Page 92 of Foes, Friends and Lovers
Setting those letters—the only two replies he’d received thus far—aside, he hoped the rest of his family and those connections he’d tapped would come up with more solid information about why Ecton wanted to buy the Hall.
Grimacing, Gregory forced his attention back to the details of the improvements he was determined to see made to the Hall’s businesses. He wasn’t going to wait to learn what Ecton was up to before shoring up the value of the estate.
The next day was Saturday, on which morning most of the business owner-residents were more relaxed about commencing work at the crack of dawn. Consequently, all the residents, including Rory, Hamish, and Daniel, were seated around the breakfast table when Cromwell came in, bearing the salver with the day’s mail.
“Early delivery, today.” Cromwell paused beside Vernon’s chair and laid a thick envelope by Vernon’s elbow. “For you, Mr. Trowbridge.”
Vernon grunted in surprise, glanced at the envelope, and froze.
While Cromwell circled the table, handing out missives to others, most eyes returned to Vernon, and the conversations faded. It was unusual for the older man to receive letters, let alone one in paper of such weight.
He shook himself, picked up the letter, grasped his knife, and used it to break the large and fancy seal on the letter’s back.
Everyone—including Cromwell, who had paused behind Gregory’s chair—watched while Vernon spread out the single heavy sheet.
He read, and slowly, his expression lightened. Then he beamed, looked up the table at Gregory and Caitlin, and waved the sheet. “I’ve been accepted into the London Society of Glassblowers, as a master glassblower with full honors and rights. Consequently”—he glanced again at the letter—“I’ve been invited to show a selection of my works at the upcoming exhibition later this spring!”
Delighted exclamations erupted around the table, and congratulations rained down on Vernon’s head.
Gregory raised his coffee cup. “I give you Vernon Trowbridge, Master Glassblower of the London Society of Glassblowers.”
Everyone cheered and drank to Vernon’s health and his continuing artistic and financial success.
Later, after the excitement had died down and everyone had finished their breakfast and was streaming from the parlor, Vernon hung back to intercept Gregory, who was ambling at the rear with Caitlin.
Vernon caught Gregory’s eye, dipped his head, and fell in to walk on Gregory’s other side. His gaze on the carpet, with his hands clasped behind his back, the older man gruffly said, “I wanted to thank you for your suggestion and your encouragement.” Briefly, he met Gregory’s eyes. “I wouldn’t have done it otherwise, but”—raising his head and squaring his shoulders, Vernon nodded decisively—“having the membership really will help.”
With gratitude shining in his eyes, Vernon met Gregory’s gaze, and Gregory felt Caitlin lightly squeeze his arm.
Vernon nodded again. “So I’d best get to it, but I wouldn’t mind your opinion regarding what pieces I choose for the exhibition.”
Smiling, Gregory inclined his head. “I’ll be honored to help.”
Vernon’s smile widened. With a salute, he walked on.
Gregory and Caitlin diverted to the front hall, and Gregory stole a quick kiss before they parted and headed down different corridors.
He took his unopened letters to the library, settled behind his desk, and broke the seal on the first of three missives, a reply from his elder brother, Christopher.
Gregory spread the sheet and read:
Ecton sounds a rum customer. I can’t recall ever running into him in London, but as you say you believe he’s a few years older than us, I’ll check with Sebastian, in case he’s run across him...although even as I write that, from what you say of the man, I suspect the chance is slight. As for the estate, I have no clue why Ecton might suddenly develop a desire to purchase it. I haven’t heard anything pertinent. Will write if I do.
Oh, and Ellen says she’s still gathering information on goats from Sir Humphrey, but extracting facts from his memory, which, these days, often goes wandering, is not a simple matter. She’ll write shortly with what she’s managed to learn.
Gregory grunted, laid the letter aside, and reached for the next, in which his father had written in a neat, businesslike script:
Dear Son,
Neither your mother nor I have met the current Lord Ecton, but your mother says his parents were lovely people, quiet and countrified but quality to the core. More on the man from your mother in a moment, but with regard to a reason why Ecton suddenly wants to buy the Hall, neither your mother nor I know of any particular feature of the Hall or its lands that would make it particularly attractive or valuable beyond the usual uses of a gentleman’s acres. So other than Ecton having a deep-seated desire to extend his holding for some normal farming reason, we sadly have no insight to offer on that score. I can tell you that Ecton’s own holdings are very much smaller than the Bellamy Hall estate. By smaller, I mean perhaps a twentieth or less of the area, and from memory, it’s not good land but rocky and unproductive. So if Ecton was of a farming bent and had come into significant wealth, one might understand his wish to purchase the Bellamy Hall estate. But as the picture you’ve painted is very far from that, I would strongly suspect there’s something rather less straightforward behind his offer.
On a more positive note, we were pleased to hear that you’ve settled in well at the Hall and have taken up the reins of the estate. We look forward to further updates.
Your father, Vane Cynster
That last sentence, Gregory knew, was a pointed and, from his father, who was subtlety personified, strongly worded prod to write more often, which, if asked, his father would say was for his mother’s sake.
Gregory smiled and lowered his gaze to the subsequent paragraphs, added in his mother’s flowing copperplate.
