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Authors: Of Paupersand Peers
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might deed the orchard back to Philip.”
“But surely she need not wed the duke for that. I should think any gentleman of fortune who wins Miss Amanda’s hand might be willing to purchase the property and return it to the family.”
“Yes, and I should do my utmost to insist upon it as part of any marriage settlement—provided, of course, that his Grace was willing to sell. Perhaps he might be persuaded to do so as a favor to the bridal pair.”
“You would have made a formidable solicitor, Miss Darrington,” said James, his smile rendered crooked due to the swelling in his face. “The truth comes out at last!”
“The truth?” echoed Margaret, puzzled. “What truth?”
“The real reason for your single state. You claim a lack of suitors, but in fact, Miss Darrington, you drove too hard a bargain.”
“Touché, Mr. Fanshawe. In fact, even had there been offers, I must have been obliged to decline them. I fear I should not make anyone a very good wife.”
“No? Why not, pray?”
“My dear Mr. Fanshawe, only consider! I have been accustomed to administering the estate for these five years and more, and if it has not precisely prospered, at least I have contrived to keep the house and its remaining grounds off the auction block. Were I to marry, I should no doubt attempt to manage my husband’s property. What gentleman would wish to saddle himself with so controlling a female?”
“I should think any man of property would be grateful to have the benefit of his wife’s expertise.”
She laughed. “If you truly think so, I can only say that your experience of the male sex has been vastly different from—oh!”
She broke off abruptly as a gust of wind tugged the bonnet from her head and sent it tumbling across the grass in the direction of the ancient ruins. James gave chase, his coattails flapping behind him, as Margaret called out encouragement. Once he almost grasped it by its fluttering ribbons, but a fickle breeze snatched the long strips of grosgrain from his reach. Sore muscles screaming in protest, he plunged down the hill toward the crumbling piles of gray stone. Here the bonnet was at last halted in its flight by one of the more intact remnants, a long section of wall about seven feet high.
“There you are!” he muttered aloud to the mutinous millinery.
Its ribbons fluttered on the grass as if poised to resume flight. James stooped to pick it up, then turned and blinked in surprise. A short, stout man with the dark robe and tonsured head of a medieval monk stood in the shadow of the wall about thirty feet away, regarding him with an expression of mild curiosity.
“Oh! Good afternoon,” James said.
The man made no reply, but turned and walked away, rounding the corner at the end of the broken wall.
“I say—I beg your pardon,” James began, but halted in mid-stride at the end of the wall. There was no one there. No one, that is, but Philip, coming around the corner.
“Mr. Fanshawe? Were you calling me?”
“No, I was speaking to the other fellow, but he apparently has no desire for company.”
“What other fellow?”
James gestured toward the end of the wall. “The man in the long robe. Surely you saw him? He must have come right past you.”
Philip shook his head. “I’ve seen no one. Unless—” he added, his eyes growing wide with awe. “Never say you’ve seen the ghost!”
“In broad daylight? Nonsense!” put in Margaret, lifting her skirts so that she might pick her way between the fallen stones. “Besides, only the dukes of Montford may see him.”
“Perhaps the ghost mistook Mr. Fanshawe for one of the Weatherlys,” Philip insisted, reluctant to deprive his tutor of so thrilling an experience.
Unlikely though it was, something in the boy’s suggestion stirred a chord of memory, and James looked up sharply. Before he could catch hold of it, however, Margaret spoke, and whatever he had almost remembered was gone.
“If that is the case, then he must be
“But surely she need not wed the duke for that. I should think any gentleman of fortune who wins Miss Amanda’s hand might be willing to purchase the property and return it to the family.”
“Yes, and I should do my utmost to insist upon it as part of any marriage settlement—provided, of course, that his Grace was willing to sell. Perhaps he might be persuaded to do so as a favor to the bridal pair.”
“You would have made a formidable solicitor, Miss Darrington,” said James, his smile rendered crooked due to the swelling in his face. “The truth comes out at last!”
“The truth?” echoed Margaret, puzzled. “What truth?”
“The real reason for your single state. You claim a lack of suitors, but in fact, Miss Darrington, you drove too hard a bargain.”
“Touché, Mr. Fanshawe. In fact, even had there been offers, I must have been obliged to decline them. I fear I should not make anyone a very good wife.”
“No? Why not, pray?”
“My dear Mr. Fanshawe, only consider! I have been accustomed to administering the estate for these five years and more, and if it has not precisely prospered, at least I have contrived to keep the house and its remaining grounds off the auction block. Were I to marry, I should no doubt attempt to manage my husband’s property. What gentleman would wish to saddle himself with so controlling a female?”
“I should think any man of property would be grateful to have the benefit of his wife’s expertise.”
She laughed. “If you truly think so, I can only say that your experience of the male sex has been vastly different from—oh!”
She broke off abruptly as a gust of wind tugged the bonnet from her head and sent it tumbling across the grass in the direction of the ancient ruins. James gave chase, his coattails flapping behind him, as Margaret called out encouragement. Once he almost grasped it by its fluttering ribbons, but a fickle breeze snatched the long strips of grosgrain from his reach. Sore muscles screaming in protest, he plunged down the hill toward the crumbling piles of gray stone. Here the bonnet was at last halted in its flight by one of the more intact remnants, a long section of wall about seven feet high.
“There you are!” he muttered aloud to the mutinous millinery.
Its ribbons fluttered on the grass as if poised to resume flight. James stooped to pick it up, then turned and blinked in surprise. A short, stout man with the dark robe and tonsured head of a medieval monk stood in the shadow of the wall about thirty feet away, regarding him with an expression of mild curiosity.
“Oh! Good afternoon,” James said.
The man made no reply, but turned and walked away, rounding the corner at the end of the broken wall.
“I say—I beg your pardon,” James began, but halted in mid-stride at the end of the wall. There was no one there. No one, that is, but Philip, coming around the corner.
“Mr. Fanshawe? Were you calling me?”
“No, I was speaking to the other fellow, but he apparently has no desire for company.”
“What other fellow?”
James gestured toward the end of the wall. “The man in the long robe. Surely you saw him? He must have come right past you.”
Philip shook his head. “I’ve seen no one. Unless—” he added, his eyes growing wide with awe. “Never say you’ve seen the ghost!”
“In broad daylight? Nonsense!” put in Margaret, lifting her skirts so that she might pick her way between the fallen stones. “Besides, only the dukes of Montford may see him.”
“Perhaps the ghost mistook Mr. Fanshawe for one of the Weatherlys,” Philip insisted, reluctant to deprive his tutor of so thrilling an experience.
Unlikely though it was, something in the boy’s suggestion stirred a chord of memory, and James looked up sharply. Before he could catch hold of it, however, Margaret spoke, and whatever he had almost remembered was gone.
“If that is the case, then he must be
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