room and toward the windows. On reaching it, Thomas balanced his cane against the nearby bookshelves, then carefully eased down into the admiral’s chair behind the desk.
His first order of business was to write a letter to Quentin, advising his uncle that it was likely to be several more days before he returned to Glasgow. Despite his intention, it took him a good few minutes to push his mind back to his office there, to recall what matters had been on his desk when he’d left, which issues were still pending. Dipping the nib he’d found and sharpened into the inkwell, he set down his thoughts and suggestions for how those matters might be best addressed, and stated his confidence that Quentin and Humphrey would be able to deal with said matters in his absence.
As for that absence, after due deliberation, he wrote that he had inadvertently sustained a minor injury that would keep him from traveling for a few days, and that while Manachan had been poorly, he was now much improved. However, subsequent tensions on the Carrick estate had made it advisable for him, Thomas, to recuperate at the neighboring property of Casphairn Manor. He needed to tell Quentin and his office where to find him in case of need, but he didn’t want to unnecessarily alarm them.
He concluded with a statement of his intention to be back in Glasgow within a handful of days. He paused, rereading the words, knowing he should be more definite and wondering why he wasn’t setting down a specific date for his return, but in the end, without amending the message, he signed, blotted, and then sealed the missive and scrawled the address across the front.
A silver salver sat on one of the sideboards, several letters already reposing on it. Grasping his cane, he levered himself to his feet, limped across, and laid his letter on the pile. Some footman or groom would no doubt be dispatched to take the letters to the post office in the village later in the afternoon. Thomas knew coaches passed up the main road every evening; his letter would reach Glasgow tomorrow morning.
He had earlier noticed a pile of news sheets stacked on a low table before the longest leather sofa. Limping over, he let himself down into the embrace of fine leather, set his cane aside, and reached for the pile.
Glasgow, Edinburgh, and London. He went through the news sheets for the last three days—the days since he’d left Glasgow—in that order, reading all the business news, glancing briefly at the political and general news, and the editorials, and even more idly scanning the society columns, but found nothing of real interest. Nothing to excite him and engage his mind.
He’d just tossed the last of the news sheets back on the pile when the door opened and Marcus walked in.
Thomas looked at the clock ticking on the mantelpiece and realized that more than three hours had passed. A glance at the window showed the golden rays of a westering sun slanting over the fields.
Marcus dropped into one of the armchairs facing the sofa. His expression was impassive and gave nothing away, but his eyes rested on Thomas as if weighing him, or something relating to him.
Leaning back, Thomas arched his brows.
Marcus grimaced. “I asked the seed merchant about the supply of seed stock to the Carricks. According to him, they—by which I gather he means your cousin Nigel, who is now managing the estate?” When Thomas nodded in confirmation, Marcus continued, “Apparently, Nigel arranged to have the Carricks supplied from what the merchants call the ‘dregs.’ That’s the bulk of seed left over after all principal orders have been filled. Because the seed will deteriorate with time, the merchants don’t want to keep it, so they offer what’s left at significantly reduced prices.”
Thomas frowned. “But by the time something that’s ‘left’ has been delivered…how much time has elapsed?”
Lips tightening, Marcus nodded. “That’s the reason so few estates around here, or south of here, buy from the dregs. By the time that seed stock is delivered, we’re too late to get it into the ground—at least not to allow two full crops. But buying from the dregs is a common enough practice for estates further north, where they can only hope to get one decent crop a year. Those estates can afford to wait for the cheaper prices—and, of course, it saves money. But for us”—Marcus met Thomas’s eyes—“and also for the Carricks, starting the season with seed bought from the dregs means we start too late to get our usual two crops harvested.”
Marcus sat forward. “The reason the farmers and I—and later the merchant—were out in the fields today was to assess the strike rate of the seed he’d supplied. Our first crop is already out of the ground, and we met to confirm our order for later in the year. That order is already set aside from the original stock. And that’s the other major drawback of ordering from the dregs—you are effectively wagering that there will be sufficient seed left over to supply you in the first place, and your estate also goes to the bottom of the list for fulfillment of orders later in the year.”
Thomas digested that. “When Manachan asked about the seed supply, Nigel said that there was a new system in place, and that the seed had just been delayed. Strictly speaking, he told the truth.” Thomas raised his gaze to Marcus’s face. “Do you know what the current situation with the Carrick farmers is?”
“Their seed order was delivered yesterday.” Marcus grimaced. “Even getting the seed into the ground immediately, the only way they’ll get a full second crop is if we have a very late summer and a mild autumn. Most likely they’ll end with one decent crop, and a second that’s immature and only useful for stock feed.” Marcus pushed upright. “Drink?”
It was early, but…Thomas nodded. “Thank you.” He watched as Marcus crossed to an elegant tantalus against one wall. “Whisky, if you have it.”
Marcus humphed as if to say that was an idiotic question.
After returning and handing Thomas a cut-crystal tumbler containing two fingers of deep amber liquid, Marcus raised his own glass, sipped, then sank back into the armchair.
Thomas considered him, then asked the question circling in his brain. “What reason would an estate manager have for ordering from the dregs?”
Marcus met his eyes. “Money.” He considered, then shrugged. “I can’t think of anything else.”
The whisky was excellent; it burned a trail of fire down Thomas’s throat. Tapping one finger against the tumbler, he frowned. “If I understood your explanation correctly, although one might save money initially by buying from the dregs, an estate such as the Carrick estate, where two crops can be brought in, risks losing much more by having a failed second crop.” Catching Marcus’s gaze, Thomas arched his brows. “Is that a reasonable summation?”
Marcus inclined his head. “Entirely reasonable.” He sipped, then more harshly added, “Also almost certain.” He paused, then said, “What I can’t understand is why Nigel would do such a thing. If you need money, you increase production, not restrict it. As a move driven by prudence, it makes no sense.”
“No, indeed.” Thomas sipped, then sighed. “Unfortunately, I have no idea what straits the estate might be in—perhaps there was a problem with available cash—but without knowing the full circumstances, looking in from outside, we can’t properly judge.” He shifted, easing his injured leg. “We’ll have to leave it to Manachan to sort out—he’ll find out the same details as soon as he asks.” He paused, thinking of all the other questions about the Carrick estate that were as yet unanswered, but there was nothing he could do about them, either; as he’d agreed, he would have to leave it all to Manachan. He grimaced. “I’ll write to Bradshaw and Forrester—the farmers whose summons brought me down here. At least I can explain what’s been done—not that that will appease them or the other farmers growing crops.”
His expression severe, Marcus shook his head. “The point I find hardest to comprehend is that Nigel took such a decision without consulting his farmers—those most crucially affected and also most aware of the variables.”
“Do you do that here?” Thomas asked.
Marcus nodded. “All the time.” He sipped, then said, “Admittedly, the Vale doesn’t run on quite the same principles as the Carrick estate—we’re not clan-bound, but rather bound by historical allegiance and practice. Our ways are those we’ve found over the centuries work best for us—and if anything stops working, we find a new best way, one that works for all of us.”
If Thomas had an enterprise like an estate to run, he would run it in the same fashion; his years at the helm of Carrick Enterprises had taught him that the best returns came when all those involved felt their voices were heard.
