Page 102 of The Curious Story of the Missing Lady
“Well,” said Papa, “you’ll have plenty of time to rest and relax at Uncle Roger’s.”
“Yes, indeed.”
Mama looked at Papa and smiled. “Perhaps now is the right time,” she said.
“Really, Abigail. You don’t think there’s a time and place for these sorts of things?”
“What sorts of things?” said Madeline.
“We’re on a long journey,” said Mama. “I imagine we’re going to be pretty bored with the sight of each other’s faces after a while.”
Papa chuckled. “Very well, then.”
“I’m sorry,” said Madeline, “what is it?”
“Your father has some news, is all. Ambrose?”
“What your painfully unsubtle Mama is trying to tell you is that I have some news concerning Lord Oliver that might make you very happy.”
The mere mention of this fact sent a new round of butterflies into a frenzy inside her. She swallowed hard. “Is that so?”
“I’ve been thinking of diversifying for quite some time. You know we have those tenants on the North side, the Garmonds?”
“The farmers?”
“Yes. It seems Mr Garmond is having a bit of trouble with the selling of his barley yields, what with competitors on the market. He recently reached out to me with his concerns, as he rightfully feared he would not be able to pay his rent if sales did not improve. I must admit that the problem caught me unawares and I mulled about it for longer than I ever thought I might. Until the thought occurred to me that there was no use in playing all those ridiculous games of undercutting market prices and so forth. I cannot be bothered with such wheeling and dealing, as the Americans rather vulgarly put it. At any rate, the notion occurred to me that the problem is barley. There are too many barley producers at the moment, but only a scant number of wheat producers. If Mr Garmond would only switch to wheat, he may have a leg up. But the question remained: How to get him to switch over to wheat without financial upheaval? One does not do these things at the drop of a hat. There is the matter of offloading the excess barley, procuring the right amount of seed for the new crop, and all the attendant negotiations one has to do in order to, well, start from virtually nothing. That’s when I thought of Oliver.”
“Oliver?” said Madeline. “What has he got to do with it?”
“He has quite a head for numbers and business,” said Papa. “In my shortsightedness, I’d failed to take notice of it. But even a thick old horse like myself can be brought to reason. Lord Oliver has agreed to help me help Mr Garmond procure the right loans and manage the transition from barley to wheat. For his trouble, I will pay him a stipend based upon the proceeds of future sales.”
Madeline’s head felt as though it might spin off her shoulders.
“It seems your husband-to-be is a financial wizard,” Mama said proudly. “Isn’t he, Ambrose?”
“He is indeed,” said Papa. “And we are richer in spirit as well as in pocket for having him in the family.”
Chapter 73
Stratsworth Mansion stood regally on the southwest slope of a grassy hill, at the northernmost end of a long path cut into a bright, verdant park. Upon their approach, Madeline gasped at the magnificence of the place, for it had been quite some time since she’d last come here, and her memory of it was not equal to the solid splendour of real life. Brick parapets told of the house’s stately history, while the flint walls with their stone dressings spoke of a darker past. The house had once been the scene of a thirteenth century siege and had even survived an attempted burning. Shadows of that past were just that, however. This day, with the midday sun shining down on it like a heavenly beacon, Stratsworth was like a strong old man in repose, ready to regale his guests with astounding tales of which there was no one soul from his youth yet alive to verify.
Uncle Roger stood outside, his chest puffed. A bevy of servants lined up in perfect formation behind him like a military parade.
Mama disembarked from the carriage and hurried towards the man. “Dearest brother,” she said, her face beaming as she leaned in for a kiss.
“Abigail, my heart of hearts!” bellowed the man, whose voice broke in that customary way he had of shedding tears at the slightest emotional provocation. He looked up to see Papa heading towards him. “Well, Ambrose! How are you, old boy? I sent my regards as soon as Abigail wrote to me of your recent brush with death. I trust you are as well as you look.”
“Better than ever,” said Papa. “And might I say, you’re looking heartier than I last saw you.”
Uncle Roger gave a full laugh and patted his ample belly. “It’s this blasted country air, you see. Sharpens the appetite. But I’m still fit as a horse. Hit me. Go on.”
Papa chuckled at this.
“I’m serious,” said Uncle Roger, his smile gone and his eyes widened. “Hit me, old boy. Or are you decreased in your fortitude?”
It became obvious now to Madeline—as it most assuredly must have to everyone else—that Uncle Roger had decided to begin celebrating their arrival well in advance of it.
“Roger,” said Mama, “that will be all.”
