A Fine Passion (Bastion Club 4)

His head was throbbing when he held up a hand, silencing the diatribe. “Ladies, I fear my decision on the roster earlier today was based on insufficient information.” His jaw set as he recalled how Mrs. Swithins had presented her case without any mention of the wishes of others. “I’ll revisit that decision, but first I want to consult with others to make sure that what I decide is fair to all.” To make sure he didn’t commit some other unwitting faux pas.

All three women appeared mollified by his pronouncement. They nodded in acceptance, their color still high but their agitation subsiding.

Rapidly canvassing his options, he asked, “Under the previous roster, who would do the flowers this coming Sunday?”

The three exchanged glances. “Her,” Betsy said. “Swithins.”

Jack nodded. “So there’s no real change, regardless of which roster we’re following, until next week. I’ll revise the roster and have it to you all, and Mrs. Swithins, before Monday. Will that suit?”

“Yes, thank you, my lord,” they chorused.

“Just so long as Swithins doesn’t get more than the Sundays she’s due.” The light of battle still glowed in Mrs. Candlewick’s eyes.

Jack rose as they did. “I’ll ensure the final roster is a fair and equitable one.”

They all accepted that assurance; Betsy even smiled as she shyly shook his hand and with the two older women took her leave.

Jack watched them retreat down the drive, then finally headed for his waiting lunch.

He suspected they thought he’d consult with Clarice, even if he hadn’t mentioned her name. However, there had to be others who could advise him as well.

Connimore blinked at him when he sought her out after lunch. “I’m sure I couldn’t say, my lord.” Then she grimaced. “Well, truth is, I wouldn’t like to say. That Mrs. Swithins is a right old stick, but she is the poor curate’s mother, after all, and what else does she have to do? But then Betsy and June Candlewick and Martha do get their noses out of joint—well, I’m glad I’m not in your shoes having to weigh up the rights and wrongs of it.”

Jack wasn’t sure he wanted to be in his shoes either, not over this, but…there were three days yet to Sunday. He’d work something out by then.

The young gentleman had yet to regain his wits. Connimore told him Willis would call later in the day. “And no doubt Lady Clarice will drop by.”

Jack sincerely doubted it. He wondered whether he should disabuse Connimore of her expectation. Instead, he left her counting pillowcases and headed back to his study.

To the profits from his crops that, it seemed, ought somehow to be higher than he could reasonably predict. That was the only way the figures from previous years would align with his projections for the current year. There had to be some positive something he was missing.

He considered asking Griggs, but he couldn’t put his finger on what question to ask, short of going through the profits from the whole estate, segment by segment. Head in his hands, vainly trying to suppress the thudding between his temples, he was, once again, totting up figures when Howlett looked in.

Jack looked up, grateful for the interruption.

“It’s Wallace, my lord. He’d like a word.”

One of his tenant farmers, Wallace was a slow, steady country type Jack had known all his life. He sat back with a smile. “Show him in.”

Wallace lumbered in. Jack rose, still smiling, and shook hands.

“Does my heart good to see you again, my lord, and looking so hearty.” Wallace nodded at Jack as he sat. “And just as it should be, to see you behind your father’s desk and all.”

Jack relaxed. Wallace sat in the chair before the desk, his bulk filling it, his slow country humor pure balm after Jack’s difficult morning.

Once they’d indulged in the customary exchanges, bringing him up to date with Wallace’s family and his acres, Jack asked, “You seem to have everything running as smoothly as ever—what can I help you with?”

“Aye, well.” Wallace rubbed his stubbled chin. “Somethings one can order, others…” He drew breath and went on, “It’s my daughter, Mary. She’s been walking out with John Hawkins’s boy, Roger. They’re thinking of tying the knot, and I was wondering what would be right to make over as Mary’s portion. I don’t want to be miserly, and John’s an old friend, so we’re all pleased with the match, but I do have two other girls and, of course, there’s my lad, Joe, who’ll get most.”

Wallace met Jack’s gaze. “I wondered if you had any advice as to how much Mary’s portion should be?”

Jack blinked. He had absolutely no idea what amount would be a suitable marriage portion for Mary Wallace. Not an inkling, not a clue. But Wallace was looking at him as if he should know. “Ah…leave it with me.” There had to be someone he could ask, someone other than a certain lady who, he was perfectly sure, would know the answer. “I’ll ask around quietly. You’ll be at church on Sunday—I’ll let you know what I come up with then.”

Wallace beamed. “Any help would be greatly appreciated, my lord.”

Transparently relieved, Wallace departed.

Jack sank back in his chair, wondering how the devil to live up to Wallace’s expectations.