A Fine Passion (Bastion Club 4)

“Now, what about Jones, the apple buyer for the cider makers?”

“Jones?” She paused. “Yes, I suppose he would come calling about now.”

“So what’s the story there? Griggs told me you’ve negotiated with the man on Grigg’s behalf for the last three years.”

Clarice laid the tablecloth in the basket, slowly smoothed it while her mind raced. He might have accepted her advice on the church roster and Mary’s marriage portion, but this—essentially her direct assumption of his authority—was distinctly more touchy. More likely to grate on his male pride.

Why should she care? Men, especially gentlemen of his ilk—of her own class—had never cared about her pride.

She drew breath, and straightened. She met his eyes; this time they’d remained on her face. “The first thing you need to know about Jones is that he’s an outright bully, to those he thinks he can intimidate, at any rate.”

His eyes narrowed. “Not you, obviously. Griggs?”

She nodded, and turned back to the line. “The first year Jones appeared—five years ago—Griggs came to me in an absolute lather. He was close to panicking and consigning the entire crop into Jones’s hands, believing he had no real option.” Her lips thinned as she remembered. “I stepped in and made Jones explain the whole to both Griggs and me again. Needless to say, the situation, and Jones’s offer, wasn’t quite as he’d painted it to Griggs.”

“What exactly was the offer then? This time, it’s a shilling a bushel above the general market price.”

She nodded. “Eight pence above, that year. It’s a swindle of sorts, of course. Not that Jones and those behind him won’t happily pay what they promise, but the intent is to break the long-standing connection between the Avening growers and the Gloucester merchants. Avening supplies more than twenty percent of the Gloucester market. If the crop was sold to Jones instead, the Gloucester merchants would be forced to turn to other suppliers—they couldn’t simply ride out the shortfall. But once they’d established new deals with other growers, then the next season, Avening would have to sell to Jones, because the Gloucester merchants wouldn’t need the Avening crop.”

“So then Jones and his masters could offer whatever price they pleased, and Avening would have to sell for what might then be a shilling less than the market price.”

“Precisely.” She shook out another pillowcase. “The Gloucester merchants have always dealt in good faith. They’re a large conglomerate, and there’s little benefit to them in haggling unreasonably, especially as Avening is one of their more reliable suppliers, both for quality and quantity.”

He was silent for a moment, then he rose. She glanced at him as he stepped closer. Hands in his pockets, he was frowning, but vaguely at the ground, not at her.

“There’s been a premium paid to the Avening growers for the last four years. Griggs said it came from the Gloucester merchants. How did that come about?”

Trickier and trickier. She drew breath, and evenly said, “When Jones turned up the second year, I realized he wasn’t going to go away. So I wrote to the Gloucester merchants, and without exactly stating sums, explained how torn the Avening growers were, that of course we’d prefer to continue to sell to Gloucester, but we needed to make improvements to our orchards, and so on.”

“And so they stumped up the extra.”

“Yes, and no.” She met his eyes. “We worked out a sliding scale. They’ve paid a decreasing premium for the last four years, but over those years, the overall Avening crop has increased. More trees have been planted. We divided up the premium on the basis of the harvest, and then advised all the growers to invest in increasing their acreage under trees. All of them did.”

Jack thought of the figures he’d spent all day yesterday analyzing. “So now…?”

“So now, this year, we’ll be able to sell our usual crop to the Gloucester merchants for the current market price, and at the same time sell a crop of nearly the same size to Jones, at his inflated price.”

It didn’t take much arithmetic to realize just what a windfall that would mean to the local growers.

“And next year?”

“If Jones tries to lower his figure, we don’t need to sell to him—the Gloucester merchants will take the lot, at market price.”

“That’s brilliant.” Jack made the statement spontaneously, but it was indeed the truth. He glanced at her, hesitated, then more quietly said, “I suspect Avening would do better if I reverted more than the responsibility for the church roster.” He drew breath, surprised to find his lungs tight, and forced himself to go on, “Perhaps we’d do best to go back to how things were before I returned. You’ve made such a good fist of things, I can plainly leave all in your hands.”

Those hands, fine-skinned, slender-fingered, until then working steadily folding napkins, faltered, paused. He was standing nearly shoulder to shoulder with her, but she didn’t look up; he could read nothing, no reaction to his words in her profile, all he could see of her face.

He’d managed to keep his tone level, easy, managed to make his statements sound like a straightforward matter, not something that bothered him, affected him, deeply.

Clarice let the silence lengthen; she was very aware of him so close beside her, very aware that, if she was thinking of just herself, his offer had much to recommend it. Her being clearly in charge again would make life much simpler, more comfortable, as it had been before…but what about him?

She glanced at him, knew her gaze was sharp. “You’re leaving?”

He met her eyes steadily. “No.”

She nodded, turned back to the napkin in her hand…then forced herself to look back at him and meet his eyes. Steadily. “I don’t want your position. I have no ambition, absolutely none, to be lord of the manor.”

He blinked, thick lashes fluttering over those changeable, intriguingly complex hazel eyes. But then his lids rose, and he met her gaze, equally direct, equally sincere. “I don’t want your position either.” His lips—lips she was trying hard not to focus on—quirked. “Indeed, after my short adventure tangling with the ladies of the parish, I suspect taking your place would drive me demented within a week.”