Miss Whitfield provided the official introduction. The formality didn’t go as smoothly as one would suppose. Kemble would not be persuaded to accept a gentleman who could only claim an association with Mr. Lynch. The protest was quickly cast aside on the strength of Lynch’s letter and one of Robert’s printed calling cards. They were presented and studied carefully, and then Kemble turned his attention to Robert, now ignoring Miss Whitfield.
“Glad you’re here, Newton. Been arguing with Missy here for days. But will she listen? No. Will she let it be? No. Needs to be put straight—told her place.”
“Uncle. Please.” The “she” and “her” protested quite loudly.
“That’s why you are here, right? To tell her to stick to ribbons and frills and all those gewgaws that females adore. Leave the estate to me.”
Even Robert felt nonplussed by Kemble’s attitude. There was a proprietary air to his words and stance that were out of kilter with the true state of affairs. This man was not Oliver Whitfield’s heir. No, indeed not. He was Mrs. Joan Whitfield’s brother.
Oliver Whitfield’s will had provided Kemble with a healthy allowance should he agree to uproot his family and move to Roseberry as Lydia’s guardian. The Kembles were to live at Roseberry Hall until Miss Whitfield reached the age of majority, when she could take up the running of the estate. Had Oliver Whitfield any closer male relatives, Arthur Kemble would still be living in his small, financially strained manor two counties away.
“As you have surmised, sir, I am here to clear up the misunderstanding that has put the estate at odds.”
“Tell her she’s wrong and then be on your way. Mr. Lynch has not interfered before, and I don’t expect him to interfere now. I have the right to manage the estate as I see fit.”
“In conjunction with Mr. Lynch, sir. It is a joint trusteeship. And I have been authorized to say that there will be no more funds forthcoming—”
“What!”
“Until the misunderstandings have been addressed. That is why I am here. I will be making my recommendations to Mr. Lynch upon my return to Bath.”
“Who do you think you are? Coming in here, telling us what we should or shouldn’t do.”
“As you saw in the letter, sir.” Robert enunciated each syllable as if he were dealing with someone of inferior wit. “I am here under Mr. Lynch’s authority. I am here to understand and then to pass on that understanding to Miss Whitfield’s solicitor as stipulated by Oliver Whitfield’s will.” He glanced at the subject of their discussion, admiring her restraint, and then returned his eyes to Kemble.
“Yes, yes. Fine. Let’s get on with it. I have better things to do.”
“We will wait, Uncle, for Mr. Drury.” Miss Whitfield glanced casually at Robert as she made a task out of choosing a chair close to the nearest fireplace. “He should be here presently.”
No sooner were the words spoken than a lanky man, somewhere in his fifth decade, entered the study with a hurried step. Though his face was narrow, wide, bushy side whiskers balanced the attributes of his face, and while he sported a broad smile, the congeniality did not reach his eyes.
“Hey ho, Shodster thought you were in need of me, Miss Whitfield. And here I see you are occupied with company, so I will take myself off and see you at some other time. Much to do: busy, busy, busy.” Turning, Drury almost made it out of the room before Robert called him back by uttering his name.
“Do I know you?”
Robert noted the lack of the word sir and the upward tilt of Drury’s nose, but he soon had all three seated and silent and waiting.
Robert cleared his throat, hooked his thumbs into his waistcoat pockets, and tried to sound lawyerly. “In the past fortnight, Mr. Lynch has received three heated letters regarding Roseberry Hall and the running of the estate.”
“Three?” Miss Whitfield was clearly surprised.
“Yes, three. These letters included words such as inept, ignorant, and disaster. Mr. Lynch had no choice but to divine the true nature of these complaints.”
“Drury, you didn’t.” Kemble fixed a glare on the land agent.
“You told me to.”
“I did no such thing. Told you I’d take care of it. Yes. No. Never asked you.”
“Indeed, you did … yes, yes, yes. Well, perhaps not in so many words. But, well: Missy won’t let me do this; Missy natters about that; if Lynch knew the half of it, he’d put a stop to Missy an’ all her opinions. Couldn’t be clearer.”
Robert intervened. “Gentlemen, if I could have your attention. Thank you. Now, first we shall address this year’s crop choice. There is a wide disparity: apples, tea, or pineapples.”
“Pineapples?” Drury’s surprise outshouted Miss Whitfield’s.
“Yes.” Kemble nodded with supreme authority and then turned toward Drury. “You made mention of a new strain that would grow in these cooler climes. Just developed, you said. Could fill the Roseberry coffers tenfold. Well, I think it a most estimable idea, but Missy here thinks she knows better.” He studiously didn’t look in Miss Whitfield’s direction.
“Yes,” Drury said with heaps of derision. “Exactly. But I said tea.”
“Gentlemen, be it tea or pineapples, both are experimental and require time to establish.” Miss Whitfield turned back toward Robert. “Digging up the apple orchards and planting them with tea … or pineapples … makes no sense.”
“This is not for you to say, Lydia. You have not been running this estate; I have—”
“I beg to differ, Uncle, but that is not true. Until three months ago, Mr. Pibsbury has been overseeing—”
Kemble stood, knocking his chair over in his haste. “Nonsense. Do not listen to this green girl, Mr. Newton. Tell Mr. Lynch that I have decided to plant pineapples—”
“Tea!” Drury’s tone was heated.
“Yes, right. Tea. It is agreed then. Off you go.” And off Kemble went instead, rushing out the door.
“Well, that won’t do…” Robert started to say, but there was no audience save Miss Whitfield to talk to as Drury had followed on Kemble’s heels. “Hmm.”
“Yes, indeed.” Miss Whitfield sighed. “You see the problem.”
Robert nodded—family politics were always complicated. “I’ll have to talk to the gentlemen separately, I suppose.”
“That is a wise idea. I’ll tell Mrs. Buttle to set another plate.… Well, I mean to say—would you care to join us for dinner, Mr. Newton?”
“Why, thank you, Miss Whitfield. I would be honored.” There was no helping it. Robert knew it would be dinner and an overnighter. Ferreting out the reason behind Kemble’s irascible and belittling attitude—toward his fellow trustee and his niece—would take more than an afternoon.
It could be that Kemble truly did not see that Miss Whitfield was interested in more than gewgaws. While Robert had been in Miss Whitfield’s company long enough to know that she possessed a large helping of common sense, it was possible that her uncle had not noticed the transformation of child to young woman.
Glancing at the figure bending over to right her uncle’s chair, Robert made a pleasant observation. Miss Lydia Whitfield had definitely grown up.
Chapter 3